Madeleine Wakes (A Wife-Watching Romance): Book One of the Madeleine Trilogy Read online

  Hugo was nervous to say the least—but, at last, he bit the bullet and headed inside. He was immediately accosted by the offer of nibbles.

  “Vol au vent, sir?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “The readings will be getting underway shortly.”

  “Thanks.”

  Many of the people appeared to Hugo as though they’d stepped out of the English Literature department of the nearby university, on both sides of the faculty, from the older bespectacled professors in their frayed tweed jackets to the younger postgrads talking animatedly about the earlier works of the guest speaker of the evening, one Horatio Marks, along with a smattering of the more bookish of the student body. There were some locals, some vegetarian, hemp-shoed liberal culture aficionados and even a few professionals like Hugo, dropping by after a day at the office.

  It was a merry affair, with glasses clinking as virgin cocktails were passed around and supped over improving conversation. Inside, the place was surprisingly large—he hadn’t appreciated the full extent of the place on his first visit. It expanded from a ground-level front space to a lower ground floor that ventured quite far back, split by a labyrinth of shelves and tables stuffed with books.

  Hugo came through to what appeared to be the main interior space, where a wide expanse of floor had been cleared to provide seating in front of a microphone primed for artistic expression.

  He spotted Madeleine almost immediately, hobnobbing with some particularly artistic-looking guys, one of whom he assumed was the draw of the evening, Horatio Marks. Madeleine did not spot him, but Hugo was not in the mood to march up to her and pronounce his arrival. There’d be a better moment—he didn’t want to spoil her networking opportunities.

  A few brief scraps of conversation with a poet from Kentucky and a semi-retired management consultant from Queens made him feel a little less like a social leper as he waited for any kind of opportunity to signal his presence to Madeleine without scaring the bejesus out of her.

  He waited and watched her, blown away at how well she was able to work the room.

  Madeleine was dazzling among the shelves, the halogen lighting glinting off her blonde highlights, that million-dollar smile bringing light and life to the darkest of corners, engaging the quietest of customers into talking with the bigwigs who accompanied her. All male eyes seemed besotted by her.

  God she looked incredible. Had she dropped a few pounds recently, or was it simply the extra confidence that made her look so delicious in that skirt. The gym she’d joined was paying off. She certainly had a healthy glow about her as she busied about the place.

  Hugo wondered if any of these people happened to live across the street from their apartment—or if any of them might have caught Madeleine’s eye.

  Watching the artsy bigwigs fawning all over Madeleine was also too amusing for him to really want to disrupt it by stepping in with a blunt introduction.

  Hugo found his way to the seating area, and managed to bag a seat in an unobtrusive location, toward the back of the room, where he could slump down and watch. When he was settled, he could watch Madeleine from the safety of the crowd—and she was magnificent.

  She certainly had the event organized perfectly. It started out with a reading from the author, but then a handful of fans were invited up to read out short passages of the book that they loved.

  Then a lively Q-and-A session suggested that a large contingent of the crowd were fans, well targeted by Madeleine’s marketing efforts. Afterwards, there was a chance to browse the store.

  Hugo managed to keep hidden from his wife extremely well while taking in the evening’s proceedings, while managing to watch her from afar. She was truly great at her job—keeping the author happy, networking with her customers, maintaining control on her eager staff, all with effortless aplomb. The folks from head office had to be impressed.

  And she looked so happy, so vibrant in her conversation and in her subtle management style, really loving the chance to engage with the readers and discuss the books and the author.

  “You’re here!”

  He turned at the familiar voice, but at first thought it must be coincidence. No—she was really here, in the flesh.

  “Lucy. What are you doing here?”

  “Providing support?” she said with a wry grin. “What about you? I assumed you weren’t going to make it…”

  “Oh, I’ve been here a while,” he said. “Checking it all out, you know.

  Their Maid of Honor was a sharp Asian American in a smart dark blue blouse and long dark pants that were well tailored to show off her svelte figure. Was she after a little male attention as well? What happened to that Greg guy she was with, the football guy from the Herald?

  “You’re not going to tell her you’re here?” she asked, and he knew she’d noticed him hanging back, leaving Madeleine to it. Watching her.

  “I thought maybe I’d give her a little time to settle in, you know, without any added pressure from having a husband here.”

  Lucy nodded. “You know those guys are all falling over themselves to hit on her?”

  He knew Lucy was a troublemaker, a gossip queen, but her suggestion nevertheless drove a stinging jab of jealousy into the center of his chest.

  “Really? It all seems very civil to me.” He feigned naiveté, but felt himself blushing all the same. God, he actually enjoyed that dangerous, helpless feeling that came with knowing that Madeleine was indulging in the admiration and enthrallment swirling around her.

  “Oh trust me,” she said. “For New York literati, that is uncontrolled flirtation—bordering on propositioning.”

  As they watched, Madeleine appeared gripped by the conversation of one middle-aged guy in a dark purple shirt who had his top two buttons open to display a disconcerting hint of chest hair—and she was smiling flirtatiously, one hand playing with a strand of her hair as he spoke.

  “And she likes it, too, naughty wench,” Lucy said, her forced whisper drenched with something Hugo took to be awe.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Hugo said.

  “Aren’t you going to step in? Rein it in a little?”

  He shrugged. “She’s enjoying herself—that’s all I could ask for.”

  “Seriously?”

  As they watched, another man swung by, and it took a moment before Hugo recognized him as the Latino Madeleine had seemed particularly close to in the bookstore when he’d dropped by the other evening.

  Now, there she was again flashing him a knowing glance.

  Lucy said: “She likes him, whoever he is. One of the guys from the store, I guess.”

  Her goading sparked another burst of heat inside Hugo’s stomach. There was certainly a connection there. Was Lucy right? Did he have to step in and show himself?

  Hugo felt a touch awkward. He really did not want to play the heavy-handed husband figure, wading in to make his presence known. While Lucy attempted to rile him, he did quietly enjoy the sheer exhilaration Madeleine was clearly feeling at the center of this lively gathering of minds and culture.

  And seeing these bigwigs throwing themselves at her—the others in that little group attempting to draw her attention away from Mr. Purple Shirt—warmed him up inside, somehow.

  They might be hitting on her, but Hugo got to accompany her home at the end of the evening.

  He saw Lucy’s puzzled expression, however, and knew she was not going to be happy without some kind of explanation.

  “See, for three years she’s been miserable, and there’s been precious little I could do about it,” he said.

  “It was the condition. The depression.” Lucy knew full well what Madeleine had been through, though she’d never quite know how it had really been. Madeleine had always put on something of a public face, even in the bleakest of times. Only Hugo had seen the full condition.

  “I took care of her as best I could, but nothing seemed to pull her out of it.”

  “So what’re you saying? Now she’s out of i
t, you’ll let her get away with murder?”

  Hugo shook his head. He did feel slightly hurt that his wife was apparently back in the mood for sexual activity, and was cheerful enough to flirt with other men, yet had not put any moves on him. But at the end of the day he had to give her space. He had to let her do as she needed to in order to get to where she needed.

  How could Lucy appreciate that?

  He said: “When it got really bad, you know, she couldn’t even get out of bed. What can I say—I guess it all made me feel pretty miserable as well.”

  “Of course it did.”

  “I had to hide that from her… well, the guilt would’ve just shoved her straight back in that dark place.”

  Lucy just stood there and looked at him, eyes full of pity. Was he milking the history a little, to get her off his back? Perhaps. Nothing he said was a lie, though.

  They waited while a brunette dressed up in a maid’s uniform delivered cocktail replenishments.

  “But things are better now, aren’t they?”

  “Things are much better,” he nodded, even smiled again. “Can’t you see?”

  “Sure I can—and so can those guys.”

  He shrugged again. “Compared to Boston—I kind of enjoy seeing her all flirtatious.”

  “Enjoy?”

  He chuckled. “She’s not going to go off with that guy in the purple shirt, just because he’s hitting on her.”

  “Normal guys—normal guys would not let their wives flirt with other men.”

  “Normal guys have not been through what we’ve been through.”

  “I think by the sounds of it you coped really well.”

  Hugo breathed, tried to relax, tried to get the subject back round to safer territory. He said: “The thing is, Luce, when Madeleine smiles… it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. I’ll do anything in my power to keep that happening.”

  “That’s very sweet.”

  “Only, over the last few years, it’s been a pretty rare occurrence.”

  “Of course.”

  “If it takes a little attention from other guys to bring it back—well, that’s fine. I’m sure it’s helping with her recovery.”

  “So how far do you leave it? Until one of them asks her out?”

  “I know you won’t understand me,” he said. “But it makes her happy—and as I’ve said, knowing that Madeleine is happy has this strange affect on me. How can I not want that to continue?”

  He could see that Lucy didn’t understand him. She said: “So what happens now?”

  Hugo said: “If I wasn’t here, what would she do after one of these events?”

  “The bookstore guys all slink off to the Irish bar round the corner usually, from what she’s said before. I guess Maddie would be kind of obligated to join them.”

  Hugo nodded. “I think she’d enjoy that. More than coming home with me instead.”

  “So you’re just going to leave her to it?”

  “She needs some independence, doesn’t she?”

  He could see something in Lucy’s eyes, something akin to surprise and panic. She knew something, knew something about Madeleine that she wasn’t saying. She seemed to approve of Hugo’s attitude that Madeleine should be allowed to enjoy herself, particularly after such a success with the evening’s event—but there was some danger under the surface that she wasn’t talking about.

  Hugo felt suddenly a little afraid, the overheard talk of cheating came back to mind. Yet he had to follow through on what he’d said—he couldn’t linger at this event now, had to allow Madeleine free reign to enjoy herself here, and then at the bar.

  “You’ll keep an eye on her for me, won’t you?” he smiled, trying to act calmly.

  “Uh… sure,” Lucy said.

  Ten

  Once Hugo had returned home, Lucy continued trying to coax him back to the bookstore via text messages, and when the party moved on to the Irish basement bar round the corner, she stepped up her effort to get him back out.

  > She’s getting quite friendly with this guy, whoever he is.

