The Society Wife

by India Grey

  Unconsciously while she’d been talking she found that she’d pushed up the cashmere jumper of Tristan’s that she was wearing and was gently rubbing the flat of her hand over the neat mound of her bump. At almost six months pregnant she already felt huge, and although she was deeply relieved that the stage of morning sickness had passed she found it constantly surprising how the simplest tasks suddenly seemed overwhelmingly challenging.

  Maggie was not to be deflected. ‘Come, come now, darling. I saw that picture in Hello! of you and Tristan at some function last week. Pregnancy suits you—although,’ she teased, ‘I’m not sure it can be entirely responsible for the luminous glow in your cheeks…’

  Lily felt her face grow warm. The reception had been held at one of the impossibly grand function rooms at the Banco Romero and had been a stilted affair with endless formal photographs, for which Lily had been expected to take her place at Tristan’s side.

  That was the reason for the glow in her cheeks, she thought miserably. Because for a few moments her husband had circled his arm around her waist and held her against him. Because just the feel of his body against hers in a room full of strangers was enough to turn her knees to water. Who, looking at those photographs of the Marqués de Montesa so close to his pregnant wife, would have guessed that that was the first time he had touched or held her in weeks?

  Ten weeks, to be precise. Since the night that she had worn the Romero jewels.

  ‘No, really,’ Lily stammered now, ‘I love being pregnant. I know it sounds mad, but I really do.’ Her voice softened, and her hand stilled on the bump as a wave of primitive love washed through her. Tristan’s coldness and distance were so much more bearable because she had the constant comfort of the child inside her, making its gentle, rippling, fishlike movements. ‘It’s like being under some as tonishing enchantment. My body has taken on this amazing life of its own.’

  ‘Oh, rats,’ drawled Maggie. ‘I was hoping I’d find you bored to tears and desperate to get back to work. You’re still doing the next instalment of the perfume ad, I suppose—but that’s not until after the baby’s due, which is ages away.’ Maggie paused, and Lily heard her take a deep drag of nicotine before she continued thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider a lifestyle feature, just to keep the masses happy would you? Something along the lines of “my fairy-tale marriage to the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire”?’

  Lily suddenly felt very cold. ‘No. No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  ‘Darling, why not? You’re so buried in domestic bliss that you’re perhaps not aware that your fabulously romantic marriage has made you absolutely the hottest ticket in town. I’ve heard rumours about paparazzi photographers remortgaging their houses to pay for tip-offs about your antenatal appointments, and which parties you and Tristan will be appearing at. You can’t buy this kind of publicity, so when it comes along, by God, you have to make the most of it…’

  Lily’s knuckles were white as she gripped the phone. ‘No, Maggie, and—oh, gosh—talking of antenatal appointments reminds me, I’m going to be late for one if I don’t get a move on. Thanks so much for ringing. It’s gorgeous to talk, and I’ll phone you if I change my mind about work or anything.’

  A little later as she sat behind the silent Dimitri on the way to her appointment at Dr Alvarez’s office Lily thought back over the conversation. My fairy-tale marriage to the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire indeed.

  What a joke.

  What would Maggie say if she knew that at this moment Lily didn’t even know where the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire was, or who he was with? He had left two days ago on one of his frequent ‘business trips’, as usual giving no clue as to when he would be back. And although in many ways his physical absence was easier to bear than the great yawning distance that he so carefully put between them when he was home, it still hurt.

  How, she thought bleakly, had she ended up deceiving all the people she cared about most?

  She was saved from coming up with the answer to that question by Dimitri’s guttural voice with its impenetrable Russian accent.

  ‘Nearly there, Marquesa. I park at front?’

  ‘Yes, please, Dimitri.’ She smiled ruefully. It made no difference how many times she told him to call her Lily. ‘How is Irina?’

  He didn’t reply, but once the car had come to a standstill in front of Dr Alvarez’s building he reached into his pocket for a creased piece of paper and handed it to her with a little grunt. It showed the grainy amphibian outline of his sister’s unborn twins.

  ‘Oh, Dimitri, look! They’re adorable! And getting so big… When are they due?’

  He had come round to open the car door for her. ‘Six weeks. But maybe they come sooner.’

  Lily gathered up her bag and prepared to ease her bulk out of the car and Dimitri put a steady hand beneath her elbow. It made her smile to think that she’d mistaken the gentle giant for a gangster the night she’d arrived in Barcelona. It seemed so ridiculously naïve now. But then so did a lot of the things she’d thought back then.

  ‘How is she?’ Lily asked gently. Dimitri had told her that Irina had lost her husband and both of their families in a terrible bombing raid on their village. Dimitri had been trying to persuade her to come to Barcelona before the babies were born, but she was unwilling to leave the place that was her last link with her husband.

  ‘Always tired. Her blood has not enough…’ he frowned ‘…metal?’

  ‘Iron,’ said Lily. ‘Are they looking after her all right?’

  Dimitri nodded, implacable behind his dark glasses. ‘Señor Romero make sure. He pay for best doctors. He look after her.’

