Which Way to Love?

By Susanna Shore

When you’re about to turn your life upside down to save your marriage, you don’t want any second guessing. Was this the right move? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? Do I actually want my husband—or someone else?

To save her marriage, Audrey Wright takes up a job as a correspondent in the same news agency her husband works for as a war photographer—behind his back. Marcus needs to know that she’s ready to fight for them, and that she’s not a pampered pooch.

The life of a junior correspondent turns out to be more eventful than she had expected, and the people more interesting. There’s Henrietta who needs a friend, and Andrew who she finds dangerously enticing. And Marcus suddenly seems more interested in her life too.

But a war photographer’s life is hazardous, as Audrey discovers to her horror. Will she be too late to save their marriage?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanna Shore
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9789527061312

Susanna Shore

Susanna Shore is a historian turned author. She writes Two-Natured London paranormal romance series, P.I. Tracy Hayes mysteries, The Reed Files crime capers, and House of Magic paranormal cozies, as well as stand-alone thrillers and contemporary romances.

Book preview

WHICH WAY TO LOVE?

Susanna Shore

Which Way to Love?

Copyright © 2018 A. K. S. Keinänen

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced, translated, or distributed without permission, except for brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogues and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations or persons, living or dead, except those in public domain, is entirely coincidental.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover © 2024 A. K. S. Keinänen

Editing: Lee Burton, Ocean’s Edge Editing

www.susannashore.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

About the Author

Excerpt from To Catch a Billionaire Dragon

Also by Susanna Shore

Chapter One

When you’re about to turn your life upside down to save your marriage, you don’t want any last minute second guessing. Was this the right move? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? Am I in the right place…?

The modern high-rise in Bishopsgate at the edges of the City in London looked as out of place among the historical buildings as I felt. A taxi had brought me from the train station, and as I watched its tail-lights disappear into traffic, I got an absurd urge to run after it and demand it take me back. But I was here to secure my future happiness, so I faced squarely the revolving door that guarded the entrance of the building and went in.

The building housed the headquarters of the International News Agency, and I was here for a job interview. I had a secure job as a journalist in Oxford, but this was where my husband worked. If I wanted to keep Marcus, I needed to take this step to bring us closer.

I followed a group of suits to a bank of lifts at the end of the lobby, and entered a cage with them. As its doors closed with a quiet swoosh, shutting me inside, my stomach clenched in fear. This was it. No turning back now.

I stared at the metallic surface of the door that reflected my image back to me coppery and distorted, as if making a mockery of the competent image I wanted to present. My lipstick seemed to be running down my cheek, and I definitely hoped my ears weren’t actually doing a Dalí impression. It didn’t help to calm my nerves.

I was the only person to exit the lift on the twelfth. The lobby of the news agency was a windowless space, but artificial daylight, warm colours and healthy potted plants made it look welcoming. A sign on the wall informed me that the hallway to the right led to the domestic news department and the hallway to the left led to the visual department. The latter made my heart jump.

Marcus.

My photojournalist husband wasn’t actually in the building, or in the country for that matter, so my reaction was irrational. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty. I was taking this step without his knowledge.

Across the floor from the lifts, under a large agency logo, was an elegant hardwood information desk, behind which a young receptionist was sitting, staring intently at her computer. I took a deep breath and walked to her, and smiled when she lifted her gaze at me. She didn’t recoil in horror, so I took it to mean my lipstick was in its appointed place and that my ears weren’t a Surrealist mess. It calmed me enough to speak with a steady voice.

I’m here for a job interview, for the position of junior domestic correspondent.

She turned to check her computer. Name, please?

Audrey Wright. My mother had been a great admirer of Audrey Hepburn, hence the name. My four-years-older brother, Fred, was named after Fred Astaire, another favourite of hers, although Father insisted he was named after his great uncle Alfred.

The girl found my name. Go down that hallway and take the first left. Unfortunately they’re a little behind schedule, so it may take something like a half an hour before it’s your turn.

I nodded in thanks. Following her instructions, I ended up into a small waiting area that barely had room for the two low sofas that were facing each other over a coffee table. A young man practically fresh out of university was already sitting on one sofa, so I chose the other.

Since there was nothing else to look at other than the young man and that didn’t really tempt me, I picked up a magazine from the table and started skimming through it. I peered at him discreetly over its rim though, and was rather dismayed by what I saw. He was sitting there so relaxed, oozing self-confidence, checking me out like it was his God-given right. There wasn’t much to see. I have a short and curvy figure, which I inherited from my mother, but I’d always wished I had my namesake’s tall, willowy body. Instead, I’m a dab of a woman, just shy of five foot three, who has to rely on high heels and a good posture to make herself noticed.

Did he see my long, blond hair, currently in an elegant bun, and think I was empty-headed? I got that reaction often. It hadn’t made my life in academia easy back when I thought I would become a historian. No one believed I had a PhD. Then again, students had tended to hold me as one of them, as my small size had made them believe I was their age. Not that there were many lines around my greenish-brown eyes or my mouth even now, and I hoped I still didn’t look my current age of thirty-one.

