The Seduction of Suzanne (28 page)

“So have you seen
her
, then?”

“No, but I’ll bet she’s another one of his lost causes. I swear that man’s going to waste all his life on his charity case women.”

“No, you’re thinking of Graham. He’s the one who tends to pick up strays.”

“The whole family do. They’re all soft touches. It’s practically a sin how much money they throw away on pathetic sponges.”

“Well this one’s an artist.”

“The last one was a writer, wasn’t she? I guess Justin likes to be a patron of the arts. Launching the gifted and less fortunate out into the world.” She tittered.

“What happened to the writer in the end?”

“Oh, she was quite talented. He introduced her around. Agent. Big publisher. The works. She’s got a few books in print now. I think they’re bestsellers. I read her last one. It was pretty good. Fast-paced. I’ll buy more if I see them.”

“I mean what happened to the relationship with her and Justin?”

“I don’t know. I think once she was a success, Justin lost interest.”

“I’ve known men like that. It’s the white knight complex. They like to ride in and fight the dragon, save the damsel. And when it’s all over they’re bored and they leave.”

“I wouldn’t mind being rescued by him. There’s a lot of man under those clothes. He could bring his lance to my bed anytime.” There was more laughter.

“He’s too pretty for my tastes.”

“You say that, but I can’t imagine you saying no if he crept into your room some night.”

“Maybe not. Though I’d just as soon play with his money as with him.”

“Ooo, you’re terrible. But it
is
a lot of money. They’re into apps now.”

“Into what?”

“Apps, applications. Games and business software for tablets and phones. Look, I’ve got one on my phone. Alex downloaded it for me. It synchs our schedules together so I know when he’s away on business trips, or we’re hosting his partners, or that sort of thing. And the nanny is in the loop too, so I always know where she and the kids are.”

“That is clever.”

“Those things are a licence to print money.”

“So I’ve heard. So Justin’s part of all that? I thought it was just Graham.”

“Graham? No. He runs operations, and Justin does all the software. Apparently he’s some kind of genius with that sort of stuff. Office software. Games. It’s huge. Unbelievably huge market. Millions of kids and so-called adults slavering to buy, buy, buy.”

“I got Justin to recommend a computer game for the boys in the holidays, and when I got it home it was all ‘Mom, you’re the best!’ and hugs. Then they disappeared into the media room and I didn’t see them for the next two weeks. They just emerged for food. And would you believe it, Gary kept coming home from work and joining them.”

“Frustrating?”

“No. Lovely peace and quiet.”

“Oh look, there’s Helen. Helen! Let’s go ask her about that trip to Europe. I bet she . . .”

Chapter Sixteen

As the four women disappeared into the chattering crowd, Suzanne stared dully at the floor, her head pounding. So that’s what Justin meant when he had said he worked with software. She had envisioned him doing some sort of programming job.

But to be the owner of a computer software company . . . That woman was perfectly right. There were many multiples of millions to be made out of good software.

If Justin was the co-owner of a highly successful company selling computer software and games around the world, then his wealth must be beyond anything she could imagine.

She quailed at the thought. How could she ever hope to relate to that? She who had always lived a quiet, economical life in a admittedly rustic settlement on a peaceful island in the Pacific. She had never hoped for or dreamed of an excess of money. Instead her ambitions had been security, a modest, happy existence, and perhaps eventually a little travelling. There was no way Justin had ever looked at her as an equal partner. How could he? They were worlds apart.

She was his charity case. The holiday fling that sparked extra interest once he saw her paintings, saw what she could do.  The sponge.

He had seen her works, admired them hugely, heard her admit that she had no plans to bring them to the attention of the world at large. She closed her eyes. What was it that he had said? That it would be a crime to waste her talent. Then he swept her up and brought her here with all her paintings, set her up with an exhibition, did everything that needed doing so she could be a success. Because he liked to be a hero.

And lying to her, being secretive about his background and resources, was a natural choice when he didn’t consider her an equal. Just like the lies and half-truths adults use with children to keep them in the dark about things that don’t concern them.

He must truly think her pathetic, that she could not pursue her dreams on her own. He didn’t love her. Could never love her. What kind of man would fall in love with someone he held so low?

She was a . . . a pet. Patronised and indulged. Groomed by his mother so she could appear to ‘fit in’ with his expensive friends. So kind they all were. So kind to the poor little charity case.

And when she was a success they could all stand around, patting themselves smugly on the back and saying ‘Gosh, look what heroes we are. We launched her. She would never have been discovered if not for us.’

She was revolted by the image, almost choking on rage and despair. But it wouldn’t serve. No, she had to leave. This place and the people in it were twisted and wrong for her. All bright and shiny and . . . and . . . arrogant, patronising . . .

Slow, deep shivers began to shake her. Blindly she came to her feet, swaying slightly. She walked around the perimeter of the room, invisible to the happily absorbed guests, utterly divorced from them. In the doorway she paused, oriented herself and walked towards the entrance hall. Just as she reached the foot of the stairs, she recognised the man in front of her. Haden Chancery. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk,” she said in an oddly calm voice, “but I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be available for the exhibition after all. Nonetheless I’d be grateful if you’d sell everything you get an offer for.”

