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.