by Helen Brooks
‘Janet!’ Now Marigold could tell the other woman was definitely shocked although she was half laughing when she said, ‘You’ve only been married six months; you should still be in the first throes of married bliss and thinking only of Henry! Right, that’s my face repaired; are you coming?’
‘Yes, all right. Let me just put on a bit more lipstick…’
There was a brief pause before the sound of the door opening and closing again, and then silence.
Marigold sat absolutely still for a full minute. Celine. Whoever this other woman was, she would have to be called something like that; something more ordinary just wouldn’t fit the bill. Celine, Tamara… Were they born with names like that or did they choose them themselves when they decided to turn into femmes fatales? So, Flynn had a Celine in his life, did he? A Celine who he always returned to, by the sound of it.
Marigold stood up slowly, anger beginning to replace the sick feeling of disappointment. He’d had no right to kiss her when he was involved with someone else. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she’ll go the same way as the rest.’ The woman’s words burnt in Marigold’s mind.
Clearly Flynn and Celine had one of these open relationships, or perhaps the other woman just put up with the status quo because she knew she was different to a casual affair? That she had his heart if not exclusive rights to his body?
Marigold looked down at her hands and realised her fingers were curled into her palms so tightly they were hurting. She forced herself to relax them finger by finger, took a deep breath and then opened the door of the cubicle, stepping out into the carpeted area where the two washbasins reposed against a mirrored wall. It was quite empty.
She splashed her wrists with cold water for a few moments before dabbing some on the back of her neck. She had no reason to feel angry and let down, she told herself miserably, but she did. He had only kissed her a couple of times when all was said and done.
And then she frowned. No, this line of reasoning was flawed, she declared militantly to herself. Flynn had told her he was a single man, and maybe he was—technically. But with Celine around, in her book he was definitely not up for grabs. Not that she would have grabbed him anyway, Marigold reassured herself fiercely. But the fact remained he had not been totally honest with her, even if he had told everyone she was just a friend. At least those gossipy women hadn’t been sure if there was anything between her and Flynn. Which, of course, there wasn’t, never had been and never would be, Celine or no Celine, she added vehemently.
So…she would go back out there and behave just as she had been doing all evening. She’d laugh and joke and be friendly, and when Flynn took her home—if he took her home; he might well get Wilf to do the honours, for all she knew—she would thank him politely for a wonderful party and make a graceful exit out of his life. And that—most definitely—would be that. She would be quietly dignified and decorous, and would never intimate she knew anything at all about Celine. He was entitled to live his life exactly as he chose, but as far as she was concerned she thought it stank!
She stood a moment or two more, staring at herself in the mirrors. She would make it abundantly clear she did not fancy him or want anything at all to do with him; if nothing else he would remember her a little differently from the rest. Those words had got right under her skin, she admitted ruefully. There was something terribly humiliating in being herded under such a heading.
She applied fresh lipstick, ran her comb through her hair so it fell in shimmering wings against her soft skin, and then squared her shoulders.
Right, Flynn, she thought with a trace of dark amusement. This is where you start having to face the fact that you are not God’s gift to the whole female race!
Couples were dancing to a popular Christmas hit in the hall as she made her way back to the drawing room, edging carefully round gyrating bodies. Still more were jigging about on the perimeter of the drawing room and the buzz of conversation and laughter was deafening. Everyone was having a wonderful time.
‘I missed you.’ Flynn must have been waiting for her because no sooner had she put her nose through the door than he was at her side, the intensity of his gaze making her skin burn in spite of herself.
‘Oh, I doubt that.’ She forced a light laugh she was inordinately proud of.
‘Then I’ll have to convince you somehow,’ he murmured softly, smiling his slow smile. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner.’
Oh, no, she wasn’t having any of this. If he wanted a Christmas intrigue—Celine obviously being elsewhere—he had picked the wrong girl, Marigold told herself tightly. She flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your other guests,’ she said brightly, turning away from him in the same instant and making her way over to the group she had left earlier, inwardly seething.
Those two women had known about Celine and no doubt the existence of the other woman was common knowledge among the rest of the folk here, or a certain number of them at any rate. How dared he come on to her in front of everyone?
She had half expected Flynn to follow her and press his cause, but when there was no firm male hand on her shoulder or soft voice in her ear she assumed he hadn’t thought it was worth the effort—that she wasn’t worth the effort.
The talk within the group had shifted to medical matters when she rejoined them, several of the party being doctors and nurses. One of the other women—married to a young surgeon who was just relating the complications he’d encountered when he took the appendix out of some unfortunate soul—leant across to Marigold as she sat down. ‘It always turns to work,’ she murmured conspiratorially. ‘If I’ve heard about one operation at a dinner party or some function or other, I’ve heard about hundreds! It’s so boring. Oh, sorry, I never thought—you’re not in the profession, are you?’
