None of that had mattered before. Now, the gap of that knowledge made what had gone before seem seamy, dirty. What was the protocol?
Thanks a million, honey: the money’s on the mantelpiece? It might be different for billionaires. The mink coat will be hiked over, sweetie, goodbye –
She shivered involuntarily. She’d never, ever wanted to be that sort of woman. And now, she was, wasn’t she?
‘I don’t suppose you have a cigarette?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ she said, surprised. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been this.
‘I don’t. I quit ten years ago. But sometimes…’
‘Like when you’re in bed with women other than your wife?’ Izzie said, cut at the insinuation. ‘How many packs do you go through a month?’
‘None,’ he said, evenly. ‘Don’t be like that, Izzie.’
‘Like what?’
‘That.’
‘I can’t help it.’ She couldn’t. Now she’d crossed over to the other side, the side of loving him. Now he could hurt her and she felt naked, raw. She wanted to hurt first.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from the beginning,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d told you everything.’
‘Me too,’ she said bitterly, but at least now she was bitter at herself.
‘Are you sorry that we made love?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said and burst into tears.
‘Izzie,’ he said, cradling her close to him, murmuring her name as he held her.
Then, when she’d managed to stop crying, he carried on holding her and slowly his hands massaged her back, tenderly rubbing out aches, until they moved down to the curve of her buttocks, and then they were making love again with more intensity even than before. As Joe arched over her, forearms rigid with muscle as he lunged into her, and Izzie was about to let go of herself and let her body soar into orgasm, she realised that she couldn’t give this up. This sort of love and passion, this was the most addictive drug of all.
That had been two months ago. Since then, no one could have said that Izzie Silver and Joe Hansen were having half an affair – it was one hundred per cent, for sure. They talked every day, met as often as Joe could manage, and Izzie tried very hard to cope with both the insecurity of her own position and the fact that making love to another woman’s husband went completely against her moral code.
Oh, Izzie, you pathetic idiot, she said aloud. She was staying in a cooling bath in case the man in her life phoned. What was modern, grown-up and independent about that?
If he phones, he phones. She drained her spritzer and then stood up, letting the rose-scented water flow over her body. She’d just wrapped a towel around herself when the apartment phone rang.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
Izzie felt the relief sweep from her head to her toes.
‘Hello,’ she said softly, as if she were the one whispering as she made an illicit call.
‘How are you, Joe? I missed you.’
Probably not the right thing to say, she knew, but she refused to play games.
‘I missed you too.’
He didn’t play them either.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ OK, so that was a bit of game-playing. But she couldn’t help it. Why hadn’t he called?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
‘That’s not an answer,’ Izzie replied, feeling the familiar anxiety claw its way up her throat. She’d never been this way in a relationship before. But then, she’d never had a relationship like this before: a hidden one.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘O-kay.’
‘Really. I can’t talk now. I’m at home.’
Why did that word hurt so much? Home. He had a home that was where she wasn’t. How could that be right? When she felt as if nowhere was home except when she was with him? When had this all become so one-sided?
‘Well, if you can’t talk…’ she said sharply, knowing she was cutting off her nose to spite her face. She’d longed for this call, blast it.
‘I can’t, I’m sorry,’ he said evenly.
‘Why did you phone, then?’ The words just snapped out of her.
‘Right now, I’m asking myself precisely that question,’ Joe said, a slight edge to his voice. ‘We should talk when you want to talk to me.’
‘I do want to talk to you – but not with you whispering in case somebody hears,’ hissed Izzie. And that was the crux of it: the great love of her life was talking quietly on the phone to her, when she wanted him yelling his love from the rooftops. How bloody hard could it be for him to tell his wife that he was formalising what they’d talked about for years?
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said, still calm. His calmness infuriated her. He was in control, in every way. Whereas she felt wildly out of control over the depth of her feelings for him. And she had no control over their relationship because he called the shots. It was like walking a tightrope with no harness and no safety net.
‘I have to go,’ she said suddenly, wanting to goad him into begging her not to go. ‘I just got out of the bath and I’m dripping bathwater on to the floor.’
He didn’t take the bait.
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘No it’s not fine. Nothing’s bloody fine!’ she snapped back and hung up. Then, because she so desperately wanted to phone him back and say she loved him but couldn’t because of how awful she’d just been, she burst into tears. If she wasn’t so fiercely in love with Joe, she’d wish she’d never met him. Because surely there wasn’t much more pain than this, was there?
The next morning, her eyes looked red as a coal miner’s and her face was puffy with tiredness. She’d barely slept all night and during the hours she’d lain in bed, awake, tears had kept welling up in her eyes. It was like having a geyser in her head.
‘Ugh,’ she said, grimacing at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Emergency measures were required. As the most up-to-date beauty fixing products were spilling out of her bathroom cabinet, Izzie had no trouble finding balms, soothing eye creams and drops, and anti-puffiness masks.
Half an hour later, she looked marginally better.
‘Like someone with a migraine,’ she decided grimly, peering at herself. Her eyes weren’t red any more – those eye drops made her cry, but wow, they worked – but the rest of her still looked rough.
Rough, tough and dangerous to know, she decided, pulling on a masculine trouser suit. She’d never wear this for Joe; for him, she let her feminine side out, revelling in silks and lace, spike heels and figure-hugging styles.
But he didn’t want her, so she’d go for tough instead.
‘You sick?’ asked Louisa, Perfect-NY’s receptionist, when Izzie stalked in, menacing in her charcoal boy’s suit.
‘Yes. And tired.’
‘Eight messages for you on your desk. The Zest catalogue people want you to phone, like, yesterday,