She tried to be as practical as possible. Sensible clothes rather than evening dresses, except for her favourite one. Racks of designer gowns in every hue faced her. There was a good chance that she might not need those again. After all, New York society might not be as welcoming without Lance attached to her arm. She didn’t know what status – if any – the ex-wife of an ex-chairman would carry. At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter. All that concerned her was that she should get away while she still had a modicum of sanity and self-respect left.
Melissa emptied the contents of her jewellery box on to the dressing table, the array of diamond-encrusted baubles clattering noisily across the glass surface. A quick glance at the bed told her that Lance slept on, blissfully unaware. Melissa surveyed the jewels dispassionately. There was one for every occasion – each anniversary, birthday, Christmas, the births of the children – each growing bigger and more glittering as the years passed. What would she have been given for her thirtieth anniversary, if she’d stayed that long?
Were they happier when they were just starting out together and had nothing but their love to sustain them? Is this what she’d ever envisaged for her future – a wealth of material goods, but a terrible emptiness at her core?
She pushed a ring on to each finger. Fingers that were showing a slight thickening of the knuckles due to the onset of arthritis and the telltale faint brown spots that speak of age as surely as grey hairs and wrinkles. They reflected perfectly what she’d been to Lance. A bauble. Bright, shiny and expensive, for decorative purposes only. An oversized pair of earrings followed, clipped to her ears to weigh them down with pain. They were too big, the proportions all wrong for her small face. She should have realised that years ago.
Spreading an array of gold chains over her hand, she selected three and fastened them round her neck, then draped two bracelets on each wrist. It looked vulgar, but she didn’t care. Today she would wear as many gaudy, glittery things as she could to remind her of the years she’d been viewed as nothing but a convenient ornament. Now they might belong to her past, but they would help to pay for her future. She’d done so much for Fossil Oil. She’d been the one behind Lance, supporting him, helping to make his toughest decisions, giving him some of his best ideas. Left to their own devices, all he and Bud Harman had managed to cook up was this stupid SACKED programme. God help them both. If Lance had run that by her first, she’d never have given it breathing space. Yet what did she have to show for it? Well, these things could count as wages owed. She’d been at the coalface alongside Lance all along and she’d damn well earned them. She scooped the rest of her jewellery into a black velvet bag and tucked it securely into her vanity case.
Lance snuffled in his sleep like a hibernating hedgehog. How could she have stayed with him for so long, when all of his waking life was viewed through the bottom of a bourbon bottle? He was oblivious to everything else in his life. Even when he was stone-cold sober, which wasn’t often these days, he didn’t actually see her – really see her. It was probably just as well, considering. She’d never have been able to sleep with Tyler Benson if Lance had cared in the slightest where she was spending her time.
Melissa stacked her vanity case next to its matching siblings. She’d loved Tyler Benson, really loved him, in a way that she’d never loved Lance. She’d loved him hopelessly, obsessively. But he was a using bastard and she now hoped with every fibre of her being that he got all he deserved. She felt sorry for Kirsten too, who was innocent in all this mess. Melissa had the urge to ring Kirsten, to confess to her affair with Tyler and apologise for her appalling behaviour. Would it help if she could warn Kirsten that she was in grave danger of becoming an exact replica of herself in ten years’ time if she didn’t wise up and get rid of Tyler soon? She could call her and try to make it right between them. But then, who was she to dole out advice?
She put out a fresh suit and shirt for Lance to wear to the office tomorrow. Then she chose his neckwear, as she had done for the duration of their life together. After today, she’d do it no more and Lance would be left to choose his own ties.
The cases were heavy as she dragged them one at a time down the sweeping stairs of their London house. Martin came out of the kitchen when he heard her and took them from her hands.
They exchanged a glance.
‘Is that all, Mrs Harvey?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll put them straight in the car for you.’
‘Thank you, Martin. I’ll be out in a few moments.’
In the study, in the top drawer of the writing desk, Melissa found the two British Airways e-tickets that Veronica had printed out for Lance for the flight to Washington. Their passports were there too, and she tucked both of them into her handbag. If she couldn’t change her flight, this would delay Lance long enough to ensure he wasn’t on the same plane as her.
This was one room that she hadn’t had decorated for Christmas. Lance wouldn’t have liked the fuss. She searched through the plethora of tiny drawers in the walnut desk until she found some plain white paper. It didn’t seem quite right to use their own elaborately headed vellum for such a letter. Melissa sat at the desk and composed the note several times in her head before she finally picked up the fountain pen beside her. It was hard to know what to say to Lance – she didn’t think they’d had a conversation in the last few years. Not a real one, a conversation that was longer than ‘How was your day at the office today, honey?’ and the automatic reply ‘Fine, thank you, angel.’
Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure if she’d had a proper conversation with anyone since the boys had left. They talked to her all right. They begged, pleaded and cajoled her, trying to get her to leave Lance and find a life of her own. A life that would exist after them. Since the boys had flown the nest, her days had been made up of a series of drinks parties interspersed with bouts of needless shopping, empty of company except for mindless chatter over the champagne and canapés.
