She went on chatting amiably while her goods were totalled, departing with a smile and a wave. Jessica could see part of the store car park from where she sat. The personalised number plate on the Range Rover into which the woman loaded both shopping and child was a status symbol in itself. In the nanny bracket financially, if not by choice, she judged.
She was late getting home that afternoon, because the manager insisted on her making up the time she’d lost. She got in bare minutes before Zac, who had elected to take early leave himself for once.
‘Board meetings run me ragged!’ he declared, pouring himself a stiff whisky. ‘I’m seriously considering turning beachcomber on a desert island somewhere!’ He viewed her over the rim of the glass, taking in her wind-blown hair and casual dress. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I went to the Gardens,’ Jessica lied. ‘I felt like a walk. I took a taxi,’ she added, anticipating the next question. ‘There and back.’
The strong mouth took on a slant. ‘I’d hardly expect you to go by bus. Maybe we should think about getting you a car of your own.’
‘I’m not up to inner city driving,’ she said. ‘Anyway, there isn’t room for another car in the mews.’
Zac studied her in silence for a moment, gaze too penetrating for comfort. ‘We could move.’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Out of the city. Richmond, perhaps. Somewhere less congested, at any rate.’
Somewhere better to raise a child, came the fleeting thought, followed by an emphatic shake of the head. ‘I don’t want to move. I like it here, within easy reach of everything.’
His shrug was easy. ‘Fair enough. I can’t say I’m all that eager to abandon the place myself. We’re invited out to dinner tomorrow night, by the way. Ian Grant, one my fellow directors. His wife is about your age.’
‘Just us?’ Jessica asked.
‘No, there’ll be others there. Nothing too formal. That silver grey number you wore the other night will do fine.’
‘I may not have moved in your circles before, but I don’t need advising on how to dress,’ she said shortly.
‘That wasn’t the intention.’ Zac sounded short himself. ‘Stop being so damned touchy!’
Jessica caught herself up before the snappy rejoinder could leave her lips. ‘Sorry,’ she proffered instead, trying to look it. ‘I’m just feeling a bit on edge.’
He considered her pensively. ‘About what?’
‘Nothing. Everything.’ She shook her head again, forcing a smile. ‘It takes a lot of getting used to, this marriage lark. You must feel the same way yourself.’
‘To a degree,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not complaining. You’re worth coming home to.’
She melted immediately. Zac was making every effort; the least she could do was reciprocate.
They made love on the sitting room floor, pillowed by cushions purloined from the sofas. Jessica only realised he wasn’t using anything when it was too late to do anything about it. Not that she really wanted to, she had to admit. Making love in the raw, so to speak, was even more ravishing. She was still on the Pill, anyway.
She made sure to be on time at work the next morning, taking it that with a dinner engagement to get ready for, Zac might be early again. She needn’t have worried as it happened, because it was almost seven o’clock when he arrived.
‘Traffic,’ he said succinctly. ‘We’ll be taking a taxi to the Grants’. It’s parking by permit only in their area. You look good,’ he added. ‘I’ll try to live up to you.’
The day he looked anything but good himself would be a first, Jessica reflected as he disappeared upstairs. She took a look at herself in a mirror, all prettied up in silver grey. An attractive enough sight, she supposed, though nothing particularly outstanding in her view. Leonie, for instance, could beat her for looks any day of the week!
The Grants, it turned out, lived in Kensington. Already on edge over the coming evening, Jessica felt her heart plunge even further as she registered the number plate on the Range Rover standing outside the elegant terraced home. She thought wildly of pleading a sudden migraine, but it was hardly going to be believed. All she could hope for was a lack of recognition on her hostess’s part.
A hope doomed to failure from the moment of meeting. Cathy Grant placed her immediately.
‘We already met,’ she said as Zac performed introductions. ‘Yesterday at the store.’ The confusion was apparent in both eyes and voice. ‘Have you worked there long?’
Jessica felt rather than saw Zac’s reaction. Her gaze was fixed firmly on Cathy’s face, her smile stiff as a board. ‘A couple of weeks. How’s Gavin?’
‘Oh, fine! He’s staying with his grandparents tonight.’ Cathy was making an obvious effort to put the questions that had to be crowding her mind aside. ‘Ian will introduce you round,’ she added. ‘I just need to check the oven.’
Her husband led them through to a spacious drawing room where two other couples were already ensconced with drinks. Jessica acknowledged introductions without taking in a single name, aware of Zac’s inwardly seething presence at her side. He was too well bred to make a scene in public, of course, but there was going to be hell to pay once he got her alone.
Perhaps sensing the atmosphere between them, Cathy made no further reference to their previous meeting, although the glances she occasionally cast from one to the other reflected her continuing bafflement. Jessica could appreciate her dilemma. Why would the wife of one of the company’s major shareholders find it necessary to take a job in a retail food outlet? If she mentioned it to her husband—and she was almost sure to—then it would no doubt reach Brady’s ears before long. That would really set Zac’s blood on fire!
The evening seemed to go on for ever. Jessica yearned for it to end, yet dreaded what was surely to come. Zac held his tongue in the taxi going home, waiting until they were indoors with the doors closed against the outside world before letting fly.
‘What the hell was all that about working in a supermarket?’ he demanded.
‘It isn’t a supermarket,’ Jessica answered, trying to keep a level head. ‘It’s a rather exclusive emporium catering to the needs of the upwardly mobile classes.’
Zac drew a harsh breath. ‘Don’t try making a joke of this! How do you think it reflects on me to have a wife serving on in a shop?’
Green eyes acquired a spark of their own. ‘There’s nothing demeaning in it,’ she retorted, giving up any idea of pacification. ‘I’m not into that kind of snobbery!’
‘You can call it what you like. The fact remains that you’re doing a job you’re not only over-qualified for, but have no need of to start with!’ Zac was furiously, unnervingly angry, his whole face rigid. ‘Why, for God’s sake? You have your own account, your own cheque book. What on earth could you need the kind of pin money you must be earning at that place for?’
‘It isn’t the money,’ she said. ‘It’s to do with self-respect. I refuse to live off you entirely.’ She paused, hardening her mind against any retreat. ‘You’ll just have to accept it.’
It seemed impossible for his jaw to tauten any further, but it did. ‘There’s no way I’m going to accept it! You don’t go near the place again, do you hear me?’
‘I could scarcely fail to hear you,’ she returned with asperity. ‘And you can whistle! If you don’t like the idea of my working in a shop, find me something you would consider acceptable. As you once said, you have the contacts.’
‘I