Husband Heel (Husband #3)

by Louise Cusack

  “I rang them,” she said, “from the car,” and wiped her eyes carelessly with her fingers. “They didn’t want to tell me, so I had them put me through to his doctor, who I’d spoken to before I left.”

  She was babbling, but I knew that shock sometimes did that to people. “I’m sorry you had to hear it that way,” I said. “I should have phoned you.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not at all. You had your own grief to deal with.”

  That stabbed the wound a little deeper, but I forced myself off that thought to say, “There’s more you need to know, and I don’t think waiting will help. Can I tell you now?”

  “More?” Her cocker spaniel eyes dug into my heart before she glanced around. “Is there…can we have a drink?”

  “Of course.” I jumped up and went to the bar I’d seen Nicholas at, and helped myself to two hefty scotches. When I was back on the lounge and we’d both taken a swig, I put mine down and said, “There are things about Marcus that you may not know. They’re certainly things I didn’t know.”

  “That he’s gay?”

  I stared at her, stunned by the matter-of-fact delivery of her words. This wasn’t a new revelation to her.

  Instead of saying You know that? I said, “How long have you known that?”

  She frowned. “I think I was fourteen? Fifteen?” She shook her head.

  “Before I was married?”

  She’d been my bridesmaid, and had known that her brother was gay?

  She nodded. “I knew it was a platonic relationship.”

  I felt the breath in my lungs then, in and out as I stared at her, and at last I said, “He only told me six years ago.”

  She blinked a few times, her damp starfish eyelashes fluttering before she said, “But… I don’t understand.”

  “It wasn’t platonic,” I said plainly. “It was awkward. Because I assumed that the man I married, the man who’d kissed me at the altar, was not gay.”

  “Oh my God…” She stared at me in horror.

  I nodded. “Six years ago he told me, and I should have divorced him then.”

  “But up until then…?” She was staring at me with morbid fascination, wanting to know, and yet clearly not wanting to know. This was her brother we were talking about, and I simply couldn’t talk about it, not only because of her relationship to him—to me—but because it was profoundly wrong.

  So I said, “After we separated he took up with a man—”

  “Oliver, I know.”

  I put a hand up to my chest, not sure how many more shocks I could take. “You know Oliver Jute?”

  “They visited me in Paris. I was so thrilled for Marcus. He looked so happy.” I nodded at this and she must have realized what she’d said, because she immediately put a hand out and added, “Not that he wasn’t happy before—”

  “I wasn’t happy,” I clarified. “But Oliver Jute is dead. The police shot him when he was trying to extort money from me.”

  “What?”

  I spilled out the rest of the story, and I could see Adele reframing what she knew of her brother and his lover. It was obviously uncomfortable for her, but when I started to explain the debt, she cut me off.

  “I know about that and the stupid interest rate. Marcus told me he was fixing it.”

  “He didn’t.” I picked up the lid of the takeaway coffee cup and explained what had happened.

  Adele’s eyes widened so far it would have been comical if I hadn’t felt sick about the whole conversation. Then she shook her head, whether to negate the horror of what she was hearing, or to deny its reality, I wasn’t sure. At last she met my gaze. “Why didn’t Marcus pay them?”

  I put the lid back down. “He didn’t have available cash. They want the whole twenty million tomorrow.” I showed her the settlement offer.

  “Or what?”

  “They’ll come after one of us.”

  “Come after…to pay?”

  She was such a babe in the world. “Gisel is a bodyguard.” I nodded toward the kitchen. “She’s going to protect you until we sort this out.”

  “So the…mouse,” Her face was screwed up in disgust.

  “Was a warning.”

  She nodded, and if I expected her to look stricken or even fearful, I was in for a surprise because she straightened in the chair and put her half-drunk whisky on the coffee table to our side. “I won’t let them hurt you,” she said, her doe eyes narrowed determinedly. “I’ve got the funds. I’ll pay it tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got twenty million?” How could she—

  “I’ve got thirty-five. Plus, whatever I inherit from Marcus.”

