Madeleine Wakes (A Wife-Watching Romance): Book One of the Madeleine Trilogy Page 9

  She wasn’t the same flirtatious young woman charming anyone who got near, inspiring the author and lulling the journalist or anyone else nearby into a state of rapture about the writing being showcased.

  Hugo’s presence was spoiling it for everyone.

  He noticed that when Madeleine’s co-workers went near her, she often seemed to turn her back—subtly, but consistently—or find some excuse to walk away, sometimes even leaving them looking visibly disappointed.

  No flirting, then, not tonight.

  After awhile, Hugo had to admit he was a little bored. There was no Lucy to liven up his evening, either, although her move down from Boston was imminent. He got to talk about Joyce with some fatuous type from the university, and about what Philip Roth was or was not up to these days, with some grindingly vacuous PhD from Columbia.

  Everything seemed to go well enough, the audience was happy enough from what he saw. But Madeleine’s performance was definitely more cautious than usual that evening. Hugo stuck around until the end, but by then he had made his mind up that he was not being a good influence on her when she was working.

  When he was around, she was quieter, less confident, less showy. She wasn’t even wearing the usual skirt, but a smart conservative trouser suit, her make-up more subtle, like the Madeleine of old.

  Afterwards, people were still congratulating her and thanking her before they ventured out into the night air, and Madeleine put a brave face on it, accepting her praise with grace, while advising anyone and everyone to make sure they noted the date of the next event in their diaries.

  Then, when Hugo was waiting patiently for his wife to finish up, he saw one of her co-workers, the handsome Latino, approach her with no intention of being ignored.

  He gave her a peck on the cheek, which would have seemed to Hugo merely a friendly gesture, except that halfway through it, Madeleine gently but firmly urged him back, as though she was worried what her husband might think.

  It was that particular intimation of hers that made Hugo suddenly suspicious.

  “You okay?” her colleague asked her. “You’ve been kinda down today, huh.”

  She shrugged, said quietly: “I’m just a little tired.”

  Then she was glancing at her husband. For a fraction of a second Hugo caught the worry on her face as she wondered if he had seen anything. He pretended he’d been looking somewhere else, he hadn’t seen a thing. She seemed relieved at that.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” she said, and he stepped close to her in case she wanted a hug. She surprised him by stepping away.

  Was she embarrassed about him?

  Not embarrassed, he suspected—perhaps just keeping her worlds separate. She didn’t want her co-workers to know he was her husband, or maybe even that she was married at all. Surely they must know that.

  “You going to that bar again afterwards?” he asked her.

  “I’m not sure if I have the energy tonight.”

  “Sure?”

  But she said only: “Take me home.”

  Later, Hugo lay in bed and felt bad about torpedoing his wife’s special evening. He’d have to make his excuses for future events.

  If he was honest, he did feel slightly put out that his presence had put a dampener on the whole thing. Oh, maybe she’d had a summer cold coming on, or she was at a certain point in her monthly cycle. Maybe she’d simply had a difficult author that night, and the inspiration hadn’t flown quite as well as normal. Maybe she had simply had a bad day. It was a coincidence if she had.

  A couple of days later—perhaps even only a day later—and the funk, whatever it had been, seemed to fade. Hugo felt huge relief. He’d been afraid her bad day might see her slip into a bad week, and then a bad month, and then her condition might manifest itself once again for the long-term.

  As it turned out, he could afford to be more confident in her recovery than that. Saturday came, and in the morning Madeleine was once again dressing for work in another short, short skirt. Thinking him asleep as she readied herself for a weekend shift, she put on a blouse that showed a good amount of her cleavage, and the kind of lipstick that made men melt.

  Hugo felt relief, and a stirring down below at the thought she should be dressing like that for the guys down at the bookstore.

  She didn’t dress that way for her husband, that was for sure.

  Eleven

  When it came time for her next bookstore event, Hugo passed on his apologies, but did not attend. He told Madeleine a couple of days ahead of time that he had an upcoming product launch, and the required press attention was going to keep him at the office late that night.

  As the evening approached, and there was nothing at work that could keep him at the office particularly late, his plan was to visit the movie theater instead.

  Madeleine didn’t question him, didn’t cast any suspicion that he might be telling her a little white lie. He could tell she was quietly relieved he wouldn’t be there.

  Lucy, on the other hand, was being press-ganged into attending the event while she was down in New York again, preparing for her relocation. So she wasn’t happy that Hugo was not going to be there.

  That evening, as Hugo headed to check out the latest Woody Allen picture at the Regal off Union Square, he received a flurry of text messages from Lucy demanding to know why he wasn’t there—particularly when he knew how flirtatious his wife got at those book signings.

  Her fresh attempts to either entice or threaten him into changing his plans, to come by the book signing instead, failed on every level. When she tried to give him guilt because he wasn’t there to see his wife’s event, he merely said he’d been to the last one and he’d been a distraction for Madeleine. When she said he needed to come down there and stop his wife fluttering her eyelids at other men, he said simply that he trusted her.

