Reunited: Marriage in a Million

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Is this because I didn’t want you to go away, Belle?’ he asked, his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs working softly against the muscles, easing the tension as they had done times without number in a prelude to an intimacy that needed no words.

  His touch shivered through her, undermining her will. She’d lingered too long. He’d taken it as a sign that she was just having a bit of a strop, throwing her teddy out of the pram, was waiting for him to come up and make a performance of appeasing her.

  ‘No,’ she said. That he didn’t want her to go away was understandable, but she couldn’t allow him to use her weakness to stop her from leaving. ‘It’s because we don’t have a marriage, Ivo. We don’t share anything. Because I want something you’re incapable of giving.’

  In the mirror she saw him blench.

  ‘You’re my wife, Belle. Everything I have is yours-’

  ‘I’m your weakness, Ivo,’ she said, cutting him short. This wasn’t about property, security. ‘You desire me. You have a need that I satisfy.’

  ‘And you? Don’t I satisfy you?’

  ‘Physically? You know the answer to that.’ When he held her, the flames of that desire were enough to warm her, body and soul. But when he turned away she was left with ice. ‘You have given me everything that I asked of you. But what we have is not a marriage.’

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said, his voice cobweb-soft against her ear. The truth was it didn’t matter what he said, her response to his undivided attention had always been the same; she was a rabbit fixed in the headlights of an oncoming car, unable to move, save herself and her body responded as it always did, softening to him. He felt the change and, sure of his power, he turned her to face him. Instinct drew her to him and she leaned into the haven of his body, waiting for him to tell her that he’d missed her, to ask her what was wrong, to do what she’d asked and talk to her.

  Instead he took something from his pocket. A strand of fire that blazed in the light as he moved to fasten it about her neck.

  ‘I had this made for you for our anniversary next month.’

  ‘It’s not our anniversary…’

  ‘The anniversary of the day we first met.’

  Belle felt as if she were being split in two. The physical half was standing safe, protected, within the circle of Ivo’s arms. But all of her that was emotion, heart, the woman who’d dug deep and, with the help of her friends, found the strength to confront her past, stood outside, looking on with horror as she was drawn in by this glittering proof that he had thought of her, cherished the memory of the moment when their lives had first connected.

  ‘No…’

  She barely whispered the word as the gems touched her throat. A single thread of diamonds to circle her neck. Beautiful.

  Cold.

  If his heart was a diamond, maybe he could have given her that. But the warm, beating flesh required more, something that was beyond him. That she had once thought was beyond her…

  ‘Please, Ivo. Don’t do this…’

  It took a supreme act of will to force up her chin, look him directly in the face, find the strength to break free, for both of them.

  ‘No,’ she repeated, this time with more certainty. And, taking a step back, she brushed the necklace away, taking him by surprise so that it flew from his hand, skidded across the floor.

  This wasn’t about desire. Not for him. It wasn’t even as basic as lust. This was all about control.

  ‘No more.’

  She took another step away, then turned and, abandoning her make-up, she picked up her bag, holding him at arm’s length when, instinctively, he made a move to take it from her.

  Only then, when she was sure he would keep his distance, did she turn, walk away on legs that felt as if they were treading on an underfilled airbed. On feet that didn’t seem to be one hundred per cent in contact with the ground.

  Every part of her hurt. It was worse than that first day on the mountains when she’d thought she’d die if she had to force her feet to push the pedal one more time.

  That had been purely physical pain. Muscle, sinew, bone.

  This cut to the heart. If she’d ever doubted how much she loved him, every step taking her away from him hammered the message home. But love, true love, involved sacrifice. Ivo had taken her on trust, had accepted without question everything she’d told him about her life before they’d met. Before she became ‘Belle Davenport’. She’d done two utterly selfish things in her life-abandoned her sister and married Ivo Grenville. It was time to confront the past, find the courage to put both of those things right.

  Her rucksack was where she’d left it, battered, grubby, out of place in the perfection of the Regency hall. They were a match, she thought, as she picked it up, slung it over her shoulder. She’d always been out of place here. A stranger in her own life.

  The door had been propped open by the florists who were ferrying in boxes of flowers. Grateful that she wouldn’t have to find the strength to open it, she walked down the steps and out into the street.

  On her own again and very much ‘scared witless…’ but certain, as she hadn’t been for a very long time, of the rightness of what she was doing.

  Belle’s flat-small, slightly shabby-welcomed her as the great house in Belgravia never had. Unable to believe her good fortune, she’d bought it the moment she’d signed her first contract following one of those chance-in-a-million breaks. Her fairy-godmother had come in the unlikely guise of a breakfast show host who, when her brief appearance manning the phones on the telethon he was presenting had lit up the switchboard, had run with it and, playing up to the public’s response, had offered her a guest appearance on his show. Not quite knowing what to do with her, he’d suggested she do a weather spot.

  For some reason her flustered embarrassment at her very shaky grasp of geography had touched the viewers’ hearts.

  One of the gossip magazines had run a feature on her and within weeks she’d had an agent and a serious contract to go out and talk to people in the street, in their offices, in their homes, asking their opinions on anything from the price of bread to the latest health fad.

