The Second Wife

by Sheryl Browne

  Nicole laughed. ‘Twit.’ She sniffled and glanced hastily around for something with which to wipe her face and her nose.

  ‘Sleeve?’ Seeing her predicament, Richard offered his smart shirt sleeve.

  ‘You’re bonkers.’ Nicole wiped an errant tear from her eye with the cuff of her jumper.

  ‘So they tell me.’ Richard reached out, grazing a thumb across her green-painted cheek. ‘Come back inside, Nicole,’ he said softly. ‘We can sort this lot out—’ Hearing a frantic scraping at the door, he stopped.

  ‘Wherever his mistress goes…’ Richard shook his head good-naturedly. ‘I’ll go and take him in, lest we end up with a camo-print dog. Back in a sec.’

  Giving her a reassuring smile, he pulled himself to his feet and headed off to rescue Bouncer.

  Just so you know, Richard’s being really supportive, despite being torn down the middle. Can’t help feeling sorry for him, poor soul. Will fill you in more soon. LOVE U. Nicole. X

  Quickly sending a second text, hoping Becky wouldn’t worry too much about her first, Nicole scrambled up, grabbed her coffee and went to join Richard. She wasn’t sure about the adorable little leprechaun bit, but he really was lovely. She could understand him being so worried, but he didn’t have it in him to be anything but caring and kind.

  She wouldn’t let Olivia spoil this for her. That girl – no, woman – had underestimated her if she thought she wouldn’t fight for her man. She would stay standing. She would bide her time until she’d gone. If there was one valuable thing she’d learned from her first marriage, it was how to do that. Curiously, she’d had no sense of guilt when she’d made up her mind to watch and wait, squirrelling bits of money into the bank account her husband had had no knowledge of. Her many trips to the hospital had allowed her the little freedom she’d had to do that. The private investigation company had provided the evidence of his nefarious activities with the women he’d paid. Michael – misogynist, abuser, murderer of women’s spirits – had gathered she was serious, that she would fight back with whatever she had, when she’d posted that evidence to him the day after she’d left him – along with the client list obtained from his PC. Michael, a financial advisor, had realised that many of those clients, some wealthy older women who’d followed his investment advice, wouldn’t be overly impressed with his habits.

  TWENTY

  REBECCA

  PRESENT

  After a week at Richard’s house, and with the heatwave predicted to last at least another week, Rebecca was feeling more at ease with him. He’d helped her go through the canvases Nicole had left behind in the garage and the spare room, handling them reverently, though he was as aware as she was that they were expressions of sombre moods and not reflective of the Nicole that Rebecca had known – not even when she’d been at her lowest, during her first marriage.

  Rebecca had decided to keep one: a smaller canvas which at least had a ray of hope, a splash of yellow amongst the grey. Several of the watercolours, along with Nicole’s art materials, she’d decided to keep, including the one of Bouncer and Wanderer together, some of the Worcestershire landscape and a couple of prophetic water studies. The caged lark – she would keep that, too. Nicole had felt trapped. The painting clearly showed that. It had been a cry for help. Rebecca felt sure that Nicole had been communicating through her art what she’d felt unable to with words. She’d been scared when she’d painted it, Rebecca sensed it. Whether of shadows in her mind or of real people, Rebecca didn’t know, but she wouldn’t rest until she had answers.

  Reflecting on the last week, in which Richard had been nothing but amiable and courteous, she debated what her next move should be while gathering greens from the fridge to make up a salad to accompany the pasta she was making for dinner. She was checking the ingredients of the pasta sauce – and sneakily feeding lumps of cheese to Bouncer and Wanderer – when Sam, Laura and Olivia came downstairs. Sam and Olivia were carrying rackets, Rebecca noticed – obviously about to take advantage of the slightly cooler evening air and play tennis. ‘Remember to take some water,’ she suggested, as the three headed for the patio.

  ‘Got it.’ Olivia stopped fussing over Wanderer and waved a bottle of water in her direction.

  ‘Damn. Forgot my book. Have to have something to entertain me while you two are grunting on court,’ Laura said, about-facing to go back to her room.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Olivia huffed indignantly. ‘I do no such thing. It’s Sam who makes all the piggy noises.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Sam replied dryly, and then called after Laura, ‘You don’t have to come, Laura. It’s probably a bit boring for you.’

