She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.
As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.
Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.
She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.
For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.
Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.
She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.
‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’
He’d added more gently, ‘You don’t have to worry, Kate. I’ve got money put away to cushion us initially. I won’t let you starve.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ she’d protested. ‘If you jack your job in, there’s no way back. And becoming a writer is such a—leap in the dark. How do you know you can do it?’
‘I’ll never know, unless I try.’
‘I suppose not.’ She’d sighed. ‘Well, do it, if you must. After all, we’ve always got Special Occasions to fall back on.’
There was a silence, then he’d said quietly, ‘So we have. I was almost forgetting.’
But, in the event, it hadn’t been needed. Ryan’s script had been read and auctioned by Quentin Roscoe for a sum which had made Kate blink.
‘You’re a genius.’ She’d flung her arms round Ryan, kissing him rapturously. ‘Nothing can stop us now.’
Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.
‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’
‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’
‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’
‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’
‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’
‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’
‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’
‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’
‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw the utter bleakness in his face as he turned from her, and added hastily, ‘Next time, maybe . . . ’
‘Of course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’
Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.
‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’
‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’
‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’
‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’
‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
Your husband loves another woman.
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery,