Reunited: Marriage in a Million

CHAPTER THREE

SHOPPING was not Belle’s usual method of displacement activity, but when she’d finally woken on Sunday the reality of what she’d done, of being alone-not just alone in her bed but alone for ever-had suddenly hit home and the day seemed to stretch like a desert ahead of her.

Finding herself sitting at her computer, waiting for an email with news of Daisy, leaping on an incoming message, only to discover it was some unspeakably vile spam, she forced herself to move.

She didn’t know how the Adoption Register worked, but it was the weekend and it seemed unlikely she’d hear from anyone before the middle of the week at the earliest. More likely the middle of next month.

For the moment there was nothing more she could do and, besides, she had a much more immediate problem. She had nothing to wear for work on Monday.

Clearly, she rationalized, the sensible thing would be to call Ivo and arrange to go and pick up at least part of her wardrobe. She had a new pale pink suit that would show off her tan, look great with her new hair colouring. And she had to have shoes. There were a hundred things…

Or maybe just one.

Last night she’d felt so utterly alone. She had yearned for that brief flare of passion in Ivo’s eyes. To know that there was one person in the world who needed her, if only for a moment.

Pathetic.

But if she went back today, if he launched another attack on her senses when she was at her lowest, she suspected she would not be strong enough to resist. And what then?

If, by some miracle, she found Daisy, she would be torn in two. She would have to deny Daisy a second time or tell him everything. Tell him that, far from being up front and honest with him, she had lied and lied and lied. That he didn’t know the woman he’d married.

And she’d lose him all over again.

At least this way she retained some dignity, the possibility that if, when, the truth came out, he would-maybe-understand. Be grateful for the distance. Even be happy for her.

Which was all very well and noble, but it still left her with the problem of what she was going to wear tomorrow.

Since she needed to get out of the flat before she succumbed to temptation, she dealt with both problems in one stroke and called a taxi-no more chauffeur on tap-and took herself off to one of the vast shopping outlets that had sprung up around London and lost herself among the crowds.

She had been told often enough that the golden rule was to change your hair or change your clothes but not both at the same time. As she flipped through the racks of clothes, she ignored it. She was done with living by other people’s rules.

She fell in love with an eau-de-nil semi-tailored jacket. Exactly the kind of thing her style ‘guru’ had warned her not to wear. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to carry it off, apparently. On the contrary, she barely made five and a half feet and her figure was of the old-fashioned hourglass shape. But all that cycling had at least had one good outcome-she was trimmer all over. And with her hair cut short she felt taller.

She lifted the collar, pushed up the sleeves and was rewarded with a smile from the saleswoman.

‘That looks great on you.’ Then, ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Belle Davenport?’

‘No,’ she said truthfully. Then, ‘She wouldn’t wear something like this, would she?’

‘No, but you’re thinner than her. And taller.’

Belle grinned. ‘You think so? They do say that television adds ten pounds.’

‘Trust me, you look fabulous.’

She felt fabulous, but she was so accustomed to listening to advice that she had little confidence in her own judgement. But the other jackets-neat, waist-hugging ‘Belle Davenport’ style jackets in pastel colours-that she’d tried were more expensive, so the woman had no incentive to lie.

‘Thank you,’ she said. And bought its twin in a fine brown tweedy mixture that looked perfect with her new hair and matched her eyes. Then she set about teaming them with soft cowl necks, classic silk shirts, trousers-she always wore skirts on air-and neat ankle boots.

More than once, as she browsed through the racks, she saw someone take a second glance, but her new haircut and George’s brilliant streaky blend of light brown through to sun-kissed blonde-his very inventive interpretation of cheerful mouse-fooled them. She couldn’t possibly be who they thought she was.

There was an exhilarating freedom in this moment of anonymity and when she spotted a photo booth she piled in with her packages, grinning into the camera as she posed for a picture so that she could share the joke with Claire and Simone.

Then she passed an interior design shop.

She wasn’t the only one that needed a make-over and if time was going to be hanging heavy on her hands she might as well make a start on the flat.

When she was done there, she was so laden with the in-house designer’s print outs, swatches, carpet squares and colour charts that she had to call it a day and take another taxi. At which point she wondered about buying herself a car.

One of her very early ‘make a fool of Belle’ projects for the television had been a driving course. Not that much of a fool, actually, since she’d taken to it like a duck to water and ended up doing an off-road course, a circuit in a grand prix car and driving a double-decker bus through a skid test. And earned herself another contract.

She’d bought a little car then, but once she’d married Ivo there had always been a chauffeur in town and there had been no point in keeping it.

