Just One Last Night Read online

  ‘Hello, Isabelle.’ Melanie’s voice was shaky. She’d half expected Forde’s mother to look ill and pale, for things to be different somehow, but instead both Isabelle and this room were exactly the same. She had left Forde, then left the city and made a new life for herself, but it was as though the last seven months had never happened and she had been here the day before. The same floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with books graced two walls of the somewhat old-fashioned room, the same heavily patterned wool carpet covering the floor and thick embossed drapes at the window… She took a deep breath. ‘How are you? Forde told me you’ve been in hospital recently.’ She’d decided to mention his name straight away rather than having him hanging over the proceedings like a spectre at the feast.

  Isabelle smiled. ‘I was foolish enough to break a hip and then my heart played up a little, but what can you expect at my age? I’m no spring chicken. More to the point, how are you, dear?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Telling herself she had to say what she’d rehearsed for days, Melanie took the plunge. ‘Isabelle, when I returned your letter it wasn’t because I didn’t want to keep in touch, not really, but because I—I couldn’t.’

  A pair of silvery-blue eyes very like Forde’s smiled at her. ‘I know that, dear. It had to be a clean sweep for you to be able to go on. We were too fond of each other for it to be any different.’

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to lay her head on Isabelle’s lap and cry and cry, as she had done the first time she’d seen Forde’s mother after losing Matthew. Isabelle had cried with her then, telling her she would never forget Matthew but there would be other babies to take away the edge of her grief and loss. Frightened by the way she was feeling, Melanie retreated. ‘You want the garden replanning, I understand.’

  Isabelle accepted the change of conversation with her normal grace. ‘Want is perhaps not the right word. Need is better. I have to confess it’s become a little too much lately.’

  ‘And you don’t want a gardener in to see to things?’

  ‘Occasionally, but not every day. As you know I’ve put in several hours most days for years—it’s my pleasure. I can still do a little but not all that’s required.’

  ‘So if we got it under control, my assistant coming in perhaps once a month for a couple of days wouldn’t distress you too much?’ Melanie asked gently, feeling for Forde’s mother. The grounds were beautiful and they’d been Isabelle’s pride and joy. ‘You’ll like James,’ she added. ‘I promise.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. Now, Nurse Bannister is bringing us a cup of tea and then I thought we might see the garden together?’

  Melanie nodded. In truth she wanted to get out of this room. She had noticed at once that Isabelle had kept their wedding picture in its elaborate gold frame exactly where it had always been, and she’d avoided looking at it since. The tall, dark, smiling man and his radiant bride could have been different people, so far removed did she feel from the girl in the photograph.

  It was clear Nurse Bannister had made the connection when she returned with the tray of tea a few moments later, her gimlet-hard eyes searching Melanie’s face avidly. With no trouble Melanie decided she could quite understand Isabelle’s desire to be rid of the companion Forde—for all the right reasons, of course—had thrust upon his mother.

  By the time she left Hillview three hours later Melanie felt she had a good idea of what Isabelle would like, and more importantly not like, in the new garden. They’d agreed to leave well alone where they could and all the mature trees would remain, but Melanie had encouraged Isabelle to treat the acre of ground as a series of compartments flowing into and round each other to create a whole. Easy maintenance being the prime concern, Melanie had suggested vigorous ground cover in places, evergreen, naturally dense plants planted to form a thatch of vegetation that would give weeds little opportunity to develop. A water feature in the form of a large sunken pool surrounded by a pebble ‘beach’ to keep down weeds and an area for sitting in one part of the garden, in another a landscaped rockery with helian-themums, verbascums and sisyrinchiums to give vibrant colour, a bed of gravel aiding drainage and avoiding waterlogging.

  Isabelle had listened to all her suggestions, welcoming the idea of winding paths leading to arbours and two or three patio areas, along with several chamomile lawns. This aromatic perennial would provide a contrast of texture to other areas of the garden, and when bruised by light treading the leaves would release a pleasant apple-like scent. The main advantage over a grass lawn for Isabelle was that the chamomile only would need very occasional trimming, which James could see to.

  An area of decking surrounded by scented shrubs; a sunny, gentle slope adapted to suit sun-loving plants chosen for their rich flowering and compact shape on a bed of tiny, different-coloured pebbles; dramatic island beds of large shrubs surrounded by lavender or ornamental grasses—Melanie had come up with them all, and Isabelle had been remarkably open to the changes.

  They had agreed Melanie would go away and make scale drawings recording features of both the present garden and the new proposed changes, so that Isabelle could review the options and make sure she was completely happy. Melanie had told her mother-in-law that, at the initial stage, Isabelle must treat the drawing as a base plan and she could use overlays of tracing paper to test out different ideas. Once Isabelle was sure how she wanted the changes to look, Melanie would make detailed planting plans for particular areas as well as drawing up cross-sections of specific features, like the pool, the arbour and grass walk they’d discussed, the topiary and other ideas. Nothing was definite and Isabelle had the right to change her mind as many times as she wanted to, Melanie had impressed on the old lady, knowing it was a little overwhelming for her.

