Marriage at a Distance (Presents, 2093)

by Sara Craven

  ‘Oh.’ His head turned sharply in the direction of the bar. ‘Is this going to be a problem for you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ She gestured at her plate. ‘This sea bass is delicious.’

  ‘He’s seen us,’ Paul muttered. ‘He’s coming across.’

  He was already beside them. ‘Joanna—what a delightful surprise.’ His drawl was pronounced. ‘Won’t you introduce me to your companion?’

  She acquiesced reluctantly, making them known to each other in a small wooden voice.

  ‘Won’t you join us?’ Paul asked expansively.

  ‘Thank you, no. I’m expecting a guest myself.’ He looked down at Joanna. ‘You didn’t tell me you were dining out tonight, darling?’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t know. It—was a last-minute thing. Paul happened to be passing the shop, and we found we were both at a loose end.’

  And why was she embarking on this string of explanations, as if she needed to justify herself, when Cynthia would no doubt be arriving in the next few minutes?

  Perhaps it was because of the undercurrent of anger that she sensed in his cool, almost languid tone.

  But what the hell did he have to be angry about, anyway? she wondered, deliberately needling herself. She was the one with the right to be mad. The right to get her own back.

  ‘At a loose end?’ Gabriel sounded meditative. The smile he directed at them both was charming. ‘A dangerous situation for a wife to be in. Maybe I should make sure that your every moment is fully occupied in future, my sweet.’

  Joanna’s fork clattered on her plate. She kept her voice level. ‘But for that you’d have to be around far more often than you are, Gabriel. And you know how boring that would get.’

  She picked up her glass and drank, hoping the cool wine would assuage the burn in her throat.

  ‘Then I’d have to make sure it was worth the sacrifice.’ Gabriel’s voice was light, but there was a note in it which sent a shiver across her nerve-endings. ‘Enjoy what’s left of your meal, both of you.’ And, with a nod, he walked away back to the bar.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Paul commented, sotto voce. ‘I think you could be in trouble, Mrs Verne.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Joanna spoke stoutly, helping herself to more broccoli. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Gabriel was using the public telephone at the end of the bar. Warning Cynthia to delay her arrival, no doubt, until they had completed their meal and departed.

  She found herself wondering, vengefully, if it was possible to make a pudding and a pot of coffee last until the wine bar closed.

  But Gabriel would soon see through that ploy, and extricate himself with another phone call. And it would also mean several more hours in Paul’s company, a prospect which she didn’t particularly relish, although she’d have been hard put to it to say why.

  He was clearly exerting himself to be pleasant. In his own book, she supposed, he hadn’t put a foot wrong. Yet there was just—something which didn’t gel.

  He was almost too smooth. His answers seemed too pat, as if he’d done a crash course in the responses she’d find acceptable. And that was ridiculous.

  I’m the problem, she thought, putting down her knife and fork with regret. Maybe this is how the dating game works, and I’m just not used to it.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to eat?’ He looked at her plate with concern.

  ‘I’m not as hungry as I thought.’ She forced a smile. ‘Do you think we could get the bill and go, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Paul signalled to the waitress.

  In whose wake came Gabriel again. Joanna found her hands balling into fists in her lap. She made herself unclench them, and reach for her glass instead.

  ‘Leaving already?’ He sounded all concern as he watched Joanna swallow the last of her wine. ‘Shall I phone for a taxi to take you back to the Manor, darling?’

  ‘No, thanks. I have my car.’ Her tone was terse.

  His brows lifted. ‘But do you think it’s wise to drive—when you’ve been drinking?’

  Her smile back at him was saccharine-sweet. ‘One glass of wine with a meal? I don’t think that would trouble the breathalyser, do you? And Paul’s promised to make me an enormous pot of black coffee at his place, anyway, so—there’s really nothing to worry about.’ She got to her feet. ‘Do enjoy your meal,’ she added. ‘I can recommend the sea bass.’

