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She had wept over Nigel, but Malory’s betrayal seemed too deep, too wounding for tears.
She undressed and got into bed, lying for hours, staring into the darkness. She had to try and make some plans, decide whether she could endure living under Malory’s roof, knowing that he would not be faithful to her, or if it would be better to leave, with whatever dregs of pride she could salvage.
But where would she go? she asked herself, her body tossing restlessly. Her spirit quailed at the prospect of returning to the cottage and her mother’s recriminations. And she had reached no concrete decision by the time she dropped into an uneasy doze shortly before dawn.
She was woken the next morning by Mrs Priddy, bearing a breakfast tray.
‘Because you haven’t been eating properly lately,’ that redoubtable lady declared, putting the tray firmly on Amanda’s lap. ‘Now you polish off every scrap.’
Amanda looked at the freshly squeezed orange juice, and the shiny brown egg in its silver cup, with attendant toast soldiers, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘And Dr Templeton’s back.’ Mrs Priddy added, forestalling the question Amanda had been afraid to ask. ‘He arrived half an hour since.’ She gave Amanda an encouraging nod and left.
Amanda ate what she was capable of, then pushed the tray away. The sooner she saw Malory— confronted him—the better, she thought without conviction.
His study door was firmly closed, and for a moment she was tempted to knock. Then she rallied herself. She was his wife, not some employee, after all.
He was sitting at his desk, glancing through his papers, and he looked deathly tired, she thought with swift compassion, until she suddenly remembered the probable cause of those deep shadows under his eyes.
‘Good morning.’ His greeting was polite and totally without warmth. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Amanda?’
This was going to be even worse than she’d feared. She drew a breath, and wished she wasn’t shaking so much inside. ‘I—I need to talk to you. There’s something you should know.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Could it be, I wonder, that you’re having a baby?’
Amanda’s jaw dropped. ‘How—how did you know?’
The blue eyes were glacial as he looked at her. ‘Because it’s the only explanation that makes a kind of obscene sense.’ He paused, twisting a pen between his fingers. ‘So tell me the rest, Amanda. Who’s the proud father?’
The question was so totally unexpected that, for a moment, her mind refused to work. She said, stumblingly, ‘I—I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘It’s not really that difficult. You are expecting a child, whose upbringing and education will be my ultimate responsibility. Out of interest, I’d like to know if I gave it life, or whether it was Nigel.’
Her lips felt numb. ‘But it’s yours—you know it is. You know I was a virgin when we—when you…’
‘I’m not likely to forget that less than glorious moment,’ he said curtly. ‘But you’ve had plenty of time since then to test your sexual emancipation. And let’s not pretend Nigel hasn’t visited you here.’
Amanda had been reeling, but now a small coil of anger began to spiral inside her.
‘And what if he has?’ Her voice shook. ‘You’re hardly in a position to throw the first stone.’
‘Meaning what, precisely?’
‘Meaning that I was at Heathrow yesterday. I— I recognised your companion.’ She flung her head back. ‘Did you enjoy showing her your favourite America?’ The thought made her temper flare into the danger zone. ‘So—how did you find Nigel’s leavings?’
For a long moment he looked at her, and she saw a little muscle flicker beside his mouth. Then he said, too evenly, ‘Judge for yourself.’
He opened the drawer beside him and extracted a manila envelope which he pushed across the desk at her. It was, she realised, the kind of cardboard backed envelope which normally contained photographs, and this was no exception.
The top one was more than explicit. It showed Nigel and herself framed in the french windows, kissing. The next two were variations on the same theme. The last showed Amanda on her own, her expression tender, wistful, luminous. The face of a girl dreaming of her lover.
In a way, that was the most damaging of all.
She said slowly, ‘Where did these come from?’
‘The postman brought them—the very morning after you’d taken me to paradise and back.’ There was a jeering bitterness in his voice. ‘I should have remembered that every Eden has its serpent— should have asked myself why you were so gratify-ingly eager to go to bed with me.’ He smiled without amusement. ‘But your friend with the candid camera made it crystal clear why you could be in need of some—physical alibi. You’d realised, of course, that your romantic interlude could have consequences.’ He added courteously, ‘I hope he lived up to all your expectations as a lover.’