  How typical of Tristan, thought Lily as she made her way slowly up the steps to Dr Alvarez’s consulting rooms. Dutiful to the last—even to the unknown sister of his driver, thousands of miles away in Russia. She hated the mean little part of her that resented the idea of Tristan looking after anyone else. But she had so little of him, so very, very little, that it hurt to know that she shared those dry crumbs with anyone else.

  Sighing, Lily paused at the top of the steps and took the mobile phone from her bag and dialled his number. Waiting for him to answer, she pictured him sprawled across the bed in some lavish hotel, a sultry beauty lying with her head on her chest, her dark hair spilling over the rumpled sheets. As the ringing continued she imagined him reluctantly disentangling himself from the long, tanned limbs of the beautiful woman and cursing quietly as he searched through the pile of hastily discarded clothes on the floor for his mobile…

  ‘Hello?’

  Lily’s heart rocketed as his voice reached her ear; dark, rich, husky. She felt the heat flood her face. Her face, and her body.

  ‘Tristan, it’s me. Lily.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ She closed her eyes, willing the surge of stupefying need that just hearing his voice had aroused to subside again. ‘Look, I’ve just arrived at Dr Alvarez’s office for my scan. He has this high-tech equipment that means that you can see it on the Internet…’ She felt her throat tighten. ‘I just thought…if you’re anywhere near a computer…’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Tristan? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ She thought she heard him sigh, but it could have been static on the line. ‘I’ll connect my laptop now.’

  It sounded so easy, Tristan thought as he switched on the computer and waited to see if there was any chance that the wireless connection was going to play ball today. The things that people took so much for granted in the modern world, like electricity or phone signals, were erratic and unreliable in Khazakismir, which was almost more difficult to deal with than if they hadn’t been available at all.

  The health centre’s small office was currently doubling up as a storeroom to house the massive influx of basic medicinal supplies that Tristan had demanded on the day of the village raid all those months ago, meaning th
e desk was pushed right up against the window in the corner. Since that time things had been quieter here, and the rhythm of day-to-day life—never smooth or easy—had gradually been restored, giving them a chance to finish off the building and recruit and train some more staff from the local population. The health centre was still full, still struggling to cope, but the cases they were dealing with were the effects of the harsh winter and poor nutrition; influenza, pneumonia, sheer exhaustion from the grinding stress of living in poverty, rather than the bloody aftermath of deliberate violence. Today the cries that echoed through the corridors were not those of the maimed and bereaved, but of a woman giving birth.

  Things were running fairly smoothly now, and the staff Tristan employed via the charitable trust had proved to be competent and courageous beyond anything he could have hoped. He didn’t need to be here at all.

  And yet he kept coming back.

  Kept running away.

  Swearing softly, he stared at the screen of the small computer, until the little hourglass danced in front of his eyes. He remembered Lily telling him about the scan a while ago, and about the latest technology that enabled absent fathers to view their babies over an Internet connection, but he had pushed the information to the back of his mind.

  Or maybe he hadn’t.

  Maybe that was why he had flown out here two days ago, on the private mental pretext of dealing with a missing consignment of supplies, which, if he was honest, was never likely to be recovered. Maybe it was because all the red tape and tightrope negotiations with volatile local government officials was easier than being at his wife’s side and getting a first glimpse at his unborn child.

  Straightening up he slammed his fist down on the desk, making the laptop bounce alarmingly. A second later the screen changed, signalling that the elusive Internet connection had finally been established.

  From down the hallway the woman in labour gave a low cry, like an animal in pain. Tristan’s mobile phone rang.

  ‘Señor Romero? It’s Dr Alvarez’s secretary. Are you ready to be put through to the scan room?’

  For a moment there was nothing to be seen but a grainy moon-scape of grey, broken by a paler crescent of white. Tristan straightened up and exhaled, realising only then that he had been holding his breath, mentally bracing himself against whatever he might see. But this he could deal with. The screen in front of him showed a picture like television static, a tiny white arrow racing across meaningless ghostly shapes in the snowstorm, clicking and measuring.

  Measuring what? His chest lurched as he wondered if, whatever they were, the measurements were OK.

  And then suddenly the screen split, and on the right hand side another window opened up onto a sepia-toned underwater world. For a moment Tristan wasn’t sure what he was looking at as the sonogram moved around and the image swirled and billowed, but then the screen stilled and the picture resolved itself, and he was looking at his baby’s face.

  It was astonishingly clear, astonishingly real. The baby was in half profile, its eyes closed, a tiny, perfect hand pressed against one rounded cheek. As he watched a frown flickered across its face and the hand moved, the delicate fingers stretching and uncurling like fronds of coral as the baby opened its rosebud mouth wide and gave a restless movement of its head, as if it were looking for something. And then a second later it stilled again as the thumb of the small, flailing hand found its place in the tiny mouth.

  Tristan was dimly aware of the ache in his back, but it was only when the screen flickered and went blank that he realised he had half risen to his feet and was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the desk, every muscle taut as wire. He straightened up, blinking fast, balling his hands into fists as the blood returned to his fingers and the drumming in his ears subsided.

