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He watched her face as he spoke but all the barriers were up and he couldn’t read a thing.
‘We can’t go back to how it was,’ she said with a quietness that was more final than any show of emotion.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t. We had a son together and he died, and he’ll for ever be a part of us and a sadness that’s shaped us into the people we are today. But you and I, that is a thing apart. This punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault has to end.’
‘What?’ She reared up as though he had slapped her.
‘That’s what you are doing, Nell, whether you acknowledge it or not, and you’re punishing me too,’ he said, feeling incredibly cruel to face her with what he believed. But he would lose her if he didn’t start to force her to take stock.
‘You don’t understand anything.’
He flinched visibly, telling himself to keep calm. How she could come out with something like that when all he’d done since Matthew’s death was understand, he didn’t know. ‘This is not all about you—have you considered that?’ He could hear her damn assistant coming back, whistling some pop tune or other, and wanted— quite unreasonably—to punch him on the nose. ‘I loved Matthew too.’
‘But you didn’t cause his death.’
‘Neither did you, for crying out loud.’ He hadn’t meant to shout, he’d told himself before he walked out of the house he was going to be calm and rational, but at least the whistling had stopped.
She turned away, her soft mouth pulling tight in a way he knew from past experience meant she was digging her heels in. ‘I’ve work to do.’ She glanced up to where James was standing some distance away, clearly uncertain of whether he was welcome in what was obviously a danger zone. ‘James, come and help me with the rest of this.’
Knowing if he didn’t leave fairly rapidly he was going to say or do something he’d be sorry for, Forde turned on his heel and walked back to the house without another word. His mother was waiting for him in the hall, just inside the open front door.
‘I heard you shout.’ Isabelle’s voice was gently accusing.
He loved his mother. She was a strong-minded, generous soul with the faintly old-world charm and dignity of her generation, and for that reason he bit back the profanities hovering on his tongue and said curtly, ‘It was that or strangle her, so be thankful for the shouting.’
Isabelle’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to say something and then clearly thought better of it.
‘I’m going.’ Forde bent and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll ring you later.’
When he left the house again Melanie and James were nowhere to be seen, although he could hear voices beyond the stone wall that separated the drive and the front of the house from the gardens at the rear. He glanced at the side gate for a moment and then decided there was nothing to be gained from saying goodbye. Striding over to the Aston Martin, he opened the door and slid inside, starting the car immediately and swinging it round so fast the tyres screeched.
That hadn’t gone at all as he’d intended, he thought, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles showed white. He hadn’t expected her assistant to look like a young George Clooney with muscles for one thing, or for Melanie to be so… He couldn’t find a word that satisfactorily described her mix of cool hauteur and wariness and gave up trying.
Once he’d reached home he prowled round the house like a restless animal instead of showering and getting changed for the office. Everywhere he looked there were reminders of Melanie; she’d so enjoyed having the team of interior designers in when they’d first got married and stamping her mark on the house. And he loved her taste. In fact he loved everything about her, damn it, although there had been moments after she had left him when the pain had got so bad he’d wished he’d never met her.
He had never imagined there would be a problem in life where he couldn’t reach her, that was the thing. He’d been confident whatever befell them he’d be able to protect and nurture her, see her through, that they would face it together. But he had been wrong. And it had cost him his marriage. He walked through to the massive kitchen-cum-breakfast-room at the back of the house and slumped down at the kitchen table.
He was still deep in black thoughts when J
anet let herself into the house at gone ten.
‘Mr Masterson, what are you doing here at this time in the morning?’ She had always insisted on giving him his full title even though he’d told her to call him Forde a hundred times. ‘Are you ill?’
He lifted bleak eyes to the round, robin-like ones of the little woman who was a friend and confidante as much as his cook and cleaner. Janet’s life was far from easy but you’d never have guessed it from her bright and cheery manner, and in the ten years she’d worked for him since he had first bought the house they’d grown close. She was a motherly soul, and he looked on her as the older sister he’d never had. For her part, he knew she regarded him like one of her sons and she had never been backward in admonishing him, should the situation call for it. He could tell Janet anything, unlike his mother. Not that Isabelle wouldn’t have understood or given good advice, but since his father’s death he’d always felt he had to shield his mother from problems and worry.
‘I saw Melanie this morning,’ he said flatly. ‘It wasn’t an… amicable exchange.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Janet bustled over to the coffee maker and put it on. ‘Have you eaten yet?’
He shook his head.
Once he had a mug of steaming coffee and a plateful of egg and bacon inside him, he felt a little better. Pouring him a second cup and one for herself, Janet plonked herself opposite him at the kitchen table. ‘So,’ she said companionably. ‘What happened?’
He told her the gist of the conversation and Janet listened quietly. After a moment, she said, ‘So you think Mrs Masterson is having an affair with her assistant?’
Forde straightened as suddenly as though he’d had an electric shock. ‘Of course not.’
‘But you’re going to give up on her, nonetheless?’