The taxi driver was a mine of information on the subject and by the time he delivered her to her door he’d made a call arranging for her to test drive a zippy little BMW convertible the following afternoon.

‘You did what?’

She hadn’t long been home from the studio on Monday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

Her first thought was that it was the press who, following up her appearance on the television that morning, would be clamouring for the story behind her ‘new look’. Since neither her agent nor her PR consultant could answer their questions-she hadn’t talked to either of them yet-the gossip columnists would have called the house, which meant they would now have a much bigger story.

That she was no longer living with Ivo. That the ‘perfect’ marriage was over.

Of course it could be her agent-he kept a television on in his office so that he could keep an eye on his clients-demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, messing with success. Ruining the image he’d gone to so much trouble and expense-he always took expenditure personally, even when it was her money he was spending-to build. Anxious to arrange interviews, a photo session so that he could ‘sell’ her new look. Wanting to know what spin the PR guys should put on the fact that she’d moved out of the family home, since, like the press, he’d go there first.

A new romance for her? Positive, upbeat, radiant…

A cheating husband? Sympathetic, brave…

A marriage that had collapsed under the strain of the pressure of their careers? Very sad. Still good friends…

She’d seen it all a hundred times.

The light on the answering machine had been flashing when she’d got home. She had ignored it, just as she now ignored the doorbell.

Instead, she was glued to her laptop, anxiously checking through the messages to see if there was anything from the Adoption Register.

Nothing. Instead she clicked on the site she’d bookmarked, the one with personal adoption stories.

A second longer peal on the bell warned her that whoever was at the front door wasn’t about to go away and, knowing that she would have to face the music sooner rather than later, she picked up the entry phone.

‘Yes?’ she said, her voice neutral.

‘Belle…’

She caught her breath, almost doubling up with shock at the sound of Ivo’s voice…

No…

It was the middle of the afternoon. He should be in his office, all of London at his feet, both figuratively and metaphorically. He didn’t do ‘personal’, not in office hours. Not ever…

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, just buzzed him up, taking the time it took for him to walk up to her flat-an old converted town house, there were no lifts-to recover. Taking those few moments to put herself back together before she opened the door.

For a moment he just looked at her.

Then he reached out, as if he needed to touch the short flicked up layers of her hair before he could bring himself to believe what she’d done. Curled his long fingers back into his palm before he made contact.

‘You look…’

Words apparently failed him. That was twice in three days. If she wasn’t struggling for words herself, she might have derived a certain amount of satisfaction from that.

‘Different?’ she managed, when it seemed that nothing would break the silence.

He shook his head, but offered no alternative, just lifted the thick wad of envelopes he was holding as if that was enough to explain his presence.

For a minute there her heart, not quite keeping up with her head, had hoped for something more. What, quite, she didn’t know, but something. Doing her best to ignore its dizzy spin-she’d had a lifetime of hiding her thoughts, her feelings; three years of marriage to practise hiding them from Ivo: it shouldn’t be this hard-she said, ‘I thought Miranda was going to forward my post.’

‘It’s piled up while you were away. Some of it might be important.’

So important that he’d left his office early to bring it to her, rather than send a messenger? Was there anything that important?

She held out her hand to take the bundle of envelopes, but he didn’t surrender it.

‘I called earlier.’

Twice? He’d come twice…

‘I have a letterbox,’ she said. ‘You could have left it.’

‘It wasn’t just the mail.’ No. As she’d suspected, his presence on her doorstep had nothing to do with her post. ‘You’re usually home long before this.’

‘Today wasn’t usual. I’ve been away and there was a lot to catch up with. And I had a couple of meetings that ran on.’ A bit of an understatement. Having done the hard one-telling Ivo that she was leaving him-her calm announcement that she wouldn’t be renewing her contract to anchor the breakfast television show had been a piece of cake.

And yet here she was making excuses like some kid justifying herself for being late home from school. Not that she ever had been. School had been a dangerous luxury, something she’d had to steal…

It was time to remind Ivo, as well as herself, that she had to make excuses to no one.

‘And then I bought a car,’ she added, as casually as if she was telling him she’d bought a new pair of shoes.

Which was when her very cool and detached husband became distinctly heated.

‘You did what?’

Not so much a question as a man displaying outrage that a woman-his wife, no less-had the audacity to believe herself capable of making that kind of decision for herself.

It had, actually, been quite a week for decisions:

Left her husband.

Had her hair cut.

Bought a car.

So far, it was the car that had got the biggest reaction so she stayed with that.