  I blinked several times, then glanced down at my whisky as I tried to comprehend the extent of her personal fortune. In that moment I realized I was dazed, so I picked up my glass and had another slug. I needed to sharpen up. “And you can access it readily?”

  She nodded. “It’s in various bank accounts, but I can have the money sent here. I’ll have to make a few phone calls.” In that moment she sounded older than her years, and more astute than I felt by a long shot.

  “Alright then.” I looked around the room. I hadn’t anticipated this at all. But Adele knew what she was doing. I had to accept that. “I’ll…” I pointed at the kitchen. “I’ll work out how we can do that.”

  The last thing I wanted was to confront Nicholas again, but I knew I’d have to clarify the end of our relationship at some point. It may as well be now. So I marched up to the kitchen and rounded the corner to find Gisel poking a finger in his chest.

  “—told you to keep—”

  They both looked up at me, Gisel with embarrassment as she stepped away from him, and Nicholas with a look of resolute defiance.

  I opened my mouth before either of them could speak. “Adele has the funds to pay her brother’s debt tomorrow. She’s phoning her financial advisors.”

  “Twenty million?”

  I ignored Nicholas to turn to Gisel. “I want you to take Adele and I to the hospital now if you’re free. I’m sure your colleague—” I didn’t even look at Nicholas “—can find something appropriate to fill his time.”

  I shouldn’t have infused that word with such scorn, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d wanted sex with him more than I’d probably wanted anything in the last ten years, but not in the same hour as my husband was dying. That was so shocking I couldn’t properly comprehend the wrongness of it.

  So I turned and went back into the living room. Adele was on the phone and raised a hand to acknowledge me. When she finished the call she said, “I hate that man for frightening you, but having something to do apart from crying is good.”

  “I know.” I patted her hand.

  Ten seconds later Gisel stepped up beside us. “Shall I take you to the hospital now?”

  I picked up my handbag, which I’d left on the lounge before…the panic room episode. Giving it a different name helped me distance myself, and I was thinking that was good when Adele said, “Can I use the bathroom first?”

  “Of course.” I glanced at Gisel.

  “Sure. I’ll show you.”

  They walked away together and I hadn’t expected that. But it was good not to be left alone with Gisel. I wasn’t sure what she might say, and the last thing I wanted was some commentary on whatever Nicholas had told her.

  Clearly something, or she wouldn’t have been telling him off. And that was embarrassing. Did the man have no discretion at all? Another sin to add to his list.

  I was trying to steer my thoughts away from that, away from him when he stepped out of the hallway and into the room.

  “Louella,” he said, an edge to his voice as if he was determined to get something out.

  He probably expected me to cut him off, so I glanced at my watch and said, “You have two minutes.” As if I could care less what he said.

  When in fact, my stomach was clenched with a combination of anger, resentment, and very reluctant desire, because when he gazed at me with those dark
, tormented eyes, my body couldn’t help but respond.

  He came around the lounge and stopped two paces from me. “I’ll clear my things from your home while you’re at the hospital and will leave that and any keys with Gisel. She’s agreed to serve out the remainder of my contract, assuming you and Ms. Knight stay together.”

  I nodded. If we weren’t safe to go to my house, Adele and I would hole up somewhere else, with Gisel if we had to. I lifted my chin. “The whole matter should be settled within twenty-four hours.”

  “Good,” he replied shortly. “I’m glad that the threat against you will be over.” I could see he wanted to say a whole lot more about that, but he held it in.

  “Then our acquaintance is at an end.” I’d never heard myself sounding so cold, so dismissive.

  His chest rose and fell as he stared at me, and I stared back, daring him to say something about love, because I’d stomp on that with my black Louboutin heel faster than he could backpedal.

  In the end, he nodded and walked away. Two minutes later I heard a rumble from the other end of the house, then that sound faded and I was left alone with the pounding of my heart and a confusing sensation that felt like arousal.

