In Bed with Her Ex

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘So Darius has warned you about the family,’ he said at last, ‘and you know we’re a load of oddities.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re no odder than me,’ she teased.

  ‘I’ll take you up on that. Promise me a dance tonight.’

  ‘She declines,’ Darius said firmly.

  Marcel chuckled and murmured in Harriet’s ear, ‘We’ll meet again later.’

  After a little more sparring, he blew her a kiss and departed, heading for his father’s suite. He greeted his stepmother cordially but he couldn’t help looking over her shoulder at the window, through which he could see the building Amos had pointed out to him.

  Daneworth Estates. Assets ripe for an offer. Interesting.

  In an office on the tenth floor of a bleakly efficient building overlooking the River Thames, Mr Smith, the manager of Daneworth Estates, examined some papers and groaned before raising his voice to call, ‘Mrs Henshaw, can you bring the other files in, please?’

  He turned back to his client, a middle-aged man, saying, ‘She’ll have all the details. Don’t worry.’

  He glanced up as a young woman appeared in the doorway and advanced with the files.

  ‘I’ve made notes,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve covered everything.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ he replied.

  The client regarded her with distaste. She was exactly the kind of woman he most disliked, the kind who could have looked better if she’d bothered to make the best of herself. She had the advantage of being tall and slim, with fair hair and regular features. But she scraped her hair back, dressed severely, and concealed her face behind a pair of large steel-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘It’s nearly six o’clock,’ she said.

  Mr Smith nodded. ‘Yes, you can go.’

  She gave the client a faint nod and left the office. He shivered. ‘She terrifies me,’ he admitted.

  ‘Me too, sometimes,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘But if there’s one person whose efficiency I can rely on it’s Mrs Henshaw.’

  ‘It always sounds odd to me the way you call her “Mrs”. Why not just Jane?’

  ‘She prefers it. Familiarity is something she discourages.’

  ‘But you’re her boss.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder which of us is the boss. I hesitate between valuing her skills and wanting to get rid of her.’ ‘She reminds me of a robot.’

  ‘She certainly doesn’t have any “come hither” about her,’ the manager agreed. ‘You’d never think she’d once been a fashion model.’

  ‘Get away!’

  ‘Really. She was called “Cassie” and for a couple of years she was headed for the very top. Then it all ended. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘She could still look good if she tried,’ the client observed. ‘Why scrape her hair back against her skull like a prison wardress? And when did you last see a woman who didn’t bother with make-up?’

  ‘Can’t think! Now, back to business. How do I avoid going bankrupt and taking your firm down with me?’

  ‘Can’t think!’ the client echoed gloomily.

  Neither of them gave a further thought to Mrs Henshaw on the far side of the door. She heard their disparaging comments and shrugged.

  ‘Blimey!’ said the other young woman in the room. ‘How do you stand them being so rude about you?’

  Her name was Bertha. She was nineteen, naïve, friendly and a reasonably good secretary.

  ‘I ignore it,’ Mrs Henshaw said firmly.

  ‘But who was that Cassie they keep on about? The gorgeous model.’

  ‘No idea. She was nothing to do with me, I know that.’ ‘But they said it was you.’

  ‘They were wrong.’ Mrs Henshaw turned to look at Bertha with a face that was blank and lifeless. ‘Frankly,’ she said, ‘Cassie never really existed. Now hurry off home.’

  The last words had an edge of desperation. She urgently needed to be alone to think about everything that was happening. She knew the company was in dire straits, and it would soon be time to move on.

  But to what? Her life seemed to stretch before her, blank, empty. Just as it had done for the last ten years.

  The days when she could afford a car were over, and she took a bus to the small block of apartments where she lived in a few rooms one floor up. Here everything was neat, restrained, unrevealing. A nun might have lived in this place.

  Tonight was no different from any other night, she assured herself. The name Cassie, suddenly screaming out of the darkness, had thrown the world into chaos, but she’d recovered fast. Cassie was another life, another universe. Cassie’s heart had been broken. Mrs Henshaw had no heart to break.

  She stayed up late studying papers, understanding secrets about the firm that were supposed to be hidden. Soon there would have to be decisions but now she was too weary in her soul to think about them.

  She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. The dreams she’d dreaded were waiting to pounce. There was Cassie, gloriously naked, madly in love, throwing herself into the arms of the handsome boy who’d worshipped her. There were his eyes, gazing at her with adoration, but then with hate.

  ‘I loved you—I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’

  In sleep she reached out her hands to him, crying, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’ ‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’

  She screamed and awoke to find herself thrashing around in bed, throwing her head from side to side.

  ‘No,’ she cried. ‘It isn’t true. No, no, no!’

  Then she was sitting up, staring into the darkness, heaving violently.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Wearily she got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. A shambling wreck of a woman looked back at her from the mirror. Now the severe barriers of the day were gone, leaving no trace of the steely ‘prison wardress’. The tense stillness of her face was replaced by violent emotion that threatened to overwhelm and destroy her. Her hair, no longer scraped back, flowed over her shoulders, giving her a cruel resemblance to Cassie, the beautiful girl who had lived long ago. That girl had vanished into the mists, but suddenly her likeness taunted Mrs Henshaw from the mirror. Tears streamed from her eyes and she covered them with her hands, seeking oblivion.

