Bridget had never been so angry.
Hartley had been ignoring all her calls. Eventually, he had phoned her.
‘At last. Where the hell have you been?’
Bugger. She’d let the sickly-sweet act drop. The bastard deserved it; but still, she had to sound concerned rather than angry.
‘Hello, Bridget.’
‘Darling, sorry, it’s just… I’ve been so worried about you. Did you have to go to see your mother in Scotland, sweetie?’
‘No.’
Something was wrong.
‘Bridget, I know about everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
Hartley’s voice sounded deeper than normal, more serious.
‘I mean,’ he said purposefully, ‘your little game is up. I think you were behind the photographer in Scotland.’
Hartley let the words hang, imagining Bridget’s cold eyes taking them in.
‘And I suspect you have been behind much of the bad-mouthing of Lucy, not to mention her “murky” past that ended up in a newspaper.’
Think. Quick. How could he possibly know, Bridget asked herself. She had left no trace of evidence.
‘What on earth are you talking about, Hartley? My game? What game? Why are you saying these things?’
‘Enough, Bridget, enough.’ Hartley sounded more bored than angry.
‘Look, there’s obviously been some misunderstanding.’ Bridget was scrabbling for words, talking quickly. She had to keep him on the phone. ‘Has one of your friends said something? I know Bately never liked me – he’s making it up.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with Bately,’ Hartley replied evenly, his voice as cold as steel.
‘OK, it’s Lucy, isn’t it? She’d do anything to get you back. Did it not work out with Kirk Kelner, huh? She’s a cheap little slut who’s playing you for a fool.’
Hartley laughed. ‘Now that’s more like it, Bridget. The real you, the poisonous Bridget, had to come out sooner or later.’
The cold realization dawned on Bridget that she had let her guard down. But what did he expect? ‘Sorry, Hartley, it’s just… I can’t stand to see you get hurt. And that’s what she’ll do to you.’
‘Hurt?’ Hartley shouted. ‘Hurt? I’ll tell you what hurts. Hurt is what Lucy felt when you set her up in Scotland. Hurt is what she felt when I turned my back on her. Hurt, you self-obsessed witch, is what she most probably felt when she read a totally fabricated story about the past you thought she should be ashamed of. Hurt is what her family felt when they read the lies. Hurt – that’s the emotion Lucy felt when half of London was calling her a gold-digger. And hurt doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel at losing someone I was deeply in love with.’
Bridget, for once, was lost for words.
Still, what real proof did he have that she’d done these things?
‘I am furious you think I have anything to do with any of this,’ she told him indignantly. Anger – that would confuse him.
‘I no longer care. Goodbye, Bridget.’
‘No, wait,’ Bridget pleaded. ‘We have to meet. You’ll know I’m not lying when you see my face. I’m still coming to the Hogmanay Ball?’ she half asked and half demanded.
‘Do what you want,’ he told her. ‘You won’t be on my table but you have plenty of friends taking tables. I can’t stop you coming.’
Bridget was panicking. She had never heard Hartley say a cross word to anyone. He hated conflict of any kind.
‘I’ll cook us a lovely dinner tonight, your favourite: lamb with honey and mint sauce. And we’ll talk everything through, OK?’
Bridget’s heart pounded as she prayed he would say yes.
‘Bridget?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘I’d rather prise out my eyeballs with a blunt spoon. Goodbye.’