  Lucy’s attempts to make him jealous merely turned him on.

  >You do know how good looking the guys at her bookstore are? Not to mention all these authors hanging around her.

  He liked to think of Madeleine having her pick of a swarm of attractive suitors. How excited she must feel.

  > She loves it. If I were you, I’d want to be here, just in case she gets drunk again.

  He wasn’t going to spoil it for Madeleine, though. This was her big night—she didn’t want her husband taking her attention off things.

  Once again at the end of the evening, he found himself heading home alone, slipping into the cool sheets, warmed by the feeling that Madeleine must be having fun this time—that had to be the priority.

  *

  When he woke in the middle of the night, he saw that she was lying there beside him, like usual other than the faint whiff of alcohol that lingered about her, and the fact her face had retained smeared traces of her makeup.

  He felt a mild sense of relief that she was there at all, which surprised him—had there really been a danger that she wouldn’t come home that night, or any night after one of her events?

  What most surprised him was the small part of him that appeared disappointed she was back lying beside him, rather than embarking on an adventure in a strange bed.

  Was there something wrong with him?

  Madeleine looked so beautiful, so peaceful lying there. Even with her mascara smudged and her lipstick smeared, and her hair like a nest of golden vipers.

  God, they used to be able to talk about anything and everything. Still could, mostly. She was his best friend, he’d never been closer to any other human being. So why couldn’t he talk to her about anything vaguely intimate any more?

  He wanted to confess to her how obsessed he had become by watching her, how incredible she looked now that her self confidence had returned. And he did want to talk about that strange, dark little urge he had to see her enjoy the attentions of other men. But if he couldn’t even talk to her about why they never made love any more, how could he possibly open up about that?

  Hugo sighed and rolled over. The alarm clock on t
he bedside table read 5am. He wasn’t remotely sleepy.

  He picked up his phone, only to find a string of texts waiting for him, along with a missed call from Lucy.

  Hugo felt his stomach lurch. What had happened that had made her want to call him, of all things?

  One text from Madeleine:

  > Okay sweetie—you have a great sleep, you deserve it! Everything going great here—think the guys from head office really love what we’ve done! I’ll try not to wake you when I get in :-) xx

  The warmth of reassurance filled his chest—well, whatever else happened that night, at least Madeleine seemed happy. The folks from the Corporation must have had a good time since she was so on fire.

  Next, he flicked to Lucy’s string of messages.

  > You know, if I were you, I would not feel comfortable with my wife working with these guys every day.

  > She does look happy though.

  > Are you asleep now, or ignoring me?

  > I’ll take that as you being asleep for the sake of our friendship.

  > Okay, seriously, you might want to get down here.

  > She had way too much to drink.

  > I just want to put it on record: I am not responsible for what she is doing.

  > I tried to intervene, but now she’s gone, so what am I supposed to do?

  Hugo breathed slowly, deeply, in and out. Did those final few texts suggest that something had happened? Lucy hadn’t exactly gone into any details—but the fact she’d tried to call him made him start to fear the worst.

  It was like the way the camera cuts away in a horror movie, leaving it to the imagination to come up with whatever really awful thing that must be happening.

  As he thought about it, and felt that injection of dark, jealous acid in his stomach, Hugo also had the strangest feeling of contentment that Madeleine might have done something a little naughty. It made his stomach tie itself in knots, but his manhood was thickening between his thighs, and his loins were tingling as though he were in some shady strip club.

  It was a powerful thrill that his wife was being sexy and flirtatious, and even the hint that she might turn out to be promiscuous as well some day.

  Had Madeleine really left the bar with some guy?

  Hugo now stared at his pretty wife’s smeared lipstick, and felt himself unbelievably turned on.

  Maybe he needed therapy himself.

  *

  It was Friday, so he had little time in the morning to wait and see if Madeleine would wake and want to talk about what might or might not have happened the previous night.

  Hugo had to be in the shower, then dressed and gone before she even stirred. He felt nervous as he left her sleeping there, creeping through the apartment to slip out of the front door, but he couldn’t stay to question her.

  Mid morning, he sent her a text message that was subtly inquisitive.

  > Hey honey, hope you’re not feeling too hung over today—you were out late, must have been a fun crowd at your event!

  He so badly wanted to know what had gone on, what might have prompted Lucy to send such dramatic text messages. Yet he didn’t want Madeleine to start feeling pressure from him being on her case.

  And that dark, rebellious part of him deep inside wanted to avoid scaring her off from her little adulterous dalliance, if that was what had happened. God, he was messed up.

  All day, he tried calling Lucy. From different phones, too, in case she was purposefully blocking him. He sent her a couple of texts asking what really happened the previous night, though he didn’t want to give Lucy the impression he was on the war path.

  If Lucy suggested to Madeleine that he was angry with her, things could go south very quickly.

  In the end, he had to be patient. Hugo found himself sitting on the toilet mid-afternoon, taking deep breaths, trying to use reason to quell the turbulence in his chest.

