Diana Hamilton - A Guilty Affair

‘Of course you could afford it,’ her friend argued lightly. ‘Peanuts. Just half-shares of the service bills. I like company—Daddy knows that; he doesn’t expect me to ask my friends for rent money. If Dearie could find her share of the bills on her meagre income, you could! Think about it. Promise?’

‘Yes. Promise.’ The only thing stopping her jumping at the opportunity there and then was the certain knowledge that Tom would disapprove. He liked to think that Brenda was looking after her and had once said, only half-jokingly, she now suspected, that her landlady would soon let his mother know if she was leading a double life—kicking over the traces while she was out of his sight.

Ending the conversation after a few more minutes of light-hearted chat, Bess went up to fetch her purse to pay for the call, plus the one she intended to put through to check on her ring. But, the ring forgotten, she found herself sitting on the hard narrow bed pondering Niccy’s offer.

Tom didn’t own her. He couldn’t dictate where she should live during the week. He was happy enough while she was under Brenda’s watchful eye, but she knew he would feel uneasy if she moved in with the bubbly, fun-loving Niccy because she, Bess, might find herself having a wonderful time. Without him.

So she couldn’t decide if moving in with her friend for the next twelve months would be worth all the aggro. And it was strange, she thought, her teeth worrying at her lower lip, how Tom and Vaccari had both told her to be herself. Yet their concepts of that were wildly different.

‘Just be yourself,’ Tom had said. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ Thrifty and sensible Bess, thankful for what she had and was, making no waves, never yearning for the impossible or trying to make it happen. Excellent, dutiful, undemanding type wife material.

Vaccari had put it differently, telling her to break away, find herself, realise her full potential. In other words, forget Tom.

She made a sad little snuffling sound, feeling miserable. She had been so contented until this weekend—settled in her job, enduring her weekday lodgings because they weren’t worth making a fuss about, looking forward to her future with Tom. She asked herself why things had changed and angrily pushed away the thought that Vaccari had a lot to do with it.

Utter nonsense. For some reason the wretch got his kicks out of tormenting ordinary, decent people. Throwing a spanner in the works was probably his idea of a fun thing to do. She could safely dismiss him and his troublemaking taunts from her mind. She would pretend he didn’t exist. And if and when he ever married Helen, well, she’d—well, cope with having him as an in-law somehow.

What she had to do was examine her relationship with Tom, reinforce it in her mind, concentrate on his good points, forget the silly pique his remark about her not being high-flyer material had conjured up and get back to being sensible and reasonable again.

And she would never again give Vaccari room in her head.

But that wasn’t going to be easy.

An irritated rapping on the bedroom door heralded her landlady’s formidable presence.

‘There’s someone to see you. He’s waiting downstairs. See what he wants and get rid of him. You know I said no visitors unless by arrangement. Answering doors and running up and down stairs isn’t my idea of a peaceful evening.’

Waiting downstairs he wasn’t. When Bess saw the Italian looming behind Brenda something intensely primeval lurched deep inside her, and her heart flipped over in her chest then dropped like a stone. Wearing an impeccably tailored business suit now, he was enough to stun anyone, and she gaped at him stupidly as he said to Brenda, ‘My apologies, signora. My business here will take moments only.’

The smooth voice was warm enough to melt frost, the purring quality making Bess’s skin curl. And it had an obvious effect on the other woman too, because her, ‘I don’t allow callers, especially not upstairs,’ had lost a hefty dose of vitriol.

‘I congratulate you on your good sense.’ His white smile seemed to light up the gloomy landing, and Bess couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw her landlady simper. She would have found it highly amusing if she hadn’t been desperately wondering why she reacted to him the way she did, and trying to work out why he was here, knowing that, whatever the reason, it wouldn’t be good. Not for her.

Vaccari said, as if he was sure there could be no objections, ‘As I said, my business won’t take long. And please don’t put yourself to the inconvenience of waiting. I’ll see myself out.’ And he smoothly inserted his magnificent body into the room, gently but firmly closing the door behind him.

Bess shot to her feet, her heart beating erratically, watching him with wide green eyes as he weighed up the room: the clumsy furniture, the narrow bed.

‘A suitable hole for a mouse.’ He finished his minute examination and turned tarnished-silver eyes on her, the flickering gleam showing cool amusement. ‘Complete with a dragon to make sure the little mouse doesn’t stray.’

She made herself ignore that. ‘Why are you here?’ Her throat felt tight. ‘Is Helen with you?’ She was probably waiting in his car. Her glamorous sister wouldn’t be seen dead in such dull surroundings.

‘She’s still in Braylington.’ His white teeth gleamed. ‘She and your mother are deep in portfolios of wedding-dress designs. I don’t think either of them will come up for air for at least a fortnight.’

‘Oh.’ That was all she was able to say. She was drained-suddenly and totally drained. For no good reason. Except that what she had feared had come true.

This man was about to become part of her family. This morning’s session with her father made sense now. They had been formally announcing their intention to marry, making plans, setting dates.

She wondered acidly if he would be faithful to Helen. Or would he still go around kissing and manhandling all and sundry when the mood took him?

Probably.

Marriage didn’t make people change.

‘Congratulations,’ she forced out, her tongue feeling thick and heavy in her mouth. ‘I hope things work out for you both.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say, I hope you’ll be wonderfully happy; she didn’t know why, she only knew the words would choke her.

He gave her an odd look then shrugged, as if he thought her stupid. Which, privately, she thought she probably was.

‘I wouldn’t have agreed to sign the contract if I hadn’t been sure,’ he said drily. ‘Unlike most women, Helen is intelligent, totally trustworthy and single-mindedly dedicated to making a success of the coming change in her life. And so, yes, it will work out. For both of us.’

Suddenly, and for the first time in her life, she felt sorry for Helen. This man would be easy to fall obsessively in love with—provided you didn’t look too far beneath the surface, she reminded herself quickly. Did her sister know he regarded their marriage as a contract? That he had only decided to commit himself because he could trust her to devote herself to making him the perfect wife—properly dedicated and single-minded about it?

‘Helen apart, you seem to have a very cynical attitude to women,’ she told him gruffly, wondering waywardly if he regarded her, along with the rest of the female sex, as stupid, false and vacillating. Wondering why it should hurt.

She saw something hard and sharp in his eyes as he looked at her. ‘I have reason to, believe me.’ Then he shrugged slightly, as if the subject bored him—or she did—and pushed a hand into his jacket pocket and produced her missing ring.

‘Jessica found it in a pile of dirty dishes.’ He took her nerveless hand in one of his and dropped the ring into her palm. ‘Now, I’d call that a Freudian slip, wouldn’t you? Think about it. And think about the things I’ve said to you. Or not. It’s your life.’