‘Do you usually reserve it for men you’re not married to?’
Libby was ready with a curt response and a fake number, but his words stopped her in her tracks. No, she didn’t usually give out her number full-stop, because she didn’t like the thought of anyone keeping tabs on her the way her parents always had. But for the first time ever Libby suddenly considered how sad that was. Yes, in the intervening years she had achieved the independence she’d always craved, but the result was that no one ever knew where she was going unless it was detailed in an itinerary. And, whilst there was a sense of freedom in that, it also screamed loneliness. If she went missing, who would notice? A tour group of people she’d never met before?
‘Okay,’ she mumbled. ‘Seems reasonable.’
As he whipped out his mobile and she began to list the digits, Libby tried not to think about the we’re each other’s next of kin, but we don’t even know each other’s phone numbers argument she’d levelled at him as a reason why they should get a divorce two days ago. If she did, she’d be forced to admit that, even though she had every reason to be certain that excluding him from her life completely was the right thing to do, she seemed to be encouraging him to waltz back into it.
When he’d finished punching in her number he swiftly replaced his phone in his pocket, took his plate to the draining board and shut down his laptop.
‘I have a meeting this afternoon,’ he said, flicking a glance at his watch. ‘I’ll be back around five.’
‘Oh? What kind of meeting?’
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement as he slid on his dark suit jacket and ran a hand down his tie—far, far too sexily. ‘For someone who considers it an intrusion for her husband to question her whereabouts, you have an awful lot of interest.’ He raised one eyebrow provocatively.
‘I’m just a little surprised. I presumed you’d demand my presence at every event even remotely connected to your campaign.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know that, save for the Mayor’s pre-election party next week, I don’t require you to do anything other than remain here, gracing the marital home.’ He nodded to the sun terrace, slipped on his shoes and opened the front door. ‘I dare say you won’t find it too much of a hardship. See you later.’
In a moment of impulsive anger, Libby grabbed one of Eurycleia’s biscuits from the plate on the side and threw it after him, but he shut the door so quickly behind himself that it didn’t connect with anything other than the wood, breaking into a trillion pieces and falling in a shower of crumbs to the floor.
So, she thought acrimoniously as she stomped over to sweep up the mess, full of guilt that Eurycleia’s baking had taken the brunt of her anger, not only was he using her, but he’d become a blatant misogynist as well. He didn’t want a woman with a brain who might actually aid his campaign. He just wanted a walking, talking cliché. No wonder he’d sent Eurycleia away—after all, why did he need a housekeeper when he had a wife ‘gracing the marital home’?
Well, she thought, her eyes scanning the kitchen and finding his laptop, if this morning hadn’t convinced him that she wasn’t prepared to play any such role, then this afternoon would. Quickly she turned it on and ran a search for ‘public meeting, Orion Delikaris, Metameikos’. The results immediately threw up the details of the town hall she’d passed that morning, and a start time of two-thirty. Perfect.
It was two thirty-three when Libby turned the corner of the street and saw Rion’s Bugatti parked outside the town hall. Which was pretty good going, considering she’d only left the house at ten past, and had been on foot during the hottest part of the day. She pinched her top at the neck and fanned it to create a cool column of air down her body, took a moment to catch her breath, then stepped inside.
The hall was filled with a large cross-section of people. There were fishermen who must have finished the early-morning trawl and come up from the docks, elderly men with backgammon boards tucked under their arms, women with babies strapped to their chests, and a group of students she presumed must be from the somewhat dilapidated college she’d spotted on the other side of the old town that morning. Perceptive, Libby thought as more people filed in behind her, to choose the time just before siesta, when everyone was walking past on their way home.
‘Welcome, and thank you for coming.’
Libby heard his voice at the front of the room and stood up on tiptoes, trying to find a gap between the heads.
‘The aim of this meeting is to explain the main improvements we plan to make to Metameikos if we’re successful in the forthcoming elections. However, first and foremost, we want this afternoon to be a no-holds-barred opportunity for you to ask questions of us.’