“But Ms Turlin,” he said, taken aback. “We need to discuss prices.”

“You’re an expert. I know very little. I’m sure I can trust you to sell them on commission for what they’re worth,” she said. “Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.” She swept past him and on up the stairs.

She entered Justin’s room, fetched her suitcase from the bathroom and began to fling her belongings into it. It had never been unpacked, so the task did not take long. When it was done she looked around blankly.

A piece of paper. She needed something to write on. Every woman who ever ran away had to leave some message behind. It was practically compulsory.

Spying a block of paper and a pen on a small side table by a phone, she crossed to it quickly, and knelt on the floor. The pen felt awkward as she picked it up in her cold hand.

First she wrote to Justin.

Justin

I figured it all out.

Consider your artist protégé launched.

Thanks. 

Suzanne

She didn’t feel
particularly thankful, but no doubt Justin believed he had treated her generously.

It was painfully clear he could never have had the least chance of loving her. The precious relationship between them had all been in her own mind. She had been living in a dream world.

Justin would realise that she had fallen in love with him. 

He would pity her.

She couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating.

No. Staying was not an option. But she took the time to write a second, longer note.

Dear Olivia,

I’m sorry. I can’t stay.

You and your family have

done everything possible to

make me feel welcome, but

for reasons I can’t explain I

must go home.

Please forgive me.

Thank you for the dress.

Suzanne

It was awkward and stilted, and rereading it made her wince, so she put it swiftly away from her. No time to start again.

In the hall she headed away from the main staircase, towards the back of the house. She was searching for an unobtrusive way to reach the ground floor. It didn’t take her long to find a modest stairwell.

She slipped downstairs, collared one of the staff and asked if knew the number for a taxi company or – failing that – for directory enquiries. He gave her a local number. She got the address of the house from him as well. The dispatcher on the other end assured her that a car would be sent out immediately, and should arrive within ten minutes.

The back door opened easily from the inside, and she slipped through and closed it behind her. Security lights lit her way to the garage and driveway. She walked towards the street, teetering
in her heels as she pulled the wheeled suitcase. She went past late-arriving guests, keeping her head down.

In the street she had only to stand waiting self-consciously in the light of a street lamp for two or three minutes before the taxi she had ordered pulled up at the curb. The driver leaned across and spoke out of the open passenger window.

“Taxi for Turlin?” he said, and when she nodded, he laconically told her to hop in. She got into the back, laying her baggage on the seat beside her. Then she twisted round to watch out of the rear vision window as the car pulled away. The noise of the party silenced by distance, the house quickly receded as well, until they turned a corner. Then it was gone.

At the airport she paid the driver, climbed out of the car and went looking for an information point. The woman at the counter gave her the names of several airlines running flights to New Zealand, and pointed out the direction she should go to buy tickets.

She worried that as late as it was, there might be nothing leaving until the next day. Then she’d have to spend the night at the airport. Horrid thought. However once she got to the ticket desks, she learned there was another flight to New Zealand leaving that night, due to begin boarding in little more than fifteen minutes. And there were seats available. Hurriedly she checked in her baggage,
using her credit card to buy a ticket. When the boarding call came, she was ready.

On the plane it didn’t take long to find her seat. Once again she was sitting by the window, although this time she was in the very last row in the cabin. She watched as the other passengers filed in, and when the aisles cleared, she could see that the aircraft was no more than two thirds full. No wonder she had been able to get a place on such short notice.

No one came to sit by her, and as the plane began to taxi, she breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending twelve hours with a stranger right beside her, as she tried to maintain some semblance of normality.

Once they were in the air, she unfastened her seatbelt, and lay down across the three seats. She pulled the blanket she’d been given up around her face, and let herself sink into the misery which was waiting to swallow her.

In her mind she ran over every word that Justin had ever said to her, every experience they had shared, every time they had laughed together. In her recollection it all seemed smeared by the shadow of her knowledge he saw her as a woman too helpless to help herself. Too pathetic to pursue her own dreams. Who had then proceeded to fall head over heels in love with him. Who had even dared to hope that he might learn to return her love.

The flight seemed endless. She did not sleep.

There was a bleak darkness upon her, smudged across her soul.

The plane flew on through the night and into the morning. Eventually she heard the engine sound change, as a tone announced the need to fasten seatbelts.

Slowly, stiffly she pulled the blanket away and sat up. She had not moved for the entire journey. Her head pounded, and her eyes were hot and dry. She felt utterly fragile, as if she might shatter with a touch, fly apart into small, meaningless pieces.

Less than forty-eight hours ago she had set out from New Zealand to America with Justin by her side. Now she was returning alone, and life seemed utterly dry and bleak.

She lifted the shutter on the window, to see a flawless, robin’s-egg blue sky. Below them, imperceptibly approaching, was the dark olive-coloured land. She stared numbly at it as it rose to meet them. Closer and closer, until Auckland could be seen, then the small green humps which were some of the sixty-odd dormant volcanoes around which the city flowed, and finally roads, individual houses, cars.

The aircraft touched down. She unfastened her belt, gathered her bag, got up from her seat and walked out. Customs took awhile, stringent and protective about the possibility of foreign plant matter being smuggled into this isolated, relatively uncontaminated country.