A Perfect Marriage (4 page)

"Sure," Max said easily. "Tell Ted I hope everything's going to be all right."

 
It was a week before Celine arrived back home, in the late afternoon.

She unpacked quickly and inspected the food supplies. Alice had kept the place vacuumed and dusted, and probably left Max casseroles or salads for his dinner. He was no cook.

Tonight she'd make him a proper meal.

She was stirring a sauce when he came in. "That smells good," he said, and came over to put his arm about her waist as she lifted her face to him.

He kissed her mouth, but after a second she pulled her head away to watch the sauce, which was on the point of boiling. As she lifted the pot from the heat, Max dropped his arm and said, "Isn't it a bit hot for cooking?" There were several pots on the stove.

"How long is it since you had a decent meal?" she asked him.

"Last night, actually.
Andrew and his wife took pity on me and invited me to dinner. How's Dora?"

"They want to operate, but they're not sure it will be a cure."

"That's rough.
When?"

"Maybe next week, if they can fit her in.
They've sent her home, meantime, and she seems okay except she's a bit tired, but Dad's worried sick." Celine leaned over the pot, frowning. Did she see lumps? She stirred furiously with the wire whisk, turned off the hot ring and replaced the pot to keep the sauce warm. "This'll be ready in about ten minutes," she said, peering at the potatoes.

"Okay." On his way out of the room, he turned in the doorway. "Are you going back next week?"

"I think I'd better, at least until they know if the operation is a success."

"I guess so." He hesitated, and then turned to go upstairs.

Over dinner she told him about the tension of waiting for tests and of her father's pessimistic outlook that he'd tried to hide from Dora.

"Poor old Ted," Max commiserated. "After losing your mother, this seems unfair." He pushed his plate away and said, "Will you be back for Stephen's retirement party?"

"Oh-the twenty-fifth, isn't it? I'll try. Who gets to take his place?"

"Actually, I do."

"Oh, Max! Why didn't you say?"

"I didn't want to tell you on the phone."

"Well, congratulations." Smiling, she picked up her half glass of red wine and raised it in a toast to him, then came round the table with it in her hand and bent to kiss his cheek.

Max curved an arm about her to drag her onto his knee. "Careful! You'll spill my wine!" She held it away from them.

"I missed you," he said. There was an unusual note of tension in his voice.

"You missed my cooking?" she teased. He didn't smile. "No-"

A bell began to ring in the kitchen. "That's the apricot souffle," Celine said. "Let go, Max. I don't want to overcook it:'

"Damn the apricot souffle"

But she had put her glass down on the table and was struggling up.

"It took ages to make," she told him, "and I don't want it to go rubbery in the oven."

The soufflé was perfect, and Max had a second helping. As they packed the dishes afterwards, he said, "Like to go for a walk?"

"That would be nice." Before they built the house they used to walk a lot, looking at homes that they admired, deciding which features they'd like to have in their own. Later they'd enjoyed peeking into other people's gardens, occasionally taking home a cutting or root given away by some gardening enthusiast they'd met trimming a hedge or weeding a verge.

 
Outside Celine tucked her hand into Max's arm, and they set off at a fairly brisk pace. The suburban houses sat well back on their sections, surrounded by lawns and gardens. On the wide verandas of many older homes, fragrant roses or fading mauve wistaria climbed the supporting posts. Newer houses echoing the Colonial style stood cheek-byjowl with architects' contemporary fantasies.

Now and then a dog woofed warningly from behind a wrought-iron fence or a closed wooden gate, and once a fat tabby cat emerged from under a hedge and wound itself briefly about Celine's ankles as she stooped to stroke it before walking on.

Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea surmounting a white painted concrete wall drew their eyes, and a few yards further on a slender clematis vine with starry white blooms dung to a wooden trellis. A sweet, wafting scent made Max look up appreciatively as they passed under a tall, yellowblossomed Australian frangipani, and a high hedge smothered in pink-tinged jasmine stopped them for a few moments to enjoy its beauty and inhale its perfume.

When they regained their own front door and stepped in side, the house seemed very warm and a bit stuffy. Celine yawned as she slipped off her light jacket.

"Tired?" Max enquired sympathetically. "It's been quite a strain, helping your father through all this, hasn't it?"
"Mmm.
I think I'll go straight up to bed." Celine turned ID the stairs.

"Shall I come with you?"

"It's early." She glanced back at him. "I'll have
a lei
surely bath and read for a while."

By the time Max came upstairs, she was fast asleep.

Max's new position as a senior partner entailed a good deal of extra time while he took over Stephen Chatswood's workload. He seemed to be working late, either at home or at the office, nearly every night. Celine had her night class, badminton and a committee meeting to keep her occupied,

  
 
and
that week it was her turn to host the book discussion group. She was glad she hadn't had to cancel that.

When Ted rang to say the hospital was sending Dora to the operating theatre the next morning for exploratory surgery, Celine left a note for Max and drove back to Rotorua.

It was late when he phoned. "We seem to have hardly seen each other while you were home," he said ruefully, after enquiring about Dora and being told they'd taken her into the hospital that afternoon.

"I know. Did Alice leave you something to eat?"

"Yes. You both spoil me, you know. I could buy something, or eat out. Or learn to cook."

"You don't need to-1 like cooking!"

"But you're not here," he pointed out.

"Max-?" Her father was in the room, rustling the newspaper laid on the dining table before him. She half turned away. "You don't mind, do you?"

"It wasn't a complaint," he said with a hint of impatience, "just an observation. Don't worry about it. I know you're needed there."

After a week of post-operative care in the hospital, Dora was recovering quite well. A malignant growth had been found, and there was still a question mark over her prognosis, but the doctors were cautiously hopeful.
Celine stayed until Dora was home, and left a few days later, when she was getting up and pottering round the house.
"We'll manage," Ted told Celine. "We'll just make the most of whatever time is left us."

So Celine was home in time to go to Stephen Chatswood's retirement party with Max.

The Chatswood home, a large, Mediterranean-style house, overlooked Mission Bay, where a narrow strip of sand fronting the Waitemata Harbour inflated the price of real estate, and in summer drew the suburb's residents to enjoy the beach.

The house was crowded and there was a lavish amount food and drink, but Celine partook sparingly of the
wine
 
that
she could drive home, allowing Max to imbibe freely if he liked. Not that Max ever overindulged.

She was talking to Stephen's wife and another of the partners when she noticed Max with a very pretty young woman, his head close to her long blond curls as he bent to bear what she was saying. At this distance, with a smile on his face, Max looked younger, almost the same as he had been when he and Celine were newly married-or even earthier, perhaps. When he'd been engaged to a girl he'd met at university, planning to marry at Christmas.

The girl with him had her head tipped slightly to one side, and began winding a strand of hair about her finger as
she ,
talked. She wore a slim-fitting dress that was low enough for generous, creamy breasts to peek above it, and short
enough ;
to draw attention to her long, bare legs, sleek and honeytanned.
tanned
.

Max altered his stance, placing one hand on the wall beside him and shifting his feet. The girl changed position, too, leaning against the wall. The small, casual movements had the effect of bringing them closer together, almost as if they were trying to shut themselves off from the crowd about them.

"-Don't you think, Celine?" Mrs. Chatswood was saying.

Celine dragged her eyes back to her hostess. "Absolutely," she said firmly, wondering what it was she was agreeing to.

"Well, I wondered, you know, if you would help us," Mrs. Chatswood said.

"Er, I'd be pleased to if I can," Celine said more cautiously, hoping for further enlightenment.

"Stephen says you do it professionally. We'd pay, of course.) P

Something about redecorating the house, then.
"When id you want to start?"

"Oh, we're planning a bit of a holiday first, but perhaps I could phone you when we get back?"

"Yes, do."

"I want to involve Stephen, you know. Give him plenty to think about. I won't have him sinking into old age, the way some men do when they retire."

The next time Celine saw Max he was talking to the middle-aged office receptionist, mother of a large adult family. Later in the evening she caught a glimpse of the blond girl, this time with one of the other senior partners, her expression sweetly attentive but her eyes slightly glazed as she twirled a glass of wine in her fingers.

On the way home Max sat beside her with his arms folded over his safety belt, whistling softly.

"You sound happy," Celine said as she drew to a halt for a red light. "How much did you drink tonight?"

"I don't need to be drunk to be happy," he protested.

The light changed and she pressed her foot down on the accelerator. "Who was the blond girl?
One of Stephen's granddaughters?"

"Which blond girl?"

"The one you were talking to."

"When?"

"What do you mean, when?" She glanced at him, wondering if he had, for once, overindulged.
"At the party, of course."

"When at the party?" he said with exaggerated patience. "There were about sixty people there."

"Most of them our age or older.
You certainly can't have forgotten her-she was gorgeous!
All legs and curls and big blue eyes."

"Oh-her," he said. "You must be talking about Kate. Kathryn Payne. Didn't anyone introduce you? She's our new junior partner."

Surprised, she turned to him. "You didn't tell me they'd appointed a woman. She's very young."

"Twenty-five.
Her looks are deceptive. She's extremely well qualified."

"When was the appointment made?"

"A few weeks ago.
With the reshuffle on Stephen's retirement, we wanted her to settle into the job with time to spare."

"You didn't mention it."

"Didn't I? You haven't been home much, lately. I started to tell you that she was at
Andrew's
the night they asked me to dinner, but we got talking about something else."

It was true Celine had been away or out rather often lately, and they'd had few opportunities to talk. "Is she good?"

"She got the job over about a dozen other candidates. She's quick and smart-I've been handing over some of my caseload to her so I can cope with the extra from Stephen's
: '

"She seems to have settled in all right," Celine said thoughtfully.

"How do you know?"

"Well, you and she were having a cosy little tête-à- tête at one stage." She cast him an amused sideways look.

"What do you mean?"

Teasing, she said, "You had her nicely backed into a corner-not that she seemed to be minding. If you ask me, she's a bit of a minx. Did you see her hanging on old Charlie's every word later on?"

Max said coldly, "I was not backing her into any corner, and she's a highly trained professional lawyer with a great future."

"Max, I was joking!" Astonished, she turned her head for an instant, seeing him scowling and sitting very straight in his seat. "I'm sure you were just making the new partner feel at home in the firm. And so was Charlie." Her tone turned mock soothing. "Of course it has nothing to do with her happening to be an extremely attractive blonde, and young enough to be ... well, Charlie's daughter, anyway."

She expected him to laugh and relax. Instead he sat immobile and unspeaking, the silence prickling between them.

  
 
It was silly, she thought. Of course she didn't suspect Max of philandering. She trusted him completely. He'd never given her reason to do otherwise.

"Kate," she mused, something tantalising the back of her mind. "Didn't you meet a Kate-or Katie-at the conference in Taupo? Is she the same one?"

"She prefers Kate."

"Bo Peep?" With a ripple of laughter, she recalled what he'd said. "The one you wanted to see jump out of a cake?"

"I didn't say I wanted her to. Anyway, it was a stupid remark."

"Well, I don't suppose you'd have said it in public." "You haven't repeated it to anyone, have you?"

"Of course not!
I'd forgotten all about it until you men tioned her name. A cross between Bo Peep and Marilyn Monroe-I can see what you meant."

Max flexed his long legs and readjusted them as though the car had become too small for him. "I only said she looked like that. I didn't know her then."

"Oh?" Celine flicked another teasing glance at him, laughter hovering at her mouth. "How well do you know her now?"

His smile was a trifle forced. "I mean, she's a partner in our firm. She's entitled to some ... respect. It isn't her fault she looks-well, the way she does,
that
people think she's a bimbo. She's a bit sensitive about it."

Celine privately thought that Kate or Katie might very well look rather different if she pulled the mane of rioting curls back in a more mature style, or wore a little less makeup and a bit more dress.