‘Just a minute and I’ll get her.’
Marianne’s heart was thudding so hard she was pressing her hand to her breastbone when Sandra’s concerned voice came on the line. ‘Mrs Buchanan? Is anything wrong?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you at home,’ Marianne said evenly, ‘but I’ve found a financial file regarding the Stoke project which Zeke has left here. Knowing Zeke it’s probably because he doesn’t need it, but I wondered if the financial guys have gone with him anyway?’ She was safe in this; Zeke had left the file in his study, but she knew he had extracted relevant data the night before because she had brought him a cup of coffee just in time to hear him muttering about ‘the useless amount of rubbish cluttering up this file!’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Buchanan, I’m sure it’s all right,’ Sandra said soothingly. ‘We’d have heard by now if he needed anything.’
‘Did any of the financial team go with him?’ Marianne pressed quietly. And then she took a gamble that made her shut her eyes tightly as she said, ‘Although I suppose there wasn’t a lot of room with Miss de Giraud going, too.’
‘Oh, there would have been room, but Mr Green had gone the day before,’ Sandra explained helpfully. ‘I think Mr Buchanan expected that everything would run smoothly and the solicitors could iron out any little hiccups between them, but of course it hasn’t turned out like that.’
‘No, it appears not.’ Talk naturally. Be upbeat. ‘Not to worry, then, if Mr Green’s there. I hope you didn’t mind me calling?’
‘Of course not, Mrs Buchanan. How’s the house-hunting going?’ Sandra asked cheerfully. ‘Seen anything you like yet?’
They talked briefly for another minute, and then, after thanking Sandra again, Marianne finished the call. But again she placed the receiver next to the telephone. If Zeke rang back she didn’t want to talk to him; she didn’t even want to hear his voice.
She sank down on to the thick carpet as her trembling legs gave way and remained there for some minutes, in too much agony to even cry, her face as white as lint but her eyes burningly dry.
What was she going to do? She swayed back and forth, her arms crossed and her hands gripping her waist. This was the sort of thing that happened to other couples, not them.
After what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality was only fifteen minutes, she made herself rise, and walked into the kitchen slowly like an old, old woman and switched on the coffee percolator.
She drank two cups of black coffee scalding hot, holding the fine china between her chilled hands as she sought warmth like a small hurt animal. Her mind had gone blissfully numb, overwhelmed by the enormity of the catastrophe, and she sat for another half an hour in a dull stupor.
It was when she walked back into the breakfast room—she rarely used the drawing room by choice, finding its cool perfection chilling—and saw the table covered with her sketches of colour schemes and ideas for the house, that she remembered the provisional appointment for that evening.
She rang Wilf at once, forcing herself to think of nothing but the immediate conversation, and explained in a surprisingly normal voice that Zeke had been called away on business unexpectedly and she wasn’t sure how long it would be before he came home, adding she would be in touch within a few days, if that was all right?
Of course it was all right, Wilf assured her brightly. The house wasn’t going anywhere, he added before saying goodbye.
No, but she was.
She stared at the telephone as though it had been the one to make the decision, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when it rang shrilly, reminding her she had forgotten to leave it off the hook. She let the answer-machine cut in, her heart pounding so hard she felt faint, and then her brow wrinkled when a heavily accented male voice said, ‘Mrs Buchanan? Mrs Marianne Buchanan? It is very important that I speak with you.’
She hesitated, her hand going out to the receiver and freezing. And then she ignored all her finer instincts and picked it up.
‘This is Mrs Buchanan,’ she said quietly as she turned the machine off. It could so easily have been Zeke’s voice, and that would have been the last straw.
‘You don’t know me, Mrs Buchanan, but I have been seeing Liliana,’ the somewhat oily voice said smoothly. ‘Liliana de Giraud. Are you aware that she is having an affair with your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ The baldness of her reply seemed to flummox him for a moment, and then he said, more hesitantly now, ‘I was supposed to see Liliana tonight, but she has informed me our relationship is over and that she is at present at a hotel in Stoke with your husband. I thought you should know.’
‘Thank you,’ Marianne said evenly, forcing down the flood of nausea at hearing it stated so bluntly. ‘Goodnight.’
He was speaking again when she put the telephone down on his voice, and this time she remembered to pick the receiver up and lay it on the small occasional table before she left the room.
She only packed an overnight case with the minimum of requirements: her make-up, a change of underwear and a jumper and skirt, toiletries and one or two other belongings. She didn’t want to take anything Zeke had bought her but she couldn’t exactly walk out naked, she thought with a touch of silent hysteria.
Once that was done she walked across to the dressing table and wrote a short note on the expensive linen note-paper which had been a Christmas present from an old aunt. It was succinct in the extreme.
You have made your choice and I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m sure our solicitors can sort out the legal niceties, but as far as I’m concerned our marriage is over right now. Marianne.
She folded the paper over and wrote Zeke’s name on it before propping it against the dressing table mirror, where he would be sure to see it as soon as he walked into the room.
And then she pulled on her coat, picked up the case and her handbag and walked out into the hall, where she stared around her a trifle bewilderedly before walking to the front door. But this time she didn’t look back.