by Penny Jordan
She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had felt resentful, if, despite all he had said to her, he had perhaps really wished that she had simply gone ahead with the termination without burdening him with the knowledge of how she felt or what was happening. She had been, she acknowledged, still disturbed and disquieted by her own awareness that when she had really needed to be strong and independent, when it had really mattered, she had been no such thing.
All through the last months of pregnancy, while Ben busied himself with preparations for opening the restaurant and chivvied the workmen to complete their work on the house and the restaurant conversion, she had worried that despite what he had said, despite the love and concern he showed her, despite the protective way he behaved towards her, it was all really a sham and that he was hiding his real feelings.
Sometimes, overwhelmed by guilt and misery when Ben was out, she had curled up alone on their bed, her eyes blurring with tears as she whispered to the growing bulge that was the new life inside her that it wasn’t to worry… that she loved it…
And yet as the birth drew nearer she had become more and more afraid, worrying about how Ben would react to the reality of the baby.
To accept her pregnancy was one thing; to say he loved her, to make plans for their future together… But what if, in reality, when the baby arrived, he found that he could not love it, that he did resent it? How could she let him go, knowing how much she loved and needed him, and yet how could she let him stay, let herself stay, knowing that he could not love their child?
Children needed love in the same way that they needed air to breathe and food to nourish them, and, if Ben could not love their child, by staying with him she would be forcing him or her to grow up under the burden of knowing of that lack of love.
She knew that her quietness during the last months of her pregnancy had concerned Ben, but she had not been able to explain to him how she felt. She had placed enough burdens on him already.
She had felt it would be disloyal to confide in anyone else, even her parents, and so she had kept her anxiety to herself, brooding on it. As the baby inside her grew, so too did her fear of what its birth might bring. And so too did her guilt for what she had done—to Ben and to her child…
‘I’ll never forget the night you were born,’ her mother was saying reminiscently now. ‘Nor the night Katie was born either. What on earth prompted you to go off to Manchester like that?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Zoe admitted. ‘I didn’t really think there was any possibility of Katie arriving early. Ben was busy down here sorting things out and I just…’
She shook her head, unable to explain the need that had overwhelmed her that morning, the feeling that the only way she could resolve the guilt and anxiety inside her would be for her to talk to Ben’s mother.
Now she was forced to admit that it had been a foolishly impulsive thing to do. At eight and a half months pregnant, she had tired easily and been very large. The train had been delayed by repairs to the lines and it had been over four hours before she had eventually arrived in Manchester. She hadn’t wanted to trust herself or her aged Mini to such a long journey on the road, so the train was her best option.
She had put the beginnings of pain in her back down to the discomfort of travelling.
The taxi driver had grimaced slightly when she gave Ben’s mother’s address, and she understood why, because the utilitarian block of flats was in a rundown part of the city.
Ben’s mother had been astonished to see her, but had welcomed her warmly, hugging her, exclaiming over her tired face and then taking charge with a speed and efficiency which Ben later admitted had surprised him when Zoe had dropped her mug of tea with a sharp cry of pain.
Ben had made it just in time for the birth, driven north by Zoe’s father, who had taken the phone call from Ben’s mother to alert them to what had happened.
When Ben had burst into the labour suite, his face white with anxiety and tension, Zoe hadn’t realised at first that he was remembering, reliving the despair of the hours he had spent in the same hospital holding his sister’s hand while she struggled to give birth to her stillborn child, nor of the fears which had kept him awake at night throughout Zoe’s own pregnancy, fears of retribution in the form of the loss of his own child, and of Zoe herself.
That knowledge had come later, when all three of them were back at home, the baby safely asleep in her cradle, Zoe tucked in bed, protesting that she was perfectly healthy and that there was no need for Ben to treat her like an invalid and that no, she did not want a bowl of chicken soup.
They had both laughed then as Ben mimicked Sarah Bernstein’s warning from his childhood, that no child could grow strong and healthy without it. ‘I’d like Sarah to be one of the godparents,’ he had told her. And then he had bent down and lifted Katie very gently from her cradle, holding her in his arms.
It was then that Zoe had known, had seen the depth and intensity of the love illuminating his face.
When Ben had turned round and seen her crying, he had put the baby down and come straight over to her, anxiety creasing his face.
‘Zoe, what is it, what’s wrong?’ he had asked her, and with new maturity she had recognised behind his tension not only his love for her, but all his years of taking as his own burden the responsibility for the comfort and happiness of those closest to him.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she had told him. ‘It’s just that I love you so much…’
As she said it she recognised how true it was and how much she had misjudged him in thinking, fearing that beneath his apparent acceptance of her pregnancy might he a resentment not so much of her, but of their child; and that that resentment could turn to outright jealousy of their baby, a demand to be constantly told that he came first in her life.
She couldn’t have been further from the truth, she acknowledged ruefully to herself now. If anyone was inclined to feel jealous, it was her; not that she really minded the mutual adoration society which had sprung up between Ben and Katie.
She had also discovered that, deep though her sense of mother love was, she also appreciated the time she had to herself when Ben took over. She enjoyed the hours she put in at the restaurant, the sense of self that came from being a working part of their business, and she enjoyed it all the more because that enjoyment was free of any sense of guilt that she was somehow depriving Katie.
Her dread that she would have to take on the role of loving her not just as a mother but in lieu of a father as well had gone, well and truly banished by Ben’s relationship with their daughter.