  Even now she didn’t understand how it had happened but, from a situation where she and her bank did their best to ignore each other, suddenly she was being invited into the manager’s office for a chat over a cup of coffee. They hadn’t been able to do enough for her, especially once she’d demonstrated that investing in bricks and mortar-securing herself a home against the time when the sympathy wore thin-had been her first priority.

  Against all the odds, she’d gradually moved from her spot as light relief to the centre of the breakfast television sofa, picking up the long-term security of a multi-millionaire husband on the way.

  But she’d kept her flat.

  She hadn’t needed Ivo-financial genius that he was-to advise her to let it rather than sell it when they’d married. She would never part with it. It wasn’t just that it was a good investment, that it had been her first, her only proper home; it represented, at some fundamental level, a different, truthful kind of security.

  After her last tenant had left she’d made the excuse that it needed refurbishing and taken it off the agency books. Almost as if she’d been preparing for this moment.

  Shivering, she dumped her bags in the hall, switched on the heating. Looked around. Touched one of the walls for reassurance. The stones in her wedding ring caught the light, flashed back at her, and she stood there for a moment, lost in the memory of the moment when Ivo had placed it on her finger. Then it had been the sun that had caught the stones in the antique ring as he’d pledged to keep her safe, protect her.

  He had. He’d done everything he’d promised. But it wasn’t enough. And she slipped the ring from her finger.

  Then, in a frenzy of activity, she made the bed, unpacked her things. Stuffed everything into the washing machine.

  Ivo was wrong. She wasn’t tired. Her body clock was all over the place and she was buzzing. Onc
e she’d showered, she sorted herself out a pair of trousers, a shirt, a sweater from the jumbled mess in her bag, made a cup of tea and switched on her computer.

  Her first priority was to send emails to Claire and Simone to let them know that she was home safely. Update them.

  …I’ve moved into my old flat. It needs redecorating, but that’s okay. It’ll be something to keep me busy in the long winter evenings.

  She added a little wry smiley.

  I hope you both had uneventful trips home since I suspect life is about to get a little bumpy for all of us. Take care. Love, Belle.

  She hit ‘send’. Sat back. Remembered Simone’s face as she’d warned her against doing anything hasty. Telling her that Ivo could help…

  No. This was something she had to do herself. And, brushing aside the ache, she began to search the ’net for information on how she could find her sister.

  The good news was that new legislation meant that not only mothers could register to contact children given up for adoption, but family too.

  The bad news was that Daisy had to make the first move.

  Unless she’d signed up to find her birth family-and, for the life of her, Belle couldn’t imagine why she would want to-there would be no connection.

  Ivo could help…

  The tempting little voice whispered in her ear. He would have contacts…

  She shut it out, filled in the online form with all the details she had. If that produced no results, there were agencies that specialised in helping to trace adopted family members.

  She’d give it a week before she went down that route. Right now, she had a more pressing concern. She had to call her hairdresser and grovel.

  ‘Eeuw…’ George, her stylist, a man who understood a hair emergency when he saw it, picked up a dry blonde strand to examine its split ends and shuddered. ‘I knew it was going to be bad but really, Belle, this is shocking. What have you being doing to it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I suppose that would explain it. I hope you haven’t got any plans for the rest of the day. It’s going to need a conditioning treatment, colour-’

  ‘I want you to cut it,’ Belle said, before he could get into his stride.

  ‘Well, obviously. These ends will have to go.’

  ‘No. Cut it. Short. And let’s lose the platinum blonde, um? Go for something nearer my real colour.’

  ‘Oh, right. And can you remember what that is?’ he asked, arching a brow at her in the mirror.

  Vaguely. She’d started off white blonde, like her sister, but her own hair had darkened as she’d got older. She’d reversed the process as soon as she’d discovered the hair colouring aisle in the supermarket, but if she was going for ‘real’, her hair was as good a place as any to start.

  ‘Cheerful mouse?’ she offered.

  ‘An interesting concept, darling. Somehow I don’t think it will catch on.’ Then, having examined her roots, presumably to check for himself, he said, ‘Have you cleared this with your image consultant? Your agent?’ When she didn’t respond, ‘Your husband?’

  The mention of Ivo brought a lump to her throat.

  She fought it down.

  It was her hair, her image, her life and, by way of answer, she leaned forward, picked up a pair of scissors lying on the ledge in front of her, extended a lock of hair and, before George could stop her, she cut through it, just below her ear. Then, still holding the scissors, she said, ‘Do you want to finish it or shall I?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHOPPING was not Belle’s usual method of displacement activity, but when she’d finally woken on Sunday the reality of what she’d done, of being alone-not just alone in her bed but alone for ever-had suddenly hit home and the day seemed to stretch like a desert ahead of her.

  Finding herself sitting at her computer, waiting for an email with news of Daisy, leaping on an incoming message, only to discover it was some unspeakably vile spam, she forced herself to move.

  She didn’t know how the Adoption Register worked, but it was the weekend and it seemed unlikely she’d hear from anyone before the middle of the week at the earliest. More likely the middle of next month.

