Mary Lyons - Husband Not Included

How could she have been such a blithering idiot? It wasn’t as though she was a teenager and didn’t know any better. She was supposed to be a sophisticated woman of twenty-six, for heaven’s sake! So, why on earth had she allowed herself to become involved in a stupid, no-holds-barred fight with Ross? And to have effectively torpedoed her only chance of solving her problems with the cosmetic company?

Groaning out loud at her own folly, Flora buried her face in her hands for a moment. Unfortunately, it was no good putting all the blame for the disastrous scene which had just taken place on Ross. Although it had been partly his fault, of course. The foul, rotten man had always known how to make her madder than a hornets’ nest—in just about five seconds flat—but there’d been absolutely no call for some of those nasty, snide remarks.

All the same...maybe if her nerves hadn’t been at screaming point, after such a long and tiring day, she might have been able to cope with her ex-husband. He had, after all, been the one who’d deserted her—suddenly vanishing into thin air, never to be seen again from that day to this—leaving her to face the lonely tears and all the problems involved in sorting out the shattered pieces of their brief marriage.

In fact, now she came to think about it, Ross had obviously been having the time of his life here in the Caribbean. While she’d been slaving away on the catwalk and in front of the cameras, her swine of a husband had probably been living the life of Reilly: swigging rum, making love to dusky maidens and writing those rubbishy books of his.

Nice work if you can get it! she told herself grimly. So, what now gave him the right to claim the moral high ground? Why was he still bothering to blame her for what had happened in the past?

However, despite running the disastrous scene back and forth through her tired mind, she failed to find any answers to those questions. In fact, she only succeeded in giving herself a thumping headache.

Realising that she couldn’t sit in the chair all day, Flora wearily began to unpack her cases. After taking some aspirins, and deciding that maybe a shower and a change of clothes might at least make her feel slightly better, she made her way to the small bathroom.

Unfortunately, even after showering and washing her hair, she still felt nerve-rackingly tense and jittery. Which wasn’t surprising, she told herself glumly. That encounter with Ross had been bad enough, but it was nothing to the explosion which was likely to break over her head once Claudia learned that she was married. And to have even hoped that her lousy ex-husband would help to save her bacon had been foolish in the extreme.

Gazing dispiritedly at herself in the dressing table mirror, trying to ignore the strained expression on her pale face as she dragged a brush through her damp curls, she cursed her ex-husband’s good memory. It had clearly been a bad, bad mistake to have ever told Ross about her past. Because he obviously hadn’t been able to resist the cruel jibe he’d made about her upbringing on the farm in Cumberland. And, knowing the swine, he’d undoubtedly have a lot of fun telling everyone on the island about it as well.

She gave a heavy sigh. There was nothing she could do if Ross decided to broadcast the news. But so what if he did? She was over twenty-one years of age. And besides, she was sufficiently successful nowadays not to care if her father, or her dreaded stepmother, did try to track her down, Flora told herself defiantly, gazing blindly into the mirror as she recalled the harsh memories of her childhood.

The only child of elderly parents, she had grown up on a large farm in the north of England. An ugly, gawky little girl—originally christened Florence, but more generally known as ‘our Flo’—she’d been fiercely protective of her weak, fragile mother, who’d died when her daughter was only fourteen.

Not that her father was a cruel man, Flora quickly reminded herself. It was just that such a dour and stern, upright churchgoing man had clearly had no time or inclination to cope with a teenage daughter—not when he would obviously have preferred to have fathered a son, who could have been of some use on the farm. However, if Flora had hoped that following her mother’s death both she and her father could have forged a new and warmer relationship, she had been doomed to disappointment. Only a few months after her mother’s death, Mr Johnson had announced that he was marrying a widow who owned a large farm adjacent to his own.

Unfortunately, her father’s announcement that his new wife and ‘our Flo’ were bound to get on like a house on fire, proved to be entirely false. Flora and her stepmother had hated each other on sight. And since the new Mrs Johnson had brought to her marriage not only a large farm but also two large, aggressive sons from her first marriage, Flora had found herself virtually frozen out of the new family, being treated as an unwelcome guest in what had once been her own home.

With hindsight, Flora could now see that her stepmother hadn’t been entirely to blame for the two years of misery that followed. Having to cope with a rebellious teenager was clearly enough to try the patience of a saint. And the difficult situation had been further exacerbated by the fact that as Flora had turned fifteen the once plain, awkward child had rapidly developed into an outstandingly beautiful girl, attracting the unwelcome attention of her two stepbrothers.

Flora had loathed what she thought of as the great, glumping, hairy boys, and spent as much time as she could in the homes of her schoolfriends, accompanying them on holiday whenever possible. Which was why, in a moment of teenage bravado, she and her best friend, Vicky, had entered a modelling competition when on holiday with Vicky’s parents in Bournemouth, on the south coast.

Flora could shudder now as she looked back at her young, teenage self, prancing around the stage in fits of giggles with absolutely no idea of how to even walk in a straight line. And she hadn’t won, of course. It had, after all, been nothing more than a lark. Which was why she’d been astounded to be approached after the competition by a scout from the Meredith Taylor Agency, whose clients apparently included many of the top international names in the modelling business.

Arriving home and informing her father and stepmother that she was being entered by the agency for the “Look of the Year” competition, she had been at first downcast and then rebelliously angry at being told there was no way they would allow her to partake. However, having by then turned sixteen, and with the bit firmly between her teeth, Flora had been determined to grab an opportunity—any opportunity—of escaping from what had become a very unhappy home life. And so, waiting until the coast was clear, she’d managed to hitch a lift into the nearest big town, where she’d caught a fast train to London.

What an idiot I was! Flora told herself now, almost shuddering at the thought of how, like so many silly young girls, she could have ended up amongst the flotsam and jetsam, sleeping rough on the streets of the capital city. However, with the Meredith Taylor Agency looking after her, Flora had easily won the competition, and within months she was appearing on the catwalks of Paris and Milan.

She had invented a new personality for herself by officially changing her name to Flora Johnson and claiming to have been born somewhere north of the border in Scotland—and over the next few years her career had taken off like a rocket. Not afraid of hard work—especially as it was nothing to the tough, physical labour used on the family farm—and ruthlessly ambitious to achieve both the stardom and the high-earning power of the top models, Flora had remained totally committed to her career. Which was why, even now, she completely failed to understand why she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to visit that low dive of a nightclub in Paris.