‘Of course. They will stump up eventually, but my cover doesn’t pay for a rental car and it’s like-for-like cover, so I’ll get bugger all for my old banger. What with spending every last penny on Sandra’s medication, I’ve got no spare dosh.’
I don’t mention that the last two months of her treatment have been paid with my money, not his.
‘What a nightmare,’ I say. ‘Would you like a hug?’
‘Sure.’ He stands up and throws his arms around me, but I can feel all the tension in him, the knots in his back, the frown still on his forehead.
‘Sorry, Lydia,’ he says as he pulls away from me and sits back down again. ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do without a car. I need to drive to Maidstone tomorrow, and the trains are so unreliable.’
‘You can borrow Adam’s car. It’s a Bentley, though.’ I pull a face to express my embarrassment of owning such a beast.
He laughs and reaches for my hand. ‘It’s kind of you, darling, but I just need to rent a car for a few weeks. I can’t really turn up to my client meetings in a Bentley. It wouldn’t give the right impression.’
‘Perhaps not,’ I say, thinking I should sell it. I won’t be driving such an ostentatious vehicle.
‘I’m owed so much bloody money.’ Patrick tips back his whisky in one go. ‘One hundred grand from various clients. You’re lucky to have regular cash flow in your business.’
‘How much will it cost to rent a car for a few weeks?’ I ask.
He raises his shoulders. ‘A couple of grand, I guess.’
‘I’ll write you a cheque.’
‘No, not again, Lydia. I haven’t paid you back for Sandra’s treatment yet.’
‘Honestly, it’s no problem. I know you’ll pay me back as soon as you can.’
‘That I will,’ he says, kissing me again. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my life saviour.’
‘How was Manchester?’
‘Cold, rainy, grey and thoroughly uneventful. I went to work, sorted out their systems, was late back to the hotel, had a tasteless omelette via room service and then straight to sleep. The same both nights. Dreaming of you, as always.’
‘How long have we got?’ I ask, glancing at my watch.
‘Forty minutes. I booked the table for 7.30 p.m. Could I have a quick shower?’
‘Of course.’
He follows me upstairs, making a grab for my backside. I show him into the bathroom that Adam was using and find him some fresh towels.
Half an hour later we’re both ready.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he says as his gaze travels slowly over me from head to toe.
‘I’m not,’ I say. I get flustered with compliments like that, not that I have received many. I am a realist. I might be described as attractive, with my thick, dark blonde hair and expensive highlights and wide hazel eyes, but I am no great beauty. If anything, it is I who is out of my league with Patrick, just as I always thought I had been with Adam.
Patrick couldn’t be more loving and attentive throughout dinner, gazing at me as if there were no one else in the restaurant, holding my hand across the table, playing footsie underneath it. He asks me about the business, how the children are doing, and whether Mia has forgiven him for blustering into our lives. And when our coffees arrive, he whispers across the table, ‘I don’t think I have ever wanted anyone as badly as I want you, Lydia.’
I blush.
He summons the waiter and asks for the bill. He reaches into his jacket pocket, but his hand comes out empty. Frowning, he searches in his other pockets and then looks at me, his face a picture of dismay.
‘I am so sorry, Lydia. I’m a fool. I think I must have left my wallet in the bathroom when I took a shower. That’s so embarrassing, darling, especially when you are doing so much for me.’
I try to shrug it off, plastering my face with a tight smile. In the scheme of things it doesn’t matter. I can afford to pay, and Patrick appears genuinely upset. But there is a little trickle of concern that pings at the back of my throat like an annoying tickle. Did he leave his wallet behind on purpose? Is the difference in our financial status an issue, if not for him, for me?
I try to dismiss the concern. When we’re home and I’m downstairs locking up, Patrick bounds up the stairs and then reappears with his wallet in his hand. He starts counting twenty- and ten-pound notes.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Paying you back for dinner.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, kissing him on the nose. ‘Put your money away.’
He grabs me then and tugs me upstairs. We shed our clothes as we go.
I thought it would be weird sleeping with Patrick in the bed I shared with Adam. In fact, it feels perfectly ok. I suppose Adam and I had been distant for such a long time, this room seems more like my own rather than our marital bedroom. I awake from a deep sleep, Patrick snoring gently next to me, his face line-free and beguiling in sleep. I glance at my alarm clock.
It’s 6.35 a.m., and last night Patrick said he had a taxi coming to collect him at 7 a.m. so he could get to the car rental depot as soon as they opened.
‘Patrick,’ I say, gently shaking him, ‘wake up!’
He mumbles something incomprehensible and throws an arm over my stomach.
‘It’s time to get up.’ I speak louder this time. He startles me by sitting bolt upright in bed.
‘Shit, I was in a dream,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.
‘You haven’t got long.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He jumps out of bed and rushes towards the bathroom. ‘I’ll have a quick shower, if that’s ok?’
‘Sure.’
I put on my dressing gown and start collecting the clothes that we cast off in the heat of passion last night. Patrick’s crumpled shirt is on the bedroom floor along with his boxer shorts and socks. I have to walk along the corridor and halfway down the stairs to retrieve his trousers and tie. I chuckle as I bend down to pick them up. As I lift up his trousers, a receipt flutters from his pocket. I pick it up and can’t help but look at it. It’s for dinner for two in at La Belle Gras Restaurant in Mayfair, London. £167. An expensive dinner. And then I note the date and frown. It is dated the night before yesterday. That doesn’t make sense. Patrick told me he was in Manchester, not London. He told me what a boring time he had.
The shower is still running when I shuffle slowly back into the bedroom. I put the receipt back into his trouser pocket. He has lied to me. And he has just asked me to lend him money for a rental car, plus I paid for dinner, not forgetting the huge fifty thousand pounds on loan for his sister’s treatment. I have a reason to be suspicious, don’t I? I sit perched on the end of the bed, listening to the roar of the power shower. I wait until eventually the sound of crashing water stops. Patrick emerges, a white towel around his waist; he’s using another one to rub his hair dry.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ he says, pouting. ‘I want to ravish you all over again.’
I attempt a smile. He is too busy getting dressed to notice my discomfort. Should I say something to him? I am sure there is a reasonable explanation. Perhaps it’s not even Patrick’s receipt. Maybe it’s for a colleague or something he picked off the ground? But how likely is that?