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

vent to his fury. In a while he would come down and tell her he was sorry. She waited. Then after half an hour he reappeared at the door.

‘I have to pop out for a moment,’ he said in a strained tone.

‘What for?’ she asked, but he shook his head.

‘Nothing – it doesn’t matter.’ No apology. He still looked tight-faced.

Madeleine half smiled to herself. He was going to settle his tailor’s bill. When he returned he might continue to sulk for a while, but soon he would come round, understand her point of view. She smiled at him. From now on she’d have no need to indulge him. Instead he might indulge her. That would be nice.

‘Well don’t be too long, darling,’ she crooned lovingly, glancing down at her hands, but when she looked up he had already disappeared.

She heard the front door close, a little hesitantly as if he was having some trouble closing it. Sighing she got up from the chaise longue and went to glance out of the window, just in time to see him getting into a taxi. It was then she saw the baggage space in the front beside the driver was stacked with two suitcases and a large holdall.

For a moment she stared unable to comprehend what she was seeing as the taxi drew away. Then in a sudden panic of realization, she ran from the window into the hall and upstairs to their bedroom. The place was a mess. His dressing table drawers and the doors of his wardrobe were open and empty, the hangers angling; his shoe rack bare; in the bathroom his toiletry and shaving gear also gone. Gone too was her jewellery, their boxes lying open.

Without knowing what she was doing, Madeleine opened her mouth and let forth a piercing scream, one that went on and on and which she seemed powerless to stop.

Then as her breath gave out, she sank to the floor, sobbing as if her body might dissolve with the effort.

Twenty-Nine

Eight thirty, a weak November sun just starting to peep over the houses on the far side of Holland Park. Unable to sleep this last fortnight since Ronnie had walked out, she realized she had no idea where he was; had prayed he would soon come back saying he was sorry. But there’d been no word.

She had rushed off to his bank to find that he had withdrawn all the money she’d helped him make, using hers to enable him to do so – in other words she was keeping him. He’d closed his account and his bank had no idea – or refused to say – where he was.

Every time the telephone rang she would rush to it and yank it off its cradle, hoping to hear his exuberant young voice apologizing for his actions. But it was always someone else; a friend or close acquaintance looking for a half hour or so of chat.

She would tell them she was on her way out to somewhere urgent, promising to ring them back later. Not once had she done so. To use the phone could cause her to miss that one important call she hoped and prayed would come. But it hadn’t.

Each time the letter box rattled to alert her of a postal delivery, she’d run to the door, sift frantically through bills and demands and replies to her earlier invitation to the huge Christmas Eve party she’d planned to throw when Ronnie had been here and all had been well. But there was never anything from him.

She’d no interest now in giving a party; had no heart for a great crowd of people laughing and chatting and her without him at her side. She would of course have to contact people to say it was cancelled, but even that she’d not been able to bring herself to do, though it must be done soon.

Soon! What did it matter? Christmas was six weeks away – six weeks – two weeks – a hundred weeks! It didn’t matter any more, nor any future thing without Ronnie – her life pointless without him, the coming year empty – and all the years for the rest of her life…

Madeleine gulped – refusing to succumb to fresh tears. She’d done too much crying these last two weeks and they’d done no good except to make her feel ill, look hideous, unable to bring herself to venture out and face the world. She’d have to face the world eventually but it was hard.

Now she stood in the centre of this fine reception room of hers where she’d given so many huge parties, dinner parties held in the large dining room across the hall. Her mind wandered back to happier times when she and Anthony had been together and life had been so wonderful. How could she have let all that slip away?

Four days ago, four days closeted between these walls, she’d come to a decision, summoning up the courage to write to Anthony telling him she was broke, her lovely house to be sold to pay her debts and she had nowhere to go – such a humble, demeaning letter, it made her cringe.

Her daily woman who did the cooking and cleaning, Mrs Crossfield, had posted it for her. He hadn’t replied, but what had she expected? She’d not seen him for over three years, her life taken up by new and exciting things with Ronnie; her previous life put behind her. Yet often in the headiness of that lovely life she had thought of him from time to time, wondered vaguely how he was, if he was still with that someone else whom the Peel woman had seen him with, and she’d experience a small pang of regret, soon put aside in her new and wonderful life with Ronnie.

Now he was gone too. All the things she had lavished on him: clothes, money, her love – all her love – and he’d simply walked out without a care for her