The night before came back to her in segments. Pieces of a jigsaw slowly slotting together. The conference ending, Tristan sending her a message with his room number on it. Her sitting in the bar alone, downing a vodka and trying to decide if what she was about to do was brilliant, fun and wholly justified . . . or if she was nothing but a clichéd bored wife, ready to blow up her marriage for a bit of fun. Her choice of ‘partner’ was a consideration, too. Her brother-in-law. Her little sister’s husband. Surely this was peak nastiness on the scale of affairs, from blurry one-nighter to years-long second-family adultery?
Tristan came back from the bathroom carrying another glass of water. His face broke into a grin. ‘Heyyy,’ he said, slow. Sexy.
She felt a stirring down low. Familiar. Urgent. She remembered the rest of the night, too. Champagne, lots of it. Her sucking on an ice cube then taking him in her mouth. Fucking. Lots of fucking. Laughing. Music. More champagne.
The sight of him made her forget her headache. He climbed on to the bed, his eyes locked on hers. His hands all over her.
‘Hey, yourself,’ she managed. Then they stopped talking, their mouths busy elsewhere.
Afterwards, he got out of the bed and walked over to the coffee machine, a swagger in his step. She watched his arse again. The room smelled of his sandalwood aftershave, and their hot sweaty sex. She sunk back into the pillows, watching him. After a few minutes, the aroma of coffee hit her.
‘Never say I’m not a fucking genius,’ he said. Cups and saucers rattled.
She closed her eyes, opened them again. She was still there. In that room. King-size bed, antique furniture. Gilt-framed oil paintings on the walls.
‘How did we get here?’ She sat up quickly, holding the sheet up to her neck. At some point she had removed her wedding ring, and she momentarily felt sick at her own betrayal. She shook the sensation away, remembering why she was doing this.
‘Well, I took the M3, mostly, then I cut down by the—’
He stopped talking when the pillow hit him on the back of the head.
‘Oi, careful. Got your coffee here, lady.’
He kicked the pillow up into the air like a football, then lifted the cups and carried them over to the bed. He didn’t bother with the saucers.
She took the offered cup from him and inhaled the steam. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Bit late to get contemplative now, isn’t it? I’ve already shagged your brains out.’
She slapped his arm. ‘I’m serious, Tristan.’
He put his coffee down and sat on the bed, facing her. He crossed one leg in front of him and pulled the sheet over his lap, covering himself up. Funny how serious conversations and nakedness could leave you vulnerable.
‘I was bored, you were bored . . . now we’re not bored?’
She bit her lip. Frowned.
He carried on. ‘I sent you that message after Ginny’s thirtieth. Well, after the argument the two of you had at breakfast. Awkward.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t like the way she treated you. I thought it was shitty.’ He laid a hand on her leg.
‘What, you? Ruthless Banker of the Year 20-whatever? You thought someone enacting some financial shenanigans was – and I quote – “a bit shitty”？’
He squeezed her leg. ‘There’s business, and there’s family. She conned you, Cat. She seemed quite proud of it too. When I asked her about it, it seemed like she’d convinced herself that she deserved that inheritance in lieu of having your brains.’
Cat forced out a laugh. ‘She had our parents wrapped around her little finger. They would have done anything for her. She probably just snapped her fingers and they happily changed the will to make her executor and cut me out without a second thought . . .’ Her sentence trailed off when she saw the expression on his face. ‘What is it? Did I get a bit of that wrong?’
He took his hand off her leg and looked away. ‘We should probably leave it. If you wanted revenge, you’ve already had it. Just make some smug comment someday to make her wonder if something’s happened between us, and you’ll fire up her paranoia. That’s enough, right?’
Cat pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Tristan pulled on his boxers, then ambled across to the chair where his shirt had been hung over the back. Flung, in fact. Cat remembered unbuttoning it and throwing it there.
‘Tristan?’
He buttoned his shirt, still not looking at her. ‘They were on to her, Cat. They wrote another will.’