Would it be any different without Lance? It was a frightening thought. Her fear was that she was now so ingrained in the corporate lifestyle that she’d be unable to adapt to anything else. Did anyone out there value a person who was pushing the half-century from the wrong side? Maybe she could do some charity work, as she’d suggested earlier tonight. In a paid position, rather than as a volunteer. Heaven knew, she’d had enough experience at that too. Whatever happened, at least she was giving herself a chance to find out before it was too late. But perhaps it already was. That was something she might also have to face. Terror gripped her stomach. Life out in the cold wouldn’t be easy. She held the banister and steadied herself, gasping hot air into her lungs. There was still time to get Martin to bring the cases back into the house and unpack them without Lance being any the wiser.
What would her husband do without her? Lance leaned heavily on her. How would he manage at Fossil without her counsel? Would he suddenly be exposed as wanting? Who would have his back? It certainly wasn’t Tyler Benson as he’d believed.
The house would run itself, of course. That wasn’t a problem. They already had someone in to clean, do the laundry and tend the garden. Melissa cooked for him, after a fashion, but he could replace those duties easily enough. It was the small things she did at home that he’d miss. Choosing his cufflinks, buying his socks, covering up for him when he was completely incoherent.
The blank paper loomed before her, but she forced herself to write, pushing down the feeling of fear, of foreboding.
My dear Lance, I’m so sorry to do this, she wrote in her fine, elaborate hand. I’d hoped we’d grow old together and be a comfort to each other, but I can no longer stay.
She paused to fight down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Perhaps she should just wait for a few more days. It was Christmas, after all. Perhaps she could go to Washington with Lance, get him settled, and then leave. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She took some deep breaths and forced herself on.
I want to take the ch
ance to make something of what’s left of my life before it’s too late.
She hesitated on the next part, but her decision was made.
I’ve been having an affair with Tyler Benson. Her pen shook as she wrote his name. To hell to handling this with dignity. She was taking Tyler Benson down. See how he liked being cast aside.
I know you’ll find this a devastating blow. You have trusted Tyler and you’ve been wrong to do so. I thought we were in love with each other, but I realise that wasn’t the case. He’s been using me to find out confidential information about Fossil Oil and I’ve been using him for my own infinitely more complex reasons. I wanted you to know this. Disloyalty in such trusted staff is almost as unforgivable as it is in a wife.
Lance would dismiss him immediately, and it was no more than he deserved.
I’m so very, very sorry to cause you pain. There’s more to life than Fossil Oil, my angel. I hope that somehow you’re able to work that out.
Make your peace with the boys before it’s too late. They would love a chance to be your sons. Be happy, Lance. I hope you’ll think kindly of me in the future when we’ve had time to make new lives for ourselves. I did love you so very much. I still do.
Melissa xx
She paused for the ink to dry and, before she could think better of it, folded the note and slipped it into a matching envelope. She wrote Lance’s name on the front and underlined it.
Melissa took the note through to the kitchen. The sky was lightening now, dawn well on its way, and yet she hadn’t been to bed at all. She felt wired, calm, shaky and still all at once.
Taking a bowl from the cupboard, Melissa poured some muesli into it and put it on the table, perfectly positioned in front of Lance’s preferred seat. Alongside it went a jug of skimmed-milk from the fridge. She poured a glass of ‘freshly squeezed’ orange from the Sainsbury’s container and set that down too. No one could say that she hadn’t tried to keep Lance healthy over the years, and she suspected she’d continue to worry about him even though she was leaving. She propped the goodbye note against his glass, fixing it just so. Lance would be furious when he came down. There was nothing he hated more than warm milk.
Martin came back into the kitchen. He’d put his jacket on. ‘Are you ready, Mrs Harvey?’
‘I think I am,’ she said.
She followed Martin into the hall. He lifted her coat from the chair where she’d discarded it and held it open for her while she slipped her arms inside.
Melissa picked up her handbag while Martin took her vanity case for her. He held open the front door.
Taking a good, long look around the hall, she wondered whether she’d ever have a home like this again in the future. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. The Christmas decorations were quite spectacular. The lights shone out bravely.
She opened the door and a cold wind whipped through the hall, cutting them to the quick.
‘The car’s nice and warm,’ Martin assured her. Then he escorted her to the Bentley, taking her hand as she negotiated the icy steps, opening the door for her.
‘Where to, Mrs Harvey?’
It was a good question. Where to indeed? She hadn’t thought beyond leaving this house and Lance and boarding a plane back to America, yet the flight wasn’t until tomorrow evening. She had a day and a half to kill until then.
‘Do you have any friends you could stay with?’
‘No.’ She didn’t even need to think about that one, but it hurt her to say it nevertheless.
‘A hotel then?’
‘Yes. Of course. To the Ritz please, Martin.’ If this was going to be her last two days in England, she might as well enjoy them in style. Even on Christmas Eve, surely the Ritz would be able to find a little suite for her.
‘An excellent choice,’ Martin said, and closed the door.
It was a cold, grey dawn that failed to show the country at anywhere near its best. At least it wasn’t raining that terrible misty rain that the English optimistically called mizzle. The rain that permeated even the most content of souls and bled every semblance of joy from the bones.
