An Autumn Affair Read online

  Then, dropping Natalia off at her place in a taxi, they’d shared a long lingering kiss which had rendered the point of the evening completely useless. Not only did Natalia now seem keener than ever, but Julia appeared to be making a concerted effort to repair the pitiful state their marriage had slipped into recently. Paul’s head was as clear as a pan of Irish stew. He had no idea which way he wanted it to go.

  He only hoped Annie O’Donnell had the memory of a gnat and forgot all about seeing him. Because, with the weird way he’d undoubtedly been acting lately, if Julia ever found out and added two and two together, the decision might well be made for him.

  *****

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Having posed the question, Miranda subsequently held her breath. She’d banished Josie from the house while the transformation for the party took place. And what a transformation. Adorned with all-things-tennis, right down to the artificial grass on the floors, the house looked spectacular. Or so she thought. The pressing question was … did Josie think the same?

  After what seemed to Miranda like an eternity of Josie bounding silently from room to room, her daughter eventually joined her in the hall.

  Miranda grimaced. ‘It’s not too much, is it?’

  Josie’s mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Too much? Mum. It’s totally amazing. So amazing, I’m almost lost for words.’

  Then, to Miranda’s astonishment, she threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly. ‘Thank you so much. I honestly can’t believe you’ve gone to all this trouble.’

  At her daughter’s candid appreciation, a lump rose in Miranda’s throat. She swallowed it down. ‘It was no trouble. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing.’

  Releasing her hold of her mother, Josie screwed up her nose. ‘Really? I thought you’d have hated every minute of it. I thought you’d much rather be out with Lydia, doing … you know … whatever it is you two do these days.’

  The comment stung Miranda. Yet another indication of how low she’d sunk in her daughter’s opinion over the last few years. Tears sprung to her eyes.

  ‘I only wish Dad could be here,’ sighed Josie. ‘Then it really would be perfect.’

  At the mention of Doug, Miranda’s mood nose-dived still further. But this evening wasn’t about her, she reminded herself, blinking back her tears. It was about Josie. And Doug’s surprise entrance later would certainly make the girl’s night complete. Affecting what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, she said, ‘You know he would have been here, if he could.’

  Josie shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, I’d better hurry up and get ready. People will be arriving soon. Thanks again for everything, Mum.’

  As Josie careered up the stairs, Miranda wandered through the kitchen, out of the French doors, and into the garden. She plopped down on a wooden bench there, scarcely noticing the chill in the air. She was too distracted by all the emotions reverberating around her body. What on earth was happening to her? Since the pregnancy she’d been a tearful wreck. But more marked – and much more bizarre – had been the shift in her priorities. The reassessment of every part of her life. Then again, she pondered, maybe all of the above had nothing to do with the pregnancy. Maybe this was a perfect example of a mid-life crisis. Because, while she may not yet have quite reached the mid-life point, that of crisis had been passed some time ago.

  Half an hour later, Miranda descended the stairs feeling, if not exactly confident, then a little more in control. She’d changed into her new cream shift dress and gold ballerina pumps. A million miles away from her usual attire.

  ‘Mum, you look fantastic,’ gushed Josie.

  Miranda screwed up her nose. ‘You don’t think it’s too frumpy, do you?’

  Josie snorted with disbelief. ‘Frumpy? You look like a Chanel model. Really classy. And I know I keep saying it, but your new haircut really is stunning.’

  Miranda ran a hand over her sleek new shoulder-length bob. It would take some getting used to but she liked it already. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered. Then brightening her tone, ‘And what about you? You look gorgeous.’

  In a white jersey toga dress, her long blonde hair a mass of curls, Josie executed a twirl. ‘Will I do?’

  Miranda’s heart swelled with pride. ‘More than do. You’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ giggled Josie. ‘You haven’t seen Faye’s outfit yet. But I don’t care. I love my new dress. Ooo. There’s the doorbell.’

  ‘And your first guest,’ declared Miranda. ‘Let the party begin.’