  And, without a backward glance, Joanna walked to the door and out into the night’s dark chill, which she recognised because it already shivered in her heart.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘YOU can be a powerful woman.’ Paul caught up with Joanna in the street, his tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.

  ‘When the occasion warrants it.’ She felt in her bag for her car keys, aware that her hands were shaking.

  ‘I suppose I should have known,’ he went on. ‘When I saw you mastering that horse the other day.’ He paused. ‘What a shame you no longer have the chance to ride it.’

  ‘You have an amazing memory for detail.’ She sent him a tight-lipped smile. ‘I’m sorry for the premature ending to our meal. It was—most enjoyable.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to end here. You told your husband you were coming back to my place for coffee.’ He gave her a persuasive look. ‘I hope you’re not going back on your word.’

  Her heart sank. ‘I wasn’t really serious about that…’ she began.

  ‘Well, I am,’ he said firmly. ‘Besides, you don’t want him to find out you just went tamely home, as per instructions, do you?’

  Actually, Joanna thought, that was none of his business. Her lips were parting to tell him so when another car turned the corner into the High Street and pulled up outside the wine bar with a squeal of brakes.

  Turning, Joanna saw Cynthia climb out of the driving seat and walk across the pavement with a click of high heels.

  She felt as if she’d swallowed an enormous stone which had become lodged in her midriff. And the fact it was exactly as she’d expected made no difference at all.

  She looked up at Paul Gordon. ‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘That’s the last thing I want. And I’d be glad of some coffee. I’ll fetch my car and follow you, shall I?’

  ‘I’ll have the coffee brewing,’ he promised, and went off jauntily.

  Joanna turned, and began to walk in the opposite direction. The impulse to keep going until she fell off the edge of the world was a strong one.

  She was developing a headache, if she was any judge, and all she wanted to do was drive home, take some paracetamol and fall into bed. And decent oblivion.

  Spending another hour or more in Paul Gordon’s company, and drinking coffee too, would do nothing to improve her physical well-being or her temper. And it was all Gabriel’s fault, she thought, lashing herself on to the next stage of vindictiveness.

  Because anger was so much easier to deal with than hurt and heartbreak. And soon those would be all that was left to her.

  The Lodge was lit up like a Christmas tree when she got there. But that was better than a continuation of the wine bar’s intimate candlelit ambience, she decided sourly, parking her car.

  As she reached the door it opened, and Paul was there smiling at her.

  ‘I’d begun to think you weren’t coming,’ he chided playfully.

  Shrewd of you, Joanna thought, recalling the ten minutes she’d spent sitting in the High Street car park, fighting with herself.

  She said lightly, ‘I’m a woman of my word.’ Not to mention a prize idiot and a stubborn mule, she thought as he helped her off with her coat.

  The living room at the Lodge wasn’t big, but it had been nicely decorated and furnished by the Osbornes, with a sofa and an easy chair covered in dark green flowered chintz and a paler green carpet.

  She glanced around her with genuine pleasure. ‘This is really cosy. So, where do you do your writing?’

  ‘I thought the table in the window.’ He grimaced. ‘My computer’s still packed a
way in boxes, I’m afraid.’

  She looked at him in faint surprise, having gained the impression his novel was in full swing.

  She said, ‘I understood publishers imposed all kinds of deadlines.’

  ‘I’m probably not important enough for that. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,’ she said tactfully, aware it was the response he wanted. Playing him at his own game, she realised wearily.

  He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tray laid with pottery mugs, a cream jug and a cafetière.

  Whatever reservation she might have about him, his coffee was excellent, and she complimented him sincerely, causing him to launch into a monologue about the exacting art of the choosing and blending of beans.

  Were all would-be writers as self-obsessed as this? Joanne wondered with faint amusement.

  She’d deliberately chosen the chair to maintain her own space, and was annoyed when he fetched a leather pouffe from a corner and established himself at her feet.