At least I’d inherited my father’s straight nose and not my mother’s bud that had made her look like a porcelain doll: innocent and perpetually surprised. Combined with my size and delicate features, I would never have been taken seriously.

Abandoning my fruitless musing, I returned my eyes to the magazine, but I couldn’t concentrate on it. At least turning the pages was something to occupy my hands with.

It couldn’t occupy my mind.

What was I doing here?

I knew I’d be perfect for the job, but was that any reason to seek a position in the same place as my husband, and behind his back, even? What would Marcus think?

What was I thinking?

Unable to calm my nerves, I bolted up, startling the young man, and headed to a nearby loo. I ran cold water over my hands, hoping that it would take away my budding nausea, and stared at my reflection with unseeing eyes.

Why was I here?

The salary was better, although that wasn’t a very weighty reason. Marcus came from money and I didn’t lack anything. But if we divorced, I wouldn’t have his money to rely on anymore. Then again, I wouldn’t want to work here in that case. But I refused to entertain the possibility. This had to work.

The work itself would be more challenging than my current job at Morning Herald, a small paper in Oxford, and, most importantly, the agency offered career opportunities home and abroad that simply couldn’t be had in a small paper. After years of being cooped up in Oxford, my soul yearned for larger fields.

That’s why I was here.

Calm once again, I returned to the waiting area that was now empty. I had to wait for quite some time for my turn, but I didn’t panic again. Not even when a woman approximately ten years younger than me joined me in the waiting room, looking as self-confident as the young man had. When it was my turn to enter the interview room, I did it with steady legs, and my hand was cool when I shook it with the three men there.

So, Dr Wright, the man in the middle began once I’d sat on a lone chair in front of their large table. I approved of his use of my title. It showed they were taking me seriously. Tell me why you are applying for this post.

Fortunately, that was the only question I felt able to answer at the moment. More questions followed and I was allowed quite a space for answering them. No wonder the interviews had fallen behind schedule.

Then he asked the question I really didn’t want to hear. You have a PhD. Don’t you feel over-educated for the position you are seeking? It wasn’t a hostile question, but it annoyed me just the same, because I was asked it so often: ‘Why get a PhD if you’re only going to be a journalist.’

I don’t think there is such a thing as being over-educated, I answered calmly, hiding my irritation. In my opinion, one can never have enough knowledge or skill. But I can tell you that I didn’t spend all those years getting the degree for the knowledge I gained, but for learning how to gain that knowledge. And what better skill is there for a correspondent? My PhD demonstrates that I can follow through on more demanding tasks than just the bare minimum, and that I have the ambition to do so too.

I was actually quite pleased with the answer, but the interviewer didn’t indicate in any way that he was impressed. He just asked another question calculated to get a rise out of me.

You don’t think you are too old for this position?

This time I couldn’t hold my tongue. No woman likes to hear she’s too old at thirty-one, I said indignantly. He smiled. It was the first proper reaction from him.

This is a position for a junior correspondent. They’re usually in their early to mid-twenties and have far less experience. You don’t think the position might be a bit beneath your skills?

An image of the young man flashed in my mind and I felt bad for sneering at him. I gave the interviewer the only answer I could, hoping I didn’t sound too desperate for the job. That was the only post you had open. But I’m willing to apply for more challenging positions as well. As it is, I hope you won’t let my age be an obstacle. Rather, you might think that I already know most of what goes with the job, unlike someone fresh out of college. I won’t need as much training.

He nodded, but moved on. I went through your portfolio and noticed that it has quite a few photographs as well. Would you like to tell me something about them?

I had no idea where he was going with the question so I gave him a general answer. I’ve been working for a small paper where there aren’t that many photographers so the reporters have to take their own pictures quite often. I added some in my portfolio to show you the range of my skills. As he nodded again I sighed in relief. Too early.

The reason I ask is that I noticed your husband works for us as a photojournalist. You didn’t mention him when you listed your reasons for wanting to work here. Didn’t he have anything to do with your decision?

My heart sank. Why did he have to bring Marcus into this? I entertained the notion of telling him the truth, that we were on a brink of divorce and didn’t really communicate anymore, but I doubted he was interested in my domestic situation.

Naturally, my husband has a lot to do with why I applied for this post. He has always been happy to work here, which tells me that you are a good employer. And through him I’ve learned how a news agency differs from a newspaper as a workplace, and I find it very interesting. But as he’s not here at the moment, he really didn’t have that great a say in it. That sounded a bit curt, so I amended. He’s been assigned to Kabul for the past thirteen months.

He nodded again, skimming through my photographs, but nothing indicated whether he liked them or not. Admittedly, I wasn’t there for a post as a staff photographer. I wasn’t good enough a photographer to work for a news agency famous for the quality of its photojournalism, but it would have been nice to know what he thought of them. He closed my portfolio and I got the impression that the interview was over. Fortunately I didn’t get up, because one of the other two men, neither of whom had spoken a word yet, began his questions.