  One hour later and Miranda couldn’t believe how many people were crammed into Buttersley Hall: Josie’s school friends, college friends, mates from the tennis circuit and, of course, Faye Blakelaw. Miranda could see what Josie had meant about Faye’s outfit. The leather shorts and skimpy top certainly made her stand out and, rather worryingly, appear much nearer to twenty-five than seventeen. But Miranda wasn’t going to waste time worrying about Faye Blakelaw. The girl seemed more than capable of looking after herself. No, Miranda’s priority was Josie – and making this evening one she would remember forever.

  Two hours into the proceedings, Lydia arrived, encased in a tiny creation that resembled tin foil. She was, predictably, hanging off the arm of Eduardo. Miranda’s spirits plummeted. She had no desire to see either of them. But all attempts to dissuade Lydia from attending had been futile. In the end, she’d given up. After all, she had Doug to face later. Compared to that ordeal, Lydia and Eduardo would be a cinch.

  ‘Oh my God, Rands. What happened to your hair?’ gasped Lydia, hands flying to her mouth at exactly the same time a look of revulsion settled over her orange face.

  ‘Well, obviously I had it cut,’ replied Miranda tartly, doing her best to ignore Eduardo’s smirk.

  Lydia wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s very … short.’

  ‘Maybe you should be cutting the hairs, Lydia,’ suggested Eduardo.

  Lydia threw him a look of disbelief. ‘You are joking?’

  Eduardo shrugged. ‘Why not? Maybe you are looking younger with the short hairs.’

  Lydia’s heavily made-up eyes narrowed. She glared at Eduardo for several seconds before announcing, ‘I’m going to find a drink,’ and flouncing off.

  Leaving Miranda face-to-face with Eduardo.

  She couldn’t look at him. His very presence made her want to vomit. But she couldn’t make a scene. Not here. Not now. And what would be the point, anyway? What was done, was done, and she was dealing with the aftermath. About to make an excuse and shoot off into the kitchen, or indeed anywhere where Eduardo wasn’t, he suddenly said:

  ‘I like the new hairs.’

  Revulsion slid down Miranda’s spine. ‘I have to go and …’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for long time.’

  Miranda bit the side of her cheek. Why was she acting like a quaking schoolgirl in front of him? She was a mature woman, for God’s sake. She lifted her chin defiantly and met his gaze. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  One corner of Eduardo’s mouth tilted upwards as his eyes roved over her body. ‘I busy too. Maybe we could be busy together again soon.’

  Anger boiling in her stomach, Miranda resisted the urge to slap his face. Instead, she forced her lips into a disingenuous smile. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so,’ she spat, before turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen, her heart pounding. Of all the arrogant, jumped up …

  ‘Oh, Rands, you don’t mind, do you, sweetheart, but I did say we’d be bringing Eduardo’s friends with us.’

  At Lydia’s announcement, Miranda came to an abrupt standstill.

  ‘This is Miguel. This is Jose. And this is Antonio.’

  Without uttering a word, Miranda found herself being kissed on both cheeks by three extremely good-looking Spaniards. None of whom she had the slightest desire to be around. By the knowing looks on their handsome faces, she had little doubt Eduardo had boasted of his conquests to his compatriots. Why, oh why, did they have to be here this
particular week? Still, nothing she could do about it now. She’d just have to put on a brave face. Affecting her most dazzling smile, she said, ‘I hope you all enjoy the party.’ Then, allowing no time for replies, she darted to the downstairs loo, flung the door shut, and sank down on the closed toilet seat.

  Well, at least that was one of the evening’s ordeals over. All that remained now was for her to face her husband.

  *****

  Faye was having a blast at the party. Her outfit, just as she’d planned, had gone down a storm. And was, thankfully, a million miles away from the stupid little dress she’d been wearing when she’d left Primrose Cottage earlier that evening.

  ‘You look pretty,’ her mother had proffered, when Faye had entered the kitchen in the dress.

