Convenience

Part 7

Beatrice was unaware of her husband's presence until she'd started down the steps. When she did see him, her heart sank. Of course she recognised him. He'd filled out a bit more, and carried it well. He looked every inch the successful businessman. Dressed for success was just the start. He carried that stamp of success. It was in his very posture. The way he held himself, the confidence that oozed from every pore and to the extent that Beatrice noticed she wasn't the only one taking note of the man.

She nearly laughed. She had been like that. Awestruck.

The first time she saw this man. She had been awestruck. But that was five years ago. Now the strikingly good-looking man did not have to power to render her nervous. It just worried her that he was here. Now. After five years. Why?

What was he doing here? She wondered as she steadied herself and made her way to her seat in the front row. She smiled at various well-wishers and bobbed her head in acknowledgment of the applause. Beatrice was of course delighted to have won. She knew that her designs for bags and her line of bags were now internationally recognised. She was commissioned by several designers to create pieces for their catwalk shows, and she knew that her work was selling well, through word of mouth, mainly in the celebrity circuit.

As she approached twenty-eight she considered herself independent and successful. She was a strong woman with a clearly marked-out route that enabled her to stand on her own two feet. Or so she had thought until she had seen him standing at the back of the hall, watching her intently. While she'd like to pretend that he did not make her nervous, she knew it for a lie. Her heart was already having palpitations. Then Beatrice retook her seat. Her mind was on other matters when the next winner was announced.

She had not seen this man in five years. Well, not in the flesh. She'd seen him in the newspaper, on the financial pages and on the society pages. Interesting how both in their reports had forgotten he had a wife.

She was used to the slight twinge of pain she felt whenever she saw him in a photograph with a woman companion plastered to his side. She tried to ignore the dart to her heart when she read the reports about his companion. His women of choice were nothing like her. Blonde was clearly his preference. Tall. Good to know she met one criteria. Leggy: She could probably pass muster on that criteria too. Blonde. Nope. She was at the other extreme. Inky black hair. The women in the photographs were nothing like her at all. But then, she had never been his choice. Had it not been for their grandparents he would never have met her, let alone married her.

Beatrice smoothed the skirt of her dress and tried to focus on the rest of the ceremony. But her brain was refusing to cooperate. What was he doing here today? Why come here? And why was it that men aged beautifully?

So while the rest of the awards were made, and Beatrice dutifully clapped and feigned interest in proceedings, her heart and mind were on the man she had seen waiting for her.

Half an hour later, David reached her side. "Beatrice." He announced his presence quietly but with purpose in his tone.

He had plenty of time to study his wife: After he recovered from his shock! He realised he simply didn't recognise the woman in front of him. He remembered his wife as aloof, quiet, demure. This woman appeared to be all of those things, and yet still conveyed the fact she was a powerhouse. There was strength in that backbone. There was intelligence in those eyes. There was poise in her stance.

She was beautiful.

How had he failed to notice any of that before? Was he really willing to let this woman go? She was still his wife. On paper. Why hadn't he kept an eye on her?