  For the moment there was nothing more she could do and, besides, she had a much more immediate problem. She had nothing to wear for work on Monday.

  Clearly, she rationalized, the sensible thing would be to call Ivo and arrange to go and pick up at least part of her wardrobe. She had a new pale pink suit that would show off her tan, look great with her new hair colouring. And she had to have shoes. There were a hundred things…

  Or maybe just one.

  Last night she’d felt so utterly alone. She had yearned for that brief flare of passion in Ivo’s eyes. To know that there was one person in the world who needed her, if only for a moment.

  Pathetic.

  But if she went back today, if he launched another attack on her senses when she was at her lowest, she suspected she would not be strong enough to resist. And what then?

  If, by some miracle, she found Daisy, she would be torn in two. She would have to deny Daisy a second time or tell him everything. Tell him that, far from being up front and honest with him, she had lied and lied and lied. That he didn’t know the woman he’d married.

  And she’d lose him all over again.

  At least this way she retained some dignity, the possibility that if, when, the truth came out, he would-maybe-understand. Be grateful for the distance. Even be happy for her.

  Which was all very well and noble, but it still left her with the problem of what she was going to wear tomorrow.

  Since she needed to get out of the flat before she succumbed to temptation, she dealt with both problems in one stroke and called a taxi-no more chauffeur on tap-and took herself off to one of the vast shopping outlets that had sprung up around London and lost herself among the crowds.

  She had been told often enough that the golden rule was to change your hair or change your clothes but not both at the same time. As she flipped through the racks of clothes, she ignored it. She was done with living by other people’s rules.

  She fell in love with an eau-de-nil semi-tailored jacket. Exactly the kind of thing her style ‘guru’ had warned her not to wear. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to carry it off, apparently. On the contrary, she barely made five and a half feet and her figure was of the old-fashioned hourglass shape. But all that cycling had at least had one good outcome-she was trimmer all over. And with her hair cut short she felt taller.

  She lifted the collar, pushed up the sleeves and was rewarded with a smile from the saleswoman.

  ‘That looks great on you.’ Then, ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Belle Davenport?’

  ‘No,’ she said truthfully. Then, ‘She wouldn’t wear something like this, would she?’

  ‘No, but you’re thinner than her. And taller.’

  Belle grinned. ‘You think so? They do say that television adds ten pounds.’

  ‘Trust me, you look fabulous.’

  She felt fabulous, but she was so accustomed to listening to advice that she had little confidence in her own judgement. But the other jackets-neat, waist-hugging ‘Belle Davenport’ style jackets in pastel colours-that she’d tried were more expensive, so the woman had no incentive to lie.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. And bought its twin in a fine brown tweedy mixture that looked perfect with her new hair and matched her eyes. Then she set about teaming them with soft cowl necks, classic silk shirts, trousers-she always wore skirts on air-and neat ankle boots.

  More than once, as she browsed through the racks, she saw someone take a second glance, but her new haircut and George’s brilliant streaky blend of light brown through to sun-kissed blonde-his very inventive interpretation of cheerful mouse-fooled them. She couldn’t possibly be who they thought she was.

  There was an exhilarating freedom in this moment of anonymity and when she spotted a photo booth she piled in with her packages,
grinning into the camera as she posed for a picture so that she could share the joke with Claire and Simone.

  Then she passed an interior design shop.

  She wasn’t the only one that needed a make-over and if time was going to be hanging heavy on her hands she might as well make a start on the flat.

  When she was done there, she was so laden with the in-house designer’s print outs, swatches, carpet squares and colour charts that she had to call it a day and take another taxi. At which point she wondered about buying herself a car.

  One of her very early ‘make a fool of Belle’ projects for the television had been a driving course. Not that much of a fool, actually, since she’d taken to it like a duck to water and ended up doing an off-road course, a circuit in a grand prix car and driving a double-decker bus through a skid test. And earned herself another contract.

  She’d bought a little car then, but once she’d married Ivo there had always been a chauffeur in town and there had been no point in keeping it.

  The taxi driver was a mine of information on the subject and by the time he delivered her to her door he’d made a call arranging for her to test drive a zippy little BMW convertible the following afternoon.

  ‘You did what?’

  She hadn’t long been home from the studio on Monday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

  Her first thought was that it was the press who, following up her appearance on the television that morning, would be clamouring for the story behind her ‘new look’. Since neither her agent nor her PR consultant could answer their questions-she hadn’t talked to either of them yet-the gossip columnists would have called the house, which meant they would now have a much bigger story.

  That she was no longer living with Ivo. That the ‘perfect’ marriage was over.

  Of course it could be her agent-he kept a television on in his office so that he could keep an eye on his clients-demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, messing with success. Ruining the image he’d gone to so much trouble and expense-he always took expenditure personally, even when it was her money he was spending-to build. Anxious to arrange interviews, a photo session so that he could ‘sell’ her new look. Wanting to know what spin the PR guys should put on the fact that she’d moved out of the family home, since, like the press, he’d go there first.