The Faithful Wife by Diana Hamilton Page A

looking at him; her expression told him she was in another world. But at least she was trying to share it with him. Funny how they’d never really talked, either of them, never delved deeply enough to find out what made each other tick.
    Too busy making love, discovering each other physically to begin with. And then, after the initial honeymoon stage, he’d been too busy. Full-stop.
    Not sure that he should want to, but feeling driven to know, Jake asked, ‘And what was that?’
    Christmas every day of the year? Everything her deprived childhood had seemingly put out of reach? Designer clothes, jewels, fast cars and slow, sybaritic holidays in far-flung places?
    Heaven knew, she’d earned enough in her own right to indulge every whim, and the Docklands home he’d provided on their marriage had been glamorous enough to negate the memories of any number of back-street flats.
    Yet it hadn’t been enough. His love hadn’t been enough. Being his wife, in spite of all the financial advantages—like not having to work for her extremely comfortable living—had become a bore. So much so that she had sought forbidden excitement with her former lover.
    Bella, glancing across at him between dark and tangled lashes, saw the ferocity darkening his face and made up her mind. Conscious, suddenly, that she was in danger of snapping the stern of her glass, she made herself loosen up, unknotting her fingers and lifting the brimming glass to her mouth.
    They’d agreed not to raise any contentious spectres from the past—but it might dent his huge ego, and certainly wouldn’t hurt him, to know that one of the things she had most wanted—not the most important, but important nevertheless—was something else he’d resolutely refused to give her. She had nothing to lose because she’d already lost everything that mattered to her.
    â€˜I did tell you once, but I guess you didn’t listen. You never listened to what I said if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. Eventually I stopped saying anything important.’ She looked him straight in the eye and knew a moment’s vindication when she watched his dark brows pull down as her shot hit home.
    She gave a small shrug, slender shoulders lifting elegantly beneath the beautifully styled white jacket. ‘I wanted a proper home and a loving family to share it with,’ she said with a touch of cool defiance.
    She looked at her empty glass with a glimmer of surprise and put it down. Swallowing wine as if it were water wouldn’t help. She sat rigidly upright in her chair, her hands knotted in her lap, and added, ‘Nothing grand, just a homey place with a garden, and fields and woods around for the children to play in.’ And a husband who was home, sharing the ups and downs of family life, the two of them growing closer as the years went by, not further and further apart until they were like strangers.
    She frowned unconsciously, and tacked on tartly, ‘No grimy backstreets, litter and graffiti everywhere—some place where it was safe to walk, with fresh air to breathe. A modest enough dream, but one I valued.’
    She’d said enough. Perhaps too much. The silence from him was like a shock. But, oddly, she felt unburdened, lighter. She wasn’t so self-centred that his refusal to even think about the occasional suggestions she’d made regarding a future move out of the City would have made her decide their marriage wasn’t worth keeping.
    But she wouldn’t think about that; she couldn’t afford to. Dwelling on what had gone so badly wrong wouldn’t help her to get through the next few days, or keep up the pretence that they were mere acquaintances.
    She swept to her feet and began to gather the lunch things together, and told him politely, very politely, ‘I’ll clear away. Would you mind fixing the star to the top of the tree? I couldn’t reach.’
    With the