  ‘No,’ she wept. ‘No!’

  But it was too late to say no. Years too late.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I JUST hope I don’t regret this,’ Mr Smith said heavily. ‘The Alton Hotel is worth twice what he’s offering, but it’s still the best offer we’ve had.’

  Mrs Henshaw was frowning as she studied the figures. ‘Surely you can drive him up a little?’

  ‘I tried to but he just said “Take it or leave it.” So I took it. We have to sell off properties fast, before we go under.’

  ‘Is that your way of telling me to find another job?’

  ‘Yes, but I may be able to help you. I’ve told him you’ll meet him to discuss details. Marcel needs an assistant with local knowledge, so I’m sure you can impress him. Why are you looking like that?’

  ‘Nothing—nothing—what did you say his name was?’

  ‘Marcel Falcon. He’s one of Amos Falcon’s sons.’

  She relaxed, telling herself to be sensible. The Marcel she had known had been Marcel Degrande, and obviously no connection with this man. It was absurd to be still reacting to the name after so long.

  ‘Play your cards right and you’ll come out on top,’ Mr Smith advised.

  ‘When do I go?’

  ‘Right now. He’s staying at the Gloriana Hotel, and he’s expecting you there in half an hour.’

  ‘Half a—? What? But that doesn’t give me time to research the background or the man—’

  ‘You’ll have to play it by ear. And these papers—’ he thrust some at her ‘—will give you the details of his offer. Yes, I know we don’t usually do it like this, but things are moving fast and the sooner
we get the money the better.’

  She took a taxi and spent the journey memorising facts and figures, wishing she’d had time to do some online research. She’d heard of Amos Falcon, whose financial tentacles seemed to stretch halfway across the world, but it would have been useful to check his son out too.

  Never mind, she thought. A heavy evening’s work lay ahead of her, and she would tackle it with the meticulous efficiency that now ruled her whole life.

  At last she entered the Gloriana and approached the reception desk. ‘Please tell Mr Falcon that Mrs Jane Henshaw is here.’

  ‘He’s over there, madam.’

  Turning, she saw the entrance door to the bar and just inside, a man sitting at a table. At that moment he turned his head, revealing just enough of his face to leave her stunned.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No … no …’

  The world went into chaos, thundering to a halt, yet still whirling mysteriously about her.

  Marcel. Older, a little heavier, yet still the man whose love had been the glorious triumph of her life, and whose loss had brought her close to destruction. What malign chance had made their paths cross again?

  She took a step back, then another, moving towards the door, desperate to escape before he saw her. She managed to get into the hotel garden where there was a small café, and sat down. She was shaking too violently to leave now. She must stay here for a while.

  If only he hadn’t seen her.

  If only they had never seen each other in the beginning, never met, never loved, never hated, never shattered each other.

  Who were those two youngsters who seemed to stand before her now? Naïve, innocent, ignorant, perhaps a little stupid, but only with the stupidity of children who knew they could conquer the world with their beauty, talent and enthusiasm.

  Jane Agnes Cassandra Baines had always known she was destined to be a model.

  ‘Nobody could be that beautiful and waste it,’ her sister had said. ‘Go for it, girl. And choose a better name. Jane will make people think of plain Jane.’

  Rebecca was eight years her senior, and had been almost her mother since their parents died in their childhood. These days Rebecca’s misfortunes meant that she was the one who needed caring for, and much of Jane’s money went in helping her.

  ‘Cassandra,’ Rebecca had said back then. ‘Mum loved that name because she said it meant “enticer of men”. Dad was outraged. I can still remember them squabbling, him saying, “You can’t call her that. It’s not respectable.” In the end Mum managed to squeeze it in as your third name.’

  ‘Enticer of men,’ she’d murmured in delight. ‘Cassandra. Yes—I’m Cassandra.’

  Her agent had partly agreed. ‘Not Cassandra, Cassie,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect. You’re going to be a star.’

  She’d climbed fast. Jane no longer existed. Cassie’s picture was everywhere and so were her admirers. Wealthy men had laid their golden gifts at her feet, but she’d cared only for Marcel Degrande, a poor boy who lived in a shabby flat.

  He’d been earning a pittance working for a grocery store, and they’d met when he’d delivered fruit to her door. One look at his smile, his teasing eyes, and she’d tossed aside two millionaires like unwanted rubbish. From then on there was only him.

  For Marcel it had been the same. Generous, passionate, he had offered himself to her, heart and soul, with nothing held back.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said. ‘You could have them and their money, but me—you’ve seen how I live. I can’t take you to posh restaurants or buy you expensive presents.’

  ‘But you give me something no other man can give,’ she assured him, laying her hand over his heart. ‘Who cares about money? Money’s boring.’

  ‘Yes. Money is boring,’ he said fervently. ‘Who needs it?’

  ‘Nobody.’ She threw herself back on the bed and wriggled luxuriously. ‘But there’s something I do need, and I’m getting impatient.’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ he said just before his mouth came down on hers, his hands explored her willing body, and they quickly became one.