‘Not me.’ Marigold smiled back into the rosy face topped by blonde curls. She had noticed this particular couple earlier; the wife was about seven months pregnant and always laughing and cuddling her doctor husband, and he was blatantly besotted with his pretty wife. Marigold had found herself envying them with all her heart, which had surprised her at the time. Even when she had been engaged to Dean she had been in no particular rush to settle down and have babies, and now that was definitely on the back burner. But something about this couple had made her terribly broody. It must be wonderful to be pregnant by the man you love, she thought with a sudden painfulness which amazed her afresh.
‘Good, I’m glad you’re not a doctor or nurse. We can talk fashion and hairstyles and soaps—anything but hospitals and operations!’ The pretty face smiled at her and Marigold smiled back, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation rather than do what every nerve in her body was willing her to do and to turn round and see where Flynn was.
At one o’clock Bertha appeared with hot mulled wine and a stack of mince pies and a Christmas cake which would have fed a small army, and at half-past one the first of the guests began to leave—some to their rooms within the house, and others to the village inn some miles away where Flynn had apparently booked rooms. According to Marigold’s new friend, those guests staying at the inn were returning in the morning for Christmas lunch and tea.
Flynn had joined the group some fifteen minutes or so after Marigold but he hadn’t singled her out for any special attention, keeping everyone amused with a dry, wicked wit that could be slightly caustic, and which had everyone—Marigold noted with acid cynicism—hanging on his every word. He was clearly the big fish in this particular pond, and the other guests’ adulation—which bordered on reverence in Marigold’s jaded opinion—grated unbearably.
‘The offer’s still open for you to use the annexe tonight.’ Marigold had walked across to the laden trolley at one side of the room to leave her glass and empty plate with the others deposited there, and she hadn’t been aware Flynn had followed her until his deep voice stroked across the back of her neck.
‘No, thank yo
u.’ She tried, she really tried to keep her voice light and friendly, but even to her own ears it sounded strained.
‘OK, out with it, Marigold,’ Flynn said coolly. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The matter?’ She nerved herself to turn and face him, wiping her face of all expression. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. I thought I’d made it clear yesterday I intended to sleep at the cottage?’ And definitely, definitely not in his bed. If he thought he could use her as a bed warmer till Celine turned up, he’d got another think coming.
‘Forget where you’re sleeping. I asked you what was the matter.’
She stared up at him, at the stern mouth and firm jaw, and it was with deep self-disgust that Marigold realised she envied Celine more than she would have thought possible. ‘Nothing is the matter,’ she lied steadily.
‘Marigold, part of the job of being a good surgeon—and I am a damn good surgeon—is to know when people are tense and worried, when they’re keeping something back,’ he said evenly. ‘Something has happened tonight and I want to know what it is.’
The arrogance was outstanding. Marigold looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Just because I don’t want to stay in your house—’ or sleep in your bed ‘—doesn’t mean there’s anything the matter,’ she said firmly, hidden desperation helping the lie to trip more easily off her tongue. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, and I want to go back to the cottage, but I’ve had a lovely time and thank you for asking me.’
She sounded for all the world like a small child primed by her mother to thank the hostess at the end of a birthday party. Flynn’s eyes narrowed as they moved over her uplifted face. ‘So you’ll be joining us for lunch tomorrow?’ he asked silkily.
‘Thank you but no. The ankle’s really sore tonight so I’ll probably spend most of the day in bed.’ Lying the second time was easier, she realised detachedly.
Flynn nodded, his face holding all the warmth of a block of cold granite. ‘I’ll take you back to the cottage.’
‘Oh, right.’ Somehow she hadn’t expected him to capitulate so swiftly. She’d won, she told herself silently as she said goodbye to everyone and made her way with Flynn to the front door, so why did it feel as if she’d lost?
Once they were sitting in the big vehicle she knew it was because she had lost. One or two couples who were obviously staying at the inn had followed them outside into the clear, icy air, and now their cars roared off into the freezing night, but Flynn made no effort to drive away after starting the engine.
Marigold turned to him after a few seconds had ticked by with excruciating slowness.
‘We aren’t budging until I get the truth,’ he said pleasantly. ‘There’s a full tank of petrol and we can sit here all night with the engine running to keep us warm. Are you warm enough?’ he added.
She was absolutely frozen but would sooner have walked on red-hot coals than admit it. ‘I’m fine.’
He didn’t actually call her a liar—reaching into the back seat and lifting over a thick car rug was eloquent enough—but Marigold didn’t put up a protest when he wrapped it round her; her teeth were chattering too much.
It was a full five minutes before anyone spoke again, and the silence had got so loud it was deafening, when Marigold—warm again, buried as she was in the soft folds of the rug—said tightly, ‘This is perfectly ridiculous, you know that, don’t you? People will wonder what on earth we’re doing out here.’
‘I’ve lived for thirty-eight years without caring what people thought; I don’t intend to start now.’ He’d shifted in his seat to face her when she had spoken and his voice was perfectly calm.
Now, that was probably the most honest thing he had said to her since they’d met, Marigold thought bitterly. ‘So you live by your own codes and values, regardless of anyone else, do you?’ she flung back, goaded into saying more than she had intended.
‘I wasn’t aware I’d said that.’
