to me, I wouldn't let him roam off alone.'
'He's not alone,' Kate had protested. 'He has people with him—a publicist, for one.'
'Male or female?' Louie had sent her a beady look.
'I don't know.'
'Then I'd get to know. I'm only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of
information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.' Louie had adjusted her scarlet-
rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a
mop of dark curly hair.
'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' Kate had said impatiently. 'I trust Ryan implicitly.'
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she'd heard herself asking, 'How did you get on with
the publicist?'
'Grant?' Ryan had shaken his head. 'Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried
each other.'
'Oh,' Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she
made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions
had re-opened several cans of worms which she'd thought closed for ever, and that was
vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn't wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for
that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We're both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she
told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn't be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she
thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she
couldn't categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and
addressed quite starkly to 'Kate Lassiter', with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words
which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
“Your husband loves another woman.”
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
Kate felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she
heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet
and legs.
She thought detachedly, I've dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up
before it stains the floor. I ought...
But she couldn't move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again,
until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless
patterns.
She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she
threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.
For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-
stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was
briefly and unpleasantly sick.
When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using
water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical
contamination.
Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.
She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into
shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.
Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the
spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained
floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have
to go to a specialist cleaning firm.
She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was
worrying about a bloody rug?
She knelt
'He's not alone,' Kate had protested. 'He has people with him—a publicist, for one.'
'Male or female?' Louie had sent her a beady look.
'I don't know.'
'Then I'd get to know. I'm only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of
information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.' Louie had adjusted her scarlet-
rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a
mop of dark curly hair.
'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' Kate had said impatiently. 'I trust Ryan implicitly.'
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she'd heard herself asking, 'How did you get on with
the publicist?'
'Grant?' Ryan had shaken his head. 'Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried
each other.'
'Oh,' Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she
made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions
had re-opened several cans of worms which she'd thought closed for ever, and that was
vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn't wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for
that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We're both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she
told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn't be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she
thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she
couldn't categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and
addressed quite starkly to 'Kate Lassiter', with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words
which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
“Your husband loves another woman.”
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
Kate felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she
heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet
and legs.
She thought detachedly, I've dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up
before it stains the floor. I ought...
But she couldn't move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again,
until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless
patterns.
She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she
threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.
For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-
stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was
briefly and unpleasantly sick.
When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using
water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical
contamination.
Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.
She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into
shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.
Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the
spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained
floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have
to go to a specialist cleaning firm.
She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was
worrying about a bloody rug?
She knelt
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