  Laura stopped. ‘But I want to,’ she said, sounding piqued. ‘I like watching you play.’

  Evidently hearing the hurt in her tone, Sam went after her, his expression contrite, as well it should be. It seemed to Rebecca that Laura was beginning to feel like a gooseberry. Sam needed to be aware that Olivia was hogging too much of his time – deliberately, it seemed.

  Collecting her own drink, Rebecca followed Olivia out, thinking she might take a dip in the pool. Hearing Olivia talking to Richard as she was about to step out on to the patio, however, she hung back a little.

  ‘Can’t say I blame her for wanting to keep her eye on him,’ Olivia said, idly plucking an olive from the dish that was already on the table.

  ‘Liv…’ Richard gave her an admonishing glance.

  ‘What?’ Olivia’s eyes grew wide with innocence. ‘I’ve no idea what he’s doing with her anyway. If you ask me, it’s Laura who’s boring. She doesn’t play tennis, doesn’t want to swim. I mean, this bookworm thing might look all Brontë-ish and romantic, but really? She wants to sit under the shade of the oak tree rather than swim in the pool with her hot boyfriend or cool off on the patio with a cocktail? Weird, in my opinion.’

  ‘You weren’t asked for your opinion though, Liv, were you?’ Catching her eye as she helped herself to another olive, Richard nodded towards where Rebecca had decided to make her presence known.

  ‘Shoot!’ Spinning around, Olivia almost choked on the olive. ‘Sorry, Becky,’ she said, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks. ‘I didn’t realise you were there.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Richard said drily.

  ‘Apology accepted. It might not be a good idea to let Sam or Laura hear you though.’ Rebecca smiled, quietly wondering what Olivia might be up to. It might be nothing, of course, but Rebecca knew she wasn’t all sweetness and light like she pretended to be. The girl definitely had the hots for Sam, which was worrying. Sam would have to be on his guard.

  ‘All set?’ Olivia asked, as Laura and Sam reappeared. Laura was looking happier, with Sam holding firmly on to her hand. They’d kissed and made up then. That was good.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Smiling, Laura indicated her book, while Sam gave his mum a slightly sheepish look. The two headed after Olivia, who was leading the way around the house to the tennis court. Keen to be gone, Rebecca suspected, after putting her foot in it.

  ‘I’ll put the pasta on when they get back,’ she said, sitting down on the lounger next to Richard.

  ‘Perfect,’ Richard said. ‘Meanwhile, how about we indulge ourselves with a pre-dinner drink?’

  ‘I’d love one.’ Rebecca sighed blissfully and settled back. ‘Something long and cool would be lovely.’

  ‘Chilled wine?’ Richard suggested, downing his book and getting to his feet. ‘Vodka orange? G and T? With ice and a slice, of course.’

  ‘He knows me too well.’ Rebecca smiled. ‘G and T please. Not too heavy on the G though, unless you like congealed pasta.’

  ‘Love it.’ Richard smiled back and relieved her of her empty orange glass. ‘Sorry about Liv’s thoughtless comments. She can be a little tactless sometimes.’

  Rebecca nodded. ‘It’s forgotten. We can’t be responsible for everything they do.’

  ‘No,’ Richard mused as he went to play bartender. ‘We sometimes need to remind ourselves of that.’

/>   ‘It really is a beautiful house. It’s such a pity you have to sell,’ Rebecca commented, watching him preparing the drinks with practised expertise. He was the perfect host, and very easy on the eye. She’d enjoyed watching him in the pool. His torso was athletic, lean and muscular, his skin tanned a perfect shade of copper. It would be no hardship having sex with the man. Could she go through with it though? He’d certainly given signals he was interested: his hands lingering longer than necessary while applying her sun cream; an unmistakeable glint of desire in his eyes when she’d twisted to face him, catching him unawares. But even entertaining the idea of intimacy with him felt like the biggest betrayal of Nicole. She had to know, though, how far he might go, whether, knowing her financial situation, he would push for more. She could be wrong, horribly wrong, but she still couldn’t believe he was as perfect as he seemed.

  ‘I don’t have to sell.’ Richard came back with the drinks. ‘It’s just that the house now seems…’

  ‘Empty?’ Rebecca supplied.

