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Once Dean had left she ran herself a hot bath an
d lay soaking in strawberry bubbles as she considered all they had said. If someone like Dean, essentially pretty shallow and selfish, could make the grand gesture he had made this morning, it surely wasn’t beyond her to do something similar for Flynn, was it? OK, so Flynn might cut her dead or reduce her to nothing with that cynical tongue of his, but what did that matter? If that happened she deserved it, and she had no pride left after the misery of the last few days. She would do anything, anything to show him how sorry she was.
He had said he loved her, in that last terrible phone call, and she believed he had. Perhaps he still did? Perhaps she hadn’t destroyed everything? And even if Celine was his first love she didn’t care any more. It was her he had proposed to a few nights ago, their future he had been thinking about.
Marigold had rung the hospital a few times, enquiring after Celine, but each time she had got a standard formal reply. ‘Miss Jenet is as well as can be expected.’ The last two days she hadn’t rung at all, but once out of the bath she picked up the phone and dialled the number of Flynn’s home in Shropshire.
‘Bertha?’ She took a deep breath after hearing Flynn’s housekeeper’s voice. ‘It’s Marigold. I’m ringing to ask how Celine is.’
‘Oh, hello, dear.’ From the tone of Bertha’s voice she knew nothing about their break-up, and this seemed to be borne out when Bertha said, her voice a little puzzled, ‘Why don’t you ask Mr Moreau, dear?’
‘He’s so busy.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to tell me! He’ll be ill if he carries on, but hopefully now Celine is on the mend he can relax a bit more. She’s still progressing little by little, dear, but she was awake more yesterday and her speech is all but back. It’s a blessing her eyesight hasn’t been affected, isn’t it? I think that’s what was worrying Mr Moreau the most.’
By the time Marigold put down the phone a few minutes later she was trembling with reaction. Celine was all right; she was going to get better. According to Bertha, Flynn was confident he had removed all of the tumour and the prognosis for the future was good.
She was going to go round to his flat as soon as she was dressed. She had to see him now, today. She needed to make him understand she loved him, really loved him, and then the rest was up to him. If he couldn’t forgive her… She dared not let herself think about that. If she did she would revert to the soggy mess of the last few days, and right now she had to be strong.
After blow-drying her hair into a shining, sleek shoulder-length style, she stood for some time surveying the contents of her wardrobe. She needed to look smart but not too smart; feminine and appealing but not too obvious.
Eventually she chose a pair of new smart brown trousers with her brown boots, teaming them with a white cashmere jumper which had been wickedly expensive but always made her feel good. She made up her face with just a smidgen of foundation to hide the paleness of nerves, and stroked a couple of coats of mascara on her eyelashes.
She couldn’t compete with Celine in the beauty stakes, she thought soberly, and she wasn’t going to try. This was her; five feet four, brown hair, blue eyes, and capable of the utmost stupidity as her behaviour a few days ago had proved. Would he talk to her? She shut her eyes tightly and prayed for strength. She’d make him!
As the taxi pulled into the beautifully kept grounds of the private hospital Marigold did a few deep-breathing exercises to try and combat her wildly beating heart.
She had gone to Flynn’s London flat first but when there had been no answer had assumed he was at the hospital. Of course, he might not be, she reminded herself nervously, but he was bound to turn up here sooner or later. Considering the taxi had run up a bill equal to a small mortgage, she wasn’t budging further anyway!
After paying the taxi driver, she squared her shoulders under her brown leather jacket and marched purposefully to the reception doors, which glided open at her approach. She waded through ankle-deep carpet to where an exquisitely coiffured receptionist was waiting with a charming smile. ‘Can I help you?’ she purred sweetly.
‘I would like to speak to Mr Moreau. Mr Flynn Moreau,’ Marigold said firmly.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, I don’t have an appointment.’
‘Then I’m really very sorry but—’
‘I’m not a patient of Mr Moreau’s,’ Marigold said quickly. ‘I’m a friend. I’m sure he will want to see me when he knows I’m here.’ She was getting better at lying, Marigold thought a trifle hysterically. That one had come out as smooth as cream.
A couple of men walked down some stairs at the far end of the reception area, obviously from the Middle East as their flowing robes proclaimed. They looked as though they owned a couple of countries apiece at least.
‘Mr Moreau’s secretary is not in today but I’ll see if I can contact him,’ the receptionist said pleasantly. ‘I’m really not sure if he is in the building.’
Oh, yes, right, Marigold thought disbelievingly. If Flynn thought she was a poor liar he ought to listen to this woman!
‘Who shall I say wants him?’
‘Miss Flower.’ She was not going to give her first name to this vision of sophistication!
‘If you would like to take a seat, Miss Flower, I’ll see what I can do.’ The receptionist waved a pale beringed hand with long, perfectly painted red talons in the direction of several pale cream sofas some distance away, and Marigold had no choice but to smile politely and comply.
She could see the woman talking on a telephone from where she was seated but was too far away to hear what she was saying, although once or twice the heavily made-up, almond-shaped eyes looked her way. As the receptionist replaced one telephone another rang at the side of her, and she was once again engrossed in conversation.
The Middle Eastern gentlemen had been standing talking in low voices, and as they now departed in a swish of long robes and exclusive perfume Marigold glanced about her, trying not to appear overawed. Money might not be able to buy good health but it certainly made being sick more enjoyable! She knew Flynn worked in the public sector at the local hospital as well as this private one, and the two places must be like two different worlds. Suddenly panic was making her throat dry. She should never have come. This was a big mistake. Celine was far more suited to his world than she was and now the other woman was ill Flynn might well be hoping they would get back together again.
‘Hello, Marigold.’
