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There was no need for him to say anything, not when she’d just done his dirty work for him.
CHAPTER NINE
ON HER way upstairs to make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, Mattie changed her mind.
Why wait until morning? If she was leaving she might just as well do it now. James wasn’t exactly pounding up the stairs after her, pleading with her to stay. The formality of divorce aside, their marriage was over.
In fact, the silence of his complete indifference was deafening.
Mrs Briggs would be around in the morning, serving breakfast, asking who would be in for lunch and who wouldn’t. Mattie could do without having to tell her that she didn’t want breakfast, wouldn’t be eating another meal in this house. Ever.
Thankfully, there was no large-scale business entertaining in the offing to worry the elderly housekeeper. And when there was, Fiona would be only too happy to do the organising, she thought sourly.
In the room she had shared with James she pushed as many of her belongings as she could manage to get into an overnight bag. The rest could stay here and rot for all she cared.
After hurriedly checking the contents of her handbag, she crept back down the stairs feeling like a thief and was on the pavement a scant five minutes after walking out on James. But her feet felt rooted to the spot, as if the physical effort entailed in walking out of his life was beyond her.
She was still actually waiting for him to come after her, she thought with a shock of self-disgust. To beg her to stay, tell her he couldn’t live without her, that he’d changed his mind about having a family.
Waiting for something that would never happen.
Tugging in a harsh breath, she forced herself to walk on, wishing she’d had the sense to change out of the spindly high heels, no idea where she was going.
James had never pretended he loved her. Why should he, when he didn’t, when all she was to him was a pleasant, undemanding companion, someone to share his bed and satisfy strong male urges?
He’d said nothing when she’d dropped her bombshell, just stared at her, his features frozen, not even bothering to call her back when she’d walked out of the room.
After his conversation with Fiona this evening he would have been relieved to see her go. Her and the child she was carrying, the child he most definitely didn’t want.
It was almost dark now, the June night warm, the traffic light. She simply walked, not seeing anything, her mind replaying nightmare scenes from this evening.
Without any conscious mental direction she found herself in front of the apartment block where her father lived with his new wife.
Somewhere to spend the night, she thought dully when she recognised where she was. In the absence of a mother, she was running home to Father, instinctively trying to burrow back into the womblike existence she’d known before she’d accepted James’ proposal.
When her father opened the door he was wearing a thin robe over his stripy pyjamas, sloppy old slippers on his feet. And a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Can I stay the night?’ Her voice sounded rusty, as though she hadn’t used it for years. She walked stiffly past him, holding herself rigid because if she didn’t she could easily fall apart, walked through the pleasant square-shaped entrance hall, into the long, rectangular sitting room. Pleasant, too, decorated in soft shades of sage-green and lighter touches of ivory, furnished with comfortable pieces brought from Berrington.
She’d visited before, of course she had. But never dressed for a cocktail party, a bulging old canvas holdall hitched over one shoulder, her handbag over the other, her face stiff with the dried runnels of tears she hadn’t known she’d shed.
‘Of course you can stay.’ Edward Trent had followed his daughter, but slowly, as if he were negotiating a minefield. ‘You can stay for as long as you like. But may I be allowed to know why?’
She turned to face him, letting the bags she was carrying slip to the floor. ‘I’ve left James.’ Saying it aloud made the muddled nightmare of this evening real. Gave it a sharpness and clarity that hurt unbearably. She dragged her hand over her eyes. ‘It didn’t work out. It was never going to.’ How could it have done when he couldn’t stop loving Fiona?
‘Why don’t you sit down before you keel over?’ Edward suggested worriedly. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, or would you like something stronger?’
She ignored his question, as if she hadn’t taken it in, her eyes looking bruised as she scanned the room. ‘Where’s Emily?’ She’d known and liked her new stepmother for what felt like for ever. Over the years she’d taken the place of the mother who had deserted her. In the midst of the emotional storm that was engulfing her she craved the comfort of the familiar.
But her father said, ‘She turned in early. We planned on driving up to York tomorrow. Staying a few days and taking in the sights. But that can be postponed, it’s not important. What appears to be happening with you is.’
‘No.’ Abruptly, with all the determination she possessed, she pulled herself together. What right had she to inflict her miseries and messes on her father and his new wife? She wouldn’t disrupt their lives with her problems. She could handle them herself.
‘Just tonight,’ she assured him, more life in her voice now. ‘I’ll be leaving London tomorrow, too. I’d hate you to change your plans on my account. Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. Tea,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I’d like a cup, would you?’
S
he walked through to the clinically perfect kitchen without waiting for his reply. She felt strangely calm now, almost as if nothing could touch her, as if she were living inside a glass bubble where she was safely beyond reach of anything that could hurt her.
