Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

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СКАЧАТЬ natural colour then. I look like the cat who’s got the cream. It made page four of the Sun. I remember exactly the day it was. We were with a party of businessmen who we were entertaining for lunch. I was the only woman on board and yet Ethan insisted that I wore the bikini and nothing else. He even picked it out for me. Even after we’d spotted the paparazzi on another boat, he’d come behind me and slipped a finger under the thin fabric of my swimsuit and inside me. The other men were all lounging on the deck with champagne just behind us, but he didn’t care. Then Ethan took me down below, lifted me straight onto the counter in the galley, pulled down my bikini bottoms and made love to me right there. At any moment, any one of the men, or all of them, could have walked in. I thought he’d done it because he was overwhelmed by passion, because he loved me so much.

      I’m older and wiser now.

      I slick on my lipstick, smooth down my dress and plump my cleavage. It’s all still my own but it needs help now from well-cut and ferociously expensive underwear. Picking up my diamanté purse, I make my way down the stairs.

      The Dorchester is one of my favourite venues and this is from someone who has been to the Burj al Arab on a regular basis. But that is tacky in its opulence whereas The Dorchester is all about understated elegance. Mind you, every five star hotel thinks that they’re far better than they are. We like the Terrace Suite here, which has the most marvellous view over London, and we were booked in overnight. I’m hoping to do some shopping in town tomorrow and perhaps have some lunch at Harvey Nics. Ethan, of course, is going into the office even though it’s Sunday.

      The Ballroom Suite is already thronging with Ethan’s colleagues. They’re all bright young things, university educated with degrees in such things as philosophy and politics. They have conversations where they all shout over each other about the FTSE and the Dow Jones and I have no idea what they’re talking about and have no desire to. I stand and sip my champagne and try to look interested.

      The room is beautiful, stylish, all cream and gold. We stand at the top of the sweeping staircase so that Ethan can greet his staff. We shake hands endlessly with the damp, the sweaty, the cool, the dry, the over eager, the bone-crushingly aggressive and the limp-wristed. No wonder the Queen always wears gloves. How could she bear to have all those strangers touch her?

      ‘Hello, Lydia.’ I look up to see one of Ethan’s managers, Colette, standing in front of me, smiling widely. I think she’s one of his favourites as she always seems to accompany him to his business meetings. ‘Beautiful dress. You look lovely.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She’s visited the house several times too, so we are familiar enough with each other to air kiss cheeks. ‘You look simply divine too.’

      She’s slender, Colette. Sickeningly so. Self-consciously, I pull in my tummy. Tonight she’s dressed in a black, clinging number with a perilously plunging neckline that leaves little to the imagination. It must be held on with tit-tape and I’d bet a pound to a penny that she’s not wearing any underwear. It makes the brightness of my blue look garish in comparison. Like I’m trying too hard. She’s young. Twenty-six at most and has a boyish figure with a washboard stomach and no hips. For work she power dresses in crisp white shirts and pencil skirts with vertiginous black patent heels. She looks like a woman who wears stockings to the office. Her skin is soft and coffee-coloured. Her corkscrew curls –the height of fashion –bounce onto her bare shoulders.

      I feel I should ask her a question but I don’t know what to say, so she moves on and turns her attention to my husband. ‘Ethan.’ Her eyes brighten.

      ‘Good evening, Colette.’ His hand slips onto her hip and his thumb traces the arched curve of her bone. Very few people would notice, but I do. She wets her lips and leans into him slightly as her kiss lingers too long on his cheek. ‘Great tie.’ Her fingertips stroke it lightly and a glimmer of a smile plays at her mouth.

      And I know instantly who bought it. Of course, I do. Does Ethan think that I’m gullible enough to believe that he would ever trouble himself with his own shopping? Colette moves on and I watch Ethan’s eyes as they follow her. I feel sick to my stomach. If she thinks she is the only one, the first, then she is sadly mistaken.

      It’s hot in here, stuffy and I wonder if they’ve forgotten to turn on the air-conditioning. The rest of the line snakes past us and soon we make our way down the staircase into the ballroom below. I always used to like this dramatic entrance, felt as if I was in a movie, Folies Bergère or something starring Fred and Ginger. I liked the heads that turned to look at me. Now I can’t wait to rush down to my seat and my legs shake as I take the steps.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Ethan snaps. ‘Do pull yourself together, Lydia.’

      I trail in his wake until we reach the top table. ‘I need to talk to Colette and Brad Walker,’ he says over his shoulder, pulling out his own chair. ‘I’ve sat them either side of me. Hope you don’t mind entertaining Canning. He’s a bit of an old bore, but he’ll love you.’

      What he means is that he’s old enough to remember the photograph of that wretched gold bikini and will leer at me all night. I take my place next to Stuart Canning halfway down the ballroom. He pulls out my chair for me and kisses my hand. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth.

      I have no idea what’s served for dinner, my stomach is too knotted to be able to consider eating. At the top table, there’s much banter and laughter and I have to drag my attention back from Ethan and listen to the man droning on at my side.

      After dinner, the music starts. The dance floor starts to fill. Ethan kicks back his chair, unbuttons his collar, loosens that tie. The laughter doesn’t stop. Soon, I hope he will remember me and ask me to come to his table. But the minutes stretch on, the songs continue and, still, he doesn’t make a move. Eventually, I make my excuses to the extremely dull Mr Canning and weave my way through the tables to Ethan’s side. I wait until he finishes his conversation and then I kiss his cheek. He looks at me in surprise. Perhaps he had forgotten that I was here at all.

      ‘Dance with me, darling,’ I say brightly.

      ‘Have to keep the wife happy,’ he jokes and stands up. I take his hand and lead him to the dance floor. I risk a backwards glance and see that the laughter has gone from Colette’s lips.

      Ethan takes me in his arms and we sway to whatever’s pounding out. His face is flushed with drink and he’s a bit unsteady on his feet. Trying to keep to the beat is pointless. I want to speak to him, be witty and bright, but my brain is frozen and nothing will come to my mouth. I hold onto him tightly for three songs but, already, he’s looking bored and his gaze starts to wander.

      ‘Is this a ladies’ excuse-me?’ Colette asks over my shoulder. Before I can answer or register a protest, she manoeuvres her way in between me and my husband with such breath-taking impudence that I have to give her credit for her audacity. ‘You don’t mind if I do, Lydia?’

      I do mind, but how can I make a scene? These are Ethan’s staff, his colleagues. He would be embarrassed if I made a stand against her. And what if I lost? What if, publicly, he brushed me aside for her?

      She sweeps Ethan away from me and he brightens instantly. Now I stand on the dance floor, alone, abandoned and I don’t quite know what to do. In days gone by, there would be a dozen men clamouring to take his place. But not now.

      Gathering my senses, I hold my head high and walk from the dance floor. I may not have graced the catwalk, but I can still strut my stuff like a model. I’m not sure where I’m going, but my feet take me to the grand staircase again and I climb them on auto-pilot. When I reach the mezzanine floor, I lean on the balcony and watch the revellers СКАЧАТЬ