Page 25 of A Midlife Gamble

‘I think he looks like the cowboy guy fromDallas,’ Kay said.

‘JR?’

‘No.’ She turned to Helen. ‘He was the baddie, not the cowboy. The cowboy was a nice-guy.’

Helen shook her head. ‘Well whoever he is, I’ve definitely seen him before.’

They stood, ducks in a row, the same incredulous expression on their faces as, across the foyer, Marianne and her companion chattered amicably with the receptionist.

‘Is she writing you another note?’ Caro said drily, as the receptionist slid a piece of paper across.

Helen squinted. ‘What on earth is Blake Carrington wearing?’

And again, they leaned in, like skittles.

‘Whatever it is, it’s a little tight,’ Caro murmured.

‘The actor!’ Kay gasped. ‘It’s the actor!’

‘What actor?’ Both Helen and Caro spoke together.

And as they did, Marianne turned from the desk, looked across the foyer, dropped her pen and cried, ‘Kay!’ In another instant she was across the room, embracing Kay, once, twice and then a third time. She turned to Helen. ‘And Helen Winters! The one with the husband!’

‘Not for long.’ Helen said lightly.

Marianne kissed both Helen’s cheeks. ‘It hasn’t been as exciting at the Hotel Adagio since you all stayed.’ She looked at Helen and winked.

‘No, I suppose not.' Helen attempted a smile. Not many guests, she supposed, created the kind of drama that had surrounded their trip to Cyprus and the hotel where Marianne worked. Lawrence turning up the way he did after hearing about her holiday romance. The awful bout of food poisoning that had resulted in her discarding the contents of a plant pot, and filling it with her regurgitated seafood lunch. Blushing, she said, ‘How is your orchid now?’

‘Flourishing!’ Marianne beamed.

‘I’m glad.’

‘And how is your marriage? If I may ask.’

‘Over.’

‘I am sorry.' Marianne stopped smiling. She dropped her head to one side. 'I'm not surprised, but I'm sorry.’

‘Don’t be,' Helen said.

‘Ok.' Smile returning, she patted Helen's arm. 'And Kaveh sends his love.’

Helen’s blush deepened. Kaveh had been a brief and beautiful moment in her life, and had she been a young woman she might have persuaded herself that she was in love with him. Might even have done something stupid like move her world to be with him. But she wasn’t a young woman, and thank goodness for that. ‘Send my love back to him,’ she answered, aiming for detached coolness, aware that the heat of remembered passion in her cheeks wasn't completely on her side.

‘I will.’ Marianne gave her a knowing smile and turned to Caro. 'Caro!’ Without warning she took a step forward and threw her arms around Caro, and because she was so small and Caro was so tall, her head came to rest against Caro’s chest. ‘I was so sorry to hear,’ she whispered. ‘About your baby. So very sorry.’

Caro’s face went very pale, but she didn’t move. She stood, waiting awkwardly for Marianne to disengage herself.

Which she did, eventually. ‘Well, who knows?’ Marianne shook her head. ‘Maybe it is for the best? I’ve been cooking for days, just so I can leave my son for a week. And he’s twenty-seven!'

Standing a little to one side now, Helen glared at the back of Marianne’s head. Caro’s miscarriage wasn’t something they had discussed. Wasn’t something, Helen was beginning to think, that would ever be discussed. Not now, not with the way things were. And it was fine. Everything was so horribly complicated between her and Caro anyway, she wasn’t prepared for any kind of conversation that dipped below the surface. Which made it all the stranger to understand the level of irritation she now felt towards Marianne, waltzing in with clumsy comments. That habit of concern towards Caro, a habit she’d first developed when they were students, living together, was obviously still there. She glanced first at Kay, who looked to Helen to be equally uncomfortable, and then at Caro. But to her surprise, Caro was smiling. If Marianne’s comment had re-opened the wound, she was hiding it well. And before she could give it any more thought, Marianne turned and said, ‘I must introduce you to my friend.Come!’ she mouthed, waving her arm to call the grey-haired man over.

He waved back as he walked across, loose hipped, considering his age, hair a bright blue-grey and skin so smooth it reminded Helen of Lawrence’s Lycra cycling outfits.

As he reached them, Marianne grabbed hold of his arm with both hands. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is my old friend, Tony Larson!’

‘Otherwise known as Anthony Larson,’ Tony said with a broad smile.

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