You knew it would happen.
And now it has.
You have done all that you could do, all that it was essential for you to do. You accepted its ending with dignity, with composure, with your mask intact. So that never could he possibly know the truth—the truth that he can have no interest in. Because why should he? Whatever he was to me, he was not a man it was…sensible…to fall in love with.
No… The word tolled in her brain. It had not been sensible to fall in love with Guy de Rochemont.
It had been folly of the worst sort. A folly she now had to pay the price for. And she would pay that price.
She had accepted his severing of whatever it was that had been between them with composure an
d dignity. That was essential. Quite essential. She stood stock still in the kitchen, instilling into herself just how essential it was.
The phone started ringing.
For a moment she could only stare at it. A name, unspoken, was vivid in her head. Then, knowing that it was not Guy—for why should he phone now that he had ended the affair as abruptly as he had started it?—she jerked her hand to pick it up.
‘Alexa! I’ve just found something out that I must warn you about! You’ve got to listen to me on this!’
Imogen’s voice sounded agitated. For a moment Alexa could not face taking the call. But she knew she would not be able to avoid Imogen.
‘What is it?’ she answered. Her voice was as composed as Imogen’s was not.
‘I don’t want to tell you this—I really, really don’t! But I can’t not—it’s about Guy.’
Of course it was about Guy. How could it not be?
It was so ironic, Alexa thought dispassionately. From being someone who couldn’t have waxed any more lyrical about the attractions of Guy de Rochemont, lavish in her appreciation of all his masculine allure, Imogen had become the very opposite.
When she had first discovered the fact that Alexa had succumbed to him, Imogen’s initial disbelief had been overwhelmed by a vicarious but wholehearted gratification. ‘Oh-my-God! Are you serious? You and Guy de Rochemont! Oh, that is just brilliant! Wow! It’s amazing! Awesome! Totally brilliant!’ Imogen had enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘Oh, you are just so, so lucky! You jammy, jammy thing!’
But her views had changed completely as she came to know the circumstances of their affair.
‘It’s like he’s hiding you!’ she’d accused. ‘Never being seen out with you!’
Alexa had been unperturbed by her friend’s hostility. ‘The last thing I want is anyone staring at us,’ she’d said. ‘Besides, we don’t get much time together—why waste it going out? I’d rather be with him alone while I can.’ She’d looked straight at her friend. ‘Immie, this isn’t going to last. I know that. I’d be a fool not to. But while it does—’
She’d broken off, and to her dismay, Imogen had stared silently at her. Then spoken.
‘You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?’ Her voice had been hollow.
Alexa had answered too fast. ‘No—’
But Imogen had only shaken her head. ‘Oh, hell,’ she’d said.
Then she’d given a huge, heavy sigh, and gazed pityingly at her friend.
The pity was back in her voice now, audible down the line. So was a hesitation that was unusual for her. Alexa cut through it.
‘Yes, he’s getting married. I know.’
The silence on the phone was eloquent. ‘The bastard!’ hissed Imogen. ‘The absolute bastard!’ Then she launched. ‘It’s on one of those gossip websites! I’ve only just logged on. There’s a huge pic of Carla Crespi, and then one of him, and then it says about how Carla can give up all hope of getting him back now, because he’s just about to announce his engagement. And underneath that is the story about who she is—the fiancée of your precious Guy de bloody Rochemont! It’s some cousin or other of his. One of the Lorenz lot. They’ve dug up some pic of her at some schloss. She looks like a painted dummy. Daddy’s got one of the family banks, so they’re keeping all the money in the family—nice and convenient!’ Imogen’s voice was scathing.
‘Yes, well, that’s how they’ve always stayed so rich,’ replied Alexa.
There was so much calmness in her voice that it astonished her. Beneath the calm she could feel the information that Imogen was forcing on her pushing into the interstices in her brain. She tried to force it out—she didn’t want to know anything about who it was that Guy de Rochemont had chosen to marry—but it was there, vivid in her consciousness. All she could do was ignore it. Turn away from it.
Imogen had cottoned on to another thing now. The fact that Alexa already knew about the engagement.