The Trophy Wife by Evie Baxter

Eleven

Fuck!

She was gone. I woke sometime in the middle of the night and realised my arms were empty and had been sadly disappointed by the fact.

Victoria intrigued me unlike any woman I had ever met. She was hiding so many secrets it didn’t surprise me that she ran. I wondered where she lived now. She was a rich woman, her divorce settlement had been somewhere in the region of twenty million pounds. If she had disappeared from the social scene in London, and failed to appear anywhere in the UK gossip sheets, there was a good chance she had chosen to settle outside the country.

I would have to find her. We weren’t done. What had happened between us had been incendiary. The touch of her hands on my body had set me alight. The feel of her tight cunt gripping me was something I was unwilling to forego for the remainder of my life.

So, Victoria had better brace herself, wherever she was. I was coming for her. All I had to do was find her first.

It took me a couple of days. Online research, trying to track her down in the way that 98% of the people in this country could be found, brought a blank. She had covered her tracks well when she left the marriage. It was only on the second day that I remembered that as a major shareholder, her details should be listed with the company. And as a fellow shareholder, with contacts within the company, I had those details in less than an hour after my request.

She lived in a village in Northamptonshire. I was not expecting that. A short hour and a half drive from London, living the quietest of lives. I had to keep reminding myself that the hard woman in the boardroom was not the person Victoria really was.

She had given me a glimpse of herself the one evening we spent together. She was natural, gorgeous, but timid at times and unsure of herself. If she was in a small village, it was because she was hiding. Hiding from whatever had happened between her and Robert.

I couldn’t leave the city until the weekend, having a series of meetings that could not be postponed. I checked on the progress of the renovations on my home. Met my friends Drew and Adam for dinner and drinks in our favourite pub. All the time thinking about Victoria. I considered contacting David Alder to see if I could learn more about the enmity between her and his father but knew that his loyalties lay with Victoria, so he was unlikely to talk.

Finally, Saturday rolled around, and I hopped in my car, programmed Victoria’s address into Google Maps and headed out the city towards the M40. The day was sunny and warm, the early May day portending to be a good one. I had the top down, music blasting, and the roads were not too busy. It had been a while since I had taken my car out for a really good run. My trip to Scotland had been made in Adam’s Land Rover. As the sun shone down on me, I enjoyed the feel of the powerful engine beneath me, the joy of driving a well-engineered car.

Eventually I left the motorway for A roads, and as I got closer to Victoria’s village these narrowed down to well rutted single-track roads. I winced each time I spotted another pothole, my driving slowed considerably, my car low slung and struggling with the road conditions.

Hedgerows lined the narrow lanes, wildflowers in bloom at their base. Field gates revealed flocks of sheep, growing crops, horses and cows. Work had kept me busy for far too long and being back in the countryside made me smile to myself. Too bad I was in entirely the wrong vehicle for it.

My phone eventually told me to turn left, and this brought me into a pretty little village, newer brick houses on the edge, and older stone houses abounding with character interspersed until I reached the village green, which was surrounded by lovely old homes, a church, a school and a small shop/post office, with a playground taking up part of the green.

I drove past the green and took the first right, as instructed by the computerised voice, and was informed that I had reached my destination. Glancing at the address I had written down to confirm it was number 7 that I wanted, I parked the car and got out. Looking at the house in question, I found it set back from the road, made of the ubiquitous Northamptonshire stone, with a bright yellow door, and a utilitarian four-wheel drive vehicle parked to the side. A vehicle much more suited to the roads around here than mine.

Taking a deep breath, because I had no idea what my reception would be, I strode up the garden path that bisected the front lawn and used the brass lionhead knocker on the door, banging sharply twice.

There was a scurry of feet, then a voice I recognised as Victoria’s half shouting, “I’ve got it, darling.” Darling? Had I read her completely wrong. Did she have a man in there? Had I been duped into being her city fling when she had a settled life back in the middle of nowhere. I could feel my ire rising.

The door swung open, a smiling Victoria clad in leggings and an oversized t-shirt standing before me looking better than I remembered. Her smile fell from her face as she took in my form.

“You!” she said, obviously shocked to see me.

Then another voice piped up and asked, “Who is he, Mummy?”

My eyes swivelled down to see a mini replica of Victoria standing by her side, a small arm wrapped around her leg.