An Autumn Affair Page 11

  ‘My dad?’ echoed Miranda, floored by the sudden change of topic.

  ‘Josie said he wasn’t too good when she spoke to your mum last week. She invited them to the party but he isn’t well enough to come apparently. She was talking about visiting them soon.’

  Miranda’s jaw dropped. She’d no idea Josie had been speaking to her parents, let alone planning to visit them. The information completely fried her brain. Thankfully, before she even attempted to scrabble together some meaningful words, Doug said:

  ‘Sorry, darling. I’m late for a meeting I’d forgotten about. I’ll speak to you later.’

  And he hung up.

  Miranda slid down the wall until completely prostrate on the floor. Staring up at the ceiling, it hit her with some force that she couldn’t carry on stalling. That burying her head in the sand was not an effective strategy. That this problem was not going away without serious intervention on her part.

  With a great deal of effort she returned to the bedroom, plumped down on the bed and stabbed the number for the clinic into the phone. About to press the Call button, a horrible thought occurred to her. Doug hadn’t mentioned how long he’d be staying, and she’d been in such a state, she hadn’t asked. She couldn’t possibly make the appointment until she knew he’d be back in Dubai. Furious with herself, she tossed the handset onto the bed, slumped back against the pillows and began to cry.

  *****

  Paul deserved an Oscar. He really did. For acting like the consummate professional. When all he really wanted to do was rip Natalia’s clothes off and ravage her senseless. She hadn’t been supposed to be coming on this trip to Paris with him, but had somehow convinced Paul’s boss, Howard, that it would be a good idea.

  ‘Be great for her personal development,’ Howard enthused. ‘Give her some real hands-on experience.’

  The last thing Paul wanted to think about was being hands-on where Natalia was concerned. Since that teasing little kiss after his speech at the cocktail party, his powers of concentration had packed their bags and left the room whenever she was around. Even the faintest hint of her perfume sent his senses reeling. The whole thing was driving him nuts. And at no time more so than the previous evening.

  The French contingent had invited them out for dinner. To a very exclusive restaurant in the heart of Paris.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough being in the most romantic city in the world with the object of his desires, Paul’s eyes had almost popped out of their sockets when they’d arrived at the restaurant and Natalia, her hair pinned up in a sexy chignon, had slipped out of her coat to reveal a tiny strapless burgundy brocade dress. The eyes of the other three males in their party had followed his example.

  She sat on the opposite side of the table to Paul, beside some cool, go-getter marketing bloke in his mid-twenties with spiky highlighted hair and a false orange tan. He monopolised her the entire evening, directing most of his conversation to her spectacular cleavage.

  While effecting what he hoped was a good show with his immediate neighbours – keeping the conversation flowing, laughing politely at their jokes, attempting several of his own – out of the corner of his eye Paul constantly observed Natalia and the spiky-haired bloke. And each time she flashed the guy a sexy smile, or he fleetingly touched her arm, or leaned just a little too close to her, a bolt of red-hot jealousy ricocheted around Paul’s gut. His dinner had borne the brunt of his feelings. He’d stabbed his pan-fried scallops, rived apart his steak au poivre, and punctured his profiteroles with an energy not normally associated with the consumption of food. And all the while he’d been battling the urge to jump up and haul the orange, spiky-haired bloke out of his seat.

  Or, better still, haul Natalia out of hers. And straight into his bed.

  The situation had been further exacerbated by her catching his eye several times, when she’d subsequently ran her tongue over her glossy lips, or twizzled the strand of honey-blonde hair which had escaped its pins and brushed languidly against her toned, golden shoulder.

  Paul had never felt more uncomfortable in his entire life. His clothes seemed too tight, the restaurant too hot, the wine too bitter, the evening never-ending. Every bit of noise grated on his nerves. He’d never been more grateful for anything than when – after what seemed like an eternity – they bid their goodbyes and he and Natalia slid into the waiting taxi, which would take them back to their hotel.

  ‘What a lovely evening,’ she cooed, sitting next to him on the back seat.

  ‘Smashing,’ lied Paul. He’d wound the window down slightly. He needed air. To clear his head. And to dilute the intoxicating smell of her musky perfume, which was making him horny as hell.

