Callum. Sally Wentworth

one day he tried to do an acrobatic manoeuvre: it didn’t work, and he crashed the plane and was killed.

      Shocked and stunned by his death, Elaine took a couple of months to get round to going through his desk. There were the usual papers, but in a locked drawer she found his diaries. It was all there, fully detailed and sometimes illustrated with erotic photographs—accounts of his affairs with women, some long-lasting, some one-night stands. Among the names, the faces in the photographs above the naked bodies, were some she recognised—girls she had thought to be her friends, wives of his fellow officers, even the barmaid from the local pub.

      It had gone on for years. She looked back at the diaries for the years before he had met her and it had been going on then too. It was obvious from the comments when he had got some girl into trouble and his mother had bailed him out that she knew, had always known, even after he and Elaine were married. There was one very telling comment:

      Ma was bragging about how I took one of the girls to bed at her anniversary party, right from under Elaine’s nose, while she was clearing the food away. It wasn’t a bad lay, although the girl was a bit tipsy. Can’t remember her name.

      Reading through the diaries up until her wedding, Elaine realised she seemed to be the only one of his women that he hadn’t made love to at the first available opportunity. Maybe it had amused him to keep her a virgin until their wedding night. The diaries for the two years after her marriage she couldn’t bear to look at. Still couldn’t, she mused now. But she had kept them all, and whenever she felt down she read them, fuelling her strength and determination from the anger they created in her.

      All grief gone, her heart a hard ball in her chest, Elaine had immediately sold the house, bought a small flat in London, and started her business on the remaining capital. Her mother-in-law had strongly objected, evidently expecting her to grieve like a dutiful widow for the rest of her life. But anger had given her life and still sustained her, so that tonight she had been able to treat Neil’s mother’s invitation with the contempt that she felt for the woman herself.

      The next morning Elaine woke feeling heavy-eyed, but had to pull herself together and pack some clothes to take with her to the quinta where she would be staying for a couple of nights. She did some paperwork while she ate a belated breakfast, making out fresh check-lists and going through others, ticking off what had been done and underlining things that were becoming urgent. Afterwards she had a conference with Ned and Malcolm, making sure that they knew what they had to do.

      This done, Elaine took her case out to the main hall and went to look for Francesca. She found her in the sitting-room talking to Michel, and would have excused herself but Francesca beckoned her in.

      ‘Oh, there you are, Elaine. I’m all ready to leave.’

      ‘Where are you going?’ Michel wanted to know.

      ‘To the quinta. We’re going on ahead to prepare for tomorrow’s party.’

      Michel immediately offered to drive them there, but Francesca refused and they went out to her open-topped sports car. Michel hovered around, looking sulky, but Francesca merely said, ‘Goodbye, Michel. Maybe I’ll see you around some time.’

      She drove down towards Oporto, crossing the road bridge and turning on to the road that wound along beside the river. When they were out of the town, Francesca gave a sigh. ‘Have you ever done something that you regretted immediately afterwards?’

      Elaine laughed. ‘Loads of times. Why, what have you done?’

      ‘Invited Michel to spend the week here. I can’t think why I did it. Because I thought I’d be lonely, I suppose. And because he made it clear that he so much wanted to come that he made me feel guilty.’ She glanced at Elaine, saw the wind playing with tendrils of red hair that had come loose from the rather severe style she habitually wore. ‘You’re so sure of yourself; I’m sure you don’t really make mistakes like that.’

      ‘I used to,’ Elaine admitted, thinking back. ‘But I don’t now. I never let anyone use moral blackmail on me, and I don’t do anything that I don’t want to.’

      ‘Good heavens!’ Francesca’s eyebrows rose at the hardness in her tone. ‘What made you like that?’

      ‘I went to an assertiveness training course for women. It did me a great deal of good.’

      ‘So it sounds. Maybe that’s what I need.’

      ‘Well, you were quite terse with Michel; he surely won’t hang around after that?’

      ‘I hope not. But there are some men you just can’t get rid of, aren’t there?’ Elaine was silent, wondering if Francesca wanted to get rid of Michel so that she would be free to continue her affair with Calum. But the Princess mistook her silence and after a moment said, ‘Sorry, Elaine. I’m not being very tactful, am I, boring on about boyfriends?’

      ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

      Francesca gave her an interested glance. ‘How long is it since your husband was killed?’

      ‘Nearly three years.’

      ‘You must miss him terribly.’ Again Elaine didn’t answer, so Francesca took her silence for assent. A strangely wistful look came into her eyes, and she said, ‘I suppose when you’ve had a loving, happy marriage it must be terribly hard to adjust. You must feel that there could never be anyone who could possibly take your husband’s place?’

      ‘Oh, quite,’ Elaine agreed with hidden irony. Francesca was right: no one could take Neil’s place, because she was going to make darn sure that no man ever did. She neither trusted nor needed them and was perfectly happy and fulfilled on her own. But then she remembered the frisson of sexual awareness that Calum had aroused in her and she felt suddenly unsure of herself. But it was only for the briefest moment, and then she sternly told herself that an occasional lapse was only natural; she was still young after all, and her femininity hadn’t died just because Neil had turned out to be a lying cheat. OK, so she hadn’t felt anything like that in years, but she supposed that it would be bound to happen, now and again, until she’d managed to stifle any sexuality she had left. Not wanting to talk about men, she pointed across the river. ‘What beautiful scenery.’