Marriage Under Suspicion. Sara Craven

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      CHAPTER TWO

      KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.

      She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .

      But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.

      She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.

      For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.

      When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.

      Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.

      She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.

      Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.

      She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?

      She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.

      Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’

      The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.

      She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.

      She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.

      Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.

      She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .

      In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.

      But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.

      She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.

      She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.

      She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.