  They parted with a kiss and a hug, Isabelle holding her tight for a little longer than was strictly necessary. Melanie had a lump in her throat as she drove away from the house. It had felt so right to be with Isabelle again, but she didn’t dwell on her feelings, applying her mind to the drawings she would make on graph paper from her notes and thinking of one or two other ideas as she drove. Softening the stone walls surrounding a patio area by planting vibrant flowers and trailing plants in the top of it, and maybe staggered railway sleepers in the far corner to give a step effect with boulders and varied plants.

  She wanted Isabelle’s garden to continue to be a sanctuary to be enjoyed by the old lady, a retreat from the world, and to that end she was planning paths that curled from one feature to another, shady corners with trees and shrubs and sunny spots like the rockery and pool. And lots of benches, comfortable wooden ones, she told herself, where Isabelle could sit and rest any time anywhere in the grounds.

  The changes were going to take a lot of money but there was no reason why, at the end of it all, Isabelle’s original high-maintenance garden, which had always been kept in a state of perfection by the dedicated gardener her mother-in-law had been, couldn’t be turned into something just as beautiful but dramatically more labour friendly. In fact she would make sure of it, Melanie determined.

  Once home, she made a pot of coffee and began work at the dining table. She was deep into transferring all the measurements she’d taken that afternoon onto her rough plan when the phone rang. Her mind occupied with right angles and base lines and boundaries, she lifted up the receiver and spoke automatically. ‘Hello, Melanie Masterson.’

  ‘Hello, Melanie Masterson. This is Forde Masterson speaking.’

  Her heart ricocheted off her ribcage and then galloped at twice its speed. Somehow she managed to say fairly normally, ‘Oh, hi, Forde. I was working.’

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ he said, the faintly teasing note that had been in his voice disappearing.

  She wanted to say it was OK, that she hadn’t meant it like that, as a put-down, but, telling herself it was better to keep things businesslike and formal, she kept quiet.

  ‘I just called to thank you for how you handled my mother. She phoned a while ago and, from being
more than a little apprehensive about her beloved garden being chopped about, as she’d put it initially, she came across as actually excited about the changes you’d discussed. I appreciate it, Nell.’

  As ever, hearing the special nickname sent a flicker of desire sizzling along her nerve endings. His power over her was absolute, she recognised with a stab of dismay. Nothing had changed. Just hearing his voice made her want him so badly she was trembling with it.

  ‘Nell? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said quickly, pulling herself together. ‘And there’s no need to thank me. You do realise it’s going to be pretty expensive if we do it properly.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was a pause. ‘Would it be crass to point out you know what I’m worth and money isn’t a consideration? I just want her satisfied at the end of it.’

  ‘She will be.’ Melanie found she didn’t want him to finish the conversation. She wanted to keep talking to him, hearing those deep, smoky tones. She should never have agreed to do the job, she thought as fear at her vulnerability where Forde was concerned streaked through her. This was crazy, just asking for trouble. ‘She’ll love it, Forde. I promise.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ he said softly. ‘I trust you, Nell. I always have.’

  Panic gave her the strength to say, ‘I have to go now. I’ll be in touch once Isabelle’s decided exactly what she wants and I’ve planned and costed everything. Goodbye, Forde.’

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.’

  He’d put the phone down before her stunned mind could compute again. Sweetheart? And sweet dreams? What had happened to her conditions? she thought frantically as she went into the kitchen to fix more coffee, needing its boost to calm her shattered nerves. Admittedly she hadn’t actually spelled out ‘no endearments,’ but surely he’d got the message?

  She found he had completely ruined her concentration when she tried to work on the drawings again. Eventually she took an aspirin for the pounding headache that had developed in the last hour or so and went to bed, there to toss and turn half the night, and have X-rated dreams in which Forde rated highly for the other half.

  Nevertheless, when she awoke early Monday morning her steely resolve was back. The divorce was going through, come hell or high water, she determined as she sat eating her breakfast in the tiny courtyard, feeling like a wet rag. Absolutely nothing could prevent it. Nothing. It was the only way she could ever regain some peace of mind again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CONTRARY to what Melanie had expected after Forde’s call the day she had visited his mother, the next four weeks passed by without further contact with him. She visited Isabelle twice more during the time she was finishing the other contracts, and they ironed out exactly what was required to their mutual satisfaction.

  On her second visit, Melanie took James along with her. He was fully acquainted with the circumstances but—James-like—had taken it all in his stride as though it were the most natural thing in the world for an estranged wife who was seeking a divorce to undertake a major job for her mother-in-law.

  Melanie could tell Isabelle was a little taken aback at first when she met James. He was something of an Adonis with a smile that could charm the birds out of the trees, but, just so her mother-in-law didn’t put two and two together and make ten, she took her aside at one point when James was busy measuring this and that at the other end of the garden and made it clear theirs was a working relationship and nothing more.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Isabelle said sweetly, as though the thought of anything else hadn’t crossed her mind, but Melanie noticed her mother-in-law’s smile was warmer the next time she conversed with James. For his part, James was his normal, sunny self and by the end of the afternoon he had Isabelle eating out of his hand, which boded well for the future.

