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‘Charlotte, about last night.’
Charlotte’s head came up. She glared at him, filled with self-contempt and loathing. Oh, God, what had she done? Now he was going to tell her that last night had been a mistake, that it was something they should both forget. Her stomach churned. She was going to be sick, she recognised helplessly.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she told him through tight lips. ‘And, unless you get a kick out of watching people be sick, I’d rather you went away.’
‘Sick? You feel sick? Wait.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Charlotte told him grimly, frantically wrenching the sheet off the bed, and somehow managing to wrap it around herself as she almost fell out of bed and ran for the bathroom.
Of course there was no water, other than that already in the taps, and, grimacing to herself as she tried to clean her teeth with half a glass of water, she wondered what on earth this already doomed day could possibly have in store.
Back in her bedroom, the smell of the coffee nauseated her, but she forced herself to drink it, while she dressed in clean clothes, wondering desperately why on earth the expensive French scent Sheila had given her for Christmas did nothing to blot out the subtle smell of Oliver’s body on her own.
She had half expected him to be waiting for her downstairs, wanting to reinforce the fact that last night had been some kind of mental aberration on both their parts and, as such, best forgotten.
Forgotten… She groaned to herself as she walked into the kitchen. How could she ever forget…when she had made such a fool of herself…? How could she have ever been stupid enough to think that…?
That what? That his desire had matched her own, that he had wanted her in all the ways she had wanted him, that he loved her in the way she loved him.
Fool indeed. And she had no one to blame for that folly but herself. She had been the one to initiate their intimacy, to let him see that she wanted him, to invite him virtually to make love to her…
As she walked into the kitchen, the plumber, whom she had not seen before, looked up and grunted. ‘Your husband said to tell you he’d be back in half an hour, missus.’
Her husband… Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. Laughter or tears—neither of them would really relieve the pain inside her.
Ignoring the plumber and the other men, Charlotte opened the door and headed for her car. Heaven alone knew what Sheila must be thinking. She had already missed her first appointment this morning.
It was only after she had narrowly avoided a collision with another motorist that she realised how recklessly she was driving. As recklessly as she had behaved last night. What was it…this unfamiliar recklessness tormenting her? Was it caused by the knowledge that her love for Oliver would never be reciprocated, that he could never feel for her what she felt for him?
She wondered if, when she returned this evening, she would find that he had moved out, and laughed bitterly at her own thoughts. She was only surprised that he had still been there this morning.
When she walked into her office half an hour later, her scalp was tight with tension; hyper-sensitively she wondered if Sheila would be as acutely aware of the changes within her as she was herself, but, apart from giving her a brief smile, Sheila seemed unaware of anything different about her.
‘Oliver rang to warn us you’d be late in,’ she said cheerfully, ‘so I sent Sophy over to show the Bramwells round number fourteen. She should be back soon.’
Charlotte managed to conceal her shock. ‘What exactly did Oliver say?’ she asked cautiously, when she felt she could.
‘Oh, just that the two of you had celebrated something together last night and indulged rather too heavily in vintage champagne.’ Sheila grinned at her. ‘Don’t think I don’t sympathise. There’s nothing worse than a hangover. What were you celebrating, by the way?’ Sheila asked her speculatively. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’
All too conscious of the hot tide of colour burning her skin, Charlotte dipped her head and said unevenly, ‘Nothing much. Oliver’s sold out his agency in London and decided to base himself permanently here.’
‘Mmm. Cause for celebration indeed,’ Sheila murmured thoughtfully, her glance resting for a moment on Charlotte’s downbent head, a small smile curving her mouth. ‘You’ve resigned yourself to it, then?’ she asked innocently.
Immediately Charlotte’s head shot up. ‘To what?’
‘To Oliver’s being here,’ Sheila responded.
‘I don’t seem to have much option, do I?’ Charlotte told her grittily. For a moment, she had actually thought that Sheila must know—but how could she? She was allowing her own feelings of remorse and self-contempt to colour everything she heard.