In French!

The change in language took me by surprise and I struggled to give him a proper answer—if indeed it was proper; I wasn’t at all sure what had been asked. But like the first man, he went on in French without giving away any reaction to my answers. And when he finished, the third man began, switching to German. This time I had anticipated the change, but it still wasn’t easy to speak a language so different from French and I may have used words I invented myself. But the German-speaking chap didn’t lose his cool either.

I could only be grateful there wasn’t a fourth interviewer in the room, because while my resume said I also spoke Italian, there was no way I would have got through an interrogation like this in that language.

Then the ordeal was finally over. Amazingly, my legs held when I got up and exited the room through a different door than I had come in. I had actually wondered what had happened to the young man before me, as he never came back from his interview, but now I knew.

The moment the door closed behind me, I sank exhausted into the nearest seat. How on earth could a job interview be so taxing? I leaned backwards, resting my head on top of the low backrest, and tried to gather enough strength to get back up. But all I could do was to stare at the ceiling.

Out of nowhere, a chocolate-bar appeared in front of my face, dangled between two fingers like a fish before a dolphin. Here, eat this. It’ll help, a deep male voice said next to me.

A tall, messy-haired blond man in his mid-thirties was standing in front of me. His worn jeans covered powerful legs, and his T-shirt stretched over his shoulders rather impressively. He had an amused smile on his attractive, slightly rugged face. I was too tired to care for his opinion of me—or to admire his looks. I simply took the offered chocolate and sunk my teeth into the chocolate in a very unladylike manner.

Thank you, I said gratefully after devouring half of it. Are you the official rescue squadron?

He laughed and shook his head. Not really. We’ve been watching people like you appear through that door the whole morning, and trust me, you’re the fittest so far. In more ways than one, he added with a crooked grin that made a dimple appear on one cheek. Congratulations. The previous guy actually vomited.

The chocolate-bar stopped midway to my mouth as I froze in surprise. He laughed again. Truly. So we thought it might be best to prevent something like that from happening again. Hence the chocolate.

I guess the young man hadn’t been quite as self-confident as he had appeared.

I straightened up and took stock of my surroundings. I was in a waiting area similar to the first one, currently being stared at by at least half a dozen curious faces. I gathered myself hastily and stood up.

Thanks again for the chocolate. It really helped. I don’t feel like vomiting at all.

The people watching me looked disappointed. Some money started changing hands and I realised they’d been laying bets on the odds. I didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed, but decided that amused was the better option. There should be at least one more applicant after me, so maybe you’ll see some action yet, I told them helpfully.

And next time, Jordan, don’t go offering any chocolate to them. That might be considered rigging. Everyone laughed and started to file out of the waiting room, leaving me to find my way out on my own. I needed something stronger than chocolate, and fast.

Chapter Two

In the end, I didn’t get drunk after all, but had a nice lunch on Marcus’s expense. Resorting to his money had made me uneasy from the start, and doubly so now that we were on a brink of divorce. So I felt apprehensive, but I deserved it after the ordeal I’d been through. Besides, my own account was all but empty this close to the payday. He wouldn’t mind, even now.

I had quite a few hang-ups about wealth, actually, so it might come as a surprise that I came from money too. But unlike Marcus’s father—and now his brother Matt after him—my family hadn’t managed to keep our money. Or, rather, my father hadn’t. Not that he had tried very hard. He was outgoing and charming, and lived beyond his means even before inheriting the bulk of his wealth when I was nine. Then he went through that within a couple of years with extravagant living and bad investments, gambling and parties. We were left, if not destitute, then at least not very well off. Compared to our previous lifestyle, it was a shock. I went from owning my own pony to barely affording bus fare. Then he left with a twenty-something heiress who at least got him out of his debts, but cost him his family. I hated him quite as passionately as I had loved him earlier, for leaving me and hurting Mother.

Mother moved me and Fred to a terrace in Bournemouth of all places, just because it was close to where we had lived before, the centuries old family manor. She built a new life for us, taking a job as a doctor’s assistant that paid the rent and the essentials. Father seldom remembered to pay for our support.

Luckily, Grandfather had known his son well and had taken precautions in his will. He had established a trust fund for our school fees that paid Fred and me through exclusive private schools and Oxford, giving us an education we otherwise couldn’t have afforded.

So we grew up in a schizophrenic existence of near poverty and exclusive surroundings. I learned the art of being elegantly poor. Fred, for his part, learned how to make money and how to hold onto it too. He was an investment banker, and with his bonuses and big salary he had made a deal with Father that gave him stewardship of the family manor that was entailed, so Father couldn’t sell it. With him supervising the place, there might still be a roof over it by the time he inherits it.

Whereas Fred was bent on restoring the family name and fortunes, so that he could be proud of his name one day, I chose the opposite approach. I held my head high in my hand-me-downs at school and acted like everything was just as it ought to be, thank you very