didn’t hear; she was totally enraptured by the woman standing on the stage.
‘Some of you already know that this next week will be my last “on the sofa”.’
There was a rustle, whispers, a shocked ‘No…’
‘It’s time to move on, but I want to thank all of you for watching, for supporting me over the years. Please be as kind to whoever takes my place.’
Belle, unable to say another word, simply raised her trophy in acknowledgement of the applause. In front of her was a sea of faces but there was only one who would have made this moment memorable.
And as if the need, so powerful, called up the man, she saw Ivo standing by the door, looking at her. The only person in the room not smiling. Not applauding.
She walked down the steps and, ignoring the outstretched hands, she walked towards him until the applause died away to silence and she was close enough to touch him.
Not an illusion conjured up out of her need, but real, solid.
He wasn’t in evening dress. Fine rain misted his hair, the shoulders of his long overcoat, and belatedly she realised that he hadn’t turned up to witness her big moment. That he was here because there was something wrong.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Not here.’
And her stomach lurched as, face set, he took her gently by the arm and led her out of the banqueting hall, down the stairs and into the lobby, past photographers caught with their lens caps on. The doorman was waiting by his car and she was in her seat before they recovered.
‘What is it?’ she demanded again as Ivo slid in beside her behind the wheel. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The police are looking for you. For Belinda Porter. They went to the flat and a neighbour explained who you are, that you were probably at home with me.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘No. I’m sorry to have ruined your evening.’
He was looking at her as if he knew, she thought. Knew that all evening she’d been fighting the need to reach out, find his hand. Then she realised that it wasn’t his absence he was apologising for, but dragging her away from the celebrations for the award she was still clutching.
Breaking away from a look that seemed to sear her soul, she turned away, tossing the thing on to the back seat.
‘Has there been a break-in?’ she asked as he pulled away from the kerb, into the busy late-evening traffic.
‘No. The flat is fine,’ he said, concentrating on the road as he eased his way across the lanes.
Of course it was. If it had been something that simple he wouldn’t have bothered her; he’d have dealt with it himself. Or had Miranda do it for him.
‘I don’t understand. Nobody knows I’m living there.’
Only Simone and Claire. Simone’s lost diary flashed through her head but she dismissed it. The address of the flat couldn’t possibly have been in her diary…
‘Just you, my agent…’
Daisy.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Daisy was in trouble. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘They wouldn’t give me any details, Belle. Just that someone admitted to A &E earlier this evening was carrying a letter with your name, your address and they didn’t know who else to contact.’
‘Hospital? But…’ She moved her lips, did everything right, but no sound emerged. ‘She’s unconscious?’
‘Apparently she collapsed in the street. They wouldn’t tell me any more.’
‘No…’ She cleared her throat, tried again. ‘No.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry you were bothered. I didn’t want you…’
‘Bothered.’ He finished the sentence when she faltered.
Belle heard the dead sound in his voice. Well, what had she expected? ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I, Belle. So am I.’
Ivo steered the big car across the city with only the intermittent slap of the wipers clearing the icy drizzle breaking the silence.
She.
He hadn’t said whether the person was male or female, but Belle had known. So it was true. She had a daughter.
He waited, hoping that she would tell him, trust him. Then, glancing at her as he pulled up in front of the hospital, he realised that she was beyond that. That she was taut with anxiety, with something else. Fear?
He reached across, briefly touched her hands, which were clenched together in her lap, and when she looked up he said, ‘We’ll take care of her, Belle.’
For a moment he saw something flicker in the depths of her eyes, something that gave him hope, then, quite deliberately, she shook her head, moved her hands.
‘There is no we. Thank you for coming to fetch me, for the lift.’ She opened the door before he could get out and do it for her. ‘I can handle it from here.’
‘You may not want to live with me, Belle, but I’m still your husband,’ he said, doing his best to keep the desperation from his voice. To stop her from shutting him out. This was not like buying a car. Painting a ceiling. He’d spoken to the policeman. He knew how hard this was going to be. ‘I am still your friend.’
She did not look at him as she said, ‘We’ve never been friends, Ivo.’
And with that she swung her legs from the car and walked away from him, picking up her gown as she climbed the steps to the entrance.
For a moment he stayed where he was, pinned to his seat by her words. Knowing that he should go after her, that she would need him, no matter what she said.
Was that the truth?
He’d wanted her body. Had wanted the warmth she’d brought to his life.
What, apart from a sense of security that she no longer needed, had he ever given her in return?
Even now, when she’d left him, when she’d plainly said that there was nothing in their marriage, nothing in him, to hold her, he was plotting and planning as if she were some company, some
Not a woman who, with each passing day, he admired more, understood more, missed more. Who he knew he would not want to live without.
Her words dripped into his mind like acid, peeling away the layers of scar tissue that had built up since his earliest years, protecting him from pain, letting in light so that he could see that he’d been asking the wrong question. It wasn’t what, how much, he could give her to bring her back that he should be asking himself; he already knew that there weren’t enough diamonds in the world, or flowers, no penthouse apartment built that would do it for him.
She didn’t want, need, possessions; she had all she’d ever need without him. But security wasn’t just a well- stocked portfolio. There was a deeper psychological dimension to it, a need that transcended physical comfort, one which no amount of money could provide; that was the security she’d sought from him and which he’d failed so miserably to give her. Because for all his wealth, he knew his own emotional piggy bank was empty.
How did you fill a dry well?
Where did you go for something you could not buy?
The dilemma of a thousand fairy tales. What did he have to barter that was worth the heart of Belle Davenport?
As if on cue the phone rang, offering, if not an answer, another chance.
Belle ignored the ripple of interest that her arrival in A &E provoked.
She made herself known at reception, was taken through to one of the treatment rooms where a scarecrow of a girl was lying on the examination table. Thin, pale, wearing nothing more than a T-shirt, a pair of black jeans. Belle tried not to react, betray her shock, horror, but forced herself to reach out.
‘Daisy?’ she said.
