She tossed her head, terribly aware of her own bedraggled locks and the fact that she was minus a scrap of make-up, and began to walk with as much dignity as she could muster.
‘Ahem.’
She turned back, eyebrows raised enquiringly, to see Zeke looking at her with an expressionless face as he pointed down the street in the opposite direction from which she was walking. ‘I don’t believe I said which corner,’ he said evenly, with a flatness that told her he was trying not to laugh.
Zeke had two cars besides the company car—a Mercedes—and the helicopter which he used frequently, and when Marianne turned the corner she saw it was his white BMW that was waiting patiently a few yards away.
Her father had been sitting in the front seat, but he’d obviously been using the mirrors because he was out of the car in an instant, reaching her in a couple of strides and lifting her off her feet in a bear hug which spoke volumes about how concerned he’d been.
Marianne immediately felt guilty—both on her father’s account and also because she realised Zeke had been speaking the truth when he’d said her father needed to see her and make sure she was all right. Not that she didn’t think Zeke had an ulterior motive for his altruism, she assured herself silently. Zeke was always playing some game of his own, whatever else he liked people to think. She might not have known her husband as she’d thought she did, but there were certain aspects of his character that were blindingly clear!
‘Zeke’s taking us out for dinner.’
They had been holding each other very tightly without speaking, and when her father drew back a little and looked into her face she saw his eyes were wet. Which made her feel such a heel that she didn’t object to his statement, although she wanted to. What Marianne did say was, ‘I’ll have to change first and freshen up. It’s…it’s been a hectic day; someone was ill.’
‘No problem.’ Zeke had been standing to one side, his smoky grey eyes trained on her face during the reunion, and now his voice was clipped and cool as he said, ‘We can wait until you’re ready.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Hey.’ Her father caught hold of her arm as she made to dart away, smiling at her before he tucked it through his, saying, ‘Aren’t you going to show me where you’re living?’
Oh, hell. It was a catch-22 scenario. If she took her father back to the bedsit Zeke would have to come, too, and she didn’t want him to see the shabby, run-down conditions in which she was living. But if she refused to let her father accompany her he would be bound to think the conditions were even worse than they were, or that she had something to hide, or— Oh, a host of things. She was between the devil and the deep blue sea.
‘Later, perhaps?’ She forced a smile. ‘It’s just a bedsit, Dad. One room, and I need to change.’
‘We’ll come out and wait in the car while you change.’ Zeke actually had the gall to take her other arm as he spoke and now Marianne found herself being escorted along the pavement with the two men either side of her.
Everything in her wanted to jerk her arm free of Zeke’s and say something very rude to put him in his place—whatever that was—but, conscious of her father and the emotional greeting he’d given her, she tried to ignore the anger spreading through her and keep any trace of it out of her voice. ‘It’s not very attractive,’ she said quickly as they neared the house, ‘but it’s cosy and cheap and it will do until I find something better.’ She didn’t think it was the time to mention that that wouldn’t be for years.
Her father glanced at her, and as she met his gentle eyes she read in them that he was aching to advise her to go back to her husband. But, to give him his due, Josh Kirby held his tongue on the matter, merely murmuring, ‘I’m sure it’s very nice, Annie.’
Zeke said nothing, but his cynical profile—as she risked a quick glance at him from under her lashes—said volumes.
Marianne could feel her heart thudding against her ribcage as she unlocked the street door, and as she led the way up the stairs towards the bedsit’s front door there were a thousand emotions tearing at her. But when she inse
rted the key into the lock and swung the door wide before clicking on the light she raised her head high.
She walked across the room and closed the curtains, which, courtesy of Mrs Polinkski’s iron, were now creaseless, and she blessed the fact that a couple of days before she had bought a woven linen throw in burnt orange for the sofa, obtained from the charity shop at a fraction of the price it was worth. Nevertheless, no number of throws or bright clean curtains could disguise the overall meanness of the surroundings, and Marianne took a long deep breath before she turned round.
Her father looked shocked—there was no other word for it—and Zeke had his blank face on. Their combined silent censure brought her chin up another notch or two as she faced the two men.
She knew her father wouldn’t say anything hurtful but she was preparing herself for one of the biting, caustic comments Zeke did so well. But it didn’t come. Instead he slowly met her eyes, and she found the expression in the smoky grey depths brought her hand to her throat as he said quietly, with a vulnerability she hadn’t thought him capable of, ‘You would rather live here, like this, than have to live with me again.’ And it was a statement, not a question.
She couldn’t drag her gaze away from his stricken eyes, although she wanted to, and it was only her father—clearing his throat and speaking gruffly into the taut silence—who brought things back to a more normal footing as he said, ‘We’ll wait in the car, then, Annie.’
‘Yes, yes, all right.’ She wanted to cry, she wanted to cry so much, but she managed to keep a check on her feelings until the door had closed behind them and she was alone. And then the tears came, hot, burning, desolate tears, even as she told herself that she mustn’t cry—they would be sure to notice and that would be the final humiliation.
She pulled herself together fairly quickly. She could cry tonight, and all the other nights, but for now she had to get through this evening with a modicum of dignity. What had just happened—it didn’t alter the facts. He had taken Liliana to Stoke with him; they had been going out to dinner when he had called her. And that man, Liliana’s boyfriend, he had been very specific as to the manner of Zeke and Liliana’s liaison. And Zeke hadn’t been compelled to employ the stunning redhead, especially knowing how Liliana felt about him. It had been asking for trouble, and Zeke Buchanan wasn’t a naive teenager who didn’t know the ways of the world. He had deliberately chosen to play with fire and it had burnt both of them.
Thoughts were swirling around in her head as she hastily splashed cold water over her face and whipped off her creased work clothes, only to come to an abrupt halt as she opened the wardrobe and surveyed the meagre array of clothes inside.
She had absolutely nothing which was suitable to go out to dinner in. The clothes she had purchased in recent days had been bought purely for their suitability for working at the supermarket, and were functional at best.
Her eyes alighted on the dress she had been wearing when she had left the apartment, a beautiful long-sleeved cashmere in chocolate-brown, and then moved to the jumper and skirt she’d thrown in the overnight case. They were expensive, and they looked it, but they belonged to her old life. She had only kept them because it seemed ridiculous to get rid of them until she’d purchased a few more bits and pieces.
Her hand reached out to the cashmere before falling to her side. Somehow, and she couldn’t explain it even to herself, let alone anyone else, it would seem like a betrayal of everything the last miserable, lonely two weeks had stood for if she put on clothes Zeke had bought for her.
She hadn’t asked to be taken out to dinner tonight, and if Zeke was ashamed of how she looked then that was his misfortune, she told herself stoutly. She wasn’t the long-suffering, obedient little wife any more, who couldn’t say boo to a goose, neither was she a sleek, exquisite, designer-dressed Liliana de Giraud.