  Which was ridiculous. I was angry. And in fact, I should be grieving, but instead of doing those sensible, expected things, I sat on the lounge and drank the rest of my whisky, savoring the sweet, hot flavor and knowing it reminded me of sex.

  Of Nicholas.

  And that’s when I knew I had to leave the country.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Italy!” Fritha squealed at the driver from The Burrows holding a sign that said, Knight.

  Rome airport was noisy, and Fritha more so, but I ignored that as I handed over my confirmation email and said, “Buona sera.”

  “Buongiorno,” he corrected automatically, not lifting his gaze from the email.

  Really? Was it still morning? I’d thought we were arriving in the early evening. I shook my head. Lack of sleep, courtesy of Fritha’s excitement about First Class travel. I’d hoped to catch up after the week of sleepless nights I’d weathered helping Adele finalize Marcus’s affairs and organizing his funeral.

  That had been harder than I’d imagined it would be, but my girls had rallied, and even insisted on taking Adele and I shopping for mourning clothes, which I’d pretended to enjoy. When I had the girls alone, I told them that Nicholas and I were no longer an item, and that no discussion would be entered into on that topic.

  Jill, in particular, had been bursting for a debrief, but somehow she’d kept that in. They’d surprised me with the idea of Fritha as a travelling companion, and I’d surprised myself by saying yes.

  So here we were, a week after Marcus’s death, at Roma airport, about to embark on a fortnight of adventure. The first week would be in five-star luxury at The Burrows which was familiar to me from several visits—a lavish hotel that had once been a Belle Époque palace. Its plush, antiques-filled rooms featured frescoed walls, marble fireplaces and Murano glass chandeliers. I had no idea whether Fritha would be out of her element, or right at home.

  In return for her agreement to that venue, I’d agreed to a week in Florence at a convent Fritha had found online. My travel agent had confirmed it was ‘charming’, if a little Spartan, so in the interest of widening my horizons, I’d agreed to that too.

  A part of my mind was wondering why I was so easy-going, when I should be tired and cranky and sad. But instead I was empty, and the everyday decisions that people were making for me seemed to whistle through that empty space with so little consequence I could barely care to argue.

  “Grazie,” Fritha said with exaggerated pronunciation as she handed over her very shabby-chic duffel bag, fluttering her eyelashes at the middle-aged driver before tossing back her tangled red curls, all freckles in a travel outfit of spotted blue harem pants with a purple sweater. “Molto Bello,” she added, and winked.

  He blinked at her several times and then took my new black embossed Vuitton luggage out of my hands and turned to place it on a trolley.

  I leant toward her and said quietly. “I think you just said that he was very handsome.”

  “Oh did I?” She smirked and said to him, “Scusi,” then under her breath, “Not.”

  A month ago she would have infuriated me, and for exactly that reason I’d rarely ventured out with Fritha alone, usually relying on one of the others to keep her in line. But now…I shrugged and followed the driver out, with Fritha skipping at my side.

  “We’re in It-A-Lee,” she sang, grinning like a crazy girl, which was actually funny.

  I didn’t know the driver, and he was clearly more embarrassed than annoyed, so it was actually not important in the slightest.

  I have no idea why, but I turned to Fritha and said, “You and I are going to have fun.”

  “Does fun include sex with hunky Italian men?” she said loudly, then winked at another driver holding a sign.

  He grinned back at her.

  “Molto Bello,” she called out to him as we walked past, and wiggled her fingers in what she probably thought was a sexy wave. As usually, she was all colors of the rainbow, and next to her in my black draped skirt, jacket and black heels, I felt lackluster. Stylish yes. But fun. No.

  When she linked her arm with mine and stopped skipping to match my stride, I said, “Let’s make a deal?”

  “Does it involve Italian men?”

  Okay, this could get repetitive. “It involves fashion,” I said, and she pouted as though she was considering that. “You let me give you a makeover, and—”

  “A colorful makeover,” she said.

  “Correct. And I let you…suggest fun activities.”

