But about Guy de Rochemont she still didn’t know what to do.
I don’t understand…was her last conscious thought as sleep took her.
It was also her first conscious thought four days later, after days spent resuming her life as much as she was able, given her state of mental bemusement. She had come to the conclusion that the complete lack of any further communication by anyone remotely to do with Guy de Rochemont, let alone himself, could betoken only one thing: his parting words to her, the vast bouquet he had sent and the call from his PA with his private phone number, had not in fact meant anything. It was all beyond her comprehension, and continued to be so right up to the moment when, one Sunday, as she was passing a leisurely morning, the entryphone sounded.
It was Guy de Rochemont.
Numbly, she let him in. Numbly, she opened her front door to him. Numbly, she heard her own voice on her lips—‘I don’t understand…’
He glanced down at her, wry amusement in his beautiful green long-lashed eyes that made her breath slow and her pulse instantly quicken. ‘I told you, ma si belle Alexa, it is very simple. As simple…’ he lowered his mouth to hers and took her into his arms ‘…as this.’
And so, over the next weeks, and then months, it seemed to be.
Without any conscious decision on her part, Alexa simply accepted the situation. Slowly, the sense of bemusement that it was happening at all seeped away, and having Guy de Rochemont in her life became just—well, her life. She did not look for words to describe it, she didn’t want to—she didn’t want to think about it either. It was simpler that way.
Simpler to accept this inexplicable affair. Simpler not to question him, or herself, or wonder why it was happening. For reasons known only to himself Guy de Rochemont wanted this. Why, she could not fathom. Carla Crespi seemed to be no longer on his radar. Alexa knew this from seeing a photo in a celebrity magazine of the sultry Italian star hooked onto the arm of a paunchy middle-aged man—a film director, according to the caption, which described him as Carla’s fiancé. Had she defected? Had Guy tired of the actress? Alexa did not know. Did not want to ask.
Asking Guy about his life was something she refrained from doing. Again, why she was not entirely sure. One element, she knew, was because his existence away from her seemed so completely different from her life that she preferred not to think about it. Another reason was because she knew, with finely honed instinct, that Guy did not want to talk about his life.
Sometimes it overlapped into their time together, with a phone call to his mobile which he would take, talking in one of several European languages, and sometimes in English too. She caught snatches of conversation, but always busied herself, even if it were only to pick up a book or a newspaper while he was occupied.
Sometimes the tone of his voice, whatever language he was speaking, sounded impatient and irritated, his manner abrupt and peremptory. Then, phone call terminated, so too would be that attitude, and he was his usual self with Alexa again—relaxed and attentive, and, in bed, passionate and demonstrative.
Yet there was a reserve about him that she recognised—recognised because it resonated with her own innate reserve. A reserve that made her glad, too, that Guy showed no inclination to socialise with her, take her out and about. She was relieved, appreciative of his discretion—she had no wish to be seen as Guy de Rochemont’s latest paramour, with curious, speculative eyes upon her, and besides, her time with him was too thinly spaced for her to want to spend it anywhere but in his private, exclusive company—wherever that was. Sometimes it was in her apartment, or he’d whisk her to where he was, where his punishing timetable permitted him her company. For time with Guy was precious—and scarce.
And it would not last for ever.
Could not.
The knowledge sent chill fingers creeping over her, and with it another sort of knowledge that seeped into her like icy drops.
How it had happened, she did not know. Why it had happened, she could not tell. That it had happened at all filled her with a terrible sense of both inevitable heartache and yet present rapture too.
For somewhere along the way—unintended, unimagined—she had done what she had never dreamt she would do. She had fallen in love with Guy de Rochemont.
Doomed, hopeless love. For there could be no future with him, no ending other than the one she knew must come—one day the affair that had started so inexplicably would end, and Guy de Rochemont would no longer be part of her life. He would tire of her, move on, and she would be left behind.
Left behind loving him. Helplessly loving him. Hopelessly loving him.
The knowledge dismayed her—but it did not lessen by one fraction of a fragment the power of the truth about what she felt for Guy. A truth that she knew, with every instinct in her body, she must mask from him, and even, as best she could, from herself. That mask was all the protection she would have—a mask of cool composure that had once been the reality of her emotion but was now no more than a frail, flimsy disguise.
She needed it right up to the final moment when, out of the blue, the blow that she had known must fall one day fell.
Guy was leaving her. Ending their affair.
It was over.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE could not go on cleaning the bathroom for ever. After some indefinite time she made herself stop. Made herself go into the kitchen and put on the kettle. Carefully not looking at the breakfast table. Not thinking about what had happened that morning. Not thinking at all.
Just feeling.
An ocean of emotion possessed her.
After a while—a few minutes, an hour? She didn’t know, couldn’t tell and didn’t care—she started to make herself think. Started to try and seize the torn and tattered rags of her mind and sew them back together again—at least enough to make words come, make words take shape in her head. She had to force herself to say them, if only to herself.
You knew this day would come. You knew it. You knew it had to come—could only come. You understood nothing of why he started this affair with you—what made you his choice. He, who had all the world to choose from. You understood nothing of that. Nothing of why he kept the affair going. The reasons must have been there, but they were inexplicable to you. You always knew that he would at some point, a point of his own choosing, decide to terminate the affair. End it. Finish it.