  He felt dizzy, as if the weight of the responsibility he had been keeping so distant had suddenly come crashing down on him, crushing him. The walls of the small, cluttered office seemed to inch inwards, closing in on him and he looked around wildly at the stacks of boxes and files of paperwork and the whiteboards on the walls filled with scrawled updates about roadside patrols and rebel movements.

  None of it made sense.

  He had thrown himself into this project, ploughing money, time, energy into it under some ridiculous illusion that he was being completely altruistic. His way of putting back some of the wealth his family had taken from those who needed it most over the years. His way of making amends, living with himself, sleeping at night. He had taken on despotic dictators, violent warlords, disease and hunger simply to avoid having to confront the real things in his life. The things that really scared him.

  That he might not be a good father. That if he got close he would pass on the legacy of his father to his child. But as he snatched up the laptop and shrugged into his coat Tristan knew that it wasn’t the weight of responsibility he could feel pressing the air from his lungs, or fear that was making his heart pound.

  How stupid of him not to have realised earlier that it was love.

  ‘The heartbeat is just a little accelerated, but it’s nothing to worry about. Probably the bambino’s excitement at being on camera. Go home and take it easy. Get an early night, and, above all, don’t worry.’

  That was easier said than done, Lily thought as she lay down her book with a sigh. She had followed the rest of Dr Alvarez’s advice to the letter, and being in bed at just after nine o’clock was a record even for her, but the not worrying had proved impossible. Rearranging the bank of pillows behind her, she sighed and turned out the light.

  Dr Alvarez’s words seemed to echo a little more loudly, a little more ominously in the darkness of the silent apartment. The heartbeat is just a little accelerated… He had looked worried when he’d said that, hadn’t he?

  She switched the light back on and sat up.

  ‘I’m being silly,’ she said aloud, her voice cracking slightly from not having spoken to anyone since she’d left the surgery all those hours ago. ‘Auntie Scarlet would say I need to get out more.’

  She hadn’t spoken to anyone visible, she amended with a rueful smile as she wearily got out of bed and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. Talking to the baby was something she did automatically; naturally. Sometimes she wondered if it was normal. Mostly she didn’t care. She had to talk to someone.

  Anyway, who was to say what was normal any more?

  In the kitchen she poured boiling water onto a teabag to produce something that looked and smelled like pondwater. She felt a tug of pain, deep inside her. Normal would be having a husband here to bring her tea in bed, rub her back, tell her she was worrying about nothing. Normal would be being able to phone him, just to hear his voice, just to share her concerns and have him reassure her…

  She got back into bed and looked wistfully at the phone for a second, her fingers tingling with the overwhelming urge to pick it up and dial his number. She wanted to talk to him, to ask him if he’d been able to see the scan pictures. What had he thought? Had he been as blown away by them as she had?

  The ache inside her intensified as the unwelcome answer to that question presented itself in her head. Turning out the light, she curled up, pulling her knees up tight against her and feeling the baby press against her thighs.

  She sighed.

  ‘Goodnight, little one,’ she said sadly. ‘I love you.’

  She was woken by a tearing pain that seemed to grip her whole body, making it feel as if huge, cruel hands were grasping at her flesh, twisting it without mercy. For a mute, horror-struck moment she didn’t move as doors in her mind seemed to clang shut, trying to close out the terrible, nightmarish truth.

  But it was like trying to hold back the sea. It burst in, smashing the light from her world.

  ‘No, no, no…’ She was saying it out loud, her voice rising in a crescendo of screaming panic as she struggled from the bed and tried to stand up.

  Her legs buckled beneath her and she fell to the floor, still clutching
at the duvet. It slithered off the bed to show sheets that were red with blood.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE light filtering through the slats of the blind was thin and grey, but to Lily it felt as if someone were shining a spotlight on the inside of her skull. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she tried to turn over to face the other way, to shut it out for ever.

  Ten thousand red-hot razor blades of pain bit into her, brutally dragging her back into consciousness, and jagged terror snagged in her brain.

  Blood.

  Blood everywhere. She remembered sticky warmth running down her legs…remembered putting her hand down to touch it, and the terrible jewel-bright redness on her fingers. Clumsily now she tried to lift her hand to see if she had dreamed it, but the movement sent a guillotine of pain slicing through her arm.

  ‘Shh… Lie still.’

  Tristan’s face swam in front of her, grave and perfectly still, as if it had been carved in granite. Lily felt the pain recede a little as he brushed the hair back from her forehead and stroked his fingers down her cheek. He was here, and the sheer strength of his presence soothed her. Whatever had happened, Tristan could make it all right again.

  With his hand still warm against her cheek, Lily let herself be pulled back down into blissful oblivion.

  So this was his punishment.

  Tristan felt the ache of exhaustion bite into his bones and scream along the muscles and nerves of his arm. Lily was asleep again now, her exquisite face as pale as milk from all the blood she had lost, but still he forced himself to go on stroking her hair, her cheek. As a gesture of comfort it was so pitifully small, so very inadequate, but it was all he could do.