  He tried to look at the situation as a win-win. Maybe nothing had happened: some guy had escorted her out of the establishment and helped find her a cab to take her home. No damage. Lucy had simply gained the wrong impression about her walking out with her male friend. But if something had happened—Madeleine succumbing to temptation, finding a shady corner to make out with some other guy—well, that was kind of hot.

  It wasn’t as though Madeleine would ever leave her husband, just for some little thing she had about a co-worker.

  *

  It wasn’t until 4 pm that he received an apologetic text back from Madeleine, and that was short on the detail he had been hoping for:

  > Sorry sweetie! Had my phone on silent. Great night last night, drank way more than I meant. Think it went well, though.

  It seemed perfectly innocent—maybe Lucy had been merely winding him up with her texts again, knowing he had gone to sleep. Maddie had had too much to drink, so maybe some gallant chap had put her in a taxi to keep her out of trouble.

  The commute home was only mildly anxious, but then when he returned to the apartment, the sight of a smiling Madeleine seemed to put him instantly at ease.

  “I am never drinking that much again,” she said, as they ate burritos in front of the latest Game of Thrones episode on TV.

  “I got a text from Lucy warning me you’d had a few,” Hugo said. “You got home okay, though?”

  “Someone found me a cab thankfully. No way I could have walked. I really have to watch myself in future.”

  “It’s hard to monitor how much Champagne you have when people keep topping up your glass, huh?”

  “I was too focused on the event to worry about it—I should just avoid drinking until we get to the bar.”

  Hugo felt deflated by the innocence of her explanations, but then what did he really expect?

  They were quickly off the subject of the previous night, but the rest of the evening, Hugo did catch his wife giving him a few curious little glances, as though there was something on her mind that she wanted to talk about, but couldn’t.

  A few times, he popped questions to her about the book signing, about how good the author had been, about the guys from head office attending—all designed to offer her a way in to tell him if something important had happened that night. She didn’t take the bait.

  That evening, Madeleine kept steering the conversation away from herself, back to something safe—her husband’s job, what they should do at the weekend, exactly who was hacking who to pieces on Game of Thrones.

  She didn’t seem entirely comfortable talking about the evening, especially what had gone on in the Irish pub.

  *

  A few days passed, and the subject of that particular evening evaporated completely. Hugo let it go—maybe he would never find out. He did notice a slight change in Madeleine, however, which seemed to reinforce the idea in him that something had gone on.

  Firstly, she seemed a little less bubbly about everything she did. Secondly, she didn’t seem to talk about the bookstore quite so much—if at all, in fact.

  The third thing that put him on edge was that over the next few days, Madeleine seemed to pay more attention to him than she ever had since they’d come to New York. It was as though she’d suddenly noticed him, realized she’d been taking him a little for granted recently, and now she felt she needed to make it up to him.

  She kept looking at him, kept smiling at him but with her mouth and not really her eyes. She tried too hard to show she was interested in his life, in his job.

  When she asked him about his colleagues, and the conversation turned to Lowego’s marital difficulties, at one point he thought he saw Madeleine wince. It provoked a jolt of fear in him, that the idea of marital infidelity would cause such a reaction in his wife.

  But how could he reassure her, that nothing could have happened to make him stop loving her, that she didn’t need to worry about him?

  He wanted to talk, but when it came to it, his lips were sealed by some unseen force.

  The outcome of Madeleine’s re-discovery that she had a husband was that she d
ecided it was time to organize the anniversary celebration they had missed because of one of her book signing events.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming—and it’s our five-year anniversary, too,” she said.

  “We don’t have to do anything too outlandish, though, do we?” Hugo felt too tired most of the time to face any kind of party.

  “Of course not—I was thinking a quiet dinner, just the two of us.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  And it really did sound perfect to Hugo—perfect as an opportunity to force himself to open up to her. A quiet dinner, just the two of them, no distractions. A little wine for courage, and he might at least state something of what was on his mind. It might prove difficult, but he knew he had to try. He desperately wanted to rekindle their passion, he missed her intimate embrace, the way she looked after they made love. The satisfaction in her that he could instill.

  Maybe he needed to be honest with her about this new darkness inside him, the strange obsession he had about her sexual renaissance. His burgeoning, dark fantasy about his wife sleeping with another man.

  Twelve

  Madeleine waited until the dessert was out of the way before telling Hugo the reason for her recent melancholy, as though worried it might spoil their food.

  For his part, Hugo had spent the entire evening trying to build up the courage to express his feelings about everything—about her recovery, her transformation, his startling new fantasy, and what was or was not going on between them.

  As dessert came and went, and their conversation still dwelled in small talk and trivial matters, Hugo began to worry that he was going to miss this opportunity to open up.

  He’d been practicing different lines of questioning in his head all night, slurping wine in the hope that it would give him the boldness he needed. His difficulty wasn’t that he was afraid of making a fool of himself—the bigger fear was upsetting Madeleine, angering her. And on this night they were supposed to be celebrating their relationship.