  ‘Very.’ Richard smiled sadly. ‘So, tell me about your house. Didn’t you say you’d recently sold it?’

  ‘I have, finally,’ Rebecca said. ‘I’m aiming to move back to the UK as soon as I can now, particularly with Sam wanting to settle here. I’ll miss the cottage though. It’s pretty and very unusual; not the kind of property you’d find here. A troglodyte dwelling.’

  Richard looked bemused. ‘A what?’

  ‘Dwellings dug into the slopes and rock faces of the landscape,’ Rebecca explained, picking up her phone from the table, selecting a photo and handing it to him. ‘They started out as cave-like dwellings, but they’re a little more luxurious now.’

  ‘So I see.’ Richard scanned the photo of the renovated three-bedroom cottage which overlooked the river, impressed. ‘It’s beautiful. Worth a fair sum, I imagine. God, sorry…’ He looked quickly up at her. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. It’s the property developer in me.’

  ‘You’re not after my money then?’ Amusedly, Rebecca narrowed her eyes.

  Richard smiled ruefully. ‘No, I’m not after your money.’ He swept his gaze over her, then his eyes came back to hers. His look was intent and meaningful, and he lingered for a long, penetrating moment, causing every inch of Rebecca’s skin to tingle.

  Flustered, despite her assurances to herself that she was in the driving seat, Rebecca looked away. How was it, she wondered, that those arctic-blue eyes which emanated such deep sadness could also smoulder with such tangible longing?

  ‘You’ve no family in France then?’ he asked interestedly.

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘My parents had me late in life,’ she said. ‘I lost them when I was quite young.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ Richard said quietly. ‘That must have been difficult.’

  ‘It was.’ Rebecca nodded and searched his face. His expression was earnest.

  ‘No sisters or brothers?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I was an only child. Thus my troglodyte dwelling, bought with the money my parents bequeathed me. It was a fair amount, allowing me to buy it in cash.’

  Finishing her drink, Rebecca swished the ice around in her glass and glanced down at it, leaving Richard to ponder.

  ‘And you wanted to stay in France after you husband died?’ he asked, after a contemplative moment.

  ‘I did. Going home would have felt like leaving him behind. Does that make sense?’

  ‘It does. Perfect sense,’ Richard said. ‘Another?’ He nodded at her glass.

  ‘Please. That definitely hit the spot.’ Rebecca smiled, feeling more at ease. Then he reached for the glass and his fingers brushed hers, sending a ripple of sexual tension up the entire length of her spine.

  ‘Good,’ he said, his mesmerising gaze again holding hers as he got to his feet. ‘He was French then, I take it?’ he asked, leaving Rebecca in a state of shock as he went back to the bar.

  This was ridiculous. She’d had relationships with men since her husband had died. But always with men she’d considered safe. Men who she’d grown to know rather than plunge into relationships with. This man seemed to be stripping away her ability to consider anything but what his firm body would feel like next to hers. Was this how it had been with Nicole? Had she too been spellbound by his sexual chemistry and irresistible charm?

  ‘Your husband,’ he prompted, watching her as he fixed the drinks. ‘I assume he was French?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebecca said quickly, attempting to get a rein on her emotions. ‘I met him on a mad weekend in Paris, drinking wine and viewing galleries with Nicole. He wanted to paint my portrait and he ended up proposing.’

  ‘I like his style. He obviously knew a good thing when he saw it.’ Richard nodded approvingly as he returned with the drinks. ‘So, you were swept off your feet by a starving artist then?’

  ‘Well, not exactly starving, thanks to my money,’ Rebecca said, dropping a further hint regarding her own financial situation. ‘But yes, he would have starved for his art. He was driven, passionate. His work was very evocative – life studies, mostly. Nicole adored it.’

  ‘I imagine I would, too. Particularly life studies of you,’ Richard said, holding on to the glass as he passed it to her, the insinuation this time clear. As if he were testing the waters.

  Destabilised, Rebecca took a sharp breath. ‘I think I’ll cool off,’ she said, taking the glass. She felt him watching as she placed the glass on the table and slid off her lounger.

  Several lengths of the pool later, and feeling more in control, Rebecca swam to the ladder and heaved herself up. Richard walked across to her as she reached the top rung.

