In Vino Veritas by J. M. Gregson Page B

world finding out about your other women?’
    â€˜You’re not yourself tonight, dear. Have you taken your pills today?’
    â€˜Don’t fob me off with that. You think that if I’m an invalid I won’t have the energy to challenge you, don’t you?’ Jane was voicing her own fear. Always in the end he was able to override her, because he had more energy and a fiercer will power than she had. But it mustn’t be like that, if she was ever going to find a way out of this.
    â€˜No one is sorrier that you’re an invalid than I am, Jane. In your more rational moments, I’m sure you can see that. But it’s very hurtful to me when you say things like this, even when I know that it’s really your illness that’s speaking.’
    â€˜It’s a long time since I was able to hurt you, Martin Beaumont. I want out. That way neither of us will complicate the other’s life.’
    â€˜I think you must have one of your bad times coming on, Jane. Perhaps we should see what the medics make of your state of health at the moment.’
    He made it sound like a threat, she thought. And indeed it was a threat, coming from him. It was the most potent weapon in the strange array he used against her. Jane wondered if she looked as unkempt and uncontrolled as she felt. She was sure now that her long black hair was straggly and uncombed. She couldn’t remember when she had last given it any attention. She didn’t enjoy looking in mirrors nowadays.
    She said as firmly as she could, ‘This hasn’t got anything to do with my health. I’m being perfectly rational about our future.’
    Martin gave her the little mirthless chuckle which was the one of his reactions that most annoyed her. ‘Oh, I doubt that, Jane.’ He walked over to the drinks cabinet and mixed himself a whisky and soda with merciless deliberation. ‘Perhaps we’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re in a more sensible frame of mind.’
    He walked out of the room and into his study, shutting the door firmly behind him. He might have to do something about Jane if she went on in this vein, he thought. It would have surprised him to know that Jane Beaumont was thinking exactly the same about him.
    Like quite a lot of head chefs, Jason Knight did not work on a Monday. It was the quietest day of the week in the restaurant. It was also the logical day for Jason to rest, after weekends that were usually successful but often hectic.
    His absence had the happy effect of giving Gerry Davies an extra day to think about the proposition his friend had put to him on Saturday. Taking control of the firm was a radical step. It was also one which Gerry would never even have entertained, had Jason not suggested it to him. He discussed it in confidence with each of his sons over the weekend, as Jason had suggested he should, but that made his decision more rather than less difficult. It was a good idea in principle, all three of them agreed, but the final decision would depend on the particular firm and the particular circumstances involved.
    Only he could weigh all the facts in this particular instance. He must do that and make the decision which was right for him. All of which put the ball firmly back in Gerry’s court. Wrong metaphor, he decided: the only kind of ball he had ever been happy to handle was a rugby ball, when he was in his physical prime. Thirty years ago, on the mudbaths of Llanelli or Treorchy, that greasy leather-clad ovoid had been difficult to handle, but it had been child’s play compared with this.
    He hadn’t made his mind up what to do by Monday, so he was glad that Knight wasn’t around to ask for his decision. He passed him a couple of times during the day on Tuesday, and thought the chef was looking at him quizzically, but that was probably just his imagination. Gerry waited until he saw Martin Beaumont drive his Jaguar out of its reserved parking space at five