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Authors: Veronica Henry
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in between. He wanted to be able to let his hair down, laugh
and joke, relax with his friends and family with a bottle of wine.
A
bottle of wine, not four or six. But somebody up there
had determined he was incapable of doing that. He was never going to be the person he wanted to be.
As a result, he wasn’t happy. Not truly happy. He could pretend on the surface, but he felt as if he was acting out a role.
And he had to accept his lot. After all, that was his punishment. He had to atone for all that dreadful behaviour.
He didn’t blame Delilah. Of course he didn’t. Without her, they would have come apart at the seams, and God knows what mess
their lives would have been in by now. But he had felt like half a person for the past ten years.
Mr Delilah Rafferty.
He wasn’t the only man on the planet playing second fiddle to a successful wife. It was a modern way of life. But it still
ate away at him. He knew Delilah loved what she did, thank God. But he still felt guilty that he had forced her into it.
He remembered a drunken man leaning across a dinner table one evening. ‘Don’t you feel emasculated?’ he’d asked belligerently.
‘Don’t you feel as if she’s chopped off your balls and used them for earrings? Don’t you feel as if you should … contribute?’
Raf had wanted to grab him by the tie and push his face into the tiramisu in the middle of the table.
And Delilah was as loyal as could be. She always said that she couldn’t have done any of it without his support, and that
he was as important to the Delilah Rafferty brand as she was. But he knew that wasn’t true, that she could have done it without
him – even better probably, because he wasn’t easy. He knew he wasn’t.
It was time to pay her back. He could take the pressure off. She could have a year off, recharge her batteries, do all the
things she had been longing to do but never had time for. The things normal wives did.
Raf left the motorway, went round the roundabout and headed back in the opposite direction. He’d had his thinking time, and
now he was going home. A light April shower fell as he drove, turning the tarmac from grey to black. He loved the sound of
his tyres slicing through the wetness, the damp smell of spring through the half-open window.
Life was good.
Delilah jumped off her bed when she heard the low purr of the Maserati come through the gates. She ran down the stairs as
Raf walked through the door and into the hallway, bringing with him the scent of blossom and fresh rain. She slid her arms
round him, burying her face in his neck, the April droplets evaporating on the warmth of his skin. He smiled down at her,
and when she saw the light in his eyes, the hope, the anticipation, her fears evaporated just as the rain was.
‘Hey, movie star,’ she murmured.
‘Shit, Delilah,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m scared.’
‘You’ll be wonderful.’
Of course he’d be wonderful. He’d been wonderful in every film he’d ever made. Before now, that had been at too high a price.
But this time round …
She took him by both hands, walking backwards towards the stairs, smiling.
Any normal couple would have cracked open a bottle of champagne, but that wasn’t an option. And putting on the kettle for
a cup of tea was hardly a way to mark today’s triumph. There was only one way Delilah could think of to celebrate. They were
on the bottom step, his warm hand on her hip, guiding her upwards, when the house phone starting ringing.
‘Ignore it,’ she muttered through slightly gritted teeth, but the ringing persisted. At the same time, the phone in his pocket
started to chime. She pulled it out and dropped it into the vase of lilies on the hall table. He watched in horror as it sank
slowly to the bottom, coming to rest amongst the stems.
‘You mad bitch!’ he said, more in wonder than ire.
She laughed and pulled him into her arms, just as Polly came into the hallway with
and joke, relax with his friends and family with a bottle of wine.
A
bottle of wine, not four or six. But somebody up there
had determined he was incapable of doing that. He was never going to be the person he wanted to be.
As a result, he wasn’t happy. Not truly happy. He could pretend on the surface, but he felt as if he was acting out a role.
And he had to accept his lot. After all, that was his punishment. He had to atone for all that dreadful behaviour.
He didn’t blame Delilah. Of course he didn’t. Without her, they would have come apart at the seams, and God knows what mess
their lives would have been in by now. But he had felt like half a person for the past ten years.
Mr Delilah Rafferty.
He wasn’t the only man on the planet playing second fiddle to a successful wife. It was a modern way of life. But it still
ate away at him. He knew Delilah loved what she did, thank God. But he still felt guilty that he had forced her into it.
He remembered a drunken man leaning across a dinner table one evening. ‘Don’t you feel emasculated?’ he’d asked belligerently.
‘Don’t you feel as if she’s chopped off your balls and used them for earrings? Don’t you feel as if you should … contribute?’
Raf had wanted to grab him by the tie and push his face into the tiramisu in the middle of the table.
And Delilah was as loyal as could be. She always said that she couldn’t have done any of it without his support, and that
he was as important to the Delilah Rafferty brand as she was. But he knew that wasn’t true, that she could have done it without
him – even better probably, because he wasn’t easy. He knew he wasn’t.
It was time to pay her back. He could take the pressure off. She could have a year off, recharge her batteries, do all the
things she had been longing to do but never had time for. The things normal wives did.
Raf left the motorway, went round the roundabout and headed back in the opposite direction. He’d had his thinking time, and
now he was going home. A light April shower fell as he drove, turning the tarmac from grey to black. He loved the sound of
his tyres slicing through the wetness, the damp smell of spring through the half-open window.
Life was good.
Delilah jumped off her bed when she heard the low purr of the Maserati come through the gates. She ran down the stairs as
Raf walked through the door and into the hallway, bringing with him the scent of blossom and fresh rain. She slid her arms
round him, burying her face in his neck, the April droplets evaporating on the warmth of his skin. He smiled down at her,
and when she saw the light in his eyes, the hope, the anticipation, her fears evaporated just as the rain was.
‘Hey, movie star,’ she murmured.
‘Shit, Delilah,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m scared.’
‘You’ll be wonderful.’
Of course he’d be wonderful. He’d been wonderful in every film he’d ever made. Before now, that had been at too high a price.
But this time round …
She took him by both hands, walking backwards towards the stairs, smiling.
Any normal couple would have cracked open a bottle of champagne, but that wasn’t an option. And putting on the kettle for
a cup of tea was hardly a way to mark today’s triumph. There was only one way Delilah could think of to celebrate. They were
on the bottom step, his warm hand on her hip, guiding her upwards, when the house phone starting ringing.
‘Ignore it,’ she muttered through slightly gritted teeth, but the ringing persisted. At the same time, the phone in his pocket
started to chime. She pulled it out and dropped it into the vase of lilies on the hall table. He watched in horror as it sank
slowly to the bottom, coming to rest amongst the stems.
‘You mad bitch!’ he said, more in wonder than ire.
She laughed and pulled him into her arms, just as Polly came into the hallway with
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