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‘Oh, and by the way, there’s no need to tell Nick I rang. I’ll be seeing him this evening anyway…’
She had hung up before Fern could speak.
It seemed she was not the only one to want to end their marriage, Fern acknowledged shakily as she reflected on Venice’s comments. But if Nick had already decided to end their marriage himself, why had he simply not said so?
Because he wants to put the blame on you, an inner voice told her. Because Cressy was right in everything that she said about him. Because he enjoys hurting and humiliating you. Because… She tensed as she glanced out of the window and saw Nick’s car pulling up outside.
As she watched, he climbed out and walked towards the house.
Even without being able to see his face she could tell that he was still angry. His movements betrayed both his anger and his aggression.
‘Come to your senses yet, have you?’ he demanded as he came in. ‘You’re a fool, Fern, you always have been and you always will be. My God, you’re damn lucky that I’m prepared to let you come back. How many other men would take back a woman who’d slept with another man… and not just any other man but—?’
‘You’ve slept with other women,’ Fern interrupted him coolly. ‘You still are doing.’
‘And who the hell’s fault is that?’ Nick demanded savagely. ‘I’m a man, Fern, not a bloody monk. What man wouldn’t be tempted to turn to someone else married to a frigid bitch like you? Adam was right when he warned me not to get involved with you, not to let my pity for you blind me to reality. Even Adam, cold fish that he is, didn’t want you in his bed, did he? Did he?’
‘Unlike Venice, who does apparently want you in hers,’ Fern cut across him.
As she saw the look that crossed his face she was both amazed and appalled at her own recklessness.
‘She wants you to get in touch with her, by the way,’ she added, refusing to be quelled by the look he was giving her. ‘You might have told me that you intended leaving me for her, by the way, Nick,’ she added quietly. ‘It would have saved us both having to go through this pointless charade.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Nick demanded furiously. ‘I didn’t say anything about leaving you.’
‘No, you didn’t, did you?’ Fern agreed levelly. ‘You let Venice say it for you… I’m going out now,’ she added, heading for the door and pausing when she reached it to turn round and tell him pleasantly, ‘Oh, and it’s all right. Venice has already told me that you won’t be in for dinner.’
She was shaking as she walked out of the house, but she was determined not to let Nick guess how vulnerable she felt.
* * *
Venice saw Nick arriving through her bedroom window. She had been standing there watching… waiting for the last half-hour, but she didn’t hurry downstairs to let him in.
Instead she walked into the dressing-room attached to her bedroom—there was no way she was going to allow the carefully copied French empire style of the latter to be spoiled by the banks of wardrobes and cupboards, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the harshness of the lighting which came as near to natural daylight as was possible and which was essential for the careful and professional application of her make-up.
For Venice the outward appearance with which she faced the world was extremely important; she planned her public appearances with all the dedication and concentration of a master strategist… just as she had planned this meeting with Nick.
She smiled secretly to herself. He of course would never know exactly how much work had gone into this summons here to her house, her presence; how much energy and intensity she had poured into her relationship with him… All the carefully timed strategies, the subtle shepherding and coaxing of him… the deliberate manipulation of his moods and needs.
Now, as she checked her appearance in the mirrors, she permitted herself a small, satisfied smile.
Her make-up gave her skin a soft luminescent glow which in the careful lighting of her drawing-room and bedroom would easily pass for ‘naturalness’. She had left her hair soft and loose, its style almost demure. She was wearing a navy printed chiffon dress with loose panels that floated enticingly around her body and she had even changed her perfume, forgoing her preference for Schiaparelli’s Shocking for something softer, lighter…
It was time to go down and let Nick in and bring to a close the campaign she had embarked on. A successful close, of course. How could there be any other?
She paused for a moment, reflecting pityingly on Nick’s wife.
She had been no opponent at all, really. Some women had no idea how to hold on to their men. She gave a small shrug. She would get over it. She would have to.
She opened the door to Nick just as his irritation was mounting to the point where he was about to walk away.
Originally, when he had first met Venice, Nick had been wary of her. Wary of her and extremely excited by her. He knew all about her reputation; he had heard the story of her marriage to a much older and very wealthy man, her openly uninhibited enjoyment of the wealth he had left her and of her own sexuality… He had known then how dangerous it would be for him to get involved with her, but ultimately he had been unable to withstand his craving for the heady, drugging mixture of excitement, danger and jealousy she aroused within him.
It was a new experience for Nick to be involved in a sexual relationship where he was not in control, where he was not in a position of mastery and manipulation. But, although his sense of self-preservation had warned him to pull back, he had become too deeply infatuated, too drunk on the ego-boosting drug of sex and sympathy which Venice was feeding him to allow himself to be weaned of his addiction.
Venice was clever enough to know just when to pull back to allow him to think he had the edge over her, to bow to his ‘male superiority’, thus soothing his pride and allaying, silencing that warning voice of inner caution and self-protection.
Fern’s unexpected rebellion had come at a bad time for him. His accountant had warned him that he would suffer heavy business losses if he wasn’t careful. Venice was not proving very easy to pin down to the various proposals he had put to her, on which he had hoped to earn fat commissions. In bed she was all compliance, all agreement with his carefully rehearsed post-coital advice on what she ought to do with her inherited millions, but then, later, when he tried to pin her down to making an actual commitment, she became irritatingly vague.
