Marriage Reclaimed: Marriage at a Distance / Marriage Under Suspicion / The Marriage Truce

His voice was low, savage. “‘Nay, I have done: you get no more of me.”’ He threw back his head in an oddly defensive gesture. ‘You’d better get out of here, Joanna.’

Without another word, she obeyed.

The hospice shop was only open on a part-time basis, so it was invariably busy.

Joanna, asked to take charge of the nearly-new clothing section, found herself too occupied to brood—a blessing in itself. But the memory of that kiss and its aching sweetness stayed with her like a shadow, no matter how hard she tried to put it from her mind.

She’d left the study and gone straight up to her room, remaining there until she was sure that Gabriel, and then Cynthia, had left the house.

But when she was alone, the house seemed strangely oppressive, and she’d taken the dogs up onto the hill. It was a cold, clear day, and she’d sheltered from the wind by the Hermitage stones.

She’d looked down at the Manor, standing below her, absorbing every detail, imprinting it on her memory for all the long, lonely days ahead. Saying goodbye for ever.

Then she’d walked slowly back, changed, and driven into Westroe, pale but composed, for her stint at the shop.

Towards the end of the afternoon, she was approached by a harassed Mrs Barton.

‘Mrs Verne, could you possibly stay on and lock up for me? My husband’s just rung to say that Sarah’s fallen and hurt her wrist, and one of us should take her to Casualty.’

‘Oh, poor kid.’ Joanna grimaced sympathetically. ‘You go straight away. I’ll cope.’

‘That is good of you.’ Mrs Barton rolled expressive eyes at the ceiling. ‘Children—there’s always something.’ She patted Joanna’s arm. ‘As you’ll soon find out, I expect.’

Joanna felt the smile freeze on her lips. So many people blithely assumed that she and Gabriel were reconciled, she thought unhappily. They were the focus of a lot of genuine goodwill.

She only hoped that he would find a solution to their problems soon, and release her from this treadmill of other people’s expectations. And her own unfulfilled longings, she thought with a little sigh.

As closing time approached Joanna cashed up, and then took some unwanted carrier bags and packing materials out to the dustbins at the rear of the shop, then went into the little curtained changing room to retrieve some dresses which had been tried on but not purchased.

‘Well, I think it’s a proper scandal.’ It was the tart voice of Mrs Golsby, one of the regular helpers and an inveterate gossip. ‘He must be years younger than she is, and he’s round there at that cottage with her all the hours God sends. I feel heart-sorry for Mrs Verne,’ she added self-righteously, and there was a brief murmur of assent from her two colleagues. ‘It can’t be nice for her—her own stepmother carrying on like that.’

Joanna shrank into the corner of the cubicle. It was what she’d feared. Gabriel’s affair with Cynthia was becoming common knowledge. But, as a result, her own departure wouldn’t cause quite as many shock waves, she reminded herself without pleasure.

She tiptoed back into the rear passage, then came back noisily, rattling the clothes hangers she was carrying. She gave the other women a smiling goodnight, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and watched them leave.

Then she hung the discarded dresses back on the rail, and bent to take the shop keys from their hook under the counter. As she did so the doorbell tinkled.

Joanna straightened. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just closing. We’ll be open again on Friday,’ she began, then stopped abruptly.

‘I know.’ Paul Gordon smiled at her. ‘I’ve been hanging round outside for ages, waiting for you to shut up shop.’

‘Why?’ Joanna stared at him.

‘Because I spotted you when I was passing earlier, but you were obviously too busy to interrupt.’ He paused. ‘So I decided to let the rush die down, then ask you to have dinner with me.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Joanna was taken aback. ‘But I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Why can’t you?’

‘For all kinds of reasons. We hardly know each other.’

‘And we never will, if you keep turning down my invitations.’ He looked at her with a half-smile. ‘So what’s the problem? Do you have to rush home like a good little wife to dish up your husband’s dinner?’

‘No,’ Joanna returned, nettled. She already knew she was destined for another solitary meal tonight. Unless…

Paul Gordon was not what she wanted, and never would be, but as that was beyond her reach anyway, why shouldn’t she take him up on his offer?

With which slightly muddled reasoning she accepted. ‘All right. I’d like to have dinner. Shall I go home and change, and meet you later?’

‘You look fine to me. And this—’ he indicated his jeans, roll-neck sweater and elderly tweed jacket ‘—is as good as it gets. My wardrobe down here is strictly limited, I’m afraid. But I’m told the wine bar in the High Street doesn’t operate a strict dress code.’ He gave her a hopeful look. ‘And perhaps we could go for a quiet drink first. Get acquainted.’

In spite of herself, Joanna was amused. ‘You have the whole evening planned, I see.’

