Circles of Fate by Anne Saunders Page B

or twice to disperse a sudden brightness in his eye.
    â€œYou had tea, I believe, with my late wife, in the airport restaurant while waiting for the plane.”
    â€œYes, Claude.”
    â€œHow did she look? How was her hair dressed? Did she mention me?”
    Cathy and Edward, and even the Spanish housekeeper who was busily clearing the table they had recently vacated, tried hard not to look at this broken man ... this bared soul. Anita found herself wanting to hold those twisting fingers. Hold them, comfort them, warm them.
    She said: “She looked wonderful. But then, she must always have looked wonderful. She was bright and cheerful and longing to get back. She was as excited as a little girl at the thought of coming home.”
    â€œTo me ... to me? Did she say that?”
    He was so eager, so pathetically eager, and it was such a little thing, such a tiny lie.
    â€œWhen she spoke of you her voice was warm with affection.”
    â€œWe were devoted to each other.”
    â€œI know, Claude. She was excited at the prospect of being with you again.”
    â€œ Madre mia! ” The cry of broken anguish came from the housekeeper and she ran weeping from the room.
    Cathy and Edward finally succeeded in finding a record.
    Claude’s: “Thank you, my dear,” had to compete with Debussy’s Reflets dans l’eau. And, like reflections in the water, Claude’s expression changed, grew less tragic, gained a bright bird-cunning.
    â€œDid she show her jewellery to you?”
    â€œYes, her watch. And I noticed her engagement ring. That was lovely.”
    â€œNo” – impatiently – “her other jewellery. She had a yen for expensive trinkets. I spoilt her, encouraged her little whims. She’d see a bracelet or a brooch and I’d buy it for her. I could refuse her nothing.”
    â€œNothing?” she challenged.
    His eyes fell away. “I am noted hereabouts for my generosity.” His tone held faint reproach.
    â€œI believe you. I don’t need a testimonial.”
    â€œYou’re very sharp, aren’t you?” He spoke softly under cover of the music. To the others he was still the tragic widower talking to the sympathetic new friend. Only Anita was aware of the change in him.
    â€œYou know, don’t you?” he said.
    She hesitated for a bare fraction of a second.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMonica told you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI suppose she was only coming back to me because she knew which side her bread was buttered on.”
    Even then, facing his smarmy arrogance, Anita did not tell him that she wasn’t coming back, not in the way he meant. She couldn’t be that cruel.
    â€œEarlier, why did you say the things you did? I’m grateful, of course. In a small community such as this, gossip is bread, butter and jam. It wouldn’t do the image any good for people to know there was a crack in my marriage. I’m curious to know your motive, though.” “No motive. You fooled me. For a moment, I honestly thought you cared.”
    â€œDid you? Did you really? I shall miss her, of course. She was my wife.”
    â€œYou’ll find consolation, elsewhere.”
    â€œI doubt it. Too difficult.”
    â€œThe image?”
    â€œPrecisely. Unless I meet a nice sympathetic girl from outside.”
    â€œI’m outside. Is that what you mean?”
    â€œYou’re delightfully frank. Yes, that’s what I mean.”
    â€œI’m going to be even franker. You don’t attract me in that way.”
    She almost added, I don’t even like you, but thought that might be a bit too blunt.
    â€œA pity,” he said, “because you fascinate me. I can’t court you openly. That would not be respectable. You will have to come to me.”
    â€œThat I will never do.”
    â€œNever is a long time. Are you certain you didn’t see my wife’s jewellery?”
    â€œShe wasn’t