A Wife on Paper. Liz Fielding
trouble could lean on.’ Then, while she was still trying to get her head around the idea of leaning on Guy, ‘Is there going to be trouble?’
Francesca was drained, exhausted, tired to the bone, but it wasn’t over yet and she forced the smile into a grin. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve got a company to run and the most challenging thing I’ve had to think about for the last three years is the menu for the next dinner party. That sounds like enough trouble for anyone.’
‘Don’t undersell yourself, Fran.’ Matty reached out, took her hand, held it for a moment. Then, ‘I need to know. Is there going to be trouble?’
She wanted to say no. Absolutely not. The way she had to Guy. But she’d encouraged her cousin to come and share the house after her accident. Steven hadn’t been wildly keen, but the house was huge, far too big for the three of them. Matty had needed to be in London for treatment, needed to have someone close she could call on in an emergency, and there was no one else. Nowhere else. And it wasn’t a one way bargain. She was company during Steven’s absences abroad seeking out the merchandise he imported.
The truth was, she just didn’t know. Steven had never talked about the business. Had always brushed aside her interest, her questions, as something she needn’t bother her head about, until she’d stopped bothering to ask. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily distracted, but he obviously hadn’t wanted her involved, and she had Toby and Matty…
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she said. ‘Not today. Let’s have that Scotch.’
‘But what about the house?’
She heard the fear and knew it was a fair question. Matty had an investment in the house. She’d spent her own money on the conversion of the lower ground floor into a self-contained flat suitable for her wheelchair. A talented illustrator, she’d extended it to make a studio so that she could work there.
‘He always promised me that the house was safe.’ Always promised that he would never use their home to raise finance. She wanted to believe that he had meant that, but if the company was in any kind of trouble—and what company wasn’t these days?—and the bank wanted its pound of flesh…
She and Toby could live anywhere, but Matty would never be able to find another home in London. Not like the one she had with them, especially converted to her needs. With the space. Room for her drawing board…
‘I’m sorry. Of course he did. It was your palace—he said so often enough, and you were his princess.’ Matty looked around. ‘I wonder how he raised enough cash to buy it at the top of the property boom?’
‘He didn’t have to. His father left him some money. Nothing like the fortune Guy had in trust from his mother, of course—especially after some City fraud put a major dent in the family finances—but there was enough for this house. He just wanted everything to be perfect for me.’
As if he had something to prove. There had only ever been one person he needed to prove himself to—and, torn between relief and fury that Guy had never bothered to show up and be impressed by his success, she declared, ‘And it was. Perfect.’
But she couldn’t quite meet Matty’s eye as she said it.
Guy paid the cab driver, peeled off the parking ticket stuck to his windscreen, tossed it into the glove box and headed for the echoing space of the Thames-side loft apartment that he’d lavished time and money on, but which only served to remind him of the emptiness at the heart of his life.
He poured Scotch into a glass, sank into the comfort of a soft leather armchair and stared out across the river. He wasn’t seeing the boats, didn’t notice the lights that were coming on as dusk settled over the city, blurring the familiar skyline. All he could see was Francesca Lang. Not sombre in black with her hair coiled up off her neck, but the way she’d looked the first time he’d set eyes on her.
He sipped the whisky, but its heat didn’t warm him. There was nothing in the world that could warm him other than the arms of a woman who was forbidden him in every code he lived by. A woman who today had looked at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a stone. He’d anticipated a frosty reception, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of animosity. Every single word she’d uttered had felt like a blow. He’d been taking them from her all afternoon and he felt bruised to the bone.
He abandoned the whisky—there was no help for what ailed him in a bottle—got up and walked restlessly across to the window, seeking distraction. Finding none.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closed his eyes. Running the endless loop of memory that was all he had of her.
If he’d had any idea what was coming he’d have been on his guard, but the moment Francesca had appeared in the doorway of that restaurant she’d stolen his wits as well as what passed for his heart, blind-siding him, so that he’d been exposed, vulnerable, and Steve—clever Steve—had instantly picked up the signals and positively revelled in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had something that his half-brother wanted, something he could never have.
He hadn’t blamed him for that. He had just wanted to be somewhere else, a million miles from the restaurant, but there had been no escape. There had been an entire evening to get through first and all he could do was pull down the mental shutters, shake Steve’s hand, brush Francesca’s cheek with his lips as he welcomed her into the family, congratulated her. It had been a quiet torture then and the slow drip of it had never left him.
His mind, stuck in an endless re-run that he couldn’t escape—didn’t want to escape—continued to play that moment over and over every time he stopped concentrating on something else. Every time he closed his eyes.
The peachy softness of her cheek. A subtle scent that hadn’t come from any bottle but was a fusion of her hair, the warmth of her body, her clothes, the fresh air she’d brought in with her, all enhanced by a touch of something exotic and rich. He’d had three years to analyse it, reduce it to its constituent parts.
All he had been able to do was wish them well, be glad that Steve had finally found what he’d always been searching for. Someone who loved him. Someone who would always be there. A family of his own.
And live with it.
Attempt to carry on a normal conversation.
‘Where are you planning to live?’ he’d asked. ‘Steve’s flat isn’t big enough for two, let alone a baby.’ It was like prodding himself with a hot needle.
‘We’re looking around for just the right place…’ Then, with a casual shrug, Steve added, ‘Fran and I looked at the Elton Street house yesterday.’
His heart missed a beat as he forced himself to turn to Francesca, include her in the conversation. ‘Did you like it?’
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘Fran fell head over heels in love with it,’ Steve said emphatically. ‘I’d like to come and see you tomorrow. Talk about it.’
He ignored the opening his brother had left him.
Maybe he was the one avoiding eye contact. Avoiding a repeat of that moment when, with one look, the entire world seemed to slide into place and lock with an almost audible click; the kick-in-the-stomach pain that went with the loss of something precious.
He forced himself to look directly at her.
‘You would like to live there?’ he asked.
For a moment something shimmered between them as, very quietly, she said, ‘It felt like home.’
He dragged himself back from the edge. From stepping off. From saying, Come with me and I will give you everything your heart desires. The house, my heart, my life…
‘Then I’m sure Steve will find a way to give it to you.’
‘It depends on the price. Unlike you, brother, I don’t have