‘Not all of it,’ he said softly.

Joanna caught an audacious gleam in the blue eyes and knew a flicker of misgiving, which she firmly crushed.

She said, ‘I’ll get my coat.’

They went for a drink to the White Hart. Paul ordered beer for himself, but could not talk Joanna out of her request for a mineral water.

‘I’m driving,’ she reminded him. ‘But I’ll have a glass of wine with the meal.’

He was an amusing enough companion, she was forced to admit. He seemed to have had a variety of jobs, including writing advertising copy and working in some minor production capacity for an independent television company.

‘There aren’t many media opportunities round here,’ Joanna remarked lightly.

‘Which is probably a good thing.’ Paul wrinkled his nose. ‘Because it’s freed me for the serious bit. I started a novel some time ago, and now I’ve got an agent and a publisher definitely interested, so I’ve come down here to finish it in peace and quiet.’

‘I thought you were looking for a social life,’ Joanna remarked, sipping her mineral water. ‘Yet writing’s supposed to be a solitary occupation, isn’t it?’

He shrugged expansively. ‘Well, of course. But I don’t intend to devote every waking moment to it.’ He smiled at her with what she felt was conscious charm. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’

He paused. ‘But that’s enough about me. Tell me about you. Was that your husband who passed us the other afternoon? He looked rather fierce.’

‘His father died last month,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘It’s not a particularly joyous time—for either of us.’

‘God, I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely remorseful.

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘Have you been married long?’

Hardly at all, thought Joanna. Aloud, she said, ‘Three years, but Gabriel’s been away much of the time. He has a very successful investment company.’

‘And you don’t accompany him on his travels?’ The blue eyes sharpened. ‘How can he let you out of his sight?’

Joanna looked down at her glass. ‘We have an arrangement that works,’ she said. She forced a smile. ‘I’m getting hungry. Shall we go and see what the wine bar has to offer?’

They reached it down a flight of stone steps. It was a long room, with a polished wooden floor and a low ceiling. One wall was taken up with wine racks, and a blackboard displayed the day’s menu, which seemed to specialise in seafood.

Joanna decided on sea bass, with scallops wrapped in bacon to start, while Paul chose game terrine, followed by steak.

He wanted to order two bottles of wine, one white and one red, to complement their respective meals, but Joanna hastily dissuaded him, saying firmly that one glass of the house white would suffice for her.

He seemed disposed to argue the point, so she excused herself and went to the women’s cloakroom.

She looked reasonable, she thought, viewing herself critically in the big mirror above the basin. Not glamorous or exciting, but reasonable. She was wearing a flared black skirt, with the new cream silk shirt, and a patchwork waistcoat in jewel colours.

I seem like someone about to have dinner with an attractive man, she thought detachedly. That’s if you don’t look too deeply into my eyes. And as long as he doesn’t expect too much.

I ought to have watched Cynthia, of course. Observed the body language. Practised that husky note she puts into her voice.

Although Paul Gordon might then think she was marginally interested in him, and that simply wasn’t the case.

Except that he puzzled her slightly, she amended inwardly. He claimed to be a struggling writer, yet while his shabby clothes bore out his claim, his wallet was brand-new, and stuffed with money.

And the dogs, she remembered suddenly, hadn’t liked him.

She gave herself a wry glance as she turned away. Was she simply inventing a mystery to get her through what could prove to be a sticky evening? Very probably. Well, she would eat her dinner, thank him nicely, and make sure their paths didn’t cross again.

When she got back to the table the wine had been served, and the waitress was just bringing their first courses.

It was easier once the food arrived. It was good, so it could be praised, and reference made to likes and dislikes, and other meals enjoyed elsewhere. Far safer topics than any further interrogation over the state of her marriage.

The main course had been brought, and the vegetable dishes were being placed on the table, when the outer door opened, bringing in a sudden gust of cold air.

Joanna glanced up casually, then stiffened in incredulity as Gabriel came into view. Eyes widening, she watched him slip off his overcoat and hang it on the rack by the entrance before walking across to the bar. Judging by his reception, he was clearly a regular and valued customer.

Of all the gin joints in all the world, she thought dismally. Although he had to eat somewhere when he wasn’t at the Manor, she supposed, and Cynthia was certainly no cook.

‘Is something wrong?’ Paul leaned towards her attentively.

She shrugged. ‘It seems my husband has decided to dine here tonight as well.’

‘Oh.’ His head turned sharply in the direction of the bar. ‘Is this going to be a problem for you?’

‘Not in the least.’ She gestured at her plate. ‘This sea bass is delicious.’

‘He’s seen us,’ Paul muttered. ‘He’s coming across.’

