Liz Fielding - The Three-Year Itch

True to his word, Grey didn’t disturb her when he came to bed. Despite the long hours of travelling, sleep eluded her, but hours later, when Grey finally came to bed, she closed her eyes, and whether he believed it or not he didn’t challenge her pretence. He didn’t put on the light, but quietly slipped out of his clothes and lowered himself gently into the bed beside her, and after a moment he turned his back.

She opened her eyes in the darkness and lay for hours, listening to his soft breathing and thinking about the plans she had made so eagerly on her journey home. Was it possible, she wondered miserably, that she had left the decision not to accept any more overseas jobs just one assignment too late?

She woke to a room still darkened by the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the window, but the sunlight was spilling in from the hallway and she knew instantly that it was late. She lay for a moment in the silent flat, knowing that she was alone and hating it. She had hoped that the morning would bring some kind of reconciliation. Neither of them had behaved exactly brilliantly, but they had both been tired last night and she was prepared to acknowledge that, while Grey might have been a little more receptive, she might have picked a better moment to suggest a total upheaval to their lives.

Instead he had left while she was asleep. Gone to his office without even saying goodbye. She had intended to stay at home that day, attend to wifely things. Shop, prepare a good meal. Reclaim her surroundings from two weeks of Grey’s bachelor housekeeping. Instead she found she had a need to reinforce herself as a person in her own right. And there was no better way of doing that than work.

She flung back the cover and slipped out of bed. But as she reached for her wrap she frowned. On the wall opposite the bed had hung a small Degas. Not a great painting—nothing that would set the galleries of the world at each other’s throats—but very pretty and very genuine. It was gone. Had they been burgled while she was away and he hadn’t wanted to frighten her? Was that why it had been a difficult week? Abbie flew to her jewellery box, locked in a small drawer in her dressing table, but it was there with all the pieces he had bought her during three happy years. She picked up the phone to call him at his office, then hesitated.

There was probably some perfectly logical explanation. Grey sometimes lent it to galleries for exhibition—maybe he had simply forgotten to mention it to her. They hadn’t exactly spent the evening in close conversation. She replaced the receiver. That was probably it, she decided. It would wait until he came home.

Trembling just a little, she went into the kitchen to make some tea. On the centre island, where she couldn’t possibly miss it, stood the silver bud-holder that Grey had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. In it was a red rose, a half-opened bud. And there was a note propped against the bud-holder—a plain sheet of paper, folded once. She opened it. ‘I thought you needed to sleep. I’ll see you this evening. Grey.’

That was all. No apology. But then he had taken the trouble to go out and find a rose for her before he drove into his City office. It wasn’t quite like buying a pint of milk from the corner shop. It couldn’t have been the easiest thing to find at seven-thirty in the morning. Yet why did she have the disturbing feeling that he might have found it a whole lot easier than waking her up and saying that he was sorry?

Two hours later Abbie, dressed in a loose-fitting pair of heavy slub silk trousers in her favourite bitter chocolate colour and a soft creamy peach top that glowed against her tanned skin and hair, bleached to a streaked blonde by the sun, was discussing the layout of her feature for the colour supplement of a major newspaper with her commissioning editor. Her photographs had been forwarded by courier and now the two of them were bent over the light box, deciding which ones to use.

‘You’ve done a great job, Abbie. This photograph of the mother getting into that tiny plane to fly up into the hills to start looking all over again—’

‘I tried to stop her. If only I could have gone with her …’

‘No. That’s the right place to end it. A touch of hope, bags of determination and courage. A mother alone, searching for her missing child. You deserve an award for this one.’

‘I don’t deserve anything, Steve,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with herself for being so pleased with the finished result. ‘I just hope she’s all right. Anything could happen to her up there and no one would ever know.’

Steve Morley gave her a sharp look. ‘You sound as if you’ve got just a little bit too emotionally involved in this one, Abbie. You were there to record what happened, not become responsible for the result. The woman has made her decision. It’s her daughter. And your story will make a difference …’

‘Will it? I wish I thought so.’

‘Trust me,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, I’ll take you out to lunch.’

Trust. An emotive word. But without it there was nothing. Was too much time apart eroding that precious commodity between her and Grey? She would trust him with her life, and yet … and yet … There were too many gaps, too many empty spaces yawning dangerously between them. Baby or not, her mind was made up. She wouldn’t be going away again.

As they made their way down in the lift Steve distracted her by asking her where she would like to eat, and reluctantly she let go of her thoughts about the future to concentrate on more immediate concerns. ‘I’ve found this really good Indian restaurant,’ he continued, ‘but after two weeks on the sub-continent, I don’t suppose you’d be interested—’

‘You suppose right, Mr Morley,’ she interrupted, very firmly. Then she grinned. ‘Now, how good did you say that feature was?’

Steve groaned. ‘L’Escargot?’

‘L’Escargot,’ she affirmed with a grin. ‘Upstairs.’

Lunch was a light-hearted affair, with Steve bringing her up to date on what had been happening during her absence and offering several suggestions for future features.

‘How do you feel about a month in the States for us?’ He continued hurriedly as he saw she was about to object, ‘Human interest stuff in the deep South—Atlanta. It’s the sort of thing you’re particularly good at. Although since your charming husband got a decent price for his Degas at auction last week I don’t suppose you actually need the money,’ he added, with an offhand little shrug.

The Degas? Sold? Despite the whirl of conflicting emotions storming through her brain she wasn’t fooled by Steve Morley’s casual manner. He had hoped to take her unawares, provoke some unguarded response. If he thought the Lockwood family were in any sort of financial trouble he would want to know. It was probably the whole reason for this lunch. ‘You don’t normally cover the art market, do you, Steve?’ she asked, arching her fine brows in apparent surprise. ‘I mean, doesn’t that take brains …?’

He grinned, aware that he had been caught out, but was unrepentant. ‘I cover everything that has the Lockwood name attached to it, and if you’re ever seriously in need of funds, Abbie, I’m always deeply interested in brother Robert’s doings.’

‘I thought we had an agreement? You don’t ask me about Robert and I’ll continue to work for you.’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t hurt to remind you now and again that I’m always receptive to a change of heart.’

‘Forget it. And Atlanta. I’m not in the market for overseas work for a while.’

‘The old man getting a bit restive, is he?’ He had gone straight to the heart of the matter, and she had known Steve too long to attempt to string him some line.