  That didn’t mean I had to agree to them, but Fritha knew that. She was always suggesting things that even Jill ignored, and Jill was the adventurer out of the four of us.

  So I wasn’t sure Fritha would agree, but she patted my hand and said, “It’s your holiday. You can suggest adventures too.”

  I had to smile at her patronizing tone, but I said, “Thank you,” all the same.

  So that’s how we found ourselves, two days later, standing in a designer boutique that Fritha had chosen, both wearing something we’d never have imagined ourselves in. I’d dressed Fritha in an above the knee shift dress in bleached denim that had a vintage print of an aproned fifties housewife on the bodice. I’d teamed that with a rough-knit tan cardigan which she’d rolled up past the elbows, and a very pale mauve clutch. Not only that, I’d chosen a large faced Rolex watch for her thin wrist and some chunky gold rings.

  She’d picked me a demure teal-blue pleated skirt that fell to the knee, with a tucked-in blue and teal shirt in a soft, feminine fabric. Then she found a blue and teal clutch in a different pattern but with complimentary colors. I was astonished at her insistence that my outfit be coordinated—because her own clothing choices were usually anything but.

  However, when we moved on to shoes, she insisted I wear creamy purple heels with big purple bows across the toes. They didn’t coordinate with anything until she led me to the jewelry counter and picked out a handful of Murano glass bangles in various colors. Back in front of the mirror, I had to say I was impressed, and the shop assistant asked if she could photograph the ensemble for future reference, naturally cropping my head out of the shot.

  She was used to dealing with wealthy clients, after all.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” Fritha said to me. “I designed the interior for Bohemian Brew, although you wouldn’t know that, not having ever been there.”

  I was suitable chastened, so to apologize, I let her pick her own shoes. I would have chosen ballet flats, but she surprised me by selecting high-heeled slingbacks with large caramel and white checks, which again, amazingly, suited her outfit and gave it a fun twist.

  I shook my head in admiration. “I didn’t know you wore heels.” After our beauty treatments of the day before in The Burrows very chic spa, both our legs were smooth and
covered in a heathy glow, courtesy of some fake tanning. With her hair scraped back from her face in a messy bun and tortoiseshell sunglasses perched above her forehead, she looked so glamorous you could easily imagine she was a model.

  In fact, the transformation was so shocking, I had a moment of wondering what I’d created.

  She winked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Missy Lou.” Then she glanced down at her nails and said theatrically, “I feel the need, the need for…red nail polish.”

  The shop assistant laughed, and my moment of concern was banished. Fritha was just playing dress-up, enjoying the moment, and I suddenly realized I was too. When she returned home she wouldn’t be a glamazon. She’d be the same Fritha we’d always known.

  She was just humoring me, and I very much liked that, and I especially liked it when she waived an airy, beringed hand and said, “Put that on my tab, Valentino.”

  The shop assistant giggled again, because we weren’t in Valentino and Fritha obviously had no clue, but as I handed over my card to pay the twenty-five-thousand-dollar tab, I felt such admiration for the way Fritha sailed through life. She knew this was costing more than she could conceive, and that I was paying—it had been my idea—but she didn’t stress about the fact that I had more money than she did.

  She just enjoyed whatever we did together, whether it was shopping in a designer boutique in the glamorous Piazza di Spagna precinct, or eating five-dollar gelato in a cobbled backstreet. In that moment of watching her preen in front of the huge gilt showroom mirror, I felt profound envy.

  I’d been so unsettled by the financial differences between Nicholas and myself, even before the disaster of the panic room episode. If he hadn’t done something unforgiveable, we might still have never transitioned into ‘an item’ because I might never have accustomed myself to our different financial backgrounds. It had seemed insurmountable.

  Like most wealthy people, I’d developed a thick skin when it came to requests for money from strangers. And when it came to socializing, I’d stuck with ‘my kind’, except for my girls. Angela had been middle class, Jill very much working class, and Fritha had been a pixie slotting into any situation that pleased her, but mostly living a hippy existence.