Wife To A Stranger. Daphne Clair
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see if I can find the charge nurse.’
She picked up a bra—cream satin and lace. When she eased it on and did up the hooks it fitted quite well. She found matching panties, then shook out a jade-green cotton dress, low-necked with tiny front buttons and a gently flared skirt. She slipped the dress on and found it an easy fit.
A smart-looking boutique bag with handles and a zipper-type closure contained a primrose-yellow lined cotton jacket that she didn’t think she’d need.
Rolfe had even bought dark green soft shoes with a medium wedge heel. And stockings and a suspender belt that she looked at with faint surprise. The sun was shining outside, giving no hint of the recent storms, and she decided to go bare-legged.
She unzipped the makeup bag that had been in her locker, applied sunscreening foundation, used soft olive shadow on her eyelids, touched a mascara wand to the tips of her lashes, and coloured her pale lips a warm coral.
Among the bags and wrappings she’d almost missed a small tissue-wrapped box, containing a phial of perfume. She was applying some to her inner wrist when Rolfe tapped on the door and then came in.
‘Thank you.’ She lifted her wrist to sniff at the slightly musky scent. ‘You thought of everything.’
‘Even your favourite perfume.’
‘Really?’ She dabbed the scent on her other wrist, then behind her ears, before she stoppered the bottle.
‘You missed a spot.’
‘What?’
Rolfe walked over to her and said, ‘You usually put some here.’ A lean finger touched the shallow little valley between her breasts, and his eyes darkened as her startled gaze flew to his face.
He quickly withdrew his hand. ‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘The dress fits.’
‘Yes.’ She could still feel the intimate imprint of his finger on her skin.
She put away the bottle and moved to gather up the wrappings on the bed. ‘I only tried one bra. Do you want to return the others to the shop?’
‘No.’ He slanted her a look of amused surprise. ‘You may be able to wear them later. They’re all the same size.’ He stuffed the used wrappings into the rubbish bag near the basin while she folded the spare bras into the boutique bag along with the unused stockings and suspender belt.
She said, ‘They told me you have my shoulder bag and passport.’
‘In the hire car with my things. All your ID was in there, including a medical card listing me as your next of kin.’
After they entered the car he handed her the shoulder bag. The soft honey-coloured leather was stained with muddy water-marks.
‘I’m afraid it’s rather the worse for wear,’ Rolfe commented. ‘I’ve dried everything out, but some stuff was beyond saving. Fortunately your passport was zipped into the inner pocket and didn’t come off too badly.’
As they left the car park she opened up the bag and went through the contents. The lining was still damp and smelled musty. Several credit cards were tucked into a card pocket, and she found a silver ballpoint pen, a Bank of New Zealand chequebook looking sadly crinkled, two keys on a ring, and a coin-purse containing Australian money, the notes crumpled but dry.
In the centre pocket of the bag she discovered a slim flower-patterned plastic folder designed for two photographs, and opened it to see her own face as a child looking back at her, formally posed and smiling in front of a man and a woman and beside a younger girl who must surely be her sister.
She stared at the photograph for a long time, and then like a faint echo a name came to mind. ‘Venetia.’
As sisters they were only superficially alike. Both girls had long fair hair, but Venetia’s eyes were blue, her face more square than Capri’s.
Curious, she turned her attention to the adults in the picture, her eyes flicking from one to the other.
Divorced. The word entered her consciousness as she looked at the smiling couple behind the two children. They were divorced. It was like someone else saying the words inside her head, except that the voice was her own.
Opposite the family group was another photo—a classic head-and-shoulders wedding picture of herself and Rolfe. Her hair was long and piled into an elegant knot under a veil secured with a pearl coronet. Rolfe was gazing down at his bride, smiling, while Capri’s eyes, her smile, were directed at the camera.
Rolfe glanced at the folder. ‘Luckily that was in the zipped pocket with your passport. All I had to do was wipe a bit of water off the plastic.’
She closed it and put it back. ‘Wasn’t there anything else in the bag?’
‘Some tissues that I threw away. A couple of sodden train and bus tickets. I couldn’t find your address book, or any clue as to where you’d been staying recently. The bag was closed when I got it, but it could have fallen open at some stage. Do you know of anything that’s missing?’
‘No.’ She had no idea what should have been in the bag, couldn’t even remember owning it.
She half-dozed for much of the two-hour drive to the airport. Rolfe dropped off the hire car and hauled out an overnight bag from the back seat. Her only luggage was the plastic boutique bag.
He dug into a side pocket of his bag and produced two passports, stuffing them into the pocket of his light jacket. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’
Stepping off the plane hours later at Auckland’s international airport, she felt disoriented. The feeling remained as they crossed rain-wet tarseal to where Rolfe had parked his car when he’d left the country to race to her side. She was glad now of the jacket he’d bought her. Spring in New Zealand was decidedly nippy.
‘Are you all right?’ Rolfe asked after he’d paid the parking fee and joined the stream of traffic leaving the airport.
‘Yes.’ She felt as though she was in a strange land. ‘How…how long have I been away?’ He’d said they’d talk, but the airport bar in Sydney where they’d filled in half an hour before the flight had seemed too public, and on the plane Capri had fallen asleep again following the meal that had been served after take-off.
Rolfe braked for a traffic light. ‘A couple of months,’ he told her.
A long holiday. ‘I can’t have spent all the time on my own?’ A twinge of anxiety hit her. ‘Was there someone I knew on the train? Someone I was with?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Rolfe answered after a moment. ‘There didn’t seem to be anyone looking for you.’
‘But…some people were killed.’
‘Several, yes. I believe they were all…claimed.’
‘My parents,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do they know—?’
‘I phoned your mother in Los Angeles after the doctors told me they expected you to fully recover. She sends her love.’
‘Thank you. Los Angeles? My mother’s not American.’
Rolfe said carefully, ‘No, she’s Australian, as of course you are by birth, but she’s lived in L.A. for years. So did you, for a while.’
‘And Venetia?’
‘Venetia too. Right now she’s trying to break into films, with a bit of help from your stepfather.’
‘My mother’s remarried?’
‘Her second husband is a photographer with contacts in the movie business.’
‘What about my father? Did you contact him?’
He gave her a probing glance, then returned his attention to the road. ‘I wouldn’t know how to get hold of him, I’m afraid.’