Jake loosened his tie. ‘Tell me,’ he interrupted her, his eyes distant, ‘did my wife know I was expected home this evening?'
‘Of course, sir. Your flowers arrived from Glasgow yesterday evening.'
‘I see.’ Jake narrowed his eyes, the feeling of homecoming, of complacency almost, which he had felt coming here in the car vanishing beneath a tide of fierce resentment. ‘Very well, Mrs Latimer. I'll take a shower. I'll eat in'—he consulted the broad gold watch on his wrist—‘in say twenty minutes.'
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Latimer nodded politely, and without another word Jake went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his temper simmering.
He thrust open the door of his bedroom and entered the room, kicking the door to behind him. It was an attractive room, chocolate brown walls and an apricot bedspread toning well with light oak furniture and deeper apricot drapes. In the light of the lamp by his bed it should have soothed him, but it didn't. He felt furiously angry, betrayed almost, that Helen should choose this evening of all evenings to be out. She had never done this before. She had always been there when he arrived back from one of his business trips, ready to smile and listen to him as he told her of his dealings, ready to offer sympathy or tentative advice if required. Goddammit, he thought violently, that was what she was here for. He had bought her for that purpose, not to go gallivanting off with bloody Keith Mannering!
He stripped off his clothes and walked naked into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under it, uncaring that he soaked his hair. He moved beneath the sensuous stream of water, enjoying its cooling balm to his heightened senses. How dared she be out? he thought furiously. How dared she allow her name to be coupled with a man who had deserted her three years ago while he, Jake, was out of the country? God, what would his friends be saying? What would they be thinking?
He turned off the shower and wrapped a huge bath-sheet about him, towelling himself dry automatically. Then he rubbed his hair thoroughly and went back into his bedroom. He dressed in closefitting black suede trousers that moulded the strong muscles of his legs, and a cream silk shirt. He didn't bother to dress formally. There was no point. And besides, he was in no mood to put on a dinner jacket.
On impulse he crossed the landing and opened the door of Helen's bedroom. Switching on the lamps, he surveyed its feminine charm sardonically. There was a soft fluffy white carpet underfoot, while the bedcoverings and curtains matched each other in delicate shades of rose pink. The dressing table was strewn with jars and bottles and atomisers, the usual paraphernalia found on any woman's dressing table, while a sliver of chiffon lay carelessly at the foot of the bed where she had discarded it. Jake's teeth fastened harshly on his lower lip and he switched out the lamps abruptly and closed the door with a decisive click. He was amazed at the anger that was gripping him. He had the strongest impulse to do something quite violent. How dared she do this to him? he asked himself again, as he descended the thickly carpeted staircase. Who the hell did she think she was dealing with? Some blasted nondescript, who hadn't the sense he was born with? Some ignorant northerner who wouldn't object to his wife having aristocratic boy-friends? No, by God, not he, not Jacob Anthony Howard! When he acquired a possession it was his, in its entirety, not just part of the time, not just when he chose to take it out and look at it, but always!
He crossed the blue and gold hall and entered the low, light lounge that gave on to the dining area. The lounge was large and lit by concealed lighting along the ceiling moulding. It was decorated in shades of blue and green, and its soft, feather-cushioned sofa and armchairs were massive and extremely comfortable. It was a comfortable room, a lived-in room, vastly different in design from the reception lounge across the hall where he did most of his entertaining.
The dining area was divided from the lounge by a teak librenza, fitted with bookshelves and places for objets d'art. Helen collected articles in jade and ivory, and there were several exquisitely carved pieces on the librenza. The dining table was dark polished wood with some dark, leather-seated, ladderbacked chairs to match it. Mrs Latimer had laid a place at the table for him, the rush place-mat and silver cutlery reflected in its polished surface.
Jake regarded her ministrations silently for a moment or two and then with an impatient gesture he walked across to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a stiff Scotch. He swallowed it at a gulp and poured himself another before flinging himself into one of the enormously soft armchairs, draping one leg over its arm.
He looked round the room restlessly, unable to relax. Nothing had changed. The turquoise velvet drapes at the windows toned marvelously with the soft blue-green of the carpet into which one's feet sank luxuriously; his hi-fi equipment in its polished teak cabinet still stood in one corner, while the unblinkingly broad screen of the colour television matched it in the other. Bookshelves flanked the marble fireplace in which an electric fire gave out a pseudo-log effect, unnecessary now that the powerful central heating system was in operation. The tasteful mixture of ancient and modern should have pleased him, but he found nothing to appreciate in it. He was consumed with resentment and anger, and it infuriated him that he should have arrived back here with such enthusiasm, only to have that enthusiasm doused by the thoughtless attitude of his wife.
Mrs Latimer appeared in the aperture which led to the dining area. ‘If you're ready I'll serve dinner, sir,’ she suggested politely.
Jake swung his leg to the floor and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Yes. Yes, all right, Mrs Latimer. I'm coming.'
He finished his drink and left his empty glass on the cabinet before crossing the room to the dining area. Seated at the empty table, he tried to show interest in the food his housekeeper had prepared. He was tempted to question her about Helen's activities while he was away. He wanted to know how often she had seen Mannering and whether he had been to the house. His jaw tightened. The idea of Keith Mannering here, in his house, was almost too much to contemplate without violence.
But he said nothing and attempted to behave as though Helen's absence was not important. Mrs Latimer had prepared his favourite dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with a raspberry crumble to follow, and he could not disappoint her by refusing it; although he might have been eating sawdust for all the enjoyment he took from it. He drank wine with the meal, a red Bordeaux that helped the food down. Afterwards, he carried his coffee into the lounge and after dismissing Mrs Latimer he switched on the television.
He seldom watched television. When he was home, which was not often, he was invariably entertaining or being entertained, and on those evenings when he might have relaxed he brought work home from the office and retired to his study to concentrate in its quiet luxury.
But right now he was in no mood to work; to study the contracts he had planned to study this evening after dinner, after he had discussed the merits of his trip with Helen. He was impatient for her to return home, to confront her with his anger, to make it plain once and for all that as his wife she had a certain position to uphold and no matter how unsatisfying their relationship might be she had chosen it, and by God, she was going to honour it!
Unwillingly, he recalled the young woman he had seen so frequently during the last few weeks. Louise Corelli had certainly helped to make his stay in California more enjoyable, but that was quite different, he consoled his conscience. He was a man, after all, with a man's appetites, and out of the country, thousands of miles from home and friends, from anyone who might gossip about their association. Helen was here, in London, where every move she made was speculated upon by friends and enemies alike.
The evening passed incredibly slowly and Jake's temper mounted to simmer somewhere around boiling point. He had turned off a particularly nauseating interview on the television and was in the process of pouring himself another Scotch when he heard Helen's key in the lock.
His first instinct was to march out into the hall and demand an explanation like some Victorian father, but he was too well versed in the arts of political tactics to waste his energy so carelessly. So instead he finished pouring his Scotch, swallowed half of it at a gulp and carried the rest with him to stand before the marble fireplace, one foot upraised to rest on the polished brass fender.
Helen