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That she was no longer living with Ivo. That the ‘perfect’ marriage was over.
Of course it could be her agent—he kept a television on in his office so that he could keep an eye on his clients—demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, messing with success. Ruining the image he’d gone to so much trouble and expense—he always took expenditure personally, even when it was her money he was spending—to build. Anxious to arrange interviews, a photo session so that he could ‘sell’ her new look. Wanting to know what spin the PR guys should put on the fact that she’d moved out of the family home, since, like the press, he’d go there first.
A new romance for her? Positive, upbeat, radiant…
A cheating husband? Sympathetic, brave…
A marriage that had collapsed under the strain of the pressure of their careers? Very sad. Still good friends…
She’d seen it all a hundred times.
The light on the answering machine had been flashing when she’d got home. She had ignored it, just as she now ignored the doorbell.
Instead, she was glued to her laptop, anxiously checking through the messages to see if there was anything from the Adoption Register.
Nothing. Instead she clicked on the site she’d bookmarked, the one with personal adoption stories.
A second longer peal on the bell warned her that whoever was at the front door wasn’t about to go away and, knowing that she would have to face the music sooner rather than later, she picked up the entry phone.
‘Yes?’ she said, her voice neutral.
‘Belle…’
She caught her breath, almost doubling up with shock at the sound of Ivo’s voice…
No…
It was the middle of the afternoon. He should be in his office, all of London at his feet, both figuratively and metaphorically. He didn’t do ‘personal’, not in office hours. Not ever…
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, just buzzed him up, taking the time it took for him to walk up to her flat—an old converted town house, there were no lifts—to recover. Taking those few moments to put herself back together before she opened the door.
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