The surprises keep coming. I wander through to the master bedroom and gasp out loud. On one wall, there are three doors; one leading to a dressing room that’s larger than the gents’ department in Harrods, one leading to a sauna and the other to a marble bathroom with a bath you could swim laps in. On another wall is a multimedia centre, with television, hi-fi, video and laser disc. The bed is king size and covered in white silk. But it’s the other side of the room that takes my breath away. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window spanning the whole length of the room, with a view of Hong Kong that’s normally reserved for postcards. This is a palace.
I don’t know what to do with myself, what gadget to play with first. I decide on the sauna and Jacuzzi, then choose an Otis Reading CD from the collection of hundreds. By the time I’ve worked out how to switch the hi-fi on, the sauna is too hot and the Jacuzzi is too cold.
The telephone rings, then clicks on to the answering machine. I hear Sam’s voice first. Just hearing his voice makes me hug myself in happiness.
‘Hi, this is Sam Morton.’ His voice is oh so sexy. ‘Please leave your name, number and message after the tone and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Thank you.’
A female voice cuts in.
‘Hi, Sam, this is Vivian.’
Who the fuck is Vivian?
‘I know it’s short notice, but I wonder if you’re free on Saturday night?’ she purrs. ‘Call me.’
Call her? I’ll kill her. Doesn’t she know yet that he’s officially off the market? Okay, so I’ve only been back for an hour and a half, but I’m already choosing hymns and planning the honeymoon.
Twenty minutes later, I’m blowing bubbles in the Jacuzzi when the phone rings again. If it’s Vivian, then we have to have a serious chat.
‘Sam, baby, this is Estelle,’ her voice is husky, like a telephone sex line. ‘I need you. Now. Call me back soon.’
I want to tear the phone out of the wall. But what did I expect? Sam is a gorgeous man; of course he’s going to have women falling at his feet. In fact, I tell myself, it’s probably a good thing that there’s more than one because it means that he’s not serious about either of them. That leaves plenty of room for little old me to step in and sweep him off to a life of bliss.
I’m lathering on enough body lotion to moisturise a small horse when the phone rings again. I groan inside. Please let it be his mother calling to ask if he wants her to send over sweaters for the winter.
‘Hello, Sam, long time no see. This is Caroline. I’m in town for a couple of days and I’d simply love it if you could fit me in. Call me at the Sheraton.’
Okay, the joke’s over. Is this Sam getting all the female bar staff at whatever pub he works in now to call up in some crazy attempt to make me jealous? Well, if so, it’s working. Or did he finally start his martial arts school and these are all clients? Yep, that must be it. Makes total sense.
I take a book out of the bookcase and lie back on the bed – the very bed that, with a bit of luck, I’ll be lying in with Sam tonight and every night from now on. This is finally it, I muse. All these months of blood, sweat and heartache have finally paid off. I know he won’t have changed – he’ll still be the sensitive, funny, intelligent guy that I fell in love with before. And I’m ready for it now. I’m ready for the whole marriage and ever-after bit. All the others were just trial and error to get me back to where I belong, here with Sam. I just hope he still feels the same. Then I remember the look on his face when he saw me sitting on the steps. He still loves me, I know he does.
I brush out my hair, reapply my make-up, then slip on a huge white robe that’s hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I check my appearance in the mirror, practising my most seductive ‘come over here and bite me’ looks. I light the candles. Okay, lights, sounds and looks are taken care of. I’m ready.
At midnight I hear the now familiar ringing.
‘Sam, this is Diane. I’ve had a good day today; I closed a deal that’s made both my bank manager and me very happy indeed, so I’ve decided to treat myself to a night with my favourite escort. How about Monday? Let me know, darling.’
My coffee mug smashes to the floor. What did she say?
My heart starts to race. I frantically press every button on the answering machine and finally manage to play the message back. ‘ESCORT’. What was she talking about? She can’t have had the wrong number, because she referred to Sam by name. Maybe she meant ‘escort’ in the old-fashioned sense, like my gran does when she talks about her courting days.
But then I look around and realisation dawns. My stomach does a spin cycle. Who am I trying to kid? The Porsche, the millionaire’s row apartment…
I close my eyes. I am so stupid. My head is spinning and I want to throw up and I suddenly feel very sorry for myself. I need fresh air and a brandy, so I pour one and go out on to the balcony. I slump to the floor and cry until there isn’t a drop of fluid left in my head.
