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‘We’d agreed you were going to have children and I’d be the breadwinner,’ he shot back roughly, changing his tack in view of her scathing voice.
‘And the children didn’t happen.’ She eyed him firmly. ‘And you know as well as I do that you don’t have to do another day’s work in your life and you’ll still be a multimillionaire for the rest of your days.’
‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ he said crisply, dark colour flaring across his countenance.
‘Why? Because you are hearing a few home truths?’
‘That’s enough, Marianne.’
‘And now you’re shutting down again because you aren’t winning.’ She was looking at Zeke and he was looking back, his eyes narrowed and hot and his mouth a thin line in the tautness of his jaw.
She had gone as far as she could for one day. Marianne followed her instinct and, despite the churning of her stomach and the trembling in her limbs, smiled brightly. ‘Think about what I’ve said, Zeke,’ she advised calmly, willing her voice not to shake. ‘You are telling yourself you can’t change because you are too scared to try, and out of that has come a whole cart-load of hang-ups. Whatever you might think, I love you, and I shall continue to love you as long as I live. I could be the next Prime Minister and I’d still love you—a top model, whatever.
‘You exasperate me at times, annoy me, drive me mad, if you want to know. And you’re right—you have cheated me. You’ve cheated us both, actually. But I still love you, more than ever. Because love, real love, doesn’t choose where it wants to go; it just happens. There’s no rhyme or reason to it very often, and certainly it defies logic. But it happens and that’s that. Fait accompli.’
She had expected some dry, cynical barb at the end of her little oration, one of the razor-sharp cuts that he did so well, and her stomach muscles had clenched in readiness. But he just sat there, his expression frozen and revealing nothing of what was going on in his mind.
And then, as one of the young waiters bustled over, enquiring if their food was to their satisfaction, Zeke made some polite comment on their as yet untouched meals and they both began eating.
But Marianne had seen his hand shake slightly as he transferred a forkful of food to his mouth, and that, more than anything else that had occurred, gave her the slightest ray of hope.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARIANNE had expected—perhaps foolishly, she acknowledged to herself as she sat at the bedsit window watching a frosty Christmas Eve dawn—that Zeke would be in touch after their frank and somewhat caustic meeting that snowy December lunch-time.
Admittedly she had received an outrageously generous cheque through the post from his solicitors two days later, along with an official note stating the same amount would be repeated on the fifth of every month, and asking could Mrs Buchanan please inform Jarvis & Smith of her new address in due course? She had returned the cheque the same day, with a short note stating that she did not intend to change her address, neither did she want the money.
After that, sixteen days ago, she had heard nothing from the solicitors and nothing from Zeke.
Her father had been to see her twice and taken her out to dinner, and on the first occasion—once the initial awkwardness was over—they had talked as they hadn’t done for a long time. By the time he had left she had known he understood how things were, and on his second visit they had simply enjoyed each other’s company, which had been great.
Pat had come to stay for a couple of days the week before—complete with army sleeping bag which she’d insisted on spreading out on the floor at the side of the sofa bed, refusing Marianne’s offer to use the sleeping bag herself—and the two of them had had a girly weekend which had done Marianne the power of good. You simply couldn’t wallow in self-pity or any other negative feelings with Pat around.
And Mrs Polinkski—bless her—seemed to have made it her mission in life to make sure Marianne was well-fed and befriended, inviting her to their spacious flat above the supermarket for a home-cooked meal several times a week, and always insisting the son of the family—Wilmer—saw her home to the door of the bedsit, despite Marianne’s protests.
Marianne frowned as her thoughts u
nfocused her gaze on the winter sky of silver and pale peach. She might have something of a problem brewing with Wilmer, actually, she told herself darkly. The Polinkskis were fully aware of her situation, but in spite of that Wilmer had asked her out for a drink twice in the last few days, and despite her refusals seemed more keen, if anything. He had taken to looking at her with great sad puppy-dog eyes and making unnecessary visits into the front of the shop every two minutes. It was beginning to drive her mad.
He was a nice enough boy—he was probably her age, but seemed heaps younger to Marianne—and quite good-looking, with his shock of dark blond hair and brown eyes, but, apart from the fact that she was a married woman, she could never have liked him in a romantic sense in a hundred years.
All in all, life had been full and busy—she had barely had time to look through the university and college prospectuses she had sent away for—so the gnawing feeling of aloneness which hadn’t left her since she had first walked out of the apartment was silly, ridiculous, crazy. But it was still there, she admitted with a deep sigh as her eyes focused on the river of mother-of-pearl and varying shades of luminescent peach again. And it was worse, if anything, when she was with people. All she wanted, all she seemed able to think about whatever she was doing or saying outwardly, was one particular person.
‘Oh, Zeke.’ She spoke his name out loud, her breath misting the cold glass before she rubbed at it with the sleeve of her dressing gown. He had admitted to a profound emotion for her that was all at odds with the rigid control he liked to keep on his feelings, and in the voicing of it had made it impossible for them ever to go back to the old way of things. Not that she would have contemplated that herself, of course.
Nevertheless, the portent of all they had said that lunch-time had the power to blow their marriage to smithereens or ultimately make it stronger than it had ever been, but it all depended on Zeke. And she didn’t, she really didn’t, she reiterated miserably, know which way he would jump.
Christmas Eve. She looked up above the frosted rooftops and then shut her eyes against the brilliance of the early-morning sky. Last year Zeke had worked until nearly five, despite giving his employees the afternoon off, and she had spent most of the day wrapping presents for him, which she’d placed under the little tree she had bought, and getting a sumptuous festive meal for the two of them and a couple of friends he’d invited round. They had eaten in the intimidating dining room and she had hated every minute of it, mainly because just before the friends had arrived she’d discovered that her late monthly cycle had been another false alarm and her hopes had been crushed again.
Since her mother’s death her father had taken to spending Christmas with his small army of brothers and sisters, most of whom lived in Scotland, and for the first two Christmases—until she’d met Zeke—she had joined him. However, Zeke had been reluctant to take any more than two or three days away from his empire—or that was the excuse he had given for not leaving London and their apartment—and so their Christmases had been short affairs, filled with his friends and acquaintances.
He would receive masses of invitations for Christmas Eve parties and Christmas lunch; he always did, she thought soberly. Along with drinks here and there, and Boxing Day soirées and so on. And if word had got out that they were living apart and he was ‘available’, there would be more than one eagle-eyed female willing to provide a shoulder to cry on. In fact they’d be queueing for miles.
Her mouth tightened at the thought and she brushed back a wisp of fine, silky silver-blonde hair from her cheek. His silence over the last two weeks might be indicative of the fact that he had decided to avail himself of female comfort, and she could use up all her fingers without even trying in counting certain women in their social circle who would be aching to provide it.
Marianne sighed heavily and rose to her feet, her face as pale as alabaster from her musings. She missed him so badly. Missed waking up beside him and seeing him, relaxed in sleep, more like the serious-faced little boy with black curly hair he had spoken of at their last meeting. Sleep ironed out the cynical lines of his hard face, mellowing his features and bringing emphasis to his thick dark lashes and firm, beautifully moulded mouth. And his body… She shut her eyes tight for a moment and then opened them, walking across the room with what amounted to a grim expression on her face now. She wasn’t going to think about him right now; she wasn’t. She could do all her moping later.
She had a long, leisurely bath and washed her hair before getting dressed for work, some perverse determination making her pull on the bright red jumper the faithful old charity shop had provided a few days before, after which she tied her hair high on the top of her head in a jaunty ponytail, securing it with a red velvet ribbon.
