Smoke Gets In Your Eyes (Extract)

Chapter 2

Kirkwood Manor Hotel was a gothic Victorian house pretending to be a Jacobean mansion. Built of red brick in 1860, it had projecting bay windows, four rows of spindly chimneys, and a gabled roof edged by elegant stone balustrades. There were many themed gardens but Caitlin's favourite was the Elizabethan Garden, which opened out from one of the hotel drawing rooms. It was always deserted, due to a dubious-looking pond stretching its entire length; even the ducks refused to swim in its melancholy depths. But she liked the peace and quiet. Its bleakness matched her mood and she was guaranteed never to be disturbed.

So there Caitlin sat, with her head in her hands, trying desperately not to cry, in case a guest wandered past and saw her. She hoped she was successfully hidden behind a moss-covered statue of Venus, but guests had a habit of turning up in the most unlikely places and always became illiterate when faced with signs saying: 'Private' and 'Keep Out'.

Why had everything gone so horribly wrong? She had been so pleased to learn about the baby, now her happiness had disintegrated like sugar in the rain. Had she really been surprised to find Amanda in her bed? Hugh had been persistently unfaithful for the first five years of their marriage. Did she really expect the baby to make a difference?

Hunting through her pockets for a handkerchief, the only one she could find was white linen with 'H' embroidered upon it. Disdainfully, she dropped it into the nearest lavender bush. She would rather use her sleeve.

She sniffed. On the other hand ... Caitlin snatched up the handkerchief and blew her nose noisily.

Sitting back on the little stone seat, she regarded the hotel through a mist of tears, wondering if he was looking down from their bedroom window. And if he was, why didn't he come into the garden and make it up to her?

"Hi, Mrs Kirkwood!" said Fabian, the fitness instructor, as he jogged around the statue. "What are you doing out here in the cold?"

Caitlin shoved the handkerchief in her pocket and looked up into Fabian's friendly, blue-eyed gaze. She could not help but smile. Why was the boy always so cheerful - and so full of energy?

"I thought you'd be getting ready," added Fabian, jogging on the spot.

He looked like an advert for breakfast cereal, thought Caitlin. His handsome, boyish face did not have a single drop of sweat running off it. He was as bouncy as Tigger, probably hell first thing in the morning, yet she'd bet he'd never had a vitamin tablet in his life.

"Ready?" she repeated eventually, realising he expected an answer. "What for?"

Fabian threw a few mock punches at Venus. "Have you forgotten what day it is?"

"Friday?" Caitlin felt too weary to halt the sarcasm creeping into her voice. "I'm only covering reception and that's not until seven o'clock."

Fabian grinned. "No, you're not. It's Mr Kirkwood's birthday party. Had you forgotten? Princess Victoria is arriving in less than an hour and the hotel is crawling with undercover cops."

Caitlin screamed and, leaping up, began to sprint around the pond, hurdling the lavender borders and box hedging.

Fabian chuckled. Crazy Mrs Kirkwood - she was always good for a laugh.

Tucking a few loose strands of hair back into his ponytail, he ran a lap around the pond and exited through the stone archway at the far end. The whole of two thousand acres of parkland lay before him. And beyond that, the King's Forest, stretching all the way down to the sea. He switched on his iPod, took a deep breath and bounded forward.

In his enthusiasm he narrowly missed leap-frogging a couple of female guests, their bottoms up in the air as they bent to admire a clump of wild daffodils. "Sorry!" he called cheerfully. As he sprinted off across the park he turned, ran backwards and waved merrily to them. After some hesitation they dutifully waved back.

Fabian headed towards the woodland path, scattering the deer sheltering under the rhododendrons. It was unlike Mrs Kirkwood to forget things, he reflected, but then, she was getting on a bit.

After all, she must be at least twenty-four.

* * *

When Caitlin burst back into her bedroom, all traces of Hugh's romp with Amanda had vanished and he was sitting primly on the edge of the four-poster bed, like a vestal virgin in black tie, fastening his silver cufflinks.

He looked up disapprovingly. "Where the hell have you been? I've had one gormless idiot after another barging in to pester me about the arrangements for this stupid party." He stood up and took his dinner jacket off the back of a chair. "What's the point of employing a manager when I have to do everything myself?"

Caitlin sighed and, picking up her hairbrush, sat down at her dressing table. Studiously avoiding Hugh's reflection in the dusty looking-glass, she tugged the brush through her tangled, windswept hair. "You didn't employ me. I came free with the wedding certificate."

"Free?" he grumbled. "You're the most expensive mistake I ever made!"

"Expensive? And how did you run the hotel before you married me?"

"No problem," said Hugh. "I had a manager."

Before Caitlin could think of a suitably sarcastic retort he had gone, slamming the door after him. She put down her hairbrush and grimaced at her reflection. Her long black hair had already started falling out in clumps due to stress, her once emerald eyes had lost their sparkle and were now the colour of pond sludge. Why did she have this horrendous feeling that she was making a terrible mistake? Did love truly conquer all - or was she really staying with Hugh to give her baby the father and home life she never had?

Miserably, she started on her make-up. Endless cleansing, toning and moisturising, in the manner the beauty books demanded, was enough to turn anyone into a mindless zombie. She blended in her foundation and reached for her spot-cover stick. Lately it was becoming a case of join-the-dots. So much for pregnancy making a woman bloom. And that was another problem, she realised, as her waistband dug into her tummy. What the hell was she going to wear that wouldn't make her resemble a circus tent?

Half-heartedly Caitlin wandered over to her wardrobe. Her clothes reflected the misery eating of the last five years and were every size from 10 to 14, including an over-optimistic 8. She thumbed dispiritedly along the rail.

At the very end was a full-length, white lace gown. She dragged it out. Simultaneously demure and sexy, the plunging neckline would take attention away from her disappearing waistline.

She pulled off her clothes and slid the dress over her head. It was perfect, although slightly too tight, but the short train at the back hid the bulges and, provided she did not eat dinner, she would be fine. And, who knows, she might finally win Hugh back.

Even Hugh could not fail to recognise her wedding gown.