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The apartment was small, with a kitchen, living-room, bathroom, bedroom and balcony. Saffron had visited it with Ate when she had been in Athens, but only for a few minutes while he dropped off his briefcase. He had told her that Athens, although home of the Acropolis and some of the most marvellous ancient ruins in the world, was also the second most poputed city in the world. The traffic was horrendous and the smell of carbon monoxide hung in the air twenty-four hours a day. No one made it their permanent home if they could avoid it. She'd forgotten that in her rush to make plans, but it wasn't important, she told herself firmly.
With her shopping lying on the floor, a cup of coffee in front of her, Saffron settled on the sofa and, curling her feet up beneath her, felt quite at home. She heard a key turn in the lock and turned her head towards the door, a broad smile lighting her lovely face. Alex was back, and not that late after all. But when the door opened to smile vanished and her eyes widened in shock as Sylvia walked in as if she owned the place.
'Well, a visitor. What are you doing here?' the dark- headed woman asked casually, dumping a briefcase on the table in front of Saffron.
'I could ask you the same question,' Saffron shot back. She had not seen the other woman since the wedding, and she had deliberately refused to think about Sylvia's relationship with Alex, convincing herself that it was all in the past—another ostrich act, some simple explanation for Sylvia's being here, having a key. . . Perhaps she was delivering something for Alex. Yes, that must be it.
'I live here,'
Saffron stared, struck dumb. Sylvia lived here. . .in Alex's apartment. It wasn't possible. Slowly she uncurled herself and stood up; she was not going to let this woman intimidate her. She was Alex's wife.
'I don't believe you.'
The other woman, her dark eyes glittering malevolently, said, 'Follow me, if you dare,' and headed towards the bedroom door.
On trembling legs Saffron followed her, and watched as she slid back a mirrored wardrobe door to reveal a row of feminine clothes, and then quite deliberately slid back the next door, revealing more clothes, but this time Saffron could not fail to recognise a couple of masculine suits, shoes and shirts. Alex's!
'You're a fool, Saffron; you didn't really think Alex was the type to settle for one woman, did you? He only married you to please his mother. I did warn you on the yacht—you should have listened.'
'Yes—yes, I should. . .' Saffron whispered, and, turning on her heel, she walked back to the living-room. Her gaze grazed over the shopping she had left on the floor; the name of a pharmacy on one package brought a bitter twist to her lips. Now was not the time to discover if she was pregnant.
Picking up the parcels and her jacket, she walked out into the cold, dark night. Some time later a screech of brakes shocked her back to reality and prevented her being mown down by a huge truck.
She jumped back on the pavanent and stared about her. She had no idea where she was or how far she had walked. The rain was beating down* a stem brewing, and her skirt and blouse were soaked. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, her fingers curling around the card James had given her earlier. Now his offer of assistance, the sympathy she had seen in his eyes made sense. As Alex's PA James must have known about Sylvia all along; probably all Alex's business acquaintances did— the people at the house party! Tears blurred her vision; her shame and humiliation were complete.
The little wife, his mother's choice, tucked away on the island, living in cloud-cuckoo land, imagining herself loved. What a naive fool she had been, and she had only herself to blame.
But no more, she vowed silently, brushing the tears from her eyes. Straightening her shoulders, she glanced once again at the card in her hand. Why not? she thought. At least James could help her get back to England.
'Saffron!' James exclaimed, taking in at a glance the distraught state of the woman at his door. 'Come in. You're drenched; what happened?'
Saffron forced a brief attempt at a smile, but her lips quivered, her eyes filling with tears, and she gave up trying. 'Nothing much, James,' she said sadly. 'Nothing that can't be cured with a ticket to England on the first available flight. That's why I'm here; could you fix it for me, please?' And, walking past him, she collapsed on the first seat she reached in his comfortable living- room.
James, bless him, did not ask questions; he simply poured her a large brandy, watched while she drank it, and then directed her to the bathroom, handing her his bathrobe and instructing her to get out of her wet clothes; they could talk later. Saffron was glad of his restraint; she had the horrible conviction that if she once began talking about her marriage she would fall apart completely and irreversibly.
She had to concentrate single-mindedly on getting back to England. Standing naked under the warm spray of the shower, she chanted under her breath, 'Might, hotel, work,' over and over again. She had been alone most of her life, except for Eve! The tears threatened again, but she clenched her teeth and refused to give in
to them. Eve's last message, urging her not to let any man get to her, but to pursue her dream of starting her own business, whirled around in her mind.
She had been side-tracked from her ambition, but not any more. On the island of Mykonos she had fallen in love, flustered and flattered when Alex had likened her to a Rossini overture, but now his softly murmured comment at the time, which she had conveniently ignored, came back to haunt her. He had said that he hoped the title did not accurately reflect her as well: The Thieving Magpie.
He had never seen her as anything other than a greedy woman in cahoots with his mother to trap him into marriage. He had gone along with the plan because it suited him to do so. He lusted after her body. Nothing more. In fairness to him, she was forced to admit that he had never pretended it was anything else. She had fooled herself. In love for the first time in her life, and with the matter of Alex's involvement with the health club resolved, she had naively assumed that because she loved Alex he must love her. Talk about rose-coloured spectacles. . .
The last few months were a nightmare she had to forget, pretend had nevar happened. Deep in her inner being she had known from the start that her relationship with Ales was doomed to failure. Eve apart, she quite simply was not in Alex's sophisticated league and did not really want to be. She had been a fool to believe otherwise. The pain in her chest would fade. Hearts did not break, she told herself firmly, ignoring the ache in her own; they simply atrophied.
She stepped out of the shower, turned off the water and picked up a couple of towels from the rail. She wrapped one around her wet hair and rubbed herself dry with the other until her soft skin was red with the effort, then pulled on the robe James had given her, grimacing wryly at the colour. Black! How fitting! she thought bitterly. The death of love! The death of a marriage! The death of foolish dreams!
She must stop thinking like that, she remonstrated with herself, and, moving to the vanity basin with the mirror and wall-mounted hairdrier above, she unwrapped the towel from her head. For a second she thought she heard a ringing in her ears; probably lack of food, she told herself staunchly, and, turning on the drier, began to ran her fingers methodically through her long red locks. She didn't see her reflection in the mirror; she didn't want to; instead she succumbed to the mindless task of drying her hair, oddly soothing to her shattered emotions.
Finally, her toilet complete, she stared at her reflection, sure that the traumatic events of the evening must have marked her for life. But she saw the same ginger-headed, solitary girl she had always been. Reassured, she turned to leave the room, and only someone who knew her well could have recognised the change. . . The green eyes, once sparkling with life, quick to flash in humour or anger, were oddly opaque; the light had died from them, and with it an intrinsic part of Saffron was lost. . .
She tightened the belt around her waist, rolled the over- long sleeves of the robe halfway up her arms and silently, barefoot, moved down the short corridor. She pushed open the door of the living-room. Time to face James, get his help and get on with her life. . .
James was sitting on a wing-chair; his blond head turned as she entered, his blue eyes flashing a negative message she didn't understand.
Slowly her gaze slid to the opposite side of the fireplace and a long sofa. Alex! Alex was here, his black hair damp and plastered to his broad brow, his dark eyes narrowed to mere slits in the bronzed sculpture of his face, his sensuous mouth a thin slash of barely controlled fury. For a second, in the tense silence, Saffron thought she heard his teeth grinding together.