  ‘The food was exquisite, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Totally,’ he agreed. Although in truth, with the bitter taste of jealousy monopolising his mouth, he hadn’t tasted a single thing.

  ‘I’m ready for bed now,’ she said, stretching her arms over her head and causing her magnificent breasts to almost pop out of their strapless confines.

  Paul gulped, wrenched his coat over his lap, and diverted his attention to the window. They were just passing the Eiffel Tower. The vision did nothing to help his strengthening ardour.

  So, given all of the above, there was no way he could subject himself to such torture again. Which was why, having no plans to dine with their French colleagues this evening, he’d told Natalia he didn’t feel too well, and had scurried up to his room the moment they’d arrived back from their meetings.

  Congratulating himself on his self-restraint, he’d whipped off his suit, had a long, hot shower, then, wrapped in the hotel’s fluffy white bathrobe, tucked into the omelette and chips he’d ordered via room service. He was just flicking through the TV channels when there was a tap on his door.

  Paul’s heart stopped for a second. His pulse rate soared. What if it was Natalia? Did he want it to be her? Or didn’t he? What would he say if it was? Would he invite her in? Or would he …?

  Another tap.

  Well, there was only one way to find out who it was, and that was to open the door.

  He did just that.

  To find the room service boy standing outside. ‘Sorry, sir, we forgot your bread,’ he apologised, handing Paul a basket of warm rolls, wrapped in a dazzling white linen napkin.

  ‘Oh, er, thanks,’ muttered Paul, disappointment almost rendering him speechless.

  He closed the door and rested his head against it. He was being ridiculous. What on earth would a girl like Natalia see in him? And why did he want her to see anything in him? He was a married man with two kids, for God’s sake.

  There was another tap on the door. Without even bothering to run through the possibilities of who it might be – and the associated emotions – he yanked it open.

  Natalia stood there. Wearing an oversized blue shirt and not a lot else.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ she purred, gazing up at him through a sweep of dark lashes. ‘But my cursor’s gone all funny. You couldn’t sort it out for me, could you?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Do you mind if I hang out at yours this evening?’ Faye asked Josie, as they left college together that afternoon. ‘It’s completely mental in my house at the moment.’

  Josie shook her head. ‘Of course not. But you do realise I still haven’t been to your house. And you haven’t introduced me to any of your family. I’m beginning to think you’re ashamed of me.’

  Faye snorted with incredulous laughter. ‘It’s the other way round actually. Think of the definition of dysfunctional, then quadruple it. And there you have my family.’

  Josie wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m sure they’re not that bad.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they’re all right sometimes,’ conceded Faye, recalling the great time they’d all had bowling. ‘But that accounts for, like, 10 per cent. The other 90 per cent, they’re totally nuts. And more so lately. Mum’s been losing the plot at a rate of knots over the last few weeks. She’s like a ticking bo
mb, ready to explode at any minute. She’s even started doing Pilates in the living room every morning, which is like the weirdest sight ever. Dad’s spending more and more time at work. For which I frankly cannot blame him. And Leo is seventeen going on thirty-seven. He’s so middle-aged, it’s scary. You should think yourself lucky your life is so perfect.’

  ‘Perfect?’ echoed Josie. ‘It’s hardly that. Besides, I think your family sounds quite normal. I’d love to have a brother or sister. And I’d love my dad to be around more.’

  ‘But you’ve got your mum,’ pointed out Faye. ‘And she’s, like, the coolest mum on the planet.’

  Josie shrugged. ‘I dunno. I guess there must be something in the water because she’s been acting weird lately too.’

  ‘Oh?’ Faye’s antennae switched to red alert.

  ‘I’ve no idea what’s happened,’ continued Josie. ‘But over the last couple of years – since Lydia moved to the village really – she and I haven’t hung out at all together. She’s got on with her stuff, and I’ve got on with mine. Now, though, she seems completely focused on me and this party. And whereas a few weeks ago she and Lydia were inseparable, since their last trip to Spain, she seems to be doing everything she can to avoid the woman.’

