Living It Up, Living It Down by Norma Curtis

Author:Norma Curtis [Curtis, Norma]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2014-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

25

Two weeks after the consultant’s unjust accusation Jonathan Wade was sitting, desolate, in his study.

The study had distressed oak panels in it like a library in an Agatha Christie novel and it had been soundproofed; so why could he still hear Amelia order the removal men about?

Jonathan slumped over his desk in misery. He held the pose until he began to get pins and needles in his leg and even then he carried on holding it a little longer, just in case Amelia should come in.

Finally forced, through pain, to his feet, he rubbed his leg vigorously and thought, I will show her!

He was Chief Executive of Midlands TV; he was a success, a success! With his black hair, trimmed every six weeks by John Frieda, and all his own teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, every woman’s – apart from Amelia’s – romantic hero, he wouldn’t be alone for long.

The truth was, he didn’t want to be alone for a minute.

He hated being alone.

He flexed his leg; the pins and needles had drifted away. Pleased about that, he returned his thoughts to his loneliness and heard a knock at the door.

‘Jonathan? I’m coming in.’

He knew it was too late to resume his slumped position so he hurried to the window and stood looking through it. The light would blacken out his features when he turned and Amelia would never be quite sure –

‘Amelia,’ he said as she came in, her hair perfect, not at all the hair of anyone who was moving house.

‘Jonathan.’ Her voice rang out bossily, without, he noticed, a hint of regret in it.

‘This is the number of Henry’s private line. He hopes we can all be civilized.’

Jonathan turned. He imagined the figure he made – a handsome, black silhouette against the light. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Henry thinks wife-stealing is civilized, does he.’

Amelia sighed. ‘He didn’t steal me. And he happens to like me.’

Jonathan frowned. But then, he’d never thought much of Henry’s judgement. However, Amelia was his wife and he loved her, in his own way.

‘Amelia,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t go.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘What can he give you that I can’t?’

‘A baby,’ Amelia said, ever practical. ‘You’ve never loved me anyway, you’ve always thought me ugly.’

‘It’s a lie,’ he said, lying. ‘Don’t go!’

Amelia came up to the window to stand next to him. She took a bit of fluff from his polo shirt; probably the last wifely thing she would ever do for him, and he kissed her quickly on top of her short hair. ‘Please,’ he said passionately.

She took his hand and put a card into it and folded his fingers over it as though he were a boy being given a birthday fiver. ‘If things get too terrible for you, ring me,’ she said, ‘but I shan’t come back. We’ve had good times, haven’t we?’

It was like being sent back to prep school: shut out of the warmth of everyday life and sent into a sort of busy, regimented emptiness.

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