Page 77 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4
And the burden of worrying about you, whispered a voice.
Faye groaned a little and rolled over. She buried her face in Primo’s exquisite bedlinen. All four hundred million thread count, or whatever it was.
When she could move, she sat up and pulled back the covers. She had no idea when they’d finally fallen asleep. And now he was on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic.
Faye got up and washed herself in the luxurious en suite bathroom and found a robe, pulling it on and belting it.
Back in the bedroom, she studiously ignored the fact that Primo had obviously picked up the detritus of her clothes and underwear and draped them over a chair. She was tempted to look in Primo’s drawers for something to wear but hesitated, feeling it was too intimate.
After a night spent in your husband’s bed?mocked a voice.
She ignored it.
She pulled the curtains back, finding French doors that led out to a terrace. She went outside in bare feet. The morning was bright and the air fresh. The streets were a long way below. From here Faye could look across Central Park. Her apartment was somewhere on the other side of the park, a block further back from this spectacular view. She’d bought her own place with her own hard-earned money and she was inordinately proud of that fact.
She went back into the bedroom and decided to explore beyond it. She heard a sound coming from the main part of the apartment and went still. Had Primo not left?
The thought that he hadn’t left because he wanted to spend more time with her was sending flutters into her belly... But when she got to the doorway leading into the kitchen there was an older woman there, dressed in dark trousers and shirt, her hair in a sleek, elegant grey-haired bob.
She turned to Faye, who immediately felt naked even though she wore the robe. ‘Good morning, Mrs Holt. I’m Marjorie. Mr Holt’s housekeeper and general domestic dogsbody.’
Faye couldn’t help but respond to the woman’s warm, easy manner and outstretched hand. ‘Please, call me Faye... I’m still getting used to being Mrs Holt.’
To put it mildly.
The woman smiled at her. ‘You must be hungry...please come with me.’
She led Faye through to an adjoining informal dining room, where a veritable feast had been laid out. Fresh fruit, granola, yoghurt, pastries, coffee, tea... And the daily newspapers.
‘I can do you a cooked breakfast, if you’d like?’
Faye shook her head. She wasn’t used to being waited on like this, and rarely had time for breakfast. ‘Oh, no, that won’t be necessary—but thank you.’
‘Mr Holt has organised some clothes for you—he said you’re still not fully moved in.’
Faye smiled weakly and looked at the designer bags by the door. ‘Thank you.’
Marjorie left her to eat in peace, and Faye eyed the bags suspiciously while she had some fruit and granola and yoghurt. She forced herself to have coffee before looking. The man had left at the crack of dawn—not that Faye had woken out of her pleasure-induced coma. How on earth had he organised this?
Eventually curiosity overcame her. She got up and investigated, pulling out trousers, tops, underwear, flat shoes, heeled shoes, toiletries. There was also a choice of leisure wear, and even jeans. They were simple, elegant clothes—the kind she would have chosen herself.
Faye’s mobile phone pinged from somewhere nearby and she found it in her evening bag, which had been left on a table in the hall. Her face flamed. She couldn’t even remember discarding that when they’d arrived here. Too drunk on Primo. Too desperate.
There was a text from Primo—presumably from somewhere over the Atlantic.
Good morning, I hope you slept well. I arranged some clothes for you. I have to go to Paris from London for a cocktail function on Friday evening. It’s not on the list of events for us to attend together but...they have art in Paris. P (Your husband)
Faye couldn’t stop a silly smile spreading across her face. But as soon as she was aware of it she rearranged her features. Her initial reaction was,No way!They hadn’t discussed it, she had prior engagements, and she couldn’t just drop everything and be expected to fly across to Europeagain so soon.
And yet with the lingering after-effects of Primo’s very particular brand of expert lovemaking still humming in her blood, all she could see in her mind’s eye was a rose-tinted view of Paris as the sun set over the Seine.
She knew that she could rearrange her schedule quite easily—the beauty of working for oneself. And he was right. They did have art in Paris. And she had clients.
She knew deep down that she’d made her decision instantly, and that it had not much at all to do with making arrangements to see clients and a lot more to do with a man who was fast becoming something of a distracting obsession.
She sent back a quick text.
Thanks for the clothes, that was thoughtful. I will see if I can rearrange some work engagements. F (Your wife)