He was already beside them. ‘Joanna—what a delightful surprise.’ His drawl was pronounced. ‘Won’t you introduce me to your companion?’

She acquiesced reluctantly, making them known to each other in a small wooden voice.

‘Won’t you join us?’ Paul asked expansively.

‘Thank you, no. I’m expecting a guest myself.’ He looked down at Joanna. ‘You didn’t tell me you were dining out tonight, darling?’

‘That’s because I didn’t know. It—was a last-minute thing. Paul happened to be passing the shop, and we found we were both at a loose end.’

And why was she embarking on this string of explanations, as if she needed to justify herself, when Cynthia would no doubt be arriving in the next few minutes?

Perhaps it was because of the undercurrent of anger that she sensed in his cool, almost languid tone.

But what the hell did he have to be angry about, anyway? she wondered, deliberately needling herself. She was the one with the right to be mad. The right to get her own back.

‘At a loose end?’ Gabriel sounded meditative. The smile he directed at them both was charming. ‘A dangerous situation for a wife to be in. Maybe I should make sure that your every moment is fully occupied in future, my sweet.’

Joanna’s fork clattered on her plate. She kept her voice level. ‘But for that you’d have to be around far more often than you are, Gabriel. And you know how boring that would get.’

She picked up her glass and drank, hoping the cool wine would assuage the burn in her throat.

‘Then I’d have to make sure it was worth the sacrifice.’ Gabriel’s voice was light, but there was a note in it which sent a shiver across her nerve-endings. ‘Enjoy what’s left of your meal, both of you.’ And, with a nod, he walked away back to the bar.

‘Oh, dear,’ Paul commented, sotto voce. ‘I think you could be in trouble, Mrs Verne.’

‘Nonsense.’ Joanna spoke stoutly, helping herself to more broccoli. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Gabriel was using the public telephone at the end of the bar. Warning Cynthia to delay her arrival, no doubt, until they had completed their meal and departed.

She found herself wondering, vengefully, if it was possible to make a pudding and a pot of coffee last until the wine bar closed.

But Gabriel would soon see through that ploy, and extricate himself with another phone call. And it would also mean several more hours in Paul’s company, a prospect which she didn’t particularly relish, although she’d have been hard put to it to say why.

He was clearly exerting himself to be pleasant. In his own book, she supposed, he hadn’t put a foot wrong. Yet there was just—something which didn’t gel.

He was almost too smooth. His answers seemed too pat, as if he’d done a crash course in the responses she’d find acceptable. And that was ridiculous.

I’m the problem, she thought, putting down her knife and fork with regret. Maybe this is how the dating game works, and I’m just not used to it.

‘Is that all you’re going to eat?’ He looked at her plate with concern.

‘I’m not as hungry as I thought.’ She forced a smile. ‘Do you think we could get the bill and go, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Paul signalled to the waitress.

In whose wake came Gabriel again. Joanna found her hands balling into fists in her lap. She made herself unclench them, and reach for her glass instead.

‘Leaving already?’ He sounded all concern as he watched Joanna swallow the last of her wine. ‘Shall I phone for a taxi to take you back to the Manor, darling?’

‘No, thanks. I have my car.’ Her tone was terse.

His brows lifted. ‘But do you think it’s wise to drive—when you’ve been drinking?’

Her smile back at him was saccharine-sweet. ‘One glass of wine with a meal? I don’t think that would trouble the breathalyser, do you? And Paul’s promised to make me an enormous pot of black coffee at his place, anyway, so—there’s really nothing to worry about.’ She got to her feet. ‘Do enjoy your meal,’ she added. ‘I can recommend the sea bass.’

And, without a backward glance, Joanna walked to the door and out into the night’s dark chill, which she recognised because it already shivered in her heart.

CHAPTER NINE

‘YOU can be a powerful woman.’ Paul caught up with Joanna in the street, his tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.

‘When the occasion warrants it.’ She felt in her bag for her car keys, aware that her hands were shaking.

‘I suppose I should have known,’ he went on. ‘When I saw you mastering that horse the other day.’ He paused. ‘What a shame you no longer have the chance to ride it.’

‘You have an amazing memory for detail.’ She sent him a tight-lipped smile. ‘I’m sorry for the premature ending to our meal. It was—most enjoyable.’

‘But it doesn’t have to end here. You told your husband you were coming back to my place for coffee.’ He gave her a persuasive look. ‘I hope you’re not going back on your word.’

Her heart sank. ‘I wasn’t really serious about that…’ she began.

‘Well, I am,’ he said firmly. ‘Besides, you don’t want him to find out you just went tamely home, as per instructions, do you?’

