‘I’ll talk to him,’ Marianne had said firmly. ‘I’m the one in charge of the house-hunting.’
‘Right.’ Her father had raised his eyebrows at Zeke, who had shrugged amiably, and then both men had shared an indulgent, male bonding type of smile. Marianne hadn’t minded; she was determined to find a house and then start on the next phase of her life, and if it could be done pleasantly all well and good. The iron fist in a velvet glove approach had its uses.
Wilf Bedlows’ Victorian white-washed house overlooked a leafy common on the London side of Hertfordshire, and when Marianne arrived to look at the property on a frosty November morning the weak sun was making the frost glitter like diamond dust on the bare trees and frozen grass.
She sat for some time in the warm, comfortable BMW Zeke had bought for her when they had first got married, just looking at the large sprawling house from her vantage point on the quiet country road running parallel with the common. She loved it already.
Wilf and his wife made her very welcome, and their passion for their home was plain from the beginning, each room reflecting the love and enthusiasm they had poured into the property.
When Marianne entered the large, sloping-roofed porch an immediate feeling of peace and tranquillity surrounded her; the two white Lloyd Loom chairs and small cane table suggested the porch would be a delightful suntrap in the summer.
The hall was impressive: mellow tones of ancient oak dominated the vast space, the staircase, doors and wooden floor all reminiscent of another era. And so it continued all through her tour of the house.
Each of the five bedrooms had its own en suite bathroom, the master bedroom overlooking the two acres of ground at the back of the property which were set with informal flowerbeds, flowering bushes and mature trees. Elegant lawns meandered down to the site of a small, exquisitely restored little chapel, surrounded by a bower of roses which Wilf’s wife assured her made a sweet-smelling retreat in the summer months.
The large drawing room, family sitting room, dining room and breakfast room were all enchanting, and the big kitchen—complete with bunches of dried flowers and baskets hanging from the walls and ceiling, which gave the red-tiled surroundings a distinctly Mediterranean feel—had a gallery above it which had been enclosed to make a large, sun-filled study.
It was a family house—warm, vibrant, alive and welcoming—and by the time she left after a delicious lunch Marianne had arranged to bring Zeke down to view that same evening.
She hardly knew what to do with herself on the drive back to the apartment, her heart singing and her mind full of colour schemes and new furnishings. Pale green and a warm, buttery yellow for the drawing room—she had always loathed Zeke’s icy blue and gold—and the sitting room would have a floral theme, with its French windows opening on to the garden. The kitchen—the kitchen would remain exactly as it was. She loved the kitchen. She loved all the house! Oh, she was so happy.
She called Zeke’s office as soon as she got to the apartment, but Sandra, his very able middle-aged secretary, was apologetic. ‘He’s had to fly up to Stoke again, Mrs Buchanan,’ she said quietly. ‘It all happened rather suddenly, a little while ago. He did try to call you but you’d already left Hertfordshire and he couldn’t contact you on your mobile.’
‘I forgot to take it with me,’ Marianne said flatly, feeling a slight sense of anticlimax before she told herself not to be silly. If they couldn’t go to see the house together this evening they’d go tomorrow; it really wasn’t a big deal. And he might be back in time anyway. Zeke had his own helicopter which he used for short trips like this one; he was forever nipping here, there and everywhere. It went with the territory.
Zeke phoned at six o’clock and he sounded harassed. ‘I’m not going to be able to make it back tonight,’ he said through what sounded like a babble of voices at the other end. ‘There’s still a long way to go before we clinch the deal. I’m sorry, Marianne.’
‘It’s okay.’ She bit back the disappointment and made her voice bright as she said, ‘The house was wonderful, Zeke. It’s the one; I’m sure of it.’
‘The house?’ And then immediately, ‘Oh, yes, of course, the Bedlows place. You liked it, then?’
‘I love it,’ she said a little flatly.
‘Good.’ The noise rose in a wave and then died down, and it was in that moment Marianne heard a familiar voice say, ‘Zeke? Are you coming, darling? I’m famished,’ before the babble began again.
Liliana. Marianne stood, the phone pressed to her ear and her body frozen, and stared straight ahead across the room. Liliana was there with him.
‘Look, it’s chaotic now. I’ll phone you later, when we get back from the restaurant.’
She heard Zeke’s voice but the power to respond was just not there. ‘We’. He’d said we. Him and Liliana.
‘Marianne?’
She barely knew what she was doing when she replaced the receiver, but then in the next instant she had whipped it up again, lying it down beside the phone with numb fingers.
Liliana was in Stoke with him. He had taken Liliana with him. After all she had said to him about how she felt about the other woman he had chosen, deliberately, to take Liliana with him on this trip. And now they were staying overnight.
She began to pace back and forth, her mind spinning. Had she made a mistake? It was possible. It was possible. She was clutching at straws and she knew it. Perhaps her mind had played a trick on her. You heard of such things. He wouldn’t have taken Liliana with him; there was no need. The project he had employed the redhead for had nothing to do with the development in Stoke. She must have made a mistake.
She glanced at the address book at the side of the telephone and then picked it up slowly. She shouldn’t do this; she really shouldn’t do this, she told hers
elf sickly as she found Sandra’s home number. She should wait until Zeke came home and then ask him calmly and coolly; that was what she should do. But the way she was feeling right now she’d be a gibbering idiot by tomorrow night.
She dialled the number.
‘Hallo, Amy Jenkins speaking.’
‘Hi, Amy,’ Marianne said carefully to Sandra’s twelve-year-old daughter. ‘Is your mother there? It’s Marianne Buchanan.’