The Three-Year Itch

CHAPTER TWO (#u6f97f602-35ab-514b-a4c2-6a6d01046b45)

Two hours later Abbie, dressed in a loose-fitting pair of heavy slub silk trousers in her favourite bitter chocolate colour and a soft creamy peach top that glowed against her tanned skin and hair, bleached to a streaked blonde by the sun, was discussing the layout of her feature for the colour supplement of a major newspaper with her commissioning editor. Her photographs had been forwarded by courier and now the two of them were bent over the light box, deciding which ones to use.

‘You’ve done a great job, Abbie. This photograph of the mother getting into that tiny plane to fly up into the hills to start looking all over again—’

‘I tried to stop her. If only I could have gone with her …’

‘No. That’s the right place to end it. A touch of hope, bags of determination and courage. A mother alone, searching for her missing child. You deserve an award for this one.’

‘I don’t deserve anything, Steve,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with herself for being so pleased with the finished result. ‘I just hope she’s all right. Anything could happen to her up there and no one would ever know.’

Steve Morley gave her a sharp look. ‘You sound as if you’ve got just a little bit too emotionally involved in this one, Abbie. You were there to record what happened, not become responsible for the result. The woman has made her decision. It’s her daughter. And your story will make a difference …’

‘Will it? I wish I thought so.’

‘Trust me,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, I’ll take you out to lunch.’

Trust. An emotive word. But without it there was nothing. Was too much time apart eroding that precious commodity between her and Grey? She would trust him with her life, and yet … and yet … There were too many gaps, too many empty spaces yawning dangerously between them. Baby or not, her mind was made up. She wouldn’t be going away again.

As they made their way down in the lift Steve distracted her by asking her where she would like to eat, and reluctantly she let go of her thoughts about the future to concentrate on more immediate concerns. ‘I’ve found this really good Indian restaurant,’ he continued, ‘but after two weeks on the sub-continent, I don’t suppose you’d be interested—’

‘You suppose right, Mr Morley,’ she interrupted, very firmly. Then she grinned. ‘Now, how good did you say that feature was?’

Steve groaned. ‘L’Escargot?’

‘L’Escargot,’ she affirmed with a grin. ‘Upstairs.’

Lunch was a light-hearted affair, with Steve bringing her up to date on what had been happening during her absence and offering several suggestions for future features.

‘How do you feel about a month in the States for us?’ He continued hurriedly as he saw she was about to object, ‘Human interest stuff in the deep South—Atlanta. It’s the sort of thing you’re particularly good at. Although since your charming husband got a decent price for his Degas at auction last week I don’t suppose you actually need the money,’ he added, with an offhand little shrug.

The Degas? Sold? Despite the whirl of conflicting emotions storming through her brain she wasn’t fooled by Steve Morley’s casual manner. He had hoped to take her unawares, provoke some unguarded response. If he thought the Lockwood family were in any sort of financial trouble he would want to know. It was probably the whole reason for this lunch. ‘You don’t normally cover the art market, do you, Steve?’ she asked, arching her fine brows in apparent surprise. ‘I mean, doesn’t that take brains …?’

He grinned, aware that he had been caught out, but was unrepentant. ‘I cover everything that has the Lockwood name attached to it, and if you’re ever seriously in need of funds, Abbie, I’m always deeply interested in brother Robert’s doings.’

‘I thought we had an agreement? You don’t ask me about Robert and I’ll continue to work for you.’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t hurt to remind you now and again that I’m always receptive to a change of heart.’

‘Forget it. And Atlanta. I’m not in the market for overseas work for a while.’

‘The old man getting a bit restive, is he?’ He had gone straight to the heart of the matter, and she had known Steve too long to attempt to string him some line.

‘Even the best marriage needs to be worked at, Steve.’

‘I won’t argue with that. I only wish my wife had been quite so dedicated.’ He shrugged. ‘And if the pretty piece I saw Grey having lunch with last week is anything to go by, I’d say you haven’t left it a day too long.’

‘Pretty piece?’ Abbie felt the smile freeze on her face.

Steve shrugged. ‘From what you said, I thought you must at least suspect something was up …’

‘Suspect something?’ It had been a moment’s shock, that was all. On top of everything else that had happened she should have been reeling. But if there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain it was this: if her husband had been lunching with another woman, there had to be some perfectly rational explanation. ‘Oh, Steve, really!’ she chided, even managing a small laugh to show him how ridiculous such an idea was. But she knew it would need more than that. Taking his hand between her fingers, she regarded him solemnly with large grey eyes. ‘Would you like me to tell you something that has just occurred to me?’ she asked. ‘Something rather amusing?’

Relieved that she was apparently not about to have hysterics, Steve smiled. ‘Fire away.’

