‘He is,’ agreed Stella. ‘Now where did I put those car keys?’
It took Brett almost half an hour to get the bloody, hippy Goye woman to leave. She insisted on walking Angela to the door, glaring at him all the while as if he were some sort of axe-murderer, and made an elaborate point of reminding Angela that she was just a phone call away and would ‘check in’ on her in any case over the next few days, ‘just to make sure you’re safe.’
But any irritation he felt towards Max Bingley’s girlfriend was instantly overwhelmed by the mixture of guilt and anguish that engulfed him when he looked at Angie’s face. Last night he’d been so happy she was alive and, OK, he’d barely noticed the bruises. Of course, he’d also been drunk as a skunk, which probably hadn’t helped his powers of observation. And it was dark. But today the full scale of Angie’s injuries hit home, each cut and bruise and swelling cruelly illuminated by the daylight.
‘Jesus Christ, Ange.’ He choked up. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She could see that he meant it. ‘I’ll live.’
She took his arm and they went inside. Brett made some sweet tea and brought it to her in the drawing room.
‘I never meant to hurt you,’ he said softly, his head in his hands. Quite apart from the guilt, his hangover was brutal. He felt as if his cranium might explode at any minute. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not having an affair,’ Angela said wearily. ‘I almost did, once. But I decided not to.’
Brett winced as if a wasp had just stung him in the eye.
‘When? Who with?’
‘A long time ago. In France. Does it matter?’
‘Not really,’ Brett agreed. ‘But I’m curious.’
‘His name was Didier Lemprière. He was a lawyer. We had him to dinner on the yacht in St Tropez, the night before I walked in on you and Tricia.’
Brett groaned. He didn’t want to be reminded of that trip.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, awkwardly.
‘Me too.’
They sat in silence for a while. Then Brett asked. ‘So why didn’t you have an affair with this guy? After all I put you through. Like you said to me last night, you’d have had every right.’
‘I’m not sure one ever has a “right” to an affair, exactly.’
Angela’s mind flashed back to the day in Alfriston, when she’d run into Max Bingley at the pub where she and Didier were having lunch. She’d often wondered what might have happened had Max not been there that day. Would she have taken the next step with Didier? Had Max’s presence somehow shamed her into doing the ‘right’ thing? Into resisting temptation? Probably. She remembered strongly the feeling of not wanting to disappoint Max Bingley. Of not having Max think less of her.
‘Anyway, a friend talked me out of it in the end,’ she told Brett.
Silence descended once again.
‘So what happens now?’ Brett asked eventually.
Angela looked him in the eye. ‘I think we need some time apart.’
‘A separation?’ Brett sounded stricken.
‘It doesn’t have to be formal. But we need to think,’ said Angela. ‘Both of us. We can’t go on like this, Brett. I mean, look at us!’
They both turned to their reflection in the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated the west wall of the room. Angie looked as if she’d done ten rounds with a champion boxer. As for Brett, unshaven, green-skinned and with bloodshot eyes, he looked more like a down-and-out than a property mogul.
‘OK,’ said Brett, defeated. ‘I’ll move out. I’ll go to the flat in London for now. I’ve got a lot of business coming up in New York too, so maybe I’ll spend some time there …’ His words trailed off. ‘I love you, Ange,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I love you too,’ said Angela truthfully. ‘But I don’t know if that’s enough any more. And I don’t think you do, either.’
Brett stood up. Angela didn’t think she’d ever seen him so broken.
‘I’ll pack a bag,’ he said gruffly. ‘Can I get you anything? Painkillers?’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Only then did Angela give way to tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE