Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

Colette, standing in front of me, smiling widely. I think she’s one of his favourites as she always seems to accompany him to his business meetings. ‘Beautiful dress. You look lovely.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She’s visited the house several times too, so we are familiar enough with each other to air kiss cheeks. ‘You look simply divine too.’

      She’s slender, Colette. Sickeningly so. Self-consciously, I pull in my tummy. Tonight she’s dressed in a black, clinging number with a perilously plunging neckline that leaves little to the imagination. It must be held on with tit-tape and I’d bet a pound to a penny that she’s not wearing any underwear. It makes the brightness of my blue look garish in comparison. Like I’m trying too hard. She’s young. Twenty-six at most and has a boyish figure with a washboard stomach and no hips. For work she power dresses in crisp white shirts and pencil skirts with vertiginous black patent heels. She looks like a woman who wears stockings to the office. Her skin is soft and coffee-coloured. Her corkscrew curls –the height of fashion –bounce onto her bare shoulders.

      I feel I should ask her a question but I don’t know what to say, so she moves on and turns her attention to my husband. ‘Ethan.’ Her eyes brighten.

      ‘Good evening, Colette.’ His hand slips onto her hip and his thumb traces the arched curve of her bone. Very few people would notice, but I do. She wets her lips and leans into him slightly as her kiss lingers too long on his cheek. ‘Great tie.’ Her fingertips stroke it lightly and a glimmer of a smile plays at her mouth.

      And I know instantly who bought it. Of course, I do. Does Ethan think that I’m gullible enough to believe that he would ever trouble himself with his own shopping? Colette moves on and I watch Ethan’s eyes as they follow her. I feel sick to my stomach. If she thinks she is the only one, the first, then she is sadly mistaken.

      It’s hot in here, stuffy and I wonder if they’ve forgotten to turn on the air-conditioning. The rest of the line snakes past us and soon we make our way down the staircase into the ballroom below. I always used to like this dramatic entrance, felt as if I was in a movie, Folies Bergère or something starring Fred and Ginger. I liked the heads that turned to look at me. Now I can’t wait to rush down to my seat and my legs shake as I take the steps.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Ethan snaps. ‘Do pull yourself together, Lydia.’

      I trail in his wake until we reach the top table. ‘I need to talk to Colette and Brad Walker,’ he says over his shoulder, pulling out his own chair. ‘I’ve sat them either side of me. Hope you don’t mind entertaining Canning. He’s a bit of an old bore, but he’ll love you.’

      What he means is that he’s old enough to remember the photograph of that wretched gold bikini and will leer at me all night. I take my place next to Stuart Canning halfway down the ballroom. He pulls out my chair for me and kisses my hand. There’s spittle at the corner of his mouth.

      I have no idea what’s served for dinner, my stomach is too knotted to be able to consider eating. At the top table, there’s much banter and laughter and I have to drag my attention back from Ethan and listen to the man droning on at my side.

      After dinner, the music starts. The dance floor starts to fill. Ethan kicks back his chair, unbuttons his collar, loosens that tie. The laughter doesn’t stop. Soon, I hope he will remember me and ask me to come to his table. But the minutes stretch on, the songs continue and, still, he doesn’t make a move. Eventually, I make my excuses to the extremely dull Mr Canning and weave my way through the tables to Ethan’s side. I wait until he finishes his conversation and then I kiss his cheek. He looks at me in surprise. Perhaps he had forgotten that I was here at all.

      ‘Dance with me, darling,’ I say brightly.

      ‘Have to keep the wife happy,’ he jokes and stands up. I take his hand and lead him to the dance floor. I risk a backwards glance and see that the laughter has gone from Colette’s lips.

      Ethan takes me in his arms and we sway to whatever’s pounding out. His face is flushed with drink and he’s a bit unsteady on his feet. Trying to keep to the beat is pointless. I want to speak to him, be witty and bright, but my brain is frozen and nothing will come to my mouth. I hold onto him tightly for three songs but, already, he’s looking bored and his gaze starts to wander.

      ‘Is this a ladies’ excuse-me?’ Colette asks over my shoulder. Before I can answer or register a protest, she manoeuvres her way in between me and my husband with such breath-taking impudence that I have to give her credit for her audacity. ‘You don’t mind if I do, Lydia?’

      I do mind, but how can I make a scene? These are Ethan’s staff, his colleagues. He would be embarrassed if I made a stand against her. And what if I lost? What if, publicly, he brushed me aside for her?

      She sweeps Ethan away from me and he brightens instantly. Now I stand on the dance floor, alone, abandoned and I don’t quite know what to do. In days gone by, there would be a dozen men clamouring to take his place. But not now.

      Gathering my senses, I hold my head high and walk from the dance floor. I may not have graced the catwalk, but I can still strut my stuff like a model. I’m not sure where I’m going, but my feet take me to the grand staircase again and I climb them on auto-pilot. When I reach the mezzanine floor, I lean on the balcony and watch the revellers below me. I’m breathing heavily, sounding as if I’ve exerted myself when I haven’t. It’s just that my body is having difficulty processing this. My heart is beating erratically and there’s a thrumming in my ears, the rush of blood. My cheeks blaze. I know that there have been others in the past. No one travels so regularly on business without finding some female company. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough male attention to be well aware of that.

      I watch Ethan and Colette twirl round the floor, moving in unison. Ethan is a good dancer, something else that I used to love about him. I dig my nails into my palms and push the tears away with pain. A woman comes and stands next to me, leaning on the rail.

      She nods at my husband below us. ‘He’s a slimy bastard,’ she says, casually. ‘He’s shagged his way through half of the office.’

      My mouth goes dry.

      ‘He might be the President, but that doesn’t stop him from trying it on with just about every woman in the place.’

      I turn to her. She is also young and pretty. ‘You too?’

      ‘Groped me in the lift after a long night in the bar at a conference. I should have slapped him with a sexual harassment complaint. But you don’t, do you?’

      ‘No,’ I agree. ‘You don’t.’

      ‘I got off lightly really.’ She swigs at the drink in her hand. ‘He’s married too.’

      ‘So I understand.’

      ‘I’ve heard she was a model. A real beauty once.’

      ‘Yes. I’d heard that too.’

      ‘She must be a bloody idiot. Or a saint.’

      ‘I think idiot.’

      The girl laughs. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. Poor bitch.’

      Poor bitch, indeed.

      My husband twirls Colette again and she tuts her disapproval at them. ‘She’s a bloody idiot too. She’s thinks she’s special. Her sort always do.’

      And she’s right because I once was that sort too.

      ‘He’ll tire of her and move on.’ She points an accusing finger in Ethan’s direction. ‘He always does.’

      She sounds too bitter and I wonder if their encounter went further than she’s admitting or whether her prospects suffered because it didn’t. The girl raises her eyebrows at me and lifts her glass. ‘Bar calls again,’ she says. ‘Can I get you one?’

      ‘No, thank you. But it’s very nice of you to ask.’

      She leaves and it’s all I can