  ‘That’s better.’ He smiled up at her.

  ‘And that’s a matter of opinion,’ she returned under her breath, debating with herself how soon she could leave. She would have to finish her coffee at least, and it was too hot to gulp down.

  She looked at the painting over the mantelpiece. ‘Is that one of Sylvia’s?’

  ‘Possibly. I’m not really into amateur daubs.’

  That was the kind of thing Cynthia said, and she stiffened. ‘I don’t think either of those terms applies to Mrs Osborne’s work.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t sound repentant. ‘But I’m just more used to shows at the Hayward Gallery. That is, if you want to talk about art. Now, I’d rather talk about you.’

  For a writer, his dialogue could use a little work, she thought judiciously.

  ‘A very boring topic.’ She kept her tone light.

  ‘Not from my viewpoint. I find you quite fascinating.’

  ‘I don’t know what can have led you to that conclusion.’ She took a gargantuan swallow of coffee.

  ‘Perhaps I’m just more perceptive than most of the men you’ve known. For instance, it’s obvious your marriage is going nowhere.’

  ‘Unlike myself,’ Joanna said thinly, and put down her mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Paul, but I really must be leaving. I’ll see myself out.’

  She made to rise, but he stopped her, a hand on her knee.

  ‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart. And stop pretending. We both know why you’re here. That dog in the manger act of his didn’t fool me for a minute. He neglects you, and you don’t deserve it.’

  She said icily, ‘Will you please allow me to rise?’

  He laughed. ‘What a coincidence. I was just going to ask you the same thing.’ His hand pushed at her skirt, stroking the slender nylon-clad thigh.

  She tried to hit him, but he captured both her fists in his other hand and held her, still laughing.

  ‘Playing hard to get? You don’t have to. I know the score, and I’m very discreet. Just relax and enjoy yourself.’

  She said between her teeth, ‘Not with you,’ and kicked him hard. She connected with his shin and Paul gasped and swore, releasing her to clutch at his leg.

  Joanna was on her feet in an instant, and making for the door. As she reached the hall he caught her, turning her to face him.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ It was goodbye to Mr Smooth. ‘You knew what to expect when you came back with me. You’ve been begging for it ever since I first saw you.’

  ‘Like hell I have,’ she flung back at him, twisting to free herself from his clutching hands, wondering what the hell she was going to do if he persisted. As it seemed he might…

  She saw him lean towards her, his mouth moist and parted, his eyes hot. And heard, like the answer to a silent prayer, someone knock loudly at the front door. She thought, Gabriel—oh, thank God…

  ‘Joanna?’ It was Charles Osborne’s voice. ‘Joanna, are you there, my dear?’

  Paul Gordon muttered an obscenity, but his hands fell away from her.

  Joanna snatched her coat from the rack and marched to the door, flinging it open.

  ‘Charles.’ In spite of herself, her voice quivered a little. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Saw your car outside.’ Charles stepped into the hall. ‘Good evening Mr—er,’ he added as an afterthought, then turned to Joanna again. ‘Sylvia was wondering if you’d like to come up to the house for a nightcap?’

  Joanna swallowed. ‘That’s—very kind, but I was just on the point of going home. Another time, perhaps.’ She looked at Paul, who was standing red-faced and sullen. ‘Goodnight, Mr Gordon.’

  The door slammed shut behind them. ‘Funny sort of chap,’ Charles observed as they walked to her car. ‘Can’t make him out, really. Can’t say I trust him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she advised curtly. ‘He isn’t worth the trouble.’ She paused. ‘Charles?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I suppose Gabriel asked you to do this—rang you from the wine bar?’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ he denied, too promptly. ‘Noticed your car as we drove in. Thought you might fancy a drink, that’s all.’

  She smiled at him, but inwardly she was smarting. ‘Charles, you’re a terrible liar, but I forgive you. Give Sylvia my love, and tell her I’ll ring her soon.’

