Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (5 page)

No more.

Tracy was on her way home now to talk to Jeff. She was nervous, but at the same time she wanted to tell him. Needed to tell him, to unburden herself at last. Just the thought of peeling off her wet clothes, climbing into the shower and washing away the pain of the past year filled her with a profound sense of relief.

No more secrets.

It was time for the next chapter to begin.

THE LIGHTS WERE OFF
when she got back to the house. Jeff didn’t usually get home till seven or eight and would probably be later tonight since he wasn’t expecting her back. Tracy hadn’t known what time she would leave Alan’s, so had made up a story about dinner with a girlfriend.

That will be the last lie I tell him,
she resolved, climbing the stairs. From now on it would be honesty all the way.

She pushed open the door to the master bedroom and froze. For a moment, quite a long moment actually, time stood completely still. Tracy’s eyes were sending one message to her brain, but something—her heart, perhaps—kept intercepting the signal and sending it back.
This is what I am seeing,
her brain seemed to be telling her,
but it cannot be true.

She was so silent and still, barely even breathing, that it took Jeff a few moments to realize she was standing there. When he did, and their eyes finally met, he was standing by the window, locked in a passionate embrace with an utterly oblivious Rebecca Mortimer.

They were both still dressed, but Rebecca’s shirt was half unbuttoned, and Jeff’s hands were on her back as they kissed passionately. When Jeff saw Tracy and tried to pull away, Rebecca grabbed him like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft.

Stupidly, Tracy’s first thought was
She has an amazing figure.
Rebecca was wearing spray-on jeans that she was clearly itching for Jeff to help her out of. It was as if the whole thing was a scene in an erotic play. Some sort of fiction, from which Tracy could detach herself. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

The real Jeff, my Jeff, would never do that to me.

It was only when Rebecca turned, saw Tracy and screamed that the illusion shattered.

“How could you?” Tracy looked witheringly at Jeff.

“How could I? How could
you
?”

Straightening his hair, Jeff walked toward his wife looking as aggrieved as it was possible for someone to look with lipstick smeared all over his face and neck.

“You started it!”

“I-I . . . what?” Tracy stammered. “You’re in our bedroom with another woman!”

“Only because
you’ve
been having an affair with your fertility doctor!”

Tracy looked at him first with bafflement, then with disgust.

“Don’t try to deny it!” Jeff shouted at her.

“You make me sick,” said Tracy. As if seducing his intern wasn’t bad enough, now Jeff was trying to turn this around onto
her
? “How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Tracy laughed, a loud, brittle, ugly laugh with no joy in it.
This can’t be happening.
She couldn’t bring herself to look directly at Rebecca. But out of the corner of her eye she could have sworn she saw a distinct gleam of triumph in the younger woman’s eyes. Wrapping her anger around her like a cloak, Tracy turned on her heel and fled.

“Tracy! Wait!”

Pulling on a pair of shoes, Jeff ran after her. He heard the front door slam as he raced downstairs and chased her out into the street. It was still raining, and the pavement felt slippery and slick beneath his bare feet.

“For God’s sake, Tracy!” He grabbed her arm. Tracy struggled but couldn’t break his grip. “Why can’t you admit it? I know I was wrong to kiss Rebecca—”

“Kiss her? You were about to do a lot more than kiss her, Jeff! You were in our bedroom, all over that girl like a rash! If I hadn’t walked in . . .”

“What? If you hadn’t walked in, what? I’d have slept with her? Like you did with Dr. Alan McBride?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re a liar!” There were tears in Jeff’s eyes. “I saw the footage, Tracy. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“What footage? What are you talking about?”

“YOU, coming out of the Berkeley Hotel with that man. That
bastard
! The two of you, kissing in the street at two in the morning. The same day you claimed to be in Yorkshire. You lied to me. And then you have the gall to accuse
me
of having an affair!”

Tracy closed her eyes. She felt as if she were going mad. But then she remembered that this was Jeff’s signature, the way he always used to work, back in the old days. Baffling and bamboozling his victims till they couldn’t tell up from down or right from wrong.

I’m no victim,
Tracy thought.
I’m not one of your dumb “marks.”
This is about you, not me. You and that damn girl.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she said. “But the only man I’ve slept with in the last four years is you, Jeff.”