‘It’s a BMW convertible,’ she told him. ‘Silver. Only twenty-two thousand miles on the clock. It’s being delivered tomorrow.’

‘It’s not new?’ First outrage, now concern. ‘Has it been checked? Please tell me it’s not a private sale.’

Extraordinary. If she’d realised it would get this kind of response she’d have bought a car before. Several of them. Maybe gone into the used car business…

‘Would that be bad?’

‘I’ll need the registration number so that I can run a check. It could be stolen. Or a couple of stitched together wrecks. And the mileage is undoubtedly fake. Have you any idea-’

‘Oh, no,’ she assured him. If he was going to treat her like a dumb blonde, then-hair colour notwithstanding-she’d had plenty of practice playing the role. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. I bought it from the brother-in-law of a taxi driver I met yesterday.’

He didn’t actually groan, but he didn’t look impressed. He wasn’t meant to.

‘Give me his name and address.’

‘The taxi driver?’

‘His brother-in-law,’ Ivo said, not quite through gritted teeth, but she could see that it was a close call.

It served him right for acting as if she was too stupid to live, she thought. If he’d watched her show once in a while he would have known that they had, on more than one occasion, run features on all aspects of buying used cars.

‘Oh, Mike!’ she said, determined to rub it in. ‘Such a sweet man. Hold on, I’ve got his card somewhere.’ Her bag was lying on the hall table and she opened it, produced a business card, offered it to him.

Ivo took it, looked at it, then at her. ‘Mike Wade is the taxi driver’s brother-in-law?’

‘Yes.’ Then, ‘Is there something wrong?’ Beyond the fact that, too late, he’d realised she’d been winding him up since Mike Wade was a senior representative at one of London’s premier BMW dealerships rather than some dodgy character selling used cars off the street.

‘He asked to be remembered to you,’ she added. ‘Said you’d been in to talk about exchanging your car for one of the smaller models. Very green…’

Then, exhilarating as it should have been to discover that Ivo was not made of stone, that it was possible to wind him up, she found herself regretting it. He was just looking out for her. Making sure that she was okay.

Actually, she was doing fine and he had to understand that so, dropping the teasing, refusing to hope that the thought that she might be with someone else had been gnawing away at him all weekend, until he’d been driven to come and find out for himself, she said, ‘Why are you here, Ivo?’

‘I wondered what you wanted to do about your clothes,’ he said, returning the card, then running his fingers distractedly through a lick of hair that had the temerity to slide across his forehead. ‘There must be things you’ll need.’

‘Yes.’

The word came out on a sigh that she was unable to quite stifle.

Not uncontrollable jealousy, then, just the practicalities. And of course, infuriatingly, he was right. It took more than a day of self-indulgence to replace an entire wardrobe. A few jackets and shirts wouldn’t take her far. Apart from anything else, she had a television awards dinner coming up.

She’d already bought an antique Balenciaga gown for the occasion. It would be her first public appearance without Ivo and if the clothes were eye-catching enough, maybe people wouldn’t remark on his absence. Maybe she wouldn’t notice it too much.

‘And we need to talk,’ he added. ‘About what happens next.’

‘You’d better come through,’ she said, turning away, leaving him to follow. Then, because facing him in her small sitting room while he coldly deconstructed their lives was unbearable, she veered off into the kitchen and once there needed to do something with her hands. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘It seems forever since lunch.’ A sandwich at a hastily convened meeting in the boardroom. Not that she’d eaten any of it. One mouthful had warned her that it would stick like a lump of glue in her throat. Then, when he didn’t immediately answer, she turned and realised he hadn’t followed. She retraced her steps and found him staring at her laptop. The adoption site.

‘You’re busy,’ he said. ‘I’ve disturbed you.’

He’d disturbed her the moment she’d turned and seen him looking at her at some charity function. When she’d felt the heat reach out and touch her from the far side of the room.

It had been new then, but the effect did not diminish with familiarity; even now it seemed to burn through her silk shirt, warming her skin.

‘I’m researching a new project,’ she said, her fingers itching to close the lid, but her brain warning her that hiding what she was doing would only arouse his interest. Then, ‘I haven’t got much in. Food,’ she added. Just the basics she’d picked up at the eight-’til-late on the corner.

The computer beeped to warn her of an incoming email and the sound seemed to vibrate through her. Daisy…

It took every bit of will-power she possessed to turn away and walk into the kitchen.