‘But it’s the truth,’ she stated fiercely. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I happen to believe in monogamy within a relationship for as long as it lasts.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning, I presume, that I don’t?’
‘Are you saying you do?’
‘Whoa, lady.’ He had been affable up until a moment ago; now the handsome male face was as cold as the scene outside the window and his eyes were steely. ‘I’m getting the distinct impression I’m being set up for a fall here, and I don’t intend to defend myself to you or anyone else.’
What a very convenient attitude, Marigold thought hotly.
‘Now, I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, but for the record I think fidelity is the foundation for any man-woman relationship, whether the parties intend it to be a permanent one or not. Does that answer your question?’
Oh, the hypocrisy of it! Marigold was so mad she forgot all her noble intentions. ‘And Celine?’ she asked icily. ‘Does she hold to your views and still kiss every man in sight? Or perhaps fidelity in your book is something different to the dictionary definition?’
For a moment there was absolute stillness within the vehicle, her words seeming to hover in the air and echo all about them, and even before Flynn replied Marigold knew something was desperately wrong. She’d made a terrible mistake.
She braced herself for the explosion that was sure to come if the look on his face was anything to go by, her stomach muscles knotting and her mouth suddenly dry.
‘Celine?’ His voice was quiet, expressionless. ‘Who spoke to you about Celine and what was said?’ His very quietness was more intimidating than any outward show of rage.
‘No one; it wasn’t like that. They didn’t know I was there. In the cloakroom…’ Her voice trailed away; she was making a mess of this. But he hadn’t denied there was a Celine. She took a deep breath and said quickly, ‘I was in the cloakroom and two women were talking. They said…’ She stopped abruptly, trying to remember the exact words.
‘Yes?’ One word but painfully chilling.
‘They said Celine was always in the background, even when you…when you were with someone else,’ she faltered uncomfortably, wishing with all her heart she had never started this.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing, not really. Just that it sounded as though there had…well, been quite a few…’
‘Affairs?’ he put in ruthlessly.
‘Yes.’ Well, it had sounded like that. ‘All the rest’. How else could she take that?
‘So you assumed from this snippet which you overheard that I have a lover but indulge in brief affairs with other women when the fancy takes me. Is that it? And you did not think it pertinent to ask me about it? You preferred to freeze me out all night?’ he grated softly, looking as though he would like to shake her or worse.
Marigold stared at him. What had she done? Oh, what had she done? ‘I…I didn’t freeze you out—’
‘The hell you didn’t,’ he said grimly, starting the engine as he spoke and then swinging the large vehicle so violently round the drive in a semicircle that Marigold nearly screamed.
The set of his jaw warned her to say nothing more as he drove—far too fast in view of the treacherous conditions—back to the cottage. Marigold sat hunched in her seat, her mind numb and all her senses concentrated on getting out of the vehicle in one piece.
By the time they drew up outside the garden gate Marigold felt weak with relief that they weren’t in a ditch or wrapped round a tree, and as Flynn left the car she just managed to pull herself together sufficiently to shrug off the rug before he opened the door, holding out his hand to help her down.
She glanced at his coldly impassive face. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was very small but as she descended he said nothing, merely holding her arm as she limped along the path, which was now a sheet of ice.
She had to have two tries at sliding the key in the lock before her trembling hands could negotiate the point of contact, and once the door swung open he turned and began to walk away. Marigold stared after him,
her heart racing, and knew she had to say something, anything. She couldn’t just let him go like this. ‘Flynn?’ Her voice was shaking.
He stopped but didn’t turn round. ‘Yes?’
‘If I got it wrong, I’m sorry. Truly. But they made it sound…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘You believed what you wanted to believe,’ he said flatly.
Marigold opened her mouth to deny it but the words hung on her tongue unsaid. He was right. She stared at the big figure in front of her, appalled. He was absolutely right. There could have been all manner of explanations for what she’d overheard, but she’d jumped to the obvious one because she had needed to distance herself from this man. From the moment she had met him he had been a threat somehow.
When she remained silent he swung to face her, and now a mirthless smile twisted the hard mouth briefly as he read the truth on her face. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again; you can have your quiet Christmas,’ he said wearily, turning and walking on down the path again.
‘Flynn?’ She had no right to ask and it was probably the height of presumption in view of all that had been said, but she would never sleep again if she didn’t know. ‘Who is Celine?’
For a second she thought he was going to ignore her but then he halted again, his back to her as his voice said flatly, ‘Celine was my fiancée; you may have heard of her—Celine Jenet?’
Marigold had heard of her; there probably wasn’t a woman in the western world who hadn’t heard of the beautiful French model.
‘We were together for a while some years ago but we parted a week before the wedding. It caused a great deal of interest at the time; probably, in view of what you heard tonight, it still does.’ There was a biting note of cynicism running through the cold voice now. ‘It deeply disappointed the media, and to a lesser extent our friends and families, that we didn’t choose to tell all or rip each other apart, but at the risk of sounding tedious we were friends. We still are, but that’s all we are.’