“That’s a lie, Tracy, and you know it. You and McBride . . .”

Tracy lost her temper. “Don’t say his name! Don’t you dare. Alan’s a decent man. An honest man. Unlike you. Go back to your girlfriend, Jeff.”

With a sharp tug, she pulled her arm free and ran.

HOURS PASSED AND THE
rain kept falling. Tracy had no idea where she was going, or why. Soon it was completely dark. Eventually she found herself on Gunther Hartog’s street, staring up at his splendid, redbrick house. Just around the corner from his Mount Street antiques shop, Gunther Hartog’s Mayfair home was one of Tracy’s safe places, her happy places. She and Jeff had spent many long, drunken, convivial evenings there, discussing jobs they’d done or planning new capers.

Me and Jeff.

The ground-floor lights were all on. Gunther would be in his study, no doubt, reading books on politics and art late into the night. Jeff used to call him the best-educated crook in London.

Jeff. Damn old Jeff. He’s everywhere.

For the first time all evening, Tracy gave way to tears. The image of Jeff with that awful girl in his arms would never leave her.
They were in our bedroom. He was about to make love to her, I know he was. For all I know he’s done it hundreds of times before.
Her natural instinct was to want to claw Rebecca’s eyes out, but she checked herself.
I refuse to be one of those women who blame the other woman. Why should a young girl like that respect Jeff’s wedding vows if he doesn’t? No, Jeff’s the bad guy here. He’s the liar.

A small voice inside her dared to remind her that she’d been lying too But Tracy snuffed it out.

Hold on to the anger,
she told herself.
Don’t let go.

She couldn’t barge into Gunther’s house and seek comfort there. She couldn’t go home. Some wild, irrational part of her wanted to knock on Alan McBride’s door. He always made her feel so safe. But Dr. McBride had his own family, his own life. She knew she shouldn’t intrude.

I’m on my own,
thought Tracy. Then, reaching down to stroke her barely swelling belly, she edited the thought.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she said aloud. “I meant
we’re
on our own. But you mustn’t worry. Mommy will take care of you. Mommy will always take care of you.”

JEFF WOKE THE NEXT
morning feeling like he’d been hit by a truck.

Rebecca had left right after Tracy.

“I can stay if you want,” she’d offered hopefully.

“No. Go back to your apartment,” Jeff told her. “And go back to work tomorrow. If anyone’s leaving the museum, it’s me, not you.”

She’d done as she was asked, for now. Jeff knew he would have to deal with the situation eventually. But one crisis at a time.

He tried Tracy’s cell phone. Turned off, of course. Then he tried her friends, acquaintances, contacts from the old days. After twelve hours he had made no progress. No one had seen or heard from her, not even Gunther.

“I’m worried.” Jeff poured himself a third tumbler of Laphroaig from Gunther’s decanter. He couldn’t face the thought of sleeping at Eaton Square—Tracy wouldn’t be back anytime soon, and their bedroom had become the scene of the crime—and Gunther had offered him a bed. Secretly Jeff hoped that eventually Tracy might also turn up on Gunther’s doorstep and Gunther could act as referee while they worked things out. Because they
would
work things out. The alternative was unthinkable.

“What if something’s happened to her?”

“Tracy can take care of herself,” said Gunther. “Besides, something
has
happened to her. She’s walked in on her hubby in bed with another woman.”

“We weren’t in bed.”

“Near enough. Who is this ghastly strumpet anyway?”

“She’s not ghastly and she’s not a strumpet,” said Jeff. “Her name’s Rebecca, but she’s not important here.”

Gunther arched a dubious eyebrow. “Apparently that isn’t Tracy’s take on things.”

“Jesus, Gunther, not you too? I told you, Tracy’s the one who’s been having an affair, okay? Not me.”

“Hmm.” Gunther frowned. “Yes. You did say that.”

He found it terribly hard to believe that Tracy would cheat on Jeff. On the other hand, perhaps this was only because he deeply, desperately didn’t
want
to believe it. Gunther Hartog was old and wise enough to know that every human being is capable of infidelity. Rationally, one must assume that professional con artists like Tracy and Jeff were more capable than most. And Tracy had been depressed lately, not at all herself.

