WAS that what was wrong with their marriage? The lack of surprise? Maybe she should have her hair cut in a new style? Buy totally different clothes, change her image? She turned her head this way and that, imagining herself with short hair, in vivid, flamboyant clothes...then laughed and picked up her white silk dress to step into it.
This, too, was elegant, a classic design which clothed her slender body in Grecian folds and suited her hairstyle to perfection. Darius hadn't actually picked it out, but she had done so with his taste in mind, knowing he would approve.
Now she wryly considered it. Well, it wouldn't set the world on fire or make men gasp with desire at the sight of her, but it was very suitable for the wife of a very wealthy and important businessman.
Was that how she wanted Darius to see her tonight, though? She put her head to one side, grimacing.
Maybe she should take off the dress and just wear the undies? They were sexier, at least! She pictured Darius's expression if she opened the door looking like that!
"Happy twelfth anniversary, babe," she could say, putting her arms round his neck. On their very first anniversary, actually, he had found her in the bedroom getting dressed, taken one look at her in see through black undies, and had swept her off her feet and carried her over to the bed.
They had never bothered with dinner in the end, just snacked at midnight on cold chicken and salad, but Samantha knew that was very unlikely to happen tonight. The fire in their relationship had gone out long ago. Well, twelve years is a long time, she thought, then looked at her watch, frowning.
Darius should be here; perhaps traffic leaving London had been heavier than usual? He was driving himself home. In town he usually had a chauffeur, since parking was such a problem, and it saved time for someone else to drive, drop him somewhere and come back for him when required, but when he came home he always drove his cherished vintage Benz, now twenty years old...as it was handed over to him as a gift from his father... but kept in perfect condition with loving care.
Samantha sat down at the dressing table, applied foundation, dusted powder over it, added a little blusher, painted her lids with mauve eyeshadow, brushed her lips with coral pink, then assessed herself again before adding some jewellery: a gold torque around her neck, a matching bracelet for one wrist with a wristwatch for the other, small gold stud earrings.
Well, she looked rather more striking now! She sprayed herself generously with Darius's favourite French perfume, which he always brought her back whenever he went abroad, and hurried back downstairs.
She paused in the panelled hall to listen for the unmistakable note of the car, but only heard the rustle of wind among the sycamores in the garden until her cell phone rang, making her jump. It almost cut out before she could reach where it was as the voicemail came into operation ringing out her own voice to the supposed caller and she relaxed again.
Where could he be? He had said he would be home by seven, and it was a quarter past. The smell of the roasting duck was more pronounced; she had better go and check on it before it got burnt.
She went through into the kitchen, put on an all enveloping apron to protect her dress, and slipped on oven gloves. The duck was coming along fine; she put it back into the oven but adjusted the temperature downwards as Darius hadn't got here yet... Duck was her daughter's favourite, too; she always cooked it for Paris on her birthday, but she liked it stuffed with oranges and served with orange sauce.
Darius preferred cherries. On the table stood the vegetables which she would put on to cook as soon as her husband arrived; French beans, carrots, mange-tout. Mange-tout was another of Paris's favourites. She missed her daughter badly; her days had revolved around her since her birth.
She had been perfectly happy and busy down here in Sussex while Darius was away abroad, or working in London, because Paris needed her, and both she and Darius wanted a tranquil country life for their only child.
This was a beautiful old house; Paris loved it as much as she did, had had a happy childhood, and she didn't regret for an instant deciding not to live in London. But now that Paris was away at boarding school she was increasingly lonely.
She had always known that Darius meant Paris to go away to a boarding school when she was ten, and she usually accepted all her husband's decisions without argument, but over Paris going away she had fought him.
Darius had been surprised; almost incredulous. He was a very important man now. He employed hundreds of people who all jumped when he said jump. People didn't argue with him least of all his own wife!
When Samantha said she did not want Paris to go away Darius had stared, his black brows jerking together, his brown eyes cold with impatient disbelief.
He was a very tall man, with an incisive, angular face; but it was his personality which was most dominating, and Samantha had had to summon all her courage to challenge him.
"You know I've had Paris's name down there since she was a year old. Don't be ridiculous. She'll soon settle down. Other girls do, why shouldn't she? Unless you've been putting silly ideas into her head and telling her she won't like it there?" His narrowed eyes had stabbed at her and she had felt like running away.
"Of course I haven't!" she had protested nervously, yet had stood her ground in the face of Darius's displeasure, which probably surprised him even more. "I haven't said a word to her, but she's so small, too young to go away from home yet. Can't it wait another year?"
"Ten is when all the other girls start there." Darius's mouth had been hard with insistence. "Paris is quite mature, she'll cope. Don't try to make a baby out of her."
That word had silenced her, pain had flared in her dark blue eyes and she had bent her long, slim neck, her throat closing in anguish.
Darius had won because she couldn't bear to say another syllable, although she doubted if Darius realised why she suddenly capitulated. She was sure he would not knowingly have hurt her. He had used that word without thinking.