His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan Stephens
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at anchor.
Her eyes felt as if they were full of sand, and her throat was equally dry—almost as if she’d been crying in her sleep, making her glad she could not remember her dreams.
She glanced at the illuminated dial of her bedside clock and sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. She had a full day ahead of her, she reminded herself, and turning over for another doze was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She bathed and put on her underwear, then looked along the wardrobe rail for job-hunting gear. However limited her options, she needed to make the most of them, which meant looking neat and efficient, she thought, pulling out a black skirt and another of her white cotton shirts. Both were clean, but creased, demanding a short stint at the ironing board before they presented the correct image.
Belted into her robe, she opened her door cautiously and peeped into the living room, but everything in the flat seemed quiet and completely still. And long may it remain so, Laine thought, as she trod silently on bare feet to the tall built-in kitchen cupboard where the iron was stored. Especially as it seemed Daniel now chose to sleep with his bedroom door slightly ajar for some reason and, accordingly, she needed to keep the noise level down.
Her task accomplished, she was creeping back to her room, with the freshly pressed garments over her arm, when it suddenly occurred to her that Daniel’s door was open because that was how he’d left it when he went out the previous evening.
And that could only mean.
She swallowed convulsively, the clothes crushed against her as if they were some form of defence, as she told herself that, whether he was there or not, it was none of her business. That it could not be allowed to matter to her one way or the other. And, that for her own peace of mind, it was much better not to know.
She was still telling herself all this as the door gave easily to her hand, affording her a perfect view of the empty room, and the wide, smooth bed, with its unruffled covers. Providing absolute confirmation, if it had ever been needed, that Daniel had spent the night somewhere else entirely.
So now you know, she told herself stonily. And what good has it done you?
You’re not married to him, and you never were—not in the real sense of the word. Which was your own decision. No one else’s. And you’re quite well aware that he’s not going to sleep alone just because you turned him away. You’ve been aware of it for two whole years, so you should be used to it by now.
He’s not your husband, and he never was, so it’s ludicrous to feel like this. To feel sick—hurt—betrayed, as if he’s been unfaithful to you. To allow jealousy to rip through you like a poisoned claw. To imagine him with another woman, making love, sharing with her everything that you could have had, but that you deliberately denied yourself.
She said aloud, ‘I can’t let this happen. I can’t think like this and stay sane. So I have to close myself off—to become, in effect, blind, deaf and dumb while the present situation endures.
‘And when it’s finally over, and he’s gone, I can let myself deal with it and begin to feel again. To become, at last, a whole person. ‘Somehow …’
A few hours later she had a job—although not without a certain reluctance on the part of her new employer.
‘You’re very young to be a Citi-Clean operative,’ Mrs Moss commented, looking at Laine over her glasses. ‘We usually prefer more mature ladies. Our clients are all professional people, and they demand high standards.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t seem the type, Miss Sinclair.’
Laine gave her an equable smile. ‘I assure you, I’m quite used to hard work.’
‘Well, I’ve had two of my best girls leave recently, so I’m short-staffed at the moment. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you a month’s trial,’ the older woman said grudgingly. ‘I supply uniforms, and all cleaning materials, and I don’t expect them to be wasted. Also, I’ll need two character references. I’m very strict about that. After all, most of our work is done in the absence of the client.’
She ran quickly through the wages, which were reasonable, and the hours, which were long, adding, ‘You’ll be paired with Denise—she’s one of my most experienced staff. She’ll assess you, and report back to me.’
Her gaze went down to Laine’s strapped ankle, and she pursed her lips dubiously. ‘Cleaning is physically demanding, Miss Sinclair. I hope you’re strong enough to stand up to it?’
‘A slight wrench,’ Laine told her. ‘It will be fine by Monday.’
Mrs Moss sniffed. ‘Then I’ll expect you to report here at seven thirty a.m. And I require punctuality.’
I don’t think, Laine reflected as she left the Citi-Clean office, that Mrs Moss and I are destined to be friends. But what the hell? I’m not qualified to do much else, and it’s not a lifetime commitment.
However, she promised herself, once these next difficult weeks are over, I can start to make some real plans.
She celebrated her return to the workplace by going into a small café, and treating herself to one of its massive all-day breakfasts, complete with a mountain of toast and a pot of very strong tea, courtesy of the Sinclair Rescue Fund. She’d been putting the iron away earlier when she’d suddenly remembered the old coffee jar, hidden behind the cleaning materials, where she and Jamie had kept spare cash for any domestic emergencies that might arise.
She had told herself that Jamie would almost certainly have emptied it before he left, but he must have forgotten it too, or been in too much of a hurry, because she’d found an unbelievable sixty pounds tucked away there, which, with care, would take care of her most pressing needs.
It would certainly spare her a visit to the bank, which, she recalled, biting her lip, had totally opposed her investment in the boat charter business, and advised most stringently against it. They probably wouldn’t say I told you so, but they’d almost certainly regard her as a bad risk until she could prove she’d stabilised her finances.
And it would also save her the ultimate humiliation of having to ask for help from Daniel—especially as he’d offered a financial settlement at the time of their separation which her lawyer had described as ‘astonishingly generous—under the circumstances’, and which she, wounded to the heart by those same circumstances, had turned down flat.
She’d added curtly, ‘Please tell Mr Flynn that I want nothing from him except the ending of the marriage. Not now. Not ever.’
And that, she thought, had been the last contact between them, even at third hand, until the horror of yesterday. It was also something Daniel was unlikely to have forgiven—or forgotten.
Sighing, Laine finished the last of the tea and rose reluctantly from the table, aware that the rest of the day stretched endlessly in front of her, and that the prospect of returning to the solitude of the flat held no appeal whatsoever.
She didn’t want to be within eyeshot of that empty bedroom. Didn’t want to start thinking about Daniel again, wondering where he’d been last night, and who he’d been with. Although she knew that was pretty much inevitable—wherever she was and however hard she might try to avoid it. The same questions had dogged her now for two years, and she was totally and miserably at a loss to know how to clear them from her mind.
Maybe deep hypnosis would help? she reflected wryly. Or even a full frontal lobotomy. Anything that would once and for all remove the images that came back so relentlessly to torment her. The latest, of course, being the imprint of Daniel without his clothes that was now permanently etched into her brain.
Oh, God, how I needed that, she thought with irony.
Perhaps a walk would help? she decided, gingerly testing her ankle. A brief visit to some of her favourite haunts might re-establish the fact that she was back in London. Make her feel more grounded.
Not that she’d ever really wanted to live in the city, but after the end of her marriage her options had