  The night before they were due to start work at Hillview, Melanie didn’t sleep well. The August heatwave had continued into an Indian summer, and it was even hotter in September if anything. Everywhere, the ground was baked dry, and, although this was slightly preferable to working in drenching rain and mud, it wasn’t ideal. But it wasn’t the pending job that had her giving up all thought of further sleep at four in the morning and going downstairs to make a pot of coffee, which she took outside into the courtyard; it was Forde.

  There had scarcely been a waking minute he hadn’t invaded her thoughts since the night they’d slept together, and even when she’d fallen asleep he was still there, carving his place in her subconscious. And she hadn’t heard from him. Not a word. Not a phone call. Nothing. She’d submitted a ridiculously low estimate to Isabelle as he had requested once she’d worked out the pricing of the job, and a realistic one to him via his office rather than his home, thinking this emphasised the businesslike nature of the arrangement. His secretary had called the next day to say that Mr Masterson was happy with the estimate and his confirmation of acceptance would arrive by return of post. Which it had. A signature in the required space. Great.

  Melanie wrinkled her nose in the scented darkness. He’d finally cut his losses and moved on, that was plain to see. The last ridiculous scenario when she’d all but begged him to make love to her and then frozen him out the next morning had been too much. She didn’t blame him. How could she? Why would any man put his hand up to take on a nutcase like her? And it was what was necessary, what she’d been aiming for, so why did it feel as though her heart were being torn out by its roots?

  She sighed heavily, swigging back half a cup of coffee and looking up into the dark velvet sky above, punctured by hundreds of twinkling stars. She had to get a handle on this. Her dream of a happy-ever-after ending had been smashed to pieces months ago so why was she dredging up the past? She wasn’t like anyone else—that was what Forde didn’t understand. And it wasn’t his fault he’d married a jinxed woman. But she would never let herself get close to anyone again; that way she couldn’t be hurt and neither could anyone else.

  Finishing the last of the coffee, she continued to sit on as the sky lightened and the birds woke up, her limbs leaden. She hadn’t really slept well since Forde had come back into her life again—not that he’d ever left, if she was being brutally honest. She might not have spoken to or seen him those seven months before he had written to her, but he’d only been a heartbeat away, nonetheless.

  This had to get better, she told herself miserably. It must. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life feeling like this. Her grief and remorse about Matthew would always be with her; she had come to terms with that and in a strange way almost welcomed it. If she couldn’t do anything else for her darling little boy she could mourn him, and as long as she was alive he would never be forgotten but cherished in her heart. But the sense of loss about Forde was different and much more complicated.

  Stop analysing. She shut her eyes, letting the first gentle rays of the sun warm her face. By ten or eleven o’clock it would be baking hot and less of a blessing, but right now it felt comforting. She felt so tired—physically, mentally and emotionally—but she had to keep going. And there were people so much worse off than she was: folk with terminal illnesses or severe health issues. At least she was young and strong and fit. She mustn’t turn into a whinger—she’d always hated them.

  The silent pep talk helped a little, enough to get her on her feet anyway. After leaving the coffee tray in the kitchen she went upstairs to shower and change, and by seven o’clock was on the road. After picking James up from the house he rented with three friends—it was pointless them both driving the hundred-mile round trip each day—they drove to Hillview on roads not yet traffic logged with morning traffic, arriving at Isabelle’s house just after eight.

  The first thing Melanie noticed was Forde’s Aston Martin parked in the driveway. Her stomach somersaulted, but James was unfurling himself out of the truck and stretching, and didn’t glance at her before starting to unload some of the equipment in the back of the pickup. By the time she joined him on
the drive she was in command of herself, but angry. Forde had promised he’d stay away when she was around, and she didn’t believe for a moment he wasn’t aware she was starting work today. This was so, so unfair.

  She heard the front door open and knew by some sixth sense Forde was standing there, but she didn’t glance his way, continuing to help James until they were done. By that time Forde had walked down the drive from the house to where they were parked, some yards from the Aston Martin.

  ‘Good morning.’ His voice was cool, clipped, and as she looked at him she saw the silver-blue eyes were cold and he wasn’t smiling.

  Her anger went up a notch. How dared he look at her like that when he shouldn’t be here? Her tone matching his, she said pointedly, ‘Good morning, Forde. I’m starting work on the garden today or had it slipped your memory?’

  ‘No, it hadn’t slipped my memory,’ he said evenly, holding out his hand to James as he added, ‘I’m Forde Masterson, Melanie’s husband. I take it you’re James?’

  She’d forgotten she’d employed James after she’d left Forde and the two men hadn’t met. She watched James take Forde’s hand almost gingerly and she didn’t blame him; Forde was making no effort to be friendly, his face straight and his eyes narrowed.

  James mumbled a polite hello and then extracted his hand, saying he’d start taking some of the equipment to the back of the house before scampering off with armfuls of tools.

  ‘You spoke about your assistant as though he was a young lad just out of school and wet behind the ears,’ Forde said accusingly. ‘He’s a grown man of what—twenty-four, twenty-five?’

  ‘What?’ Why was he talking about James when he knew full well he shouldn’t be here?