The Wife Before Me(47)

‘Dance class, years ago.’ Amelia sat down beside her and steadied her breathing. ‘My friend Leanne and I used to practise every day. Luckily, I was always the woman. Otherwise, Peter would have had some problems on the floor.’ She laughed and fanned her face with a serviette. ‘Whew. Your husband is one tough taskmaster, Lilian.’

Amelia’s efforts to draw the other woman into the conversation failed. Lilian Harris, who had been drinking steadily throughout the night, simply nodded and signalled to Peter that she needed another vodka.

Nicholas sat beside Lilian and enquired about her family. Two sons, two daughters, adults now; he knew their names and the details of their education and careers. Amelia listened to his easy flow of conversation. His memory was a tool he used to charm and control. Why was she only seeing this now?

He continued talking to Lilian, who reached into her evening bag for her lipstick and drew a red slash on her lips. ‘We’ve had this fascinating conversation about my family every year since you joined the firm, Nicholas.’ She snapped the bag closed. ‘I’ve always admired your ability to entertain me for my allotted time span.’

‘Lilian, you make it sound like a chore,’ Nicholas protested. ‘I always look forward to talking to you and catching up on your family’s achievements.’

‘But you never ask about me. My achievements.’

‘Your achievements are obvious. Four wonderful children―’

‘Indeed. When are you going to provide me with an opportunity to ask about your children? I sincerely hope you’re not firing blanks into your lovely wife.’

A nerve twitched in his cheek but, otherwise, Nicholas seemed unaffected by her comments.

Peter coughed and slammed his glass on the table. ‘Time to go, darling.’ He lifted a black velvet pashmina from the back of Lilian’s chair, his discomfort obvious as he draped it over her shoulders. ‘I’ve an early flight to catch in the morning.’

‘Of course you do, darling.’ Lilian stood and gripped the edge of the table. ‘He’s off to New York for his Christmas shopping.’ She nodded vaguely at the group around the table. ‘Peter always knows where the best tat is cheapest and available.’

‘You take care of yourself, Lilian.’ Christopher Keogh’s expression was sombre as he kissed her cheek.

‘You too, Christopher.’ Her brittle shoulders lifted and fell. ‘Give Rita my love. I hope she’ll be back to full health soon.’

‘That reminds me.’ Christopher reached for his camera. ‘I want a group photograph before you go. Strict orders from Rita.’ He set the timer and joined the group in time for the flash.

‘Lilian’s rudeness was unfortunate.’ He pulled his chair closer to Amelia after the Keoghs left. ‘I’ve never seen her behave like that before.’

‘Do you think she was upset because I danced with Peter?’

‘She’s an unhappy woman, Amelia. I suspect you’re the least of her worries.’

‘How is Rita?’ Amelia asked. ‘I’m sorry she wasn’t able to be here tonight.’

‘The chemo’s tough,’ he replied. ‘But we’re both hopeful of a good outcome.’

The band had finished playing and a DJ was erecting his turntables on the stage. This was a general signal for those remaining at the main table to leave. More smiles, more handshakes and hugs.

Apart from giving their address to the taxi driver, Nicholas remained silent as they were driven through the glittering city. His fingers drummed against his knee and his profile, reflected in the taxi window, could have been carved from granite.





Twenty-Six





Back at Woodbine, he opened a bottle of cognac and poured two measures into tulip-shaped glasses.

‘A toast to my beautiful wife.’ He handed one to Amelia and lifted his own glass in salute. ‘You were quite sensational on the dance floor.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and clinked his glass with hers. His mood was benign. When had she started using that word? Benign, as opposed to malignant. She swirled the cognac and sniffed its nutty aroma, the hint of honey, vanilla. This was an aged cognac. Billy Tobin had bought it for her father on his fifty-fifth birthday and John had only used it to celebrate special occasions. She sipped it slowly, aware that Nicholas, seated in John’s favourite chair, had already finished his. Did he think he was drinking a shot? Some cheap concoction that would give him a quick buzz? How dare he take over her father’s chair, open his precious cognac, plant such ugly suspicions in Amelia’s mind? She lowered her eyes, afraid that Nicholas would realise what she was thinking.

When she had finished her drink, he followed her up the stairs and steered her towards the bathroom, his hands planted firmly on her hips.

‘What are you doing?’ Amelia paused in the doorway, her body, so pliable on the dance floor, tensing.

‘Something you’ll like.’ He gently but firmly propelled her forward and closed the bathroom door. Standing behind her, he turned her towards the full-length mirror set into the tiled wall and unzipped her dress. Slithery as a snake shedding skin, it fell to the floor. Amelia released her breath. The fabric had encased her like a suit of armour, yet she had been unaware of its restraints until she was out of it.

‘Let’s go into the bedroom, Nicholas,’ she said.