‘It’ll have to be something on toast,’ she said. ‘Cheese? Sardines?’ The kind of comfort food that had no place in his Belgravia kitchen, but which she craved right now. ‘Scrambled eggs-’

‘We could go somewhere.’ Clearly he felt as out of place in her kitchen as-all Savile Row tailoring and handmade shirts-he looked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Somewhere quiet,’ he persisted, unused to his suggestions meeting with resistance.

She didn’t argue, just took a box of eggs from the fridge. ‘You’ll find some bread in the crock,’ she said, as she set about cracking them, one by one into a bowl.

For a moment he didn’t move, then, dropping the envelopes on the counter, he reached for the loaf.

‘You didn’t know I could cook, did you?’ she said, reaching up to unhook a whisk, doing her best to keep it light.

‘You’ve never needed to,’ he said as he put the loaf down beside her.

Not since she’d married him.

She’d watched the television chefs who’d been on her show. Had bought books, taught herself. It had been such a luxury to have her own kitchen. Such a pleasure to be able to go to the supermarket and buy what she wanted. But in Ivo’s house there had always been someone on hand to produce anything from a sandwich to a banquet at the drop of a hat and her early visits to the kitchen had been firmly discouraged by Miranda on the grounds that it would upset the staff.

‘Maybe I did,’ she said.

When he didn’t answer, she looked up, realised just how close he was. How foolish she’d been to invite him in. She needed to keep her distance…

‘Why don’t you make the toast?’ she suggested, moving away to pour egg into a pan. Scrambling eggs was not rocket science, but it did require total concentration, which was why she’d made that the comfort food of choice. ‘You do know how to make toast?’

‘I went to a spartan, character-building public school in the wilds of Scotland,’ he reminded her. ‘Followed by four years at university, Belle. Without a toaster I’d have starved.’

His words, about twice as much as he’d ever said before about his school days, were unexpectedly heartfelt. He didn’t talk much about his childhood. All she knew she’d learned from Miranda. Their summers in France and Italy, the ponies, the pets…

Now she wondered. Had he been as happy as Manda had implied?

‘There’s a difference between being hungry and starving,’ she said, refusing to weaken, look at him. Besides, she wasn’t talking about food.

She’d only ever envied Ivo one thing. Not his wealth, a house filled with treasures gathered over generations, the half a dozen places around the world he could call home if ever he had the time to visit them. Only his education. The fact that he and Miranda had conversations about art, music, literature that passed right over her head. That, courtesy of summers spent in France and Italy all through their apparently idyllic childhood, they spoke both languages fluently.

She’d missed out on so much, had spent all her adult life reading voraciously in an attempt to fill the gaps, but mostly learned just how much she didn’t know.

He’d had every advantage. Had no business complaining.

‘My staff sponsored you,’ he said, assuming that she was referring to the kids they’d been raising money to help. ‘Supported what you were doing.’

‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’ she asked, unimpressed, as she continued to stir the egg. ‘They were just sucking up to the boss, Ivo.’

‘You underestimate yourself.’ Then, when she was surprised into looking at him, ‘They were genuinely touched by your empathy with those children.’

‘Oh.’ Throat suddenly dry, she said, ‘And you?’

‘I supported you too. A cheque was sent into your appeal this morning from all of us.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, knowing that it would be generous, wishing she hadn’t been quite so sharp. ‘But I was asking if you were “genuinely touched”.’

‘Belle…’

Stupid question…

The bread popped up and, glad of the interruption, she took the eggs from the heat, reached for plates from the overhead rack. ‘Will you pass me the butter from the fridge?’

He didn’t move. ‘What is this all about? Why now?’ When she didn’t answer, he added, ‘If there’s no one else?’

The painful edge of uncertainty in his voice was so rare, so unexpected, that she had to put down the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir the eggs. The one thing about Ivo that was unchanging was his sureness of purpose and she longed to go to him, to reassure him that this was not his fault.

Unfortunately there was only one way that would end, so instead she fetched the butter herself, spread it on the toast, piled on the egg and hitched herself up on a stool with the breakfast bar between them. Only then could she trust herself to say, ‘There’s no one else, Ivo.’

She picked up a fork, going through the motions of normality for both of them.

‘As for why now-well, maybe distance lends perspective.’ She toyed with the egg, searching for words that would explain how she felt without unnecessarily hurting him. ‘We never pretended that this was a fairy tale marriage, Ivo, and we’ve had three years.’ She managed a wry smile. ‘That’s at least two years longer than most people gave us at the start. Almost a record for someone in my business. At least we knew what the score was. Didn’t make the mistake of having children…’ Her voice faltered and she gripped the fork more tightly, as if it were a lifeline. ‘There’s no one to be hurt.’