  ‘Sure you’re all right to drive home?’ He sounded troubled.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘No problem.’

  In reality she was shaking like a leaf, inside and out. Falling apart.

  She drove back to the Manor with exaggerated care, and went straight to her room.

  She ran herself a bath, stripped, and submerged in the hot water, washing every inch of herself as if she were contaminated. In reality, of course, Paul Gordon had hardly touched her, but her skin felt as if it was crawling.

  When she’d stopped trembling, she got out of the water and dried herself. She didn’t dress again, but instead put on a housecoat she rarely wore, which had been part of her trousseau. It was dark green velvet, full-skirted, with long tight sleeves and dozens of tiny buttons down the front.

  She had given her hair a rough towelling, and now the pale tendrils curled softly round her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hard and bright. She thrust her feet into the little embroidered mules which matched the housecoat, and sat down in the armchair by the fire.

  She resisted the temptation to stretch out on the bed, because she was afraid she might fall asleep. And it was imperative that she stayed awake and waited for Gabriel to come back. There were things she needed to say to him—at the top of her voice, if necessary. Her life could not go on as it was. Somehow she needed to clear away the morass of anger, wretchedness and confusion inside her.

  Common sense told her he might be gone all night, but if so, she thought, lifting her chin, she would be ready to face him in the morning.

  But she wasn’t asked to go to these extremes after all. It was barely an hour later when she heard his car come up the drive and stop.

  She put aside the book she had been trying to read and stood up, aware her legs were trembling. For the first time it occurred to her that he might not have returned alone—that Cynthia might be with him.

  She went across to the door and stood listening intently. But there was no sound of conversation, and the footsteps that ascended the stairs and passed her room were solitary ones.

  She stood for a while, composing herself and marshalling her thoughts, then let herself quietly out of her room and walked along the passage.

  She turned the handle on his door, and went in. The room itself was empty, but the bathroom door was ajar and she could hear taps running. Gabriel’s jacket and the rollneck sweater he’d been wearing earlier were both lying across the bed.

  She hadn’t set foot in this room since she’d helped Mrs Ashby get it ready for him. But in that short space of tim
e he’d made it wholly his, she thought, looking round.

  His brushes were on the dressing chest, and beside them a pair of gold cufflinks which Joanna recognised. They were the ones she’d given him on their wedding day. She touched them gently, aware of faint surprise that he still had them, let alone used them. She’d have thought that he’d jettison them, along with all the other unhappy memories.

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  She turned, startled, to find him standing in the bathroom doorway, watching her, a towel slung over one bare shoulder.

  ‘I presume you’ve come for a fight,’ he went on. ‘Fine—let battle commence.’

  She stiffened. ‘I’m glad you find it so amusing.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I find it tragic.’ Hands on hips, he looked her up and down critically. ‘But I approve your choice of armour. Is it new?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve had it for three years.’

  Gabriel winced theatrically. ‘Ouch. First blood to you, darling. But I’m sure you’re not here merely to demonstrate what I’ve been missing.’

  Joanna’s hands balled into fists, concealed by the skirts of her housecoat.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d like to know what the hell you meant by sending Charles round to the Lodge tonight.’

  ‘I suppose I thought you might be glad to see him. Was I wrong?’

  No, damn you. She managed somehow not to say the words aloud. Knowing how accurately he’d gauged the situation only added fuel to her anger.

  She said icily, ‘Completely and totally wrong.’

  ‘Then I apologise.’ He sounded unruffled. ‘I thought, you see, that you’d only agreed to go back with him to annoy me. And that once he’d served his dubious purpose you’d appreciate being rescued.’ His smile was faintly contemptuous. ‘I hope I haven’t spoiled a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She lifted her chin. ‘It’s only the first of many. And in future I can do without your unwarranted interference.’

  ‘In that case I hope you’ll choose your next—friend with slightly more discrimination.’ He shook his head. ‘Gordon isn’t good enough for you, Jo.’