The Bentley pulled away, moving down their avenue, until Martin turned on to the main road and joined the steadily growing drip of traffic. Eventually he stopped looking in the rear-view mirror and focused his attention on the route.
When he did, Melissa took a small, embroidered linen handkerchief from her handbag. It was only then that she allowed herself to cry.
Christmas
Eve
Chapter Forty-five
Someone exceedingly helpful from Wadestone Manor had gone down to the staff block behind the main house, away from the blaze, and found Tyler a waiter’s uniform to wear. White shirt, black trousers, black tailcoat. If it hadn’t been so bloody cold, he would have eschewed the tailcoat. It made him look stupid. Plus it was too short in the arms, as were the trousers, which flapped around his ankles. For all the shortcomings in the sartorial-elegance department of his outfit, at least he was fully clothed again. They’d also managed to find him some trainers; they were a good two sizes too big, but he’d done the laces up tightly. They’d been abandoned in an unused wardrobe – for some time, apparently – and Tyler had shuddered as he’d reluctantly inched his feet into them. Someone else’s underwear would have been a step too far, so he was commando under his trousers. Normally he’d find it quite a turn-on. Today he didn’t.
He stood alone now and watched as the flames over Wadestone Manor climbed higher. There were six fire engines at the scene, and the firefighters were battling bravely to hold back the blaze. It looked as if they were winning. The main fire seemed to have been contained in the marquee, which was pretty much destroyed. There would be smoke damage in the house – and of course a new library door would be required – but with some luck it would all be salvageable. Tyler only hoped they’d got bloody good insurance and that some minion hadn’t forgotten to pay it.
The Fossil staff had been ushered away and were, not before time, on their way home in the company coaches, the lure of their beds suddenly stronger than their morbid curiosity. Some had started up a rather tasteless rendition of ‘Disco Inferno’ as they went. Tyler noted who they were. Lance’s PA, Veronica, had taken a head-count and the missing employees were hunted down by the firefighters. William Failsworth, an unassuming events co-ordinator, had fallen asleep on the snooker table, which was sporting a large and unsightly gash due to the overenthusiasm of its previous occupants. One of the head-office receptionists, Celia Barnes, and Jeff Jamieson, a usually very staid business analyst, were found still having carnal knowledge of each other in a linen cupboard. Jeff had been blissfully unaware that the flames were nearly round his ankles along with his trousers.
Of Kirsten he could find neither hide nor hair. She must, at some point in the evening, have gone home.
There was nothing else for Tyler to do now but follow her. Despite the roaring bonfire in front of him, his fingers were turning blue with cold and his feet had already gone completely numb. He stuffed his hands deep into his tailcoat pockets, digging vainly for some warmth. He hunched the collar up against the cold. Saying a final farewell and a grudging thank-you to Dale the fireman, he headed off towards his car, shivering as he did. The settled snow flurried round his ankles as he walked, soaking through his lightweight, borrowed and rather shabby trainers. The quiet crunch of his footsteps on the gravel path contrasted with the angry noise that was raging in his head. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt someone very badly.
His Mercedes was the last vehicle left in the car park. When he saw it his heart, if humanly possible, sank even further. The scratch that encircled it etched into his soul. That little piece of handiwork had Kirsten’s name written all over it. He knew that penknife would come back to haunt him. Seems as if his wife wasn’t in a conciliatory mood.
The tyres were flat and, having survived the inferno, he was now going nowhere in a hurry. The tyre sealer that came in
lieu of a spare these days wouldn’t begin to repair them – not even one, let alone four – so he’d have to call someone to come out and replace them all. Thankfully, there was a signal out here, but the battery on his phone was dying. There was still just about enough left to surf the internet and find a company to come out and change the tyres.
When he’d done that, Tyler used more of his precious battery life to ring Kirsten, but there was no reply from her phone. When it switched over to voicemail, he couldn’t actually think of what he wanted to say, so he hung up. Instead, he blipped open the car and crawled into the back seat. He wished they’d been the sort of couple who’d had picnics, then there might be a nice warm tartan blanket in the boot. But they weren’t and there wasn’t. Lying down on the cold leather seats, he huddled into himself. Seconds later, sleep mercifully found him.
The rapping on the window roused him, and for a moment Tyler wondered where he was and why he was dressed as a waiter. Then it all came flooding back. The knocking grew louder and, rubbing his eyes, he opened the door. Dawn would soon be breaking, but for now it was still dark and a low mist clung to the snowy ground.
‘Come to do your tyres, mate,’ the man from Ezee-Tires said. He rubbed his hands briskly against the cold.
Tyler wondered how he hadn’t died of hypothermia. Even inside the car, he could see his breath. His body was stiff from the couple of hours’ sleep he’d managed to grab in extreme circumstances. What he wanted now was hot coffee and an even hotter shower.
He clambered out of the car while the man waited patiently, stamping his feet on the gravel with his heavy boots. If he thought there was anything odd about Tyler being in an illfitting waiter’s uniform, he didn’t mention it.