  ‘Really?’ said Faye, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. To her great delight, Josie carried on.

  ‘And whenever Eduardo’s due at the house, she, like, totally disappears.’

  At this information, a portfolio of glamorous scenes flicked through Faye’s mind, all starring Miranda as the beautiful, innocent heroine. ‘Maybe Eduardo made a pass at your mum and she told Lydia, and now the two of them have fallen out about it,’ she gasped.

  Josie wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t be daft. That kind of stuff only happens on the telly. And you, Faye Blakelaw, shouldn’t watch so much of it.’

  As Faye made her way to Buttersley Hall later that evening, she mulled over this latest revelation regarding Miranda. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the fall-out with Lydia had been over the Spaniard. After all, how could he resist a woman like Miranda? She must be every man’s dream. And in a completely different league to Lydia Pembleton. With Josie’s dad away so much, Faye wondered if Miranda ever reciprocated the interest she undoubtedly received from the opposite sex. She’d bet men swarmed around her like bees round a honeypot. Unlike her own mother, upon whom no man would waste a second glance. And who wouldn’t know an affair if it bowled into the side of her crappy little car. The problem with Josie, Faye concluded, was that she was way too naive. She had no idea about men, and even less apparent inclination to learn. Faye, on the other hand, would prove a very willing pupil indeed. And if Eduardo ever made a pass at her, she’d …

  ‘Watch out, Sis.’

  Startled out of her musings, Faye jumped to the side of the pavement as her brother sprinted past in his running gear.

  ‘It’s against the law to scare people like that,’ she hollered after him.

  Leo’s response involved the waving of a finger in the air.

  Faye chuckled and shook her head despairingly.

  When Faye arrived at Buttersley Hall, Josie and Eduardo were at the kitchen island.

  ‘Sorry, Faye,’ apologised Josie. ‘I’d only planned on running three miles, but Eduardo made me run six. Which is why we’ve only just got back now. The man is a hard task master.’

  ‘Sí, sí,’ chuckled Eduardo, swinging around on his stool and winking at Faye. ‘I can be very hard.’

  Faye’s cheeks flew scarlet. Not only because of the innuendo and the accompanying sexy smile, but because he looked breathtakingly gorgeous in navy sweatpants and a yellow hoodie, his dark hair dishevelled and a shadow of stubble covering his jaw. She silently chided herself for acting like a gawky kid, then reasoned that it was only because he’d caught her off-guard. She hadn’t expected to see him this evening. At the party, when she’d be fully prepared for his presence, she’d be much more in control. And when he saw her in her new outfit, he’d be in no doubt that Faye Blakelaw was no kid, but one hundred per cent woman.

  *****

  Since the kiss with Max, Julia’s attention span had shrunk to the size of an ant’s kneecap – if indeed ants even had kneecaps. Also severely reduced was her ability to sit still for longer than two seconds, and to think of anything other than … Max.

  The four hours they’d spent together in the pub had zipped by, demonstrating perfectly that well-worn adage of time flying when you’re enjoying yourself. Because Julia had enjoyed herself. Immensely. Her initial nerves dissolving within minutes, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had such a relaxed, entertaining evening. Nor when she’d last been so at ease with someone. What had really amazed her, though, had been the snippets of the old Julia that had re-emerged. The fun Julia. The Julia who sparkled and shone. The Julia who’d been buried under almost two decades of domestic drudgery.

  The Julia Max had fallen in love with.

  She hadn’t wanted the evening to end. But, adhering to that other old adage, that all good things must, it had. And the huge grin she’d sported all the way had evaporated the moment she arrived back at Primrose Cottage, when the sharp blade of guilt had sliced through her.

  Not that she’d done anything wrong.

  Not really.

  It had only been one little kiss between friends.

  But, deep down, Julia knew it was much more than that. With all the proficiency of petrol on ailing cinders, that one kiss had reignited a flame. A flame of desire. Not only for Max, but for the person Julia used to be. Before Paul and the twins.

