The Three-Year Itch. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
at her ease—talk to her, her subconscious prodded her. Forget that this is personal. Treat it like any other story. ‘And socks,’ she continued. ‘Men never seem to have enough socks, do they?’ Smile. Make yourself smile. ‘I have this theory that there is a conspiracy between the washing machine manufacturers and the sock-makers …’
Apparently the grimace that locked her jaw had been somehow convincing, because Emma laughed. ‘You could be right. But I wouldn’t care if I could only just go out and buy a pair of socks for my man. Unfortunately he has the kind of wife who would notice.’
‘Oh?’ Would she? Would she query strange socks in the laundry? Yes, she rather thought she would.
‘I can’t even keep things for him at my place. It would be so easy to get them muddled up.’
‘I suppose so.’ Abbie felt herself blushing at such unexpected frankness, yet she was well aware of how easily some people would talk about even their most intimate lives to perfect strangers. Especially if there were constraints on talking to family or friends. But the last thing on earth she wanted to discuss with this woman was her ‘man’s’ wife.
She stared at the buggy. ‘A baby is rather more personal than a pair of socks,’ she said, forcing the words from her unwilling lips. But she had to be sure. ‘The greatest gift of all.’
The woman’s smile was full of secrets as she leaned forward and touched the child’s fingers. ‘That’s what he said. And, while he may leave me one day, I’ll always have his child.’
‘How old is he?’ Abbie asked hoarsely, as jealousy, like bile burning in her throat, swept over her.
‘Twelve weeks.’ The woman called Emma brushed back the mop of dark hair that decorated his tiny head. ‘He was born just after Easter.’
When Abbie had been steeping herself in the miseries of an African refugee camp. Had Grey been with this woman, holding her hand, encouraging her as she went through the pangs of giving birth to his son? No! Her heart rebelled. Surely it was impossible. And yet … She leaned over the buggy, letting her hair swing forward to cover her expression, and as she came face to face with the sleepy child she felt the blood drain from her face.
‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice coming from somewhere miles distant. As beautiful as his father had been as a baby.
Abbie remembered her laughter as they had looked through a pile of old family photograph albums that they had found when they had cleared his father’s house last year. Grey had been a bonny, bright-eyed baby, with a mop of black curly hair. The child lying in front of her might have been his twin.
‘What’s his name?’ she asked, wondering that she could sit there and pretend that nothing was happening. Grateful for the numbness that somehow stopped her screaming with pain …
‘Matthew.’
‘Matthew?’ Not Grey. At least he hadn’t done that to her. But it was bad enough as with every painful scrap of hard-won fact she became more certain of just what he had done.
Matthew Lockwood. Founder of Lockwood, Gates and Meadows, solicitors. Grey’s father, her dear, kind father-in-law, who had been dead for just a year. The child had been named for him.
‘It’s a lovely name,’ she said quickly, as she saw that some response was expected. ‘Your …’ What? What could she call him? Friend? Lover? Her mouth refused to frame the word. ‘He must be very happy.’
The woman leaned forward and touched the child, and his little hand tightened trustingly about her finger. ‘Yes. He’s thrilled with the baby—sees him whenever he can. But it’s difficult for him.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘His wife would never give him a divorce.’
And that finally broke through the pain and at last made her angry. ‘Wouldn’t she?’ Abbie asked, a little grimly.
Now she knew, was absolutely certain, that Grey had been having an affair, deceiving her for at least the better part of a year. And in a way he was deceiving this woman too, with his lies. What had he said about her? How had he described her? Did the mother of his child know that when he left her bed, when he came home, he made sweet love to her as if … as if she was the only woman in the world?
Except that she wasn’t. How could he do that? The man she loved, had thought she knew, was suddenly a stranger. A stranger who could, it seemed, smile as if his heart was all hers, tell her that he loved her, with the taste of this woman’s kisses still upon his lips. The very thought was like a knife driving through her heart. How could she not have suspected? Not have seen the deceit in his eyes?
Only anger made her strong enough to sit there and carry on as if her world wasn’t disintegrating about her, kept her head high as she turned to Emma, determined to discover just how far his lies extended. ‘Has he asked his wife for a divorce?’
The woman gave the tiniest little shrug, the bravest of smiles. ‘I wouldn’t let him. A messy divorce would cause problems. With his job.’ She gave a little shake of the baby’s hand, turning her head away to hide the sparkle of tears. ‘And we can’t let Daddy have that, can we, sweetheart?’ And the baby gave a broad, gummy smile.
It was a nightmare. A waking nightmare from which there could never be the escape of knowing that, no matter how dreadful, it had all been nothing but a horrible dream. But still Abbie pushed herself. The greater the betrayal, the more it hurt her, the better. With every thrust of the knife the easier it would be to do what she had once thought impossible and hate him.
‘A divorce is no big deal these days, surely?’ she insisted, denying herself any avenue of escape. Then she added hopefully, ‘Unless he’s your doctor?’
‘Oh, no!’ Emma exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s …’ She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what he was. ‘He’s a lawyer.’
‘I see.’ And she did see—all too clearly. She had wanted to be sure and now Emma’s words rang like the clang of doom, slamming the door closed on any possibility of doubt. His confession written in blood couldn’t have been more convincing.
One of Grey’s associates had been obliged to resign from the firm a year or so back, after having an affair with one of his clients. Her husband had turned nasty. She looked at the hand linked with the baby’s fingers and she could see the telltale mark where a wedding ring had once rested. Was that how she had met Grey? Sobbing out her heartbreak in her husband’s office? How impossible to refuse this fragile creature a comfortable shoulder to cry on. How easy to become emotionally entangled when your wife was away for weeks at a time.
‘I don’t mind, really. I knew all along that he would never leave her and I accepted that. At least I have Matthew.’
‘Maybe it will all work out,’ Abbie said dully. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. Things change.’
‘Do you think so? I do sometimes dream about it.’ Emma gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes we can be together for a while and pretend. He has a cottage in the country that he shares with his brother. They’re very close, and he’s been so good about us using it …’ She glanced at her watch and leapt to her feet. ‘Is that the time? I must be off—it’ll soon be time for Matthew’s feed.’ She kicked off the buggy’s brake, then paused to look down at Abbie, her face creased in concern. ‘Are you all right? You look rather pale. Would you like a drink? I’ve got a can …’
‘No!’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Really, I’m fine. Thank you.’
Civilised behaviour. She should be scratching the woman’s eyes out … but what good would that do? The woman called Emma smiled uncertainly. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Don’t keep Matthew waiting for his lunch,’ she said, forcing a smile. For a moment she remained where she was, watching Emma wheel the jaunty little buggy around the bright flowerbeds. Then she too stood up and walked away, leaving her shopping behind her on the bench.
It was just