“She’s been lying to me for months,” said Jeff. “Yesterday I saw hard evidence with my own eyes. It’s all on video, Gunther. CCTV. I’m not making this up. It was only after I saw the truth in black and white that I . . . I slipped, with Rebecca.”

“You’ve never slept with her before?”

“Never! I might have been tempted,” Jeff admitted. “But I never touched her.”

“
Would
you have slept with her,” Gunther asked, “ . . . if Tracy hadn’t walked in?”

“Probably,” said Jeff. “Yes. I would. Tracy broke my heart, for God’s sake! Not that any of that matters now anyway, because Tracy’s taken off into the night.” He ran a hand despairingly through his thick, dark hair. “It’s a mess.”

“You really think she’s been sleeping with this doctor chappie?”

“I know she has,” Jeff said grimly.

“But you still want her back?”

“Of course I do. She’s my wife and I love her. I’m pretty sure she loves me too, despite everything. This baby stuff has thrown us both for a loop.”

“Well . . .” The old man smiled. “That being the case, you will find her. Try not to panic, old boy. Tracy will turn up.”

TRACY DIDN’T TURN UP.

Not that day, not that week, not the next week.

Jeff took a leave of absence from the museum. He knocked on every door of every contact of Tracy’s, however tenuous. Fences and appraisers and restorers whom they’d worked with in the past. Staff at the various prisoners’ charities to which Tracy gave money. Even her personal trainer got a call from a distraught and red-eyed Jeff.

“If I’d seen her, I’d tell you, honest.” Karen, a bubbly bottle blonde from Essex, couldn’t imagine what would possess any woman to run out on a bloke as fit as Jeff Stevens. Even a beauty like Tracy couldn’t hope to do better than that, surely? “But she ain’t been ’ere. Not for weeks.”

Finally Jeff stormed into 77 Harley Street.

“I want to see Dr. Alan McBride. The bastard’s been screwing my wife.”

All the women in the waiting room put down their copies of
Country Life
and stared at him, shocked. At least Jeff assumed they were shocked. Most of them were in their forties, hence the trip to the fertility clinic, and had had far too much Botox injected around their eyes to be able to register more than mild surprise.

“They’ve been having an affair and now my wife’s gone missing,” Jeff ranted at the hapless receptionist. “I want to know what McBride knows.”

“I can see you’re upset, sir.”

“That’s very observant of you.”

“But I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s—”

“Busy? Yes, I’ll bet he is.” Ignoring the receptionist’s protests, he barged his way into the doctor’s office.

The room was empty. Or so Jeff thought, until he heard voices, a man and a woman’s. They were coming from behind a green curtain that had been drawn around an examination table at the back of the room. Marching over, Jeff ripped back the curtain.

He saw three things in quick succession.

The first was a woman’s vagina.

The second was the same woman’s face, propped up on a pillow, her expression slowly transitioning from surprise to embarrassment to outrage.

And the third was a doctor.

The doctor was about sixty-five, heavyset and, Jeff guessed, Persian. He did not look happy. More importantly, he was not Dr. Alan McBride.

“I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly. “Wrong room.”

Back in the waiting room, the receptionist glared at him.

“As I was saying, I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s
on holiday
.”

“Where?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“WHERE?” Jeff bellowed.

The girl crumbled. “Morocco. With his family.”

So he has a family, does he? Bastard.

“When will he be back?”

The receptionist regained her composure. “I must ask you to leave now, sir. This is a doctor’s office, and you’re upsetting our patients.”

“Tell McBride I’ll be back,” said Jeff. “This isn’t over.”

Outside, he walked along Harley Street in a daze.
Where are you, Tracy? Where in God’s name are you?
He took a cab to Eaton Square as he did every day, just in case Tracy had decided to return to the house. His heart soared when he saw a woman standing in the front garden, bending low over the rosebushes, but as he approached he saw that it wasn’t Tracy.

“Can I help you?”

The woman turned around. She was in her early forties, blond and had the sort of hard, overly made-up face and heavily lacquered hair that Jeff usually associated with newscasters.