  There’d been no improvement in her and Paul’s relationship since the cocktail party evening. Primarily because Paul had hardly been home. But also because, during his fleeting appearances, neither of them seemed inclined to change the sorry situation. Communication occurred on a needs-must basis only. Like the evening he arrived home from his business trip to Paris …

  ‘I’m, er, not very hungry,’ he mumbled, staggering into the kitchen just as Julia and the twins were sitting down to spaghetti bolognese.

  ‘Good trip, Dad?’ asked Leo.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Paul blustered, running a hand over his forehead which, Julia noticed, was beaded with sweat. Why on earth would he be sweating when all he’d done was walk from the car to the door on a particularly cool evening?

  ‘See the Eiffel Tower?’ asked Faye.

  Paul made a grab for the kitchen bench. ‘Er, yes. Yes. I did.’

  ‘How tall is it again?’

  Julia watched as her husband’s face grew worryingly pink.

  ‘How tall is what?’

  ‘The Eiffel Tower.’

  Paul seemed to be struggling for breath. ‘I, er, can’t remember. You’ll have to look it up on the internet.’

  ‘You all right, Dad?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Just a bit tired. Think I’ll grab a shower,’ he muttered, before scurrying out of the room without once making eye contact with Julia.

  ‘God, even Dad seems to have lost the plot now,’ huffed Faye, dumping a pile of spaghetti onto her plate. ‘This house is getting more mental by the day.’

  Julia had to agree. Their domestic situation seemed to be going from bad to worse, but she hadn’t the mental capability to address it, her entire head space being completely commandeered by Max.

  The time with Max had not only proved that the old Julia remained very much alive and kicking – albeit under several tons of rubble – but had also highlighted the glaring deficiencies in her relationship with her husband. Never had she enjoyed an evening with Paul as much as she had that evening in the pub with Max. Even before marriage and the twins.

  When she and Paul had met, during that crazy weekend in Durham, she’d been stressed out with university work, desperate to achieve a good degree so she could follow her dream of becoming an interpreter. Ha! What a waste of time that had been. And then, immediately after graduating, she’d fallen pregnant. Leaving
no time in-between for fun.

  Paul had been great when she’d told him about the pregnancy. The two of them, naturally, had been completely terrified at first, but he’d supported her all the way and, while making his steady ascent up the corporate ladder, had nevertheless always put the family first. Never failing to be there in times of crisis – like when Faye stuck her head through the railings at school, at exactly the same time Julia should have been driving Leo to his trumpet exam. Without the slightest bit of demurring, Paul had zipped over from the office to sort out Leo, while Julia had stayed with Faye and waited for the fire brigade.

  As a team, the two of them had functioned well. And Julia did love him. Not with the same passion she’d loved Max. That was a complete one-off. In fact she doubted the existence of another living soul with whom she could share that strength of connection again. No, rather than ‘falling in love’ with Paul, she would more accurately describe it as ‘growing to love’ him.

  Unsurprisingly it had taken Julia months to recover from the break-up with Max – if indeed she ever had recovered from it. It was ages before she could bring herself to sleep with Paul. Every time they’d come close, she’d stop, feeling like she was betraying Max. But then one day, she’d been walking to a lecture in York and it had hit her. She actually missed Paul. And it was about time she showed him how much. That same evening she’d hopped on a train to Durham and raced around to his student digs. She hadn’t wasted any time explaining her feelings. The demonstration had been far more effective.

  ‘Wow,’ Paul exclaimed afterwards. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘It was time,’ said Julia. And it had been. Time for her to move on from Max. Time for her to enjoy another healthy relationship.

  But she hadn’t really had time to enjoy it because, in a flash, the twins had arrived.

  Julia couldn’t help but wonder if, had she not fallen pregnant, their relationship would have lasted. She doubted it. As much as she’d grown to love Paul, he still lacked so many of the attributes she found attractive in Max. And she obviously fell very short of Paul’s expectations. Their conversation the evening of the cocktail party, his subsequent cool behaviour, increasingly frequent absences, combined with the bucket-load of guilt he seemed to be lugging around following his Paris trip, all proved that he wasn’t happy either. Paul wanted a glamorous wife. A corporate wife. A wife who drove a sporty little Mercedes. A wife who supported him. Showed an interest in his career.