The Wife Before Me(49)

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Nicholas was spooned against her when she awoke. Amelia wrinkled her nose against the rancid smell of stale alcohol permeating the bedroom. Her mouth was dry and had the sour taste of too much drink. The cognac she had had when they returned from the HKM party was strong and Nicholas had poured a large measure. Before that she had had wine with her meal and vodka afterwards. This was going to be a severe hangover. She touched her lips, convinced they were cracked, bleeding, but they felt smooth under her fingers. She shivered, cold despite the heat from his body, and swung her feet to the floor.

Anxious not to awaken him, she moved quietly to the window and pulled back the edge of the curtain. The sun was a blurred disc behind an early morning mist. Her dress lay across the back of a chair, her underwear folded beside it, her shoes underneath. The muzziness in her head increased as she tried to remember undressing. The bathroom. Her mind steadied. She had been in the bathroom with Nicholas, her dress slithering from her body. Beyond that, nothing.

She crossed the landing to the bathroom and stood beside the ostentatious bath with its jets and lighting effects. The shower gel and deodorants Nicholas used were arranged on the shelf above the bath and the surface was spotless. She was overcome by a sudden wave of nausea. Her knees weakened. Afraid she would collapse, she pressed her hands to the wall and gasped for air. She exhaled loudly but was still unable to ease the constriction in her chest. For a dizzying instant, the bathroom swayed. A memory returned. Shoulder to shoulder – they had sat together in this bath as bubbles frothed and jets of water pummelled her.

‘Amelia!’ The bathroom door opened and Nicholas, wearing a T-shirt and boxers, entered. His hair was ruffled, his eyes slightly bloodshot. Otherwise, he looked the same as always, yet when he took her hand she had to stop herself from instinctively recoiling.

‘The morning after the night before is never easy,’ he said. ‘Come back to bed. This has to be your duvet day. I’ll make breakfast for you.’

‘No, I’m okay. I’m up now.’

‘You drank a lot last night. You need to sleep it off.’

‘I’ve work to do―’

‘Work can wait. It’s Saturday. Come on, do as I tell you.’ He had switched on the electric blanket and when she was back in bed he tucked the duvet tightly around her. ‘Cocooned from everything.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I’ll be up to you with breakfast shortly.’

Alone in the room, she lay motionless. A blackout, that had to be the answer. It had happened once before, in her teens. A party at Mark’s house when his parents were away on holiday.

They had raided the drinks cabinet, making cocktails from a recipe book Mark produced, and she had ended up being collected by her father, who carried her to his car. The following morning, chastened and still suffering, Amelia had promised him she would never take another drink until she was eighteen. Her friends remembered everything that had happened that night but Amelia’s memory had stopped functioning shortly before she collapsed on the floor.

Nicholas returned with a tray. Freshly squeezed orange juice, toast lightly buttered, scrambled eggs sprinkled with slivers of smoked salmon, a pot of tea. She didn’t think she would be able to keep the food down but it was easier just to smile and thank him. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her to eat.

Her hand shook as she raised the fork to her mouth.

‘It’s the alcohol,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll pass.’ He cut her toast and fed her, coaxed her to swallow. Somehow, she managed to finish her breakfast without throwing up.

‘What happened last night?’ she asked when he had cleared the tray away. ‘I remember being in the bath with you but I can’t remember getting out of it.’

‘You were pretty far gone,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not surprised it’s all a blur.’ He tilted his head, quizzingly. ‘Can you remember what we talked about?’

‘Were you angry with me?’

‘Why should I be angry?’

‘Peter. That silly dance.’

‘That’s all it was. A silly dance.’ He traced his finger across her lips. ‘We talked about love.’

‘I’m sorry, Nicholas.’ She shook her head, helplessly. ‘All I remember is being frightened of the water.’

‘Initially, yes. But you overcame your fear, as I knew you would. Even when you slipped in the bath, you didn’t panic.’

‘I slipped?’

‘You were trying to stand. That’s how you bruised yourself.’ He pulled back the duvet and exposed her legs. Shocked, she stared at the swelling below her knee and the bruises on both thighs. ‘I helped you out of the water and dried you off. I put you to bed. I’m amazed you can’t remember.’

‘I didn’t realise I was so drunk.’

‘Then rest and recover. Everything will come back to you in time.’

‘You said we talked about love?’

‘We did. You told me you would love me until the day you die. I need to believe you meant it.’

The silence stretched as he waited for her reply. Her mind remained blank, unmapped, without direction, and he was waiting—no, he was demanding an answer.

‘I meant it,’ she replied, dully.

‘I made the same commitment to you,’ he said. ‘Only death can ever separate us.’