Grateful…

Now that really was a fairy tale.

She’d longed for Ivo’s baby, a part of him who would love her unreservedly, accept her as she was, but she had married him for security, he’d married her for lust. Children needed more than that.

Maybe ‘grateful’ was the right word.

Babies would have been no more than a sticking plaster to cover over the hollow place in her life. The Daisy-shaped emptiness that, until now, she’d refused to acknowledge.

Until she’d confronted the past, found her sister, she had no right to children of her own.

‘Just accept that I’m doing us both a favour,’ she said, a little desperately. ‘Let it go. Find someone who’ll fit your world…’

Grateful.

The small kitchen seemed to darken and Ivo felt something inside him contract.

Belle had always been too big to squeeze into the narrow confines of his cold world. She had always been brighter, warmer, more alive. A place where he could lose himself, forget who he was for a while. When he was with her, he was the best he could be but she deserved more and had, apparently, finally realised that.

It was as if, out there in the high mountains, she had reached into herself, had found the confidence to abandon a perfectly honed image that the public adored, replacing it with a new, more powerful, maturer look to take her into a new decade. As if she’d somehow tapped into an inner strength that made her at once more desirable, less attainable.

She no longer needed a prop. No longer needed him.

Once, all he would have had to do was reach out, touch her and she would have been his but his attempt to stop her from leaving had, in its desperation, been so clumsy that she’d rejected him out of hand.

To bring her back now, to hold on to her, would be selfish beyond belief. And yet he could not let her go. And did not know how to keep her.

If she were a company he’d know what to do. He could interpret the balance sheets, analyse performance, formulate a plan…

‘Someone who will give you what I never could,’ she finished.

‘You give me-’

The words began to spill out before Ivo could stop them.

‘I know what I give you,’ Belle said, cutting him off before he made a total fool of himself.

The world might think them lost in love, but the world knew nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly, indicating the food she’d made him, an ache as familiar as breathing in his throat. To stay and eat with her in such intimacy, such closeness, was a sweetness, an indulgence he would not, could not permit himself. ‘I’ll have to leave this. I have a meeting.’

Meetings. Mergers. Takeovers. More money. More power. Anything to fill the aching void within him.

Then, unable to just walk away, ‘Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?’

That was almost a plea, he realised with a jolt and for a moment he thought he might have got to her, but she shook her head.

Finding it harder to leave than he would have believed possible, he looked around the small, hard-used apartment. ‘You can’t stay here. Give me a day or two and I’ll arrange for somewhere more comfortable for you to live.’

‘Is that what’s worrying you?’ she demanded, taking him by surprise as she flared up at him. ‘That it won’t look good if the world discovers that I’m holed up in a tiny flat near Camden Lock rather than expensively housed in a penthouse in Chelsea Harbour?’

‘This isn’t about me.’ Except that it was. He needed to rid himself of this feeling of helplessness. If he could do something, regain some measure of control…’I just want you to be comfortable. To be safe.’ To come home. ‘This is a very mixed neighbourhood.’

‘I know you mean well, Ivo-’

Was a man ever damned with fainter praise?

‘-but I need to be in my own place right now.’ Then, before he could argue, ‘I’ll call Miranda and make arrangements to have my things moved from your house.’

Your house…

Not our house. Not even the more neutral the house, but a place that had been furnished over the centuries, decorated to match its historic importance. More like a museum than somewhere offering the comfort of home.

Somehow they got through the awkwardness of goodbye without touching, using the meaningless words that people say when they don’t know what to say.

‘If you need anything…’

‘I’ll call.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said as she made to follow him to the door, not able to face that moment at the door when to kiss her would be unacceptable, not to kiss her would be impossible.

And while he was still strong enough to resist the tug of some force that seemed to draw him inexorably towards her, just as a current drew a drifting ship on to rocks, he walked away, out of her flat, down the steps and out into the busy streets.

His chauffeur opened the door of the Rolls, ready to whisk him back to his ivory tower, but, on the point of stepping in, he changed his mind. Stood back.

‘Call the office, let my secretary know that I won’t be back today, Paul.’

The man cleared his throat. ‘She rang a few minutes ago, Mr Grenville. Threadneedle Street called to ask where you were.’

He had a meeting at the Bank of England and he’d forgotten. Something that had never happened to him before.

‘Ask her to call and make my apologies, will you?’ Then, ‘I won’t need you until the morning.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he began to walk.

If Belle were a company that he wanted to acquire he’d know what to do.

Look at the balance sheets. Analyse performance. Formulate a plan…