Sophie got up and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest, glad that she’d not given too much credence to Angela’s flattery. She would love to go there one day. Maybe she and James could go together. A honeymoon, perhaps.
James turned and nuzzled her neck. ‘Early night? I’m knackered. Driving back from Cornwall is such a killer.’
‘I need to tidy up.’ Sophie gave the utensil-strewn kitchen a quick look, wishing she hadn’t made quite so much mess and that James wasn’t always so tired, but she could hardly ask him to help when he’d just driven over two hundred miles.
And she really couldn’t complain. How many people her age had a kitchen like this? Or lived in a palatial flat in Kensington? Dad had insisted. It would have been mean to say no. She loved him to bits but that didn’t mean she was going to let him help her find a job (have a word with someone on the board), or send her to an expensive private school (she was already settled in the local comprehensive) and it didn’t feel right using the title.
By the time she’d tidied everything away and went into the double bedroom, James was sound asleep and the room was in darkness. He never remembered to leave a bedside light on for her. Quietly, she undressed and slipped into bed beside him, snuggling in, but there was no response. Poor thing was exhausted. Dead to the world. She smiled and pushed his floppy fringe from his forehead. He was a good man. Looking after his mother, without a complaint. Sophie closed her eyes. She was so lucky. Who needed New York?
Running late, see you there. And it’s my day off but love that you’re so loyal Kx
Sophie smiled at the text. Kate was even worse than she was, always trying to cram too much in and she could bet her last pound that Kate had stayed overnight at her boyfriend Ben’s last night, which was the real reason she was running late. They were still in that loved-up, passion-boiling-over, can’t-bear-not-to-touch-each-other-all-the-time phase. Not that Sophie could quite recall anything like that with her and James. Theirs had been a much gentler, soft landing into love rather than a plunge off the cliff-edge. Sophie wasn’t sure she’d know how to deal with that sort of fiery sexual chemistry. It wasn’t her style at all and part of her wondered if it wasn’t a tiny bit selfish. Shouldn’t love be gentle, embracing and warm? Something that grew with nourishment and care. Although she couldn’t deny that Kate’s happiness and joie de vivre were heart-warming, and when Ben suddenly narrowed his eyes while looking at Kate, the intensity of his look gave Sophie goose-bumps.
As she waited for her cappuccino, listening to the industrial hiss of the espresso machine operated by one of the Saturday girls, she gave the Danish pastries a second look. She shouldn’t but they looked so delicious. Nope, it was no good, she couldn’t possibly resist the cinnamon rolls.
Balancing a plate in one hand, the cup in the other and trying to keep her shoulder straight so her bag didn’t slip off and bash any of the tables, she managed to weave her way through vacant chairs to her favourite spot in the corner, looking out onto the busy street.
Unfortunately, her usual table was taken by a tired-looking woman with a young baby who was squeaking with indignation, her big blue eyes flashing outrage as she waved a plastic spoon at the pot of yoghurt her mother held just out of reach in one hand. Sophie could see why the pot was out of the danger zone. The little girl had already managed to smear most of it into her hair and her mother was trying to clean her up. From where Sophie stood it looked more like octopus wrestling.
She sat down at the adjacent table, watching their antics with a gentle smile, and was about to turn away when the young woman looked up and shot her a vicious glare, her mouth pinched tight in sneering disgust.
Taking a far-too-hasty gulp of hot coffee, which burnt its way down into her stomach, Sophie looked away, shocked by the fierce, direct hatred which made her feel almost as if she’d been physically assaulted. She took a couple of deep steadying breaths. The poor woman was probably very stressed, it wasn’t personal. Plastering a smile on her face, she took a more measured sip of coffee and looked over at her, hoping that a reassuring, friendly face might make the woman feel a bit better.
Whoa, she got that wrong. If anything, the spite on the woman’s face intensified, wrinkles fanning out around her lips like an ancient walnut, and she was dabbing angrily at the child’s face, the wipes in her hand flying like sheets in the wind.
It was impossible not to feel the woman’s distress. Sophie hesitated for a second. She couldn’t ignore the poor woman, who was clearly very unhappy.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Sophie with a tentative smile, feeling as if she were attempting to reason with a lioness.
‘Am I alright?’ spat the woman, as the little girl began to wail, and then the mother’s face crumpled, falling in on itself, the anger and spite replaced by pure misery. ‘Oh Emma, baby.’ She scooped the little girl up, sticky fingers and all, and hugged her to her body, rubbing her back. ‘There, there. Mummy’s sorry.’
Sophie felt the slight pang of envy and the very merest tightening in her womb. One day …
The little girl held on tight to her mother and stopped crying, lunging with sudden glee towards the yoghurt pot. Her mother smiled, resigned, and shook her head. ‘You pickle.’ She pressed a soft kiss on the top of the child’s candyfloss-soft curls and put her on her lap, moving the yoghurt pot in front of them, giving her the spoon.
With a calm measured look, although her eyes were still full of anger, the woman stared back at Sophie. ‘You asked if I was alright?’ Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, her head tilted defiantly.
‘Yes, did you want a hand? It looks like hard work.’ Sophie smiled at the little girl, who seemed a lot happier now. ‘She’s gorgeous. Although I don’t envy you the mess. Do you want me to get you some more napkins or anything?’
‘Gorgeous and mine,’ said the woman, looking alarmed, wrapping a protective arm across the little girl’s chest.
‘Yes,’ said Sophie warily. Surely this woman didn’t think she was a child-snatcher or something?
‘Although that doesn’t bother you, does it, Sophie? Sharing things?’ The woman’s tone turned weary and her shoulders slumped, an expression of pain darting across her face.
Sophie’s smile froze into place. Something about the woman’s tone suggested she should have some inkling of what was going on here. How did she know her name?
‘I was just trying to help.’ She regretted even making eye contact now.
‘You? Help?’ The woman let out a bitter laugh. ‘I think you’ve helped enough. Helped yourself to my husband.’
‘Sorry?’ Sophie’s hand stilled as she paused to take another sip of coffee.
‘Are you proud of yourself? Miss Rich Bitch with your flat in Kensington and Daddy’s country estate in Sussex. I looked you up. Lady Sophie Bennings-Beauchamp.’
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. This woman had done her homework. None of her colleagues at work had any idea. She kept her passport well out of sight from prying eyes. In fact, Kate was the only one who had seen it and at the time, she’d been professional enough not to say a word.
‘I don’t use—’ she protested automatically because she always did, but the woman interrupted.
‘Nice cushy life. No wonder James would rather spend half his life with you. No washing hanging everywhere. No babies crying in the night.’
‘James?’ Sophie stiffened. Even as she opened her mouth, she knew her words sounded like every last cliché in the book. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
‘James Soames. My husband. Lives in London four nights, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Comes home to his wife and daughter in Newbury Friday to Monday.’
‘But he goes to Cornwall.’ Sophie’s legs felt leaden as if