  Returning his love had been the greatest joy of her life, a joy that she knew instinctively could never be repeated. It had lasted a few months, then ended in cruelty.

  Jake, a rich, powerful man with criminal connections, used to getting his own way, had made it plain that he wanted her. She’d told him he had no chance. He’d departed without a word, and she’d congratulated herself on having dealt with the situation.

  Marcel had been away making a long-distance delivery. When he called she said nothing about Jake, not wanting to worry him. Time enough to tell him everything when he returned.

  He never did return. On the evening she expected him the hours passed without a word. She tried to call, but his phone was dead. At last there was a knock on her door and there was Jake.

  He thrust a photograph into her hands. It showed Marcel in bed, bloodied, bandaged and barely alive.

  ‘He had an accident,’ Jake said, smirking. ‘A van knocked him over in the street.’

  ‘Oh, heavens, I must go to him. Which hospital is he in?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that. You’re not going to see him again. Are you getting the message yet? I could have him killed in a moment, and I will if you don’t see sense. And don’t even try to find the hospital and visit him because I’ll know, and he’ll pay the price.’

  He pointed to the picture. ‘A doctor who works there owes me a favour. She took this. I’m sure you don’t want him to suffer any more … misfortunes.’

  She was left with the knowledge that not only was Marcel badly hurt and she could never see him again, but that he would think she had deserted him. That thought nearly destroyed her.

  She risked writing him a letter, telling everything, swearing her love, begging him not to hate her, and slipped it through the door of his dingy apartment. He would find it when he returned from the hospital.

  For days she waited, certain that Marcel would contact her, however briefly. But he never did, and the deafening silence blotted out the world. His phone stayed dead. In desperation, she called his landlady, who confirmed that she’d seen him arrive home and collect mail from the carpet.

  ‘Ask him to call me,’ she begged.

  ‘I can’t. He’s vanished, just packed his bags and left. I think he still has some family in France, so maybe he’s gone there. Or maybe not. His mobile phone’s dead and it’s like he never existed.’

  But it was the other way around, she thought in agony. Marcel had wiped her out as though she’d never existed. Obviously he didn’t believe her explanation that she had done it for him. Or if he did believe, it made no difference. He hated her and he would not forgive.

  Now his voice spoke in her memory.

  ‘It’s all or nothing with me, and with you it’s all, my beloved Cassie. Everything, always.’

  And she’d responded eagerly, ‘Always, always—’ But he’d warned her, all or nothing. And now it was nothing.

  Sitting in the hotel garden, she tried to understand what she’d just learned. The ‘poor boy’ with barely a penny had actually been the son of a vastly wealthy man. But perhaps he hadn’t known. He might have been illegitimate and only discovered his father later. She must try to believe that because otherwise their whole relationship had been based on a lie. The love and open-heartedness, so sweet between them, would have been an illusion.

  She shivered.

  It was time to flee before he found her. She couldn’t bear to meet him and see his eyes as he discovered her now, her looks gone. How he would gloat at her downfall, how triumphant he would be in his revenge.

  But as she neared the building she saw that it was already too late. The glass door into the garden was opening. Marcel was there, and with him the receptionist, saying, ‘There’s the lady, sir. I was sure I saw her come out here. Mrs Henshaw, here is Mr Falcon.’

  ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ Mar
cel said smoothly.

  ‘No … it was my fault,’ she stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have come outside—’

  ‘I don’t blame you at all. It’s stifling in there, isn’t it? Why don’t we both sit out in the fresh air?’

  He gestured towards the garden and she walked ahead, too dazed to do anything else.

  He hadn’t reacted.

  He hadn’t recognised her.

  It might be the poor light. Twilight was settling, making everything fade into shadows, denying him a clear view of her face. That was a relief. It would give her time to take control of the situation.

  But she was shaken with anguish as they reached a table and he pulled out a chair for her. He had loved her so much, and now he no longer recognised her.

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’ Marcel asked. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Tonic water, please,’ she said. ‘I prefer to keep a clear head.’

  ‘You’re quite right. I’ll have the same since obviously I’d better keep a clear head too. Waiter!’

  A stranger might be fooled by this, she thought wryly, but the young Marcel had had an awesome ability to imbibe cheap wine while losing none of his faculties. After a night of particular indulgence she’d once challenged him to prove that he was ‘up to it’. Whereupon he’d tossed her onto the bed, flung himself down beside her and proved it again and again, to the delight and hilarity of them both.

  Hilarity? Yes. It had been a joy and a joke at the same time—exhausting each other, triumphing over each other, never knowing who was the winner, except that they both were.

  ‘Cassie, my sweet beloved, why do you tease me?’

  ‘To get you to do what I wanted, of course.’

  ‘And did I do it to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Let’s try again and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘You clearly believe that business comes before pleasure,’ he told her now in a voice that the years hadn’t changed. He spoke English well, but with the barest hint of a French accent that had always enchanted her.

  How many women, she wondered, had been enchanted by it since?

  ‘Smith recommended you to me in the highest possible terms,’ Marcel continued. ‘He said nobody knew as much about my new property as you.’