Actually, Joanna thought, that was none of his business. Her lips were parting to tell him so when another car turned the corner into the High Street and pulled up outside the wine bar with a squeal of brakes.

Turning, Joanna saw Cynthia climb out of the driving seat and walk across the pavement with a click of high heels.

She felt as if she’d swallowed an enormous stone which had become lodged in her midriff. And the fact it was exactly as she’d expected made no difference at all.

She looked up at Paul Gordon. ‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘That’s the last thing I want. And I’d be glad of some coffee. I’ll fetch my car and follow you, shall I?’

‘I’ll have the coffee brewing,’ he promised, and went off jauntily.

Joanna turned, and began to walk in the opposite direction. The impulse to keep going until she fell off the edge of the world was a strong one.

She was developing a headache, if she was any judge, and all she wanted to do was drive home, take some paracetamol and fall into bed. And decent oblivion.

Spending another hour or more in Paul Gordon’s company, and drinking coffee too, would do nothing to improve her physical well-being or her temper. And it was all Gabriel’s fault, she thought, lashing herself on to the next stage of vindictiveness.

Because anger was so much easier to deal with than hurt and heartbreak. And soon those would be all that was left to her.

The Lodge was lit up like a Christmas tree when she got there. But that was better than a continuation of the wine bar’s intimate candlelit ambience, she decided sourly, parking her car.

As she reached the door it opened, and Paul was there smiling at her.

‘I’d begun to think you weren’t coming,’ he chided playfully.

Shrewd of you, Joanna thought, recalling the ten minutes she’d spent sitting in the High Street car park, fighting with herself.

She said lightly, ‘I’m a woman of my word.’ Not to mention a prize idiot and a stubborn mule, she thought as he helped her off with her coat.

The living room at the Lodge wasn’t big, but it had been nicely decorated and furnished by the Osbornes, with a sofa and an easy chair covered in dark green flowered chintz and a paler green carpet.

She glanced around her with genuine pleasure. ‘This is really cosy. So, where do you do your writing?’

‘I thought the table in the window.’ He grimaced. ‘My computer’s still packed away in boxes, I’m afraid.’

She looked at him in faint surprise, having gained the impression his novel was in full swing.

She said, ‘I understood publishers imposed all kinds of deadlines.’

‘I’m probably not important enough for that. Not yet, anyway.’

‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,’ she said tactfully, aware it was the response he wanted. Playing him at his own game, she realised wearily.

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tray laid with pottery mugs, a cream jug and a cafetière.

Whatever reservation she might have about him, his coffee was excellent, and she complimented him sincerely, causing him to launch into a monologue about the exacting art of the choosing and blending of beans.

Were all would-be writers as self-obsessed as this? Joanne wondered with faint amusement.

She’d deliberately chosen the chair to maintain her own space, and was annoyed when he fetched a leather pouffe from a corner and established himself at her feet.

‘That’s better.’ He smiled up at her.

‘And that’s a matter of opinion,’ she returned under her breath, debating with herself how soon she could leave. She would have to finish her coffee at least, and it was too hot to gulp down.

She looked at the painting over the mantelpiece. ‘Is that one of Sylvia’s?’

‘Possibly. I’m not really into amateur daubs.’

That was the kind of thing Cynthia said, and she stiffened. ‘I don’t think either of those terms applies to Mrs Osborne’s work.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t sound repentant. ‘But I’m just more used to shows at the Hayward Gallery. That is, if you want to talk about art. Now, I’d rather talk about you.’

For a writer, his dialogue could use a little work, she thought judiciously.

‘A very boring topic.’ She kept her tone light.

‘Not from my viewpoint. I find you quite fascinating.’

‘I don’t know what can have led you to that conclusion.’ She took a gargantuan swallow of coffee.

‘Perhaps I’m just more perceptive than most of the men you’ve known. For instance, it’s obvious your marriage is going nowhere.’

‘Unlike myself,’ Joanna said thinly, and put down her mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Paul, but I really must be leaving. I’ll see myself out.’

She made to rise, but he stopped her, a hand on her knee.

‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart. And stop pretending. We both know why you’re here. That dog in the manger act of his didn’t fool me for a minute. He neglects you, and you don’t deserve it.’

She said icily, ‘Will you please allow me to rise?’

He laughed. ‘What a coincidence. I was just going to ask you the same thing.’ His hand pushed at her skirt, stroking the slender nylon-clad thigh.

She tried to hit him, but he captured both her fists in his other hand and held her, still laughing.

‘Playing hard to get? You don’t have to. I know the score, and I’m very discreet. Just relax and enjoy yourself.’

She said between her teeth, ‘Not with you,’ and kicked him hard. She connected with his shin and Paul gasped and swore, releasing her to clutch at his leg.

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