  Hugo texted back:

  > She’s just having a little fun, getting a little attention. She won’t take it too far.

  Lucy’s reply came back:

  > She’s progressed to the G&Ts—she gets very flirty on G&Ts. You were warned, Mister.

  He smiled. Lucy was a gossiping troublemaker—perhaps she wasn’t the best person to have texting him about Madeleine’s activities. She had an agenda—to get him down there so she had a familiar face to hang with—and he had no doubt she was going to tease him all night with suggestive texts about his wife, just to provoke him.

  He tried to settle down in front of the TV, avoiding thinking about what might or might not be happening. Lucy was spiking his appreciation for the acting talents of Zoey Deschanel, in her new TV sitcom, by sending him a continuing stream of comments designed to rile him.

  > She’s leaning in pretty close to him—maybe you should come down here.

  Or:

  > She keeps touching her hair while she’s talking to him—you know that’s a sign of trouble?

  Or:

  > She’s stroking her neck. Dead. Giveaway.

  Hugo couldn’t help feeling a little pang of jealousy with each text that Lucy sent him, though he knew she was most likely winding him up. He had seen Madeleine with that co-worker of hers, even just briefly. Those knowing glances, that hint of affection was purely because she knew him so much better than the others in that place. It could all be misread, but Lucy’s observations—if that was what they were—did lend fuel to the fire.

  > You know she’s interested if she keeps pushing up her boobs for him.

  After a while, he started to regret not being able to see Madeleine flirting. She must look so sexy, all those peacocks prancing around her, puffing up their chests and their plumage to try to attract her interest.

  It was getting late—but when Hugo headed off to bed, Madeleine still hadn’t returned from the bar.

  Lucy was continuing her reportage from the front line, even this late on, trying to persuade him to get down there and strong-arm Madeleine away from her friend or friends, whoever they were.

  > Okay, if I were married, I would not let someone else put their hand on my spouse right there. Or anywhere, for that matter.

  He sent a brief text to Madeleine saying how tired he was after his flight, adding that he hoped she was having a good time, and that she should get a cab home whenever she was ready.

  Then he just collapsed—physically unable to remain awake, even if he wanted to.

  *

  Although he sensed that Madeleine quite liked doing her own thing with these book-signing evenings of hers—no doubt since it allowed her to indulge in this new flirtatious side of her personality with whole load of strangers—he also felt the slight sense of awkwardness whenever she talked about them, that he had not yet officially attended one of her events.

  He had assumed Lucy would eventually let slip that he had actually been to one of her evenings. Yet for some reason, Lucy never did give the game away that he’d been there.

  If Lucy and Madeleine shared everything, why did that remain a secret?

  As he thought about it in the days after that particular evening, he realized that if she wanted to, Lucy could have told Madeleine that Hugo new about her flirting with other guys, and that he supported her doing it. Lucy was the only one who knew. So why was she holding back this sensitive information from her best friend?

  Whatever her reasons, Lucy was keeping his secrets, leaving Hugo perfectly happy to let his wife have her independence at her book signings, to have fun with her adoring literati flocking around her.

  Eventually, though, he felt obligated to officially attend one of her book signings.

  “Oh, fantastic,” Madeleine had said when he told her he had a free evening for once, and he wanted to come see what she was doing with these events of hers.

  He caught
the note of anxiety in her eyes from his acceptance of an invitation she had not entirely expected him to accept.

  “Lucy told me how well it went when she was there,” he said.

  “She did?”

  “Sure. So I figured I need to see it for myself.”

  He even took the afternoon off from work, to ensure absolutely nothing could come up to pull him away.

  When he got there, instead of hanging back and lurking in the shadows, he made himself known to his wife immediately. She was all smiles, expressing her delight that he had made it after all, that nothing had cropped up at work at the last moment.

  Was there a touch of disappointment in her features, that he had come after all? That crushed his spirits a little, if only because he didn’t like to disappoint her.

  “Well, it’s great you’re here, sweetie,” she said, her eyes darting this way and that, the distraction of an event she was responsible for throwing.

  “Just forget I’m here, honey,” he said, stroking her upper arm in an attempt to be reassuring.

  “I’m going to have to, I’m afraid. These literature types are like herding cats—”

  “Of course, of course. Hey—I’ll be okay. Glass of Champagne or two…”

  She gave him a half-smile, as though she wasn’t really listening to him, and from his tone thought he’d probably cracked a mild joke about something despite not really being able to hear him.

  Oh, he didn’t mind. She had other things to think about.

  “Go ahead, honey,” he said, ushering her away, her final smile of genuine gratitude that he understood she couldn’t spend the evening with him.

  Madeleine weaved through the crowd back toward her author, who she’d left only in order to briefly connect with her husband. Without her, the guy was awkwardly talking to the man from the Times, and clearly not making any kind of impression.

  Hugo felt a little bad for the author. Madeleine joined their little circle, and immediately began trying to help him out in engaging with the journalist—but it wasn’t the usual Madeleine from these book signing events. She seemed somehow quieter, less enthused, flashing the occasional glance over toward her husband, as though needing to check that he was all right—or even that he was all right that this was what she was spending her life doing these days.