She went down to the master bedroom and burst into fresh tears realizing that Des would never sleep on his side of the outsize bed again, and that she was now a woman alone. She switched on the electric blanket, got undressed, and wrapped a robe around her while she cleansed, toned and moisturized. Not even the greatest crisis of her life would disrupt her bedtime beauty routine.
It was raining outside, drumming against the window, and the skies were dreary with ominous clouds. It was a relief to slip into the warmth of her luxurious soft sheets, and to pull the duvet up to her chin, knowing that she had a day and a night to recover before she had to face the realities of her situation and set about arranging meetings with lawyers and her bosses in Dickon and Austen’s.
Colette had thought that she would toss and turn but she fell asleep almost instantly and slept through the day, not waking until 4.30 that afternoon. Hunger gnawed at her and she pulled on a robe and padded out to the kitchen. It was dark already, and the view was so different from the one from her apartment in New York. It would take time to adjust to this life-changing move. Had she been too hasty? she wondered apprehensively, staring at the changed skyline. It was still raining and she closed the blinds to shut out the wintry night.
She had emailed a list of groceries and requirements to her maintenance firm, and the fridge was well stocked. She heated some soup, and ate it with granary bread and Cheddar. A rare treat for someone who stayed away from carbs and dairy. She left the dishes in the sink and went back to bed and flicked on Sky News. A reporter was commenting on plans for Obama’s forthcoming inauguration, flashing up images of Washington and Capitol Hill and for a surreal moment Colette felt she was back in the States. She switched the TV off and burst into tears.
She and Des had been invited to celebrate and view the historic occasion at a soirée to be thrown by the McLean-Butlers, at their Park Ave residence. They had got to know the affluent power couple in Nantucket over the years and had become friendly. Michelle McLean-Butler had bought several pieces from the gallery and Colette had made sure to give her a discount each time, knowing that she would bring other clients through word of mouth. Colette liked Michelle, who didn’t give a hoot about what people thought, which was quite refreshing in the society circles they moved in. Michelle was one of the few she would miss.
Now that she was truly on her own, she felt unnerved, apprehensive even. Had she done the right thing, leaving New York? Leaving Jazzy? She was right to leave Des, of that she had no doubts. It was so long since she’d lived in London – everyone she’d known would have moved on, forgotten her even. It was daunting to think that she’d practically have to start all over again. Did she have the energy for it? The nerve to do it solo? It was so much easier making changes when you were young and fearless . . . or even foolish, Colette thought with a brief spark of black humour. She was middle-aged now, used to being part of a couple for so long, it was strange being alone. But here she was, by her own choice and decision; she would have to get on with it.
Colette wiped her eyes and picked up the latest Vanity Fair she had flicked through on the plane. There was an article she wanted to read about Veronica de Gruyter Beracasa de Uribe, who had swept publishing mogul Randolph Hearst off his feet – and to the top of New York and Palm Beach society, and how after his death she had ended up forty-five million dollars in the red.
She and Des had never penetrated that rarefied strata of High Society, nor had she aspired to, but she had seen the Hearsts in the Met occasionally, and was aware that the hapless Veronica had hosted an intimate lunch for the late Princess of Wales, in the mid-nineties, which had truly cemented her social standing. For all the good it had done her, Colette mused, studying the glossy pictures intently. The high-flying Widow Hearst’s circumstances appeared far more dire than her own, which was a vague comfort. She read the gossipy article with interest and flipped over the pages to read about Kate Winslet, before her eyelids began to droop and she fell into another jet-lagged sleep.
She was sipping Earl Grey and nibbling on a piece of toast around midnight when the landline rang. Her New York apartment number flashed up on the screen. She stared at it. It had to be Des. Colette frowned. She could ignore it, or take the call. She was going to have to speak to her husband eventually; she might as well get it over with.
‘Hello,’ she said in a clipped, cool voice.
‘Nice one, Colette. I didn’t see that coming, for sure! Or you maxing out my Platinum card, or talking half of what was in our joint account, or selling the car. Or helping yourself to the gold.
