Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

He could think of nothing but Rosemary.

Her lovely laughing face, the rich chestnut of her hair, her swaying voluptuous figure. He couldn't eat – he couldn't sleep. They went skiing together. He danced with her. And as he held her to him he knew that he wanted her more than anything on earth. So this, this misery, this aching longing agony – this was love!

Even in his preoccupation he blessed Fate for having given him a naturally imperturbable manner. No one must guess, no one must know, what he was feeling – except Rosemary herself.

The Bartons left a week earlier than the Farradays. Stephen said to Sandra that St Moritz was not very amusing. Should they cut their time short and go back to London ? She agreed very amiably. Two weeks after their return, he became Rosemary's lover.

A strange ecstatic hectic period – feverish, unreal. It lasted – how long? Six months at most. Six months during which Stephen went about his work as usual, visited his constituency, asked questions in the House, spoke at various meetings, discussed politics with Sandra and thought of one thing only – Rosemary.

Their secret meetings in the little flat, her beauty, the passionate endearments he showered on her, her clinging passionate embraces. A dream. A sensual infatuated dream.

And after the dream – the awakening. It seemed to happen quite suddenly. Like coming out of a tunnel into the daylight.

One day he was a bemused lover, the next day he was Stephen Farraday again thinking that perhaps he ought not to see Rosemary quite so often. Dash it all, they had been taking some terrific risks. If Sandra was ever to suspect – He stole a look at her down the breakfast table. Thank goodness, she didn't suspect. She hadn't an idea. Yet some of his excuses for absence lately had been pretty thin. Some women would have begun to smell a rat. Thank goodness Sandra wasn't a suspicious woman.

He took a deep breath. Really he and Rosemary had been very reckless! It was a wonder her husband hadn't got wise to things. One of those foolish unsuspecting chaps – years older than she was.

What a lovely creature she was… He thought suddenly of golf links. Fresh air blowing over sand dunes, tramping round with clubs – swinging a driver – a nice clean shot off the tee – a little chip with a mashie.

Men. Men in plus fours smoking pipes. And no women allowed on the links!

He said suddenly to Sandra: "Couldn't we go down to Fairhaven ?"

She looked up, surprised.

"Do you want to? Can you get away?"

"Might take the inside of a week. I'd like to get some golf. I feel stale."

"We could go tomorrow if you like. It will mean putting off the Astleys, and I must cancel that meeting on Tuesday. But what about the Lovats?"

"Oh, let's cancel that too. We can think of some excuse. I want to get away."

It had been peaceful at Fairhaven with Sandra and the dogs on the terrace and in the old walled garden, and with golf at Sandley Heath, and pottering down to the farm in the evening with MacTavish at his heels.

He had felt rather like someone who is recovering from an illness.

He had frowned when he saw Rosemary's writing. He'd told her not to write. It was too dangerous. Not that Sandra ever asked him who his letters were from, but all the same it was unwise. Servants weren't always to be trusted.

He ripped open the envelope with some annoyance, having taken the letter into his study. Pages. Simply pages. As he read, the old enchantment swept over him again. She adored him, she loved him more than ever, she couldn't endure not seeing him for five whole days. Was he feeling the same? Did the Leopard miss his Ethiopian?

He half-smiled, half-sighed. That ridiculous joke – born when he had bought her a man's spotted dressing-gown that she had admired. The Leopard changing his spots, and he had said, "But you mustn't change your skin, darling." And after that she had called him Leopard and he had called her his Black Beauty.

Damned silly, really. Yes, damned silly. Rather sweet of her to have written such pages and pages. But still she shouldn't have done it. Dash it all, they'd got to be careful. Sandra wasn't the sort of woman who would stand for anything of that kind. If she once got an inkling – Writing letters was dangerous. He'd told Rosemary so. Why couldn't she wait until he got back to town? Dash it all, he'd see her in another two or three days.

There was another letter on the breakfast table the following morning. This time Stephen swore inwardly. He thought Sandra's eyes rested on it for a couple of seconds. But she didn't say anything. Thank goodness she wasn't the sort of woman who asked questions about a man's correspondence.

After breakfast he took the car over to the market town eight miles away. Wouldn't do to put through a call from the village. He got Rosemary on the phone.

"Hullo – that you, Rosemary? Don't write any more letters."

"Stephen, darling, how lovely to hear your voice!"

"Be careful, can anyone overhear you?"

"Of course not. Oh, angel, I have missed you. Have you missed me?"

"Yes, of course. But don't write. It's much too risky."

"Did you like my letter? Did it make you feel I was with you? Darling, I want to be with you every minute. Do you feel that too?"

"Yes – but not on the phone, old thing."

"You're so ridiculously cautious. What does it matter?"

"I'm thinking of you, too, Rosemary. I couldn't bear any trouble to come to you through me."

"I don't care what happens to me. You know that."

"Well, I care, sweetheart."

"When are you coming back?"

"Tuesday."

"And we'll meet at the flat, Wednesday."

"Yes – er, yes."

"Darling, I can hardly bear to wait. Can't you make some excuse and come up today? Oh, Stephen, you could! Politics or something stupid like that?"

"I'm afraid it's out of the question."

"I don't believe you miss me half as much as I miss you."

"Nonsense, of course I do."

When he rang off he felt tired. Why should women insist on being so damned reckless? Rosemary and he must be more careful in future. They'd have to meet less often. Things after that became difficult. He was busy – very busy. It was quite impossible to give as much time to Rosemary – and the trying thing was she didn't seem able to understand. He explained but she wouldn't listen.

"Oh, your stupid old politics – as though they were important!"

"But they are –"

She didn't realise. She didn't care. She took no interest in his work, in his ambitions, in his career. All she wanted was to hear him reiterate again and again that he loved her.

"Just as much as ever? Tell me again that you really love me?"

Surely, he thought, she might take that for granted by this time! She was a lovely creature, lovely – but the trouble was that you couldn't talk to her.

The trouble was they'd been seeing too much of each other. You couldn't keep up an affair at fever heat. They must meet less often – slacken off a bit.

But that made her resentful – very resentful. She was always reproaching him now.

"You don't love me as you used to do."

And then he'd have to reassure her, to swear that of course he did. And she would constantly resurrect everything he had ever said to her.

"Do you remember when you said it would be lovely if we died together? Fell asleep for ever in each other's arms? Do you remember when you said we'd take a caravan and go off into the desert? Just the stars and the camels – and how we'd forget everything in the world?"

What damned silly things one said when one was in love! They hadn't seemed fatuous at the time, but to have them hashed up in cold blood! Why couldn't women let things decently alone? A man didn't want to be continually reminded what an ass he'd made of himself.