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‘Shut up!’ I growled.
The hotel doorman, who was just holding the door to Mr Ambrose’s coach open for me, stared up at me in surprise. ‘Excuse me, Madam?’
‘Nothing! I was talking to myself.’
And not winning the argument, by the way.
Quickly, I got inside and settled down beside Mr Ambrose. I didn’t ask where we were going. For the last couple of days, a routine had established itself: in the morning, we would breakfast and then drive into the city, continuing our enquiries, since apparently whatever information Bertolino had given was not sufficient. At noon, we would lunch at some place where the entire city observed us being the happily married couple. After another round of investigating, we would finally return to the hotel for a romantic dinner on the terrace.
‘Next time we sit down for dinner and I ask you what you would like to drink,’ Mr Ambrose whispered, leaning towards me, ‘do try not to answer “Your blood, with soda”. It doesn’t really fit the role of a loving wife.’
All right… maybe not all the dinners had been that romantic. But what did he expect? The stress of having to wear a wedding ring was straining my feminist limits!
‘You want me to behave reasonably?’ I demanded. ‘Then stop opening doors and pulling back chairs for me!’
Admittedly, in the beginning it had been sort of fun - but it hadn’t taken long for the chauvinistic implications to occur to me. I could open my own doors, thank you very much!
‘I can’t! I’m supposed to be a gentleman, and you my loving wife!’
‘I’m not some useless appendage to a man, my dear husband! I have two arms and hands of my own - as you will find out to your detriment as soon as I get my hands on a knife at dinner!’
‘You do understand the meaning of the term “loving”, don’t you?’
I chose not to dignify that with a response.
With a derisive snort, Mr Ambrose turned away from me and struck his cane against the roof of the coach. ‘Drive!’
More days of secret investigation followed, coupled with more attempts to display our relationship in public. Needless to say, the attempts were not very succes
sful. Once, when I was trying to smile at Mr Ambrose at a dinner in the hotel dining room, a concerned waiter who had noticed my expression came over to enquire if I suffered from lockjaw and needed medical assistance.
What I wanted to know was: why? Why was I so useless at trying to be Mr Ambrose’s pretend wife? I was usually a pro at acting! I had played a lady in distress, a secretary to one of the world’s most famous businessmen, even my own Uncle Bufford!
On that last occasion you were caught and arrested, though, weren’t you?
Well, yes, but that wasn’t the point! The point was that I was really good at playing a role - any role! Being the fake wife of Rikkard Ambrose should have been a breeze! All I had to do was dance, smile and giggle inanely. Instead, I scowled most of the time.
It had to be the feminist in me, protesting against this violation of my principles! Yes, that had to be it!
Really? Are you sure the real reason you’re having so much trouble at being a fake wife isn’t something else?
Of course not!
Indeed? Are you sure, for example, it isn’t the little twinge in your heart every time you think about the word ‘fake’?
‘Shut the bloody hell up!’
It took me a few seconds to realize the effect my words had had. Looking around, I saw a stone-faced Mr Ambrose sitting opposite me at the dining table. Around him, at other tables, couples were frozen in mid-motion, their mouths hanging open, staring at me. It was very, very quiet.
‘Um… I didn’t mean you. Sorry. Continue, everyone.’
‘Come with me.’ I heard Mr Ambrose’s low and very controlled voice. His hand fell on mine, holding my wrist like a vice. Looking up, I saw ice glitter in his dark eyes. ‘Upstairs. We need to have a little talk about acting skills.’
We went upstairs. But as it turned out, we didn’t talk much that night.
*~*~**~*~*
Yes, we used separate beds that night, too! I am a feminist, remember? Staunch and true!