  Pretty, Faye had wanted to scoff. I don’t want to look pretty. I want to look feisty and sexy. Like a proper woman. Like someone worthy of being in Miranda Cutler’s presence. Her mother, though, wouldn’t know the meaning of the words ‘feisty’ and ‘sexy’. And she would bore someone like Miranda to tears within two minutes, with her banal chat about all-things-domestic. If Faye had appeared in the kitchen in her real intended party outfit, she had no doubt her mother would have keeled over on the floor and required the emergency services to resuscitate her. Precisely why Faye had changed in Josie’s bedroom.

  ‘Wow,’ Josie had gushed. ‘You look incredible.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much, do you?’ Faye had asked, a last-minute onslaught of nerves nibbling at her at the thought of making her entrance in front of the crowd already downstairs. Most of Josie’s friends looked as conservative as Josie.

  ‘If anyone can carry it off, it’s you,’ Josie reassured her. ‘Now come on down. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a drink.’

  Faye did indeed feel better after a drink. And better still after three: three rather large glasses of wine. The alcohol zipped straight to her head. Not surprising given how little she’d had to eat. So excited had she been about the party, and so determined not to look fat in her outfit, that scarcely a morsel had passed her lips since the previous afternoon. Plus, for all her bravado, she really wasn’t used to drinking. She’d shared a couple of bottles of cider with her friends in Bristol on a weekend. And she’d been allowed the odd glass of sparkling wine on special occasions at home, but that equalled the pitiful extent of her alcohol experience. Given how great – and how confident – the stuff made her feel, though, it was a situation she vowed to change – with immediate effect.

  ‘Hola, Faye.’

  At Eduardo’s deep, melodic voice, Faye managed a tottering turn around on her pencil-thin heels.

  ‘You looking very sexy tonight.’

  The lascivious way he drew out the word ‘very’ caused a rash of goose pimples to break out over Faye’s body.

  ‘Have you met my Spanish friends?’

  Dragging her thoughts away from that delicious accent, Faye turned her head to discover three gorgeous tanned faces beaming at her. Slightly disconcerted, and trying desperately not to slur her words, she stammered, ‘No. I, um, haven’t.’ She held out her hand to the handsomest of the trio. ‘How do you do? I’m Faye.’

  Taking hold of the proffered hand, the Spaniard pressed his lips to it, causing a shiver of delight to scuttle through Faye.

  ‘Hola, guapa,’ he said, in an accent even sexier than Eduardo’s. ‘I am Miguel.’

  ‘My friends are coming from Marbella,’ Eduardo informed her.

  ‘Er, right,’ mumbled Faye, aware that her gaze appeared to have fused with Miguel’s dark piercing one. ‘That’s, um, nice.’

  ‘You been to Spain?’ asked Miguel, one side of his mouth tilting upwards.

  Her heart rate picking up apace, Faye cleared her throat. ‘I, um. That is, er, not yet.’

  ‘You must be coming to Marbella. It is full of the beautiful people. You will fit in perfectly.’

  Faye flushed. Here was a drop-dead gorgeous Spaniard telling her she was not only beautiful, but that she’d fit perfectly into glamorous Marbella. Ha! Look out world. Faye Blakelaw was about to make her entrance.

  ‘And when you do visit, you must be letting me know,’ Miguel continued, his heavenly eyes – framed with the longest lashes Faye had ever seen – still boring into hers. ‘I can show you around.’

  With the potent mix of alcohol, compliments, and the Spaniard’s intense attention, Faye’s head began to spin.

  ‘Now, guapa,’ he said, in a voice that made every one of Faye’s nerve endings tingle. ‘Would you like another drink?’

  Oh God. Given how weird she felt, she shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But then again, it was a party. And she was enjoying herself. Lowering her head, she attempted what she hoped was a seductive move, regarding Miguel through her fan of mascaraed lashes. ‘Another glass of white wine, please.’

  *****

  The moment Miranda had been dreading for days had finally arrived. In the very suntanned form of Doug. The tsunami of emotions that hit her the moment she set eyes on him almost knocked her off her feet. And, as she made her way over to him, she almost felt like she was floating; that the situation was completely surreal.