‘It’s just that … well, I wondered what Grey would say if someone mentioned to him that they had seen me having lunch upstairs at L’Escargot with one of the best looking men in London.’ And she leaned forward and kissed him, very lightly on the lips, before releasing his hand. It was a reproach. A gentle one, but it wasn’t lost on her companion.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Point taken. I suppose I jumped to the most obvious conclusion because you were away … A bad habit. My only excuse is that I started out on a gossip column.’

‘It’s a bad habit that will cost you the biggest bowl of strawberries in this house,’ she replied sweetly.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, summoning the waiter, but somehow they didn’t taste of anything very much, although she forced herself to eat every one. And when Steve dropped her off outside her home, she didn’t go straight inside, but walked across the road to a small park, occupied in the middle of the afternoon by nannies, identifiable only by their youth and the expensive coach-built prams they wheeled before them in the sunshine, and middle-aged ladies walking small, immaculately groomed dogs.

Surely she was right? Grey was straight down the line. If he had found someone else he would tell her. He could never have made love to her like he had yesterday if he was having an affair, could he? Except that he had never before made love to her in that desperate, almost angry way. And then, afterwards, he had left her without a backward glance.

Oh, that was ridiculous, she chided herself. She was feeling bruised by their row, that was all. But even as she sat in the sunshine, convincing herself of the fact that he loved her, she wondered why she felt the need to do so. They were the perfect couple, after all. Teased by their friends because they were always the first to leave a party, envied for the freedom they were able to give one another, the almost transparent trust.

And yet were things quite so perfect? Grey’s willingness to co-operate with a career that took her away regularly had always, to her, seemed a demonstration of how much he loved and trusted her. She had always rather pitied friends who hinted they would never leave a man that good-looking on his own for more than five minutes, let alone five days. But now little things that hadn’t seemed important suddenly took on a new significance. Grey had had a series of late nights working on a difficult case just before she went to Karachi. Yet he had once said that the need to work late betrayed one of two things: a man incompetent at his job, or a man unwilling to go home to his wife. And Grey was certainly not incompetent.

She caught herself, unable to believe the direction in which her mind was travelling. The fact that Steve had seen him having lunch with another woman meant nothing. She was probably a client, or a colleague. Even if she was nothing whatsoever to do with his work she trusted him, for heaven’s sake. It was certainly no more sinister than her lunch with Steve. The whole thing was utter nonsense. She was just edgy with him because of that stupid row. And if he had sold the Degas because of financial worries, that would certainly explain his reluctance to start a family, his reluctance for her to give up lucrative assignments. If only he had explained, trusted her. Trust. The word seemed to be everywhere today.

Happier, she was even willing to concede that his reaction to her immediate desire for a baby had been justified. She had been so full of her plans that she had expected him to leap into line without a thought. Well, she could start the necessary reorganisation of her life without making an issue of it. In fact she had already begun. No more overseas assignments.

She would tell him all about it when they were at the cottage. A couple of weeks at Ty Bach would give them a chance to talk when they were more relaxed, time to discuss the future properly. She should have waited until then to broach her plans. And, feeling considerably happier, Abbie stood up, dusted herself off and walked briskly back to the flat.

Yet Grey’s key in the lock just after six brought an unexpected nervous catch to her throat.

‘Abbie?’ He came to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the door, smiling a little as if pleased to see her there. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’ A little shy, just a little formal. ‘You’re early.’

‘Mmm,’ he agreed. ‘I asked the boss if I could leave early so that I could take my wife out.’

‘Idiot,’ she murmured, laughing softly. ‘You are the boss.’

‘Obviously a very good one …’ he said, walking across to her and resting his hands lightly about her waist. There was only the slightest tenseness about his eyes to betray what they both knew. That this was a peace overture. ‘I said yes.’

So that was the way he was going to deal with it. Pretend last night had never happened. Love means never having to say that you’re sorry? Maybe. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, raised herself a little on her toes and kissed him, very lightly. ‘Thank you for the rose.’

‘I’m glad you liked it.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘I risked life and limb climbing over the park railings to pick it for you.’

‘Grey!’ she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth at the idea of a sober-suited solicitor clambering over the park fence at dawn. ‘You didn’t!’ He lifted one brow. ‘Idiot!’ she exclaimed. ‘Suppose someone had seen you?’

‘If it made you happy it was worth the risk.’ He put one arm about her to draw her closer, and with his other hand he raked back the thick fringe of hair that grew over her brow and dropped a kiss there. ‘Besides, I know I could rely on you to bake me a sponge with a file in it and ingeniously smuggle it into jail. Your cakes are so heavy that no one would suspect a thing.’

‘Idiot!’ she repeated, but this time flinging a punch at his shoulder.

‘Possibly,’ he agreed. ‘And I’ve got something else.’ He produced a pair of theatre tickets from his inside pocket and held them before her eyes. ‘You did want to see this?’