“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The person you hate most, my dear. Your husband, the man who holds the end of the gilded chain you wear.” He had smiled at her to quell the fury he felt, but she had gone into their room and slammed the door, and tonight it was Nick who sought refuge’ in the bottle of Scotch. And as he drank he found himself thinking of Armand and Liane. He thought they made a handsome pair, and he admired the grace and poise with which Liane moved and behaved. She was an impressive woman in her quiet way, and her subtle glow hadn't gone unnoticed, even in the shadow of Hillary's far more gaudy light. He was tired of her games, he decided with his fourth glass of straight Scotch. More tired than she knew. More tired than he himself was willing to admit most of the time. If he would have allowed himself to feel the pain, it would have been too much to bear. In the end he put the bottle away, and at three o'clock that morning he went to bed, grateful that Hillary had taken a sleeping pill and was already asleep.





“And what are you going to do today?” He smiled at the girls over a breakfast of kippered herring and shad roe, and Marie-Ange made a face as she watched him eat. “Would you like a taste?” he teased, and she vehemently shook her head.