Sara Craven - Act Of Betrayal

Laura gave her a long look. ‘I hope you haven’t been at the boardroom sherry, Fergie,’ she suggested mischievously. ‘You did speak to me, you know. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Oh, no, not that.’ Fergie shook her head, looking more distressed than ever. ‘You see, there was another message—later. Your uncle told them to call you from reception, but I was certain you’d already have left. I did try to tell him … Oh dear, it’s all so difficult …’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Laura said resignedly. ‘Tristan Construction are all vegetarians.’

‘What?’ Fergie gulped and stared.

‘Allergic to strawberries?’ Laura went on, frowning a little. ‘Or simply not turned up?’

‘No, they’re here. That’s the trouble. You see, we didn’t know—how could we—until they arrived. And then it was too late.’

Fergie looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and Laura could hardly believe what she was seeing. Mrs Ferguson was one of the mainstays of the company, and under normal circumstance totally unflappable. What in the world could have got her in this state?

She gave her an encouraging smile. ‘It can’t be that bad,’ she urged gently. ‘Surely they’re not international terrorists holding Uncle Martin to ransom for the formula of the new miracle fibre? Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll poison the soup.’

But Fergie was almost wringing her hands. ‘Oh, Laura,’ she wailed. ‘Their managing director—it’s Jason Wingard—your ex-husband.’

Laura found she was putting the bowl of cream she was holding very carefully down on to the table. It was suddenly important to move slowly and certainly, and to wait to speak too, until she was sure she could trust her voice.

She said, ‘There must be some mistake. Jason was—was an artist. He doesn’t know anything about the building trade. And Tristan Construction is a big company. Besides—his name would have been on the letterheads. Uncle Martin—one of you would have seen it.’

She was building up excuses like a wall to shelter behind, because it just couldn’t be possible for Jason to walk back into her life like this. She hadn’t seen or heard anything of him for over three years now. He’d simply touched the edge of her life like a comet, a star of ill-omen, then vanished, leaving her emotionally scorched, hardly able to believe what had happened to her. She’d prayed she would never have to set eyes on him again. And now, out of the clearest of blue skies—this.

Fergie shook her head. ‘It was the first thing I checked, but there was only the company heading, plus the address and telex. No directors’ names at all. Your uncle told reception to ‘phone you at once—to stop you coming here—or to turn you back downstairs if you’d already left. They must have missed you somehow.’

Laura said, ‘The car park was full.’ She took a deep breath, marshalling all her forces determinedly. ‘It’s kind of my uncle to be so concerned, but I can cope, truly I can. I’m here now, and I’ll prepare the lunch as I always do. I don’t have to see—Jason, and he need never even know I’m around.’ She made herself smile. ‘No problem.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ Fergie gave her a harrassed look, then glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll let your uncle know what you’ve decided.’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, dear, he was so angry. I’ve never seen him in such a state. I was terrified he might have a heart attack.’

Laura looked down at the strawberries. She said neutrally. ‘He and Jason—they never liked each other. Never got on.’

Their mutual antagonism, she remembered, had been the first shadow across the dazzling glitter of her happiness. Too bright, too dazzling, like a day in spring which promises sunlight, but ends in weeping rain.

Fergie said, ‘Oh dear,’ again, rather helplessly. Then, ‘Don’t even attempt to clear away afterwards. I’ll have it all seen to. Just do what needs to be done, then get away.’

‘I’ll do exactly that.’ Laura made her tone reassuring, and Fergie gave her an uncertain smile and dashed away.

Laura was alone again, and she stood for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe deeply and calmly, regaining her equilibrium. She’d told Fergie she could cope, but she wasn’t altogether sure it was true.

It was all so unexpected—so frankly incredible.

They’d parted in bitterness, and Jason hadn’t contested the divorce, although her solicitor had said that was often the case where there were no children to fight over. She could still remember her reaction to that—the swift agonised sob, and the way he’d looked at her, kind but uncomprehending. But that had been the only time she’d come near breaking point, on the surface at least.

There had been no communication between Jason and herself—none at all, and she’d been thankful for it—thankful there was no need for maintenance payments or property settlements. ‘A clean break’ her uncle had called it, and that was what it had been. Only it was more like a cut than a break—an amputation, where the aching continued long after the severance had healed.

So why had Jason chosen to probe the wound again? Because that was what he was doing. True, he could not have expected to find her at the works, but he must know that news of his reappearance would get back to her sooner or later.

Surely it wasn’t his intention to torment her by turning up in her life at intervals, when least expected? That would be too cruel, she thought numbly, but after all, Jason specialised in cruelty. Wasn’t she only too aware of that?

She could serve the lunch and run. That was the easy bit. The hard part would come later—closing him out of her mind, as she thought she’d succeeded in doing already, refusing to allow herself any more fruitless speculations about the reasons for his presence at the works, or his intentions.

All her cookery school training was needed, as the moment approached when the meal would be served. Laura found herself wishing she’d not made it so easy for herself—that she’d decided to splurge with some complicated dish which needed every atom of concentration of which she was capable. She was on edge all the time, keyed up for the sound of voices, even though she knew it was doubtful whether they would penetrate so far. Quite deliberately, the kitchen had been planned at a discreet distance from the board’s dining room, and she was thankful for this as never before, because as soon as the food was served she could leave the way she had come, with no-one being any the wiser.

She was just frying the croutons for the soup when the waitresses arrived, and as Laura poured the fragrant soup into the two matching tureens, she wondered if they knew who was waiting to be served in the dining room—if word had got around somehow? She hoped not. They were excellent workers, but she knew from past experience that they loved a good gossip, and she had no wish to be the butt of any sidelong glances, or murmured remarks.

But, she reminded herself, she was probably being over-sensitive. It was doubtful whether more than the merest handful of people at Caswells knew she had been married, let alone her former husband’s name. She’d got married in London, after all, not locally, and most of her brief married life had been spent in the capital too.

‘Well, they’ve got good appetites, I’ll say that for them.’ One of the girls came back with the first batch of used plates. ‘All except Mr Martin, that is,’ she added. ‘He hardly touched a drop of his soup.’ She gave Laura a confidential wink. ‘And they’re not the usual collection of stuffed shirts either. There’s one there I could fancy myself.’

Laura’s heart jerked uneasily, but all she said was, ‘Be careful of the casserole dishes. They’re very hot.’