‘I know nothing about your great love. Was he tall? Skinny? Fat? Did he like music? Is that where Deborah’s talent comes from?’
Claire took the dishes into the kitchen without a word, trying to push back her emotions.
Mark followed her.
‘All I know about Deborah’s long-gone daddy is that he walked out on you before she was born. And never looked back. So I don’t understand why his memory is so sacred that you refuse to speak of him, won’t even tell me his name. Or maybe it’s because he’s not really gone.’
‘When you asked me to marry you, over twenty years ago, when you asked if you could adopt Deborah and raise her as your own, we made an agreement!’ Claire’s turquoise eyes were blazing now, her fear of him forgotten for a moment. ‘I would never tell Deborah you were not her birth father, and you would never ask me about the man who was. I have kept my end of the bargain! All these years, not a word to her, not a hint! You, on the other hand, have been at me constantly in the past few years! What did he look like? Why did he disappear? Does he know he has a daughter?’
‘Does he? Do you talk to him sometimes, tell him about her? About me? Is that why you love your job so much? So you can travel all over to be with him?’
‘Stop it, Mark.’
He grabbed her wrist roughly, and instinctively she let out a cry of pain. She was already bruised from last night. ‘Do you two laugh about how afraid I am that one day Deborah will find him, and won’t want anything to do with me?’ he hissed in her face.
‘You know better than that! What is wrong with you, Mark? I have not seen nor heard from him in over twenty years.’ She wrenched her arm from his grasp. ‘And if I had, he would not ask about Deborah, because he doesn’t know she exists!’
Tears of anger and frustration were streaking her cheeks now. ‘Hear me, Mark! This is the last time I will ever, ever discuss this subject with you. I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t walk out while I’m talking to you!’ He lunged for her, but she sidestepped him and raced, still limping, into the bedroom, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Mark was after her in a flash, kicking at the oak door, hitting it with his shoulder. ‘You open this door! Claire, open it or I swear I’ll knock it down.’
‘If you do that I will call the police.’ Claire was trembling but her voice was calm. ‘They would probably be curious about how I got the bruises all over my body. Did I mention that you cracked a rib this time?’
Mark continued to batter on the door.
‘I’m not bluffing, Mark. I’ll do it. I’m sure the Washington Post would have a field day with the story: President’s special envoy to the Middle East arrested at his home.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But he stopped his attempt to break open the door. ‘Too much is at stake.’
‘Don’t test me.’
Mark and Claire stood on either side of the bedroom door, both breathing hard. Finally, Mark took a step away, his face distorted in frustration and rage.
‘Don’t sleep too soundly tonight.’ He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, but every word came through the thick wood. ‘This isn’t over, Claire. Not by a long shot.’
And Claire knew that he spoke the truth.
Claire was fragile but gaining strength each day. With Mark away in the Middle East, she had allowed herself to sleep deeply without the ever-present fear that he would come home and find something to be angry about. She had worked from home all week, to avoid questions about her injuries. She had been relieved this morning when she saw that the bruises, which had stained her face, were mostly gone. The marks on her body were disappearing too.
Her heart? That would take longer to heal.
She pushed herself hard as she jogged along Beachside Avenue, past houses of another era, each one grander than the one before. She ran past the inlets where the tide pushed and frothed as it was pulled out to sea. How long had it been since she felt safe, really safe, she asked herself as she ran. The blare of a car horn jolted her out of her musings.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed, lady?’
‘Sorry, sorry!’ she called after the car as it swerved around her and sped away. She slowed to a walk, her heart pounding, the good feelings slipping away. A reminder, she thought, determined to stay on her guard from now on. The world can be at its most dangerous when you’re feeling safe.
Martel was a French-style bistro plonked right on the line where Westport met Southport. When you walked through the etched-glass doors, you could imagine you were in Paris.
Marty, the larger-than-life owner, knew his patrons well.
Claire, Sasha, Julia and Paulina had been having lunch there most Saturdays since the doors opened, and always enjoyed being there.
Claire had showered quickly after her run and slipped into cream trousers and a cashmere sweater. A low-slung belt and a cropped leather jacket, the same turquoise colour as her eyes, completed the outfit. It was simple but striking.
‘Where were you last Saturday?’ Marty, the owner, greeted her like a lost love. She was his favourite.
‘I picked up a little bug, but I’m fine now. I missed you too, Marty.’ Her quick kiss on the cheek put the smile back on his face. ‘Am I the first to arrive?’
Marty gestured to the back room. ‘They’ve been back there for an hour with their heads together. Plotting the overthrow of the government is my guess.’
Claire hurried towards the back room and slid into her usual place next to Sasha in the big corner booth. The others were already halfway through a carafe of the special house wine, which Marty kept for his favourites. ‘Did you have breakfast here?’ she asked, air-kissing her three friends.
‘Having it now,’ Paulina said, pouring Claire a hefty glass.
‘Marty tells me you are up to something,’ Claire remarked.
‘We’re celebrating!’ Sasha answered.
Claire raised her glass. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘That you’re here, of course.’ Sasha said. ‘Last Saturday was deadly, right ladies?’ The three friends clinked glasses and toasted Claire. ‘Marty sulked. And without you we were so depressed we all ordered healthy meals.’
‘You didn’t!’ Claire felt that warm rush of happiness that always came over her when she was with these women. Friends, especially women friends, gave life something extra. She wondered if men knew what they were missing. ‘Don’t tell me you had salads!’
‘Worse!’ Paulina exclaimed. She had the body of a swimsuit model and the wit of Joan Rivers. She wore her jet-black hair short and spiky, and could be as funny as the writers of the comedy shows she oversaw for a television network. ‘We shared salads!’
‘It was hell! But you’re here now, and all’s right with the world.’ Julia lovingly cut a large slab of rich pâté, plopped it on a plate and pushed it towards Claire. Julia was the chef at Gumbo, the hotspot just off Park Avenue on 83rd Street in Manhattan. She and her partner, Alexa, had opened it five years ago. They specialised in food from Julia’s hometown of New Orleans.
Julia had an ongoing love affair with food. She had been raised in a city where eating was a religion, and not enjoying food was a sin. Gathering her flaming red hair into a ponytail, as though preparing for battle, she tore off a large chunk of bread for Claire and one for herself. ‘I think I’ll torture myself and just sit here and watch you eat that, Claire, and