A Whirlwind Marriage

That evening, once she was comfortable on the sofa with a mug of coffee, she dialled the apartment’s number. She would be formal and businesslike, she told herself as her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. Just thank him for his thoughtfulness, assure him she would use the phone, and leave it at that. No asking him how he was or any kind of social intercourse.

When there was no answer she felt such a keen disappointment it necessitated a five-minute talking-to about her stupidity.

She tried again an hour later, and then once more at just gone ten o’clock, and this time the receiver at the other end was picked up fairly swiftly.

‘Hallo?’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and gurgling with an American accent. ‘Can I help you?’

Marianne found she was gripping the telephone so tightly her fingers were hurting, but after a panic-stricken moment—when she almost pressed the button to finish the call—she forced herself to say calmly, ‘Is it possible to speak with Mr Buchanan, please?’

‘Zeke? Sorry, he’s in the shower,’ the Marilyn Monroe lookalike—if voices were anything to go by—fluttered sweetly. ‘Can I give him a message?’

I’m surprised you aren’t in there with him! The words were on the tip of her tongue, and, horrified at herself, Marianne said quickly, ‘Oh, just tell him Marianne says thanks for the phone,’ before immediately ending the call. She stood for a moment, the phone held to her chest and her heart thudding sickeningly, and then she turned the phone right off. If Zeke called back—if—she wouldn’t be able to be civil.

This does not matter; it does not. When she found herself pacing the room she stopped abruptly. She was the one who had forced the separation when all was said and done, and Zeke was perfectly entitled to have women friends back to the apartment—hundreds of them if he so wished! She had no right to complain or object.

She shut her eyes tightly and took a deep breath, forcing her hands, which had been clenched into tight fists at her sides, to relax.

After turning on the TV she ate a whole box of chocolates which Wilmer—with dewy eyes—had presented to her at Christmas, but the feel-good comfort factor didn’t work. She just felt slightly queasy now, as well as furiously angry.

And then she gave up all pretence of reasonableness, had a good cry and called Zeke every name under the sun, and a felt a little better. But not so much better that she could sleep that night.

At three in the morning, when she still hadn’t had a wink of sleep, she padded across to the kitchen area and made herself a mug of milky cocoa. She took it back to bed with her, along with half a package of chocolate biscuits—which she ate with a que sera, sera disregard for her waistline—and a good book, and resolved to put every thought of Zeke Buchanan out of her mind. It didn’t work.

Later, after watching the night sky outside the window give way to the first pink tentative fingers of dawn, she went along the landing and ran herself a hot bubbly bath. She lay for a long time in the warm silky water, her thoughts spinning and whirling, before she washed her hair.

Her body lotion brought more thoughts of Zeke—he had always taken great pleasure in smoothing cream on to every inch of her body—that made her angry at her own weakness and she shed a few more hot tears.

‘Enough.’ She glared at her pink-eyed reflection once she was back in her room. ‘You are going to look great today, as though you haven’t got a care in the world. Zeke is not the be-all and end-all of your existence! Understand?’

The reflection nodded obediently, and after another long, narrow-eyed, critical stare Marianne set to work. She dried her hair in thick, silky waves about her shoulders, leaving it loose for once, and then gave herself a manicure. She painted her nails—fingers and toes—in bright, challenging red. She didn’t particularly like the shade—it had been part of a Christmas present from Pat—but it suited her mood this morning.

Nails finished, she pulled on a thick cream jumper and a fitted bottle-green corduroy skirt which finished a couple of inches above her knees, teaming them with her new boots, and then set to work on her face.

Subtle golden-brown eyeshadow and mascara deepened her cornflower-blue eyes to violet, and in a spirit of recklessness she used the lipstick which matched the nail varnish Pat had given her.

There. She gazed at herself again in a searching appraisal that was very analytical. She looked young and bright and attractive, she decided, as her blue eyes shone back at her. A woman who knew where she was going and what she wanted, and who intended to have fun getting there.

Her lashes dropped, hiding her eyes as she turned away from the mirror, and not for the world would she admit to herself that she was disturbed by what she saw. She had started this ball rolling, and no matter how fast it gathered momentum she had to see it through to the bitter end, she told herself silently. She just wished that a situation she had thought at one time was so straightforward and clear hadn’t turned into such a giant tangle, that was all.

Marianne felt a little self-conscious as she walked into the shop that morning, but she threw back her slim shoulders and smiled blithely when Wilmer—who was wheeling a stack of tins through from the warehouse—give a low, approving whistle at the sight of her.

‘You look happy this morning,’ he said softly as he stopped at her side. ‘And very lovely. But then you always look lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ She gazed back at him and wondered why she couldn’t have been attracted to someone like him in the days before she had met Zeke. He was young, good-looking, virile—so why wasn’t there the faintest trace of a spark?

‘Marianne…’ He hesitated, and then said quickly, ‘It’s my birthday today and I wondered if you’d come out for a drink this evening?’

Oh, no, not again. She had really thought he’d got the message by now. ‘This evening? Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t—’

‘This lunch-time, then?’ he put in swiftly. ‘Just a drink between friends to celebrate?’

‘As friends?’ she emphasised gently, feeling she had to make it perfectly clear where they stood.

‘As friends.’ He smiled a trifle bitterly. ‘I know how you feel, Marianne, so don’t worry. I won’t embarrass us both by pressing my case.’

‘Oh, Wilmer, I’m sorry. It’s just that…’ She didn’t know how to put it.

‘You still care about him.’ He didn’t have to mention Zeke by name; they both knew who he was talking about.