  ‘I brought you a towel,’ he said, his gaze travelling languidly over her, an implicit question now in his eyes as they came back to hers.

  ‘Thank you.’ Rebecca reached for the towel and then took a faltering step back as he stepped closer.

  ‘Careful!’ Richard said, his arm encircling her waist as she teetered, yanking her bodily towards him. There was no escaping his eyes then, or the hardness of him and the frisson of primal desire inside her.

  Plainly reading what was in her eyes – she couldn’t hope to hide it – Richard leaned towards her, seeking her mouth with his, parting her lips so softly that Rebecca felt something beyond physical dissolve inside her. His kiss was slow, deep and passionate, his tongue finding hers, exploring her, tasting her. Warning herself to be very careful of this too attractive man, Rebecca tentatively reciprocated, and then grew bolder as he responded eagerly.

  Stopping to catch his breath, he looked into her eyes and then pressed his forehead to hers. ‘I want you, Rebecca,’ he said, his voice low and husky. A wave of white-hot desire surged right through her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  NICOLE

  PREVIOUS YEAR – SEPTEMBER

  In her mother’s kitchen, Nicole stowed the provisions she’d bought and then made her another cup of tea. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to visit. She wasn’t here by invitation, or because she’d fancied dropping by for a chat. They’d never done that, her mother blaming her ‘rebelliousness’ – as she’d termed Nicole’s desire not to kowtow to her father’s will – for the misery and violence she herself had suffered at his hands. Their tenuous mother–daughter relationship had been irretrievably fractured the day Nicole had gone to her for help and her mother had closed the door in her face. Nicole had lost her dear baby girl shortly after that. She’d told herself she hadn’t needed her since then.

  Lydia, though, clearly needed her. She certainly needed help of some sort. It had taken ages for her to answer the door. When she had, finally, Nicole had been shocked to find not the formidable, house-proud woman she once was, ‘too busy doing what needs to be done to waste time on pipedreams and nonsense’, but someone so thin and drawn that she looked feeble. The house was still clean – God forbid the woman ever stopped cleaning; or rather, Nicole’s father forbid she ever did – but it was no longer so sterile that you could eat off the flo
or.

  Taking the tea through, Nicole placed it on the occasional table next to the armchair and then gently shook her mother’s arm.

  Lydia woke with a start, her eyes unfocussed for a second before they settled on Nicole. And then they were more resigned than relieved. Still, at least she didn’t look disappointed, her normal expression whenever Nicole had been around before.

  ‘I’ve made you some tea,’ she said, nodding towards it. ‘I’ve brought you a chocolate digestive, too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ her mother managed, heaving herself up in her seat, glancing at the cup and then sighing in despair. ‘Honestly, Nicole.’ She glowered up at her. ‘You’ve dribbled tea in the saucer. It will be soggy now. I can’t abide soggy biscuits.’

  No? Well, you’ll just have to like it or lump it then, won’t you? Nicole forced a smile. Her mother might look frail, but her tongue was in perfect working order, and as acerbic as it ever was. ‘I’ve brought you some soups and microwavable meals,’ she said. ‘There are some in the freezer and some in the fridge. All easily digestible: mash and fish, that sort of thing.’

  Lydia sniffed, but didn’t turn her nose up at her offerings. Since her fall in the garden, when she’d damaged her ankle, she hadn’t been able to get out to shops. Nicole had taken her to the doctor’s and stocked up her cupboards. She would organise some home help and a gardener – Lydia’s garden with its pretty orangery was her pride and joy – but there wasn’t a lot else she could do, other than check up on her. They simply didn’t have that much in common any more. They never really had.

  ‘I’ll get off then,’ she said, as her mother munched on the chocolate biscuit, which wasn’t so soggy that she would turn her nose up at that either. ‘I have to feed Bouncer.’

  ‘Yes, off you go. You obviously have important things to attend to,’ Lydia said pointedly, and took a sip of her tea. ‘I hope you’re attending to your new husband’s needs,’ she added, the implication being that Nicole’s slovenliness was why her first marriage had failed. If only she’d realised, Nicole thought cynically, that she could have hung on to her man if she’d worked harder at pleasing him. Perhaps by not ‘whimpering pathetically’ when he’d punched her in the stomach, or getting up off the floor quicker to serve him his dinner?