  ‘Dad!’ squealed Josie, hurling herself into Doug’s arms. ‘I thought you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ chuckled Doug, hugging his daughter. ‘And I might well be sacked when I get back, but who cares? Did you really think I’d miss my only daughter’s eighteenth birthday?’

  Josie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You’re always so busy. But it doesn’t matter now. You’re here.’ She whisked around to Miranda. ‘Did you know he was coming?’

  Miranda, more determined than ever not to let anything spoil Josie’s evening, pressed her finger to her lips, feigning innocence. ‘Um, I think I recall him saying something about dropping in.’

  In an instant, Josie threw her arms around Miranda’s neck. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘For everything.’ Before scuttling off to inform her friends of developments.

  ‘She looks happy,’ said Doug, turning to his wife.

  ‘She is,’ agreed Miranda.

  ‘And you look fabulous,’ he continued. ‘I love the new hair.’

  Miranda felt colour rise in her cheeks. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, feeling awkward under his scrutinising gaze. ‘Would you, um, like something to eat or …?’

  ‘I think I’ll grab a shower and some fresh clothes first. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be back down,’ said Doug. Then, lowering his voice, ‘Unless, of course, you’d like to join me.’

  He slid an arm around her waist and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Miranda tried not to shudder. Not that she usually resisted Doug’s advances. For all their separate lives, the physical side of their relationship had always been incredible. This time, though, things were different. Very different.

  ‘I, um, can’t really leave,’ she replied, twisting her features into what she hoped was a rueful expression.

  ‘I know,’ said Doug, burying his face in her hair. ‘I’m only joking. There’ll be plenty of time for us later.’

  And with those parting words, he spun around and strode out of the room.

  He entered it again some fifteen minutes later, showered and changed into a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a pale blue shirt which he’d left untucked. During the time it’d taken him to carry out his ablutions, Miranda hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d left her. Her head reeling with how to handle the bedroom situation later, her legs seemed to have filled with cement. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice her immobility, and from her inadvertent vantage point, she observed Doug as, with his usual easy charm, he worked the room, chatting to all the guests – old and young. He really was very good-looking. So good-looking, Miranda couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had affairs during their marriage. He certainly wouldn’t have been short of offers.

  She watched as Lydia made a beeline for him, pushing out her breasts against the sliver of silver fabric ho
lding them in place. Invading Doug’s personal space, she shook back her mane of hair and placed a hand on his chest before whispering something in his ear and breaking out into cackling laughter. Miranda was too far away to overhear what she’d said but Doug’s expression remained steely. In a flash, he was back at Miranda’s side.

  ‘God, that woman is a complete nightmare,’ he exclaimed, slipping a hand around her waist.

  This time Miranda didn’t flinch from his touch. This time she leaned into him, savouring the solidness of his warm, muscular body.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, stroking her hair.

  At his tender gesture, and the concern in his voice, tears welled in Miranda’s eyes. But she couldn’t cry here. She really couldn’t. Because once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Sucking in a deep breath, she blinked away the tears and, making a valiant bid to change the subject, said:

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired after all the preparation, I guess.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The place looks fantastic. Whose idea was the tennis theme?’

  ‘Mine,’ muttered Miranda. Not that she expected Doug to believe her. Like Josie, he probably had such a low opinion of her that he didn’t think her capable of anything other than painting her nails.

  To her amazement, though, he didn’t appear at all fazed by this revelation.

  ‘You really should make more of that creative streak of yours,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I know people who would pay a fortune for a party like this.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Stomping around the kitchen at Primrose Cottage did nothing to improve Julia’s foul mood. The place was a tip. But why did she appear to be the only one who could see that? Or, more precisely the only one prepared to do something about it? Not that she expected help from any of the cottage’s other residents. Certainly not Faye. And certainly not today, after the state the girl had arrived home in last night. Or, to be more specific, had been dumped on the doorstep in, like a sack of rubbish, by someone who’d rung the doorbell, then immediately bolted. And that wasn’t the half of it. The outfit she’d – almost – been wearing had caused Julia and Paul to have synchronised coronaries. The girl had resembled a prostitute; nothing like the innocent teenager who’d left the house earlier that evening in a pretty dress.