faithful champion of many years, had confronted her former lover and his new mistress. Try as she might, Zoe could only think of the meeting in terms of a confrontation.
And what of her own part in it? Why had she chosen to be present at this embarrassing encounter? Had it been mere curiosity to see the woman she knew Raymond had lately loved so deeply, however much he might make light of it now? Had she been anxious to oversee and confirm Raymond’s exchange from his former lover to her? It was understandable she would need reassurance, after all: Raymond Keane was expecting her to become his wife.
And she had expected, even been anxious, to become that wife. Before Sunday. She did not like what she had seen in herself that day, but she liked still less what she thought she had seen in Raymond. There had been a streak of cruelty in her wish to be so inappropriately present at this farewell to Moira Yates; she saw that clearly now. There had been a part of her which wanted to see herself triumphant and the former mistress put down. It was despicable in her. And it had not worked out that way.
That strange, febrile woman who had taken such unexpected charge of the proceedings had been the winner of the strange battle she had conducted in her brother’s antiseptic modern house. Zoe had found herself suddenly jealous of her, of her easy intimacy with Raymond Keane, of her ability to discomfort him so easily. Zoe had been treated as if she did not exist, until Moira chose to acknowledge her presence. And for Raymond, when he had been in the orbit of that strangely powerful dark-haired witch, Zoe had indeed been unimportant, almost unnoticed.
She had known by Sunday night that she could never marry Raymond. She had been appalled by the casual, exuberant cruelty of his treatment of his business partner, Chris Hampson, on that Sunday morning. The fact that he had been showing off to her, asserting his power and inviting her to admire him, had made it much worse, for she had felt herself drawn into his behaviour. It showed what he thought of her, how little he knew of her, that he expected her to applaud him in this.
And then that encounter with Moira Yates in the afternoon. He had planned to be as cruel to that strange woman as he had been to Hampson, she was sure. And he would have expected Zoe to applaud him in that cruelty also. She was glad now that that flashing dark-haired woman had so discomforted Raymond, that she had been there to see it. It had been painful, but the scales had dropped from her eyes.
Everything Raymond had said since he had left Moira Yates had only confirmed her revulsion for him: his preoccupation with recovering his own composure; his repeated statements that Moira would never have made a parliamentary wife; above all, his total failure to take account of the way the meeting had affected Zoe and her relationship with him.
When the phone shrilled suddenly in the quiet room, she started so violently that she spilled most of her drink on her lap. It was evidence of how much on edge she was, she thought as she picked up the phone.
It was Raymond. He had been drinking; for the first time ever, she resented that, acutely and irrationally.
He was not drunk, but his voice slid a little carelessly over the syllables as he said, ‘I’ve almost wound things up in the metropolis. One or two people to see tomorrow. Then I should be able to get away to the cottage. See you tomorrow night?’
‘ Not tomorrow. I—I’m working.’
The lie fell clumsily from her trembling lips, but he was too drunk, or too complacent, to recognize it. ‘Saturday, then. Christmas Eve. Mistletoe and no nighties! I’ll look forward to it, my love.’
The endearment was too casual, too presumptuous. She wondered how many other women it had been offered to in the past. Such things had never worried her when she loved him. ‘All right. I don’t know what time.’
‘ Be in touch, then. Goo’ night, old thing.’
He put
And what of her own part in it? Why had she chosen to be present at this embarrassing encounter? Had it been mere curiosity to see the woman she knew Raymond had lately loved so deeply, however much he might make light of it now? Had she been anxious to oversee and confirm Raymond’s exchange from his former lover to her? It was understandable she would need reassurance, after all: Raymond Keane was expecting her to become his wife.
And she had expected, even been anxious, to become that wife. Before Sunday. She did not like what she had seen in herself that day, but she liked still less what she thought she had seen in Raymond. There had been a streak of cruelty in her wish to be so inappropriately present at this farewell to Moira Yates; she saw that clearly now. There had been a part of her which wanted to see herself triumphant and the former mistress put down. It was despicable in her. And it had not worked out that way.
That strange, febrile woman who had taken such unexpected charge of the proceedings had been the winner of the strange battle she had conducted in her brother’s antiseptic modern house. Zoe had found herself suddenly jealous of her, of her easy intimacy with Raymond Keane, of her ability to discomfort him so easily. Zoe had been treated as if she did not exist, until Moira chose to acknowledge her presence. And for Raymond, when he had been in the orbit of that strangely powerful dark-haired witch, Zoe had indeed been unimportant, almost unnoticed.
She had known by Sunday night that she could never marry Raymond. She had been appalled by the casual, exuberant cruelty of his treatment of his business partner, Chris Hampson, on that Sunday morning. The fact that he had been showing off to her, asserting his power and inviting her to admire him, had made it much worse, for she had felt herself drawn into his behaviour. It showed what he thought of her, how little he knew of her, that he expected her to applaud him in this.
And then that encounter with Moira Yates in the afternoon. He had planned to be as cruel to that strange woman as he had been to Hampson, she was sure. And he would have expected Zoe to applaud him in that cruelty also. She was glad now that that flashing dark-haired woman had so discomforted Raymond, that she had been there to see it. It had been painful, but the scales had dropped from her eyes.
Everything Raymond had said since he had left Moira Yates had only confirmed her revulsion for him: his preoccupation with recovering his own composure; his repeated statements that Moira would never have made a parliamentary wife; above all, his total failure to take account of the way the meeting had affected Zoe and her relationship with him.
When the phone shrilled suddenly in the quiet room, she started so violently that she spilled most of her drink on her lap. It was evidence of how much on edge she was, she thought as she picked up the phone.
It was Raymond. He had been drinking; for the first time ever, she resented that, acutely and irrationally.
He was not drunk, but his voice slid a little carelessly over the syllables as he said, ‘I’ve almost wound things up in the metropolis. One or two people to see tomorrow. Then I should be able to get away to the cottage. See you tomorrow night?’
‘ Not tomorrow. I—I’m working.’
The lie fell clumsily from her trembling lips, but he was too drunk, or too complacent, to recognize it. ‘Saturday, then. Christmas Eve. Mistletoe and no nighties! I’ll look forward to it, my love.’
The endearment was too casual, too presumptuous. She wondered how many other women it had been offered to in the past. Such things had never worried her when she loved him. ‘All right. I don’t know what time.’
‘ Be in touch, then. Goo’ night, old thing.’
He put
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