A Fall from Grace - Maggie Ford (have you read this book TXT) 📗

In all this time there’d not been a word from Anthony. She’d had one or two friends tell him where she was, but nothing – no humble note of apology, no phone call, nothing.

From time to time news would filter through to her. Mr George Foster, James’s old partner and now hers, who of course knew him through James being his uncle, would keep her informed. Also news came from various mutual friends, some that he’d not so much as looked at another girl in all this time; others that he had been seen with different girls on odd occasions. Not knowing what to believe she could only hark back to last New Year’s Eve and find herself ready to believe the latter.

At first she’d wanted to run back to him, listen to his abject apologies; fall into his arms full of forgiveness; have him hold her tight. But it hadn’t happened and anger remained. Why should she forgive, listen to his lies? Now, after all these months it had become almost too late; anger, silent recrimination, mounting all the while. Yet she missed him so, fought with herself not to. And there were the ever-present questions: why hadn’t he come seeking her? Had he found another girl? Or picked up with that one she had caught him fondling that night?

She thought about it, especially when she lay alone in her bed at night, unable to sleep, the small hours creeping by, oh so slowly, each laden as the small hours always are when sleep eludes: unresolved solutions pinging away inside her head; and while her heart lying like a lump of concrete within her breast, feeling as if it was breaking all over again. Daytime when she could make herself busy, planning and holding numerous social gatherings wasn’t so bad – she still had plenty of friends who sympathized with her, knowing her story. She was still the exciting hostess, finding any excuse to throw a party, filling her new home with guests, everyone drinking too much, she included.

There were weekends in Paris, with some of them the occasional jaunt to the south of France, the endless buying of clothes, so many clothes, sending hardly worn ones to the poor – joining a charity committee to help take up the day when she was at a loose end – that or constantly on the phone to friends. At the motor show in Paris she’d bought herself a car, a Citroën, and learned how to drive. There was dinner most evenings, and the theatre with a hired escort though it went no further than that. Days when lost for something to do she’d spend hours endlessly scrutinizing the Financial Times studying the stock markets, telephoning her instructions to George Foster who’d become her good adviser and friend, though she saw herself more as a sleeping partner in the firm.

It would be Christmas soon. She intended to throw a social event to dim all social events, even after all these months still needing to push away these persistent bouts of loneliness and thoughts of Anthony. She thought of him now as she gazed through her drawing-room window, Mayfair was a good address, from here a partial view of Green Park – an exorbitant rent but she could afford it. She could have had a country house but she loved the London scene and living in the country would have brought memories of her parents’ home, which she’d rather forget. Here she could hold her own dinner parties, her evening parties, weekend parties by invitation at other people’s country houses. She and Anthony used to attend weekend parties. Was he at this moment doing the social rounds with some girl or other, she wondered, the thought bringing a momentary stab of depression, making her draw a deep breath to dispel it.

She’d transferred all her money from his bank into one George Foster had recommended, the rest in stocks and shares, as James had taught her. She’d grown quite adept at it or extremely lucky and all was looking solid enough. She still saw herself as something of a novice, but trusted James’s old partner – and now hers – with his good knowledge of the market. More especially he’d often invest some of his own money in that which he’d advised her to buy, proving confidence in his own advice – not exactly stooping to illegal insider dealing that, if discovered, might lead to dark frowns though he knew where to draw the line.

She would invite him and his wife Millicent to her Christmas event. She had never done it before and she hoped they would accept. There was a lot to think about: ordering the catering, the music, making sure invitations went out before any others arrived at the homes of her chosen guests. It all helped to occupy her mind to some extent and hardly had she sent them out than replies came flooding back almost by the following post: ‘So enormously happy to accept, my dear.’

Tonight she was giving a small dinner party, a few exclusive friends: Lilian and Howard Greenwood, Elizabeth and Burgess Jennings, Barbara and Stephen Pickford. The Greenwoods and the Jennings knew Anthony and she hoped they wouldn’t bring his name up at the table. She’d had several carefully penned notes of sympathy from some who knew of the break-up. Of course she had never explained the cause and assured them that it had been a mutual decision. On a whim she had telephoned George Foster to ask if he and his wife might care to come and he’d said they would be delighted.

A few minutes later the phone had rung again and it was Foster’s wife, Millicent whom she’d met once or twice. The woman had phoned to ask if they could be so bold as to bring a young man along with them.

‘He lives on his own nearby. He strikes us as being rather lonely,’