‘Are you all ready for your exams?’ Zoe asked her mother now.
‘I am. Your father’s a nervous wreck,’ her mother laughed.
‘How do you like having him at home so much now that he’s semi-retired?’ Zoe asked her.
‘I’m getting used to it now. At first I wasn’t so sure it was going to work,’ her mother admitted. ‘After all the years of silently feeling slightly martyred because he was away so much and so wrapped up in his work, it was very difficult coming to terms with the fact that, once he did what I thought I’d always wanted and cut down on his work so that we could spend more time together, there were times when I almost resented his being there and felt quite stifled by his presence.’
‘He’s terrifically proud of you, you know,’ Zoe told her mother. ‘When he came round the other week he was boasting to Ben and me about how well you’re doing on this course.’
Her mother laughed. ‘Yes, I know. He keeps telling people that he’s going to retire completely and send me out to work. I’m glad you’re keeping your own work, Zoe. I hadn’t realised how much I’d started to resent being so totally dependent on your father, not just financially, but emotionally… every way. Nor that he felt a similar resentment towards me. A healthy relationship needs a good helping of mutual respect. Your father might not have liked it at first when I announced what I was going to do, but now…
‘Do you know, we
actually stay up late at night now, talking to each other…’
They both laughed and then her mother added thoughtfully, ‘It’s strange, but there comes a point in a long-term relationship when to find it exciting and stimulating to talk to one another is actually more erotic than sex…’
‘Oh, yes?’ Zoe laughed. ‘That’s not the impression I got the other Sunday when I rang and caught the pair of you still in bed together. And don’t tell me you were just reading the papers…’
Her mother laughed and blushed slightly.
‘Here’s Ben now,’ Zoe told her as she heard the front door open.
Through the open sitting-room door, Zoe could hear her daughter gurgling contentedly.
‘Hi… we’re back.’
As Ben walked into the sitting-room, Katie in his arms, Zoe wondered if she would ever quite lose the grateful feeling of wonderment and joy, of somehow being singled out especially by fate to receive some of her most precious and extravagant gifts, she felt whenever she saw Ben and Katie together.
As her mother lifted Katie from Ben’s arms, cooing dotingly over her, Ben smiled softly at Zoe.
‘Missed me?’ he asked her.
‘Missed you? You’ve only been gone half an hour,’ Zoe scoffed, but her eyes told him a different story as she lifted her face for his kiss.
‘Your mother rang,’ she told him. ‘Sharon has passed her exams and she’s got really good grades. They’re hoping to come down to London for a couple of days to celebrate…’
‘Mmm… and so she should have done, the cost of that crammer we sent her to,’ Ben complained.
But Zoe knew him better now. She wasn’t the girl who had skimmed so carelessly over the surface of life any more, too caught up in her own needs to look beneath it. She knew how pleased he was, just as she had known, despite his bluster and complaints when she had first tentatively suggested it, how much it meant to him that she had shared his desire to help Sharon repair her sense of self-worth and to take a fresh interest in life.
No one could ever wipe away the pain of losing her baby; no one knew that better than Zoe. One day, if she was lucky, Sharon would find someone as caring as Ben, and when she did she hoped that, unlike her, Sharon would have the maturity to recognise his true worth.
She turned to look at her mother, who was still cooing over Katie, her heart melting with love, and then trembling slightly as she remembered how close she had come to turning her back on the wonderful gift she and Ben had been given.
Katie, whose conception she had first resented and then feared, Katie who she had believed would never know the love and care of her father.
Katie…
She looked at Ben and saw the way he was already anxious to have the baby back in his arms, and smiled wryly to herself as she murmured to him, ‘Just think what you’re going to be like when she’s seventeen.’
Ben grinned back at her.
‘I’m trying not to,’ he admitted ruefully.
‘Well, it probably won’t be so bad when you’ve three or four of them to worry about instead of just one,’ Zoe told him straight-faced.
‘Three or four?’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Zoe agreed, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Four would be better. Two of each… Of course, they might all be girls, but I don’t think I could stand that much competition.’
‘Four…’ Ben repeated, looking slightly dazed. ‘Four…’
‘Mmm… or perhaps six,’ Zoe murmured, sliding her arm through his and laughing up at him, and putting her head to one side while she studied him for a minute before teasing, ‘Yes, I definitely think you look like a father of six.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about that, won’t we?’
‘What are your mummy and daddy whispering about, I wonder?’ Heather asked her grandchild.
Katie didn’t know, she only knew that she liked it very much indeed, here in her nice, safe, warm world surrounded by people who loved her and cherished her. Very much indeed.
* * *
As Jennifer Bowers stepped up on the podium and waited for the applause to die down, Nick surreptitiously checked his reflection in the half-open glass door into the hall.
The suit was a new one—Armani—no dull, staid Savile Row tailoring for him; he was young enough, handsome enough to be able to carry off a sophisticated, modern image without alienating the voters, the PR firm Venice had hired had assured him.
‘You look perfect,’ Venice had purred when she had been called in to inspect him. ‘Perfect.’
It had irked him that others should apparently deem it necessary that Venice’s approval was needed, but he had learned to be wary about what he said to his wife.
There had been some medical concern over Venice’s health during her pregnancy, although Nick had never been able to establish what it was; certainly it did not prevent her from taking a controlling interest in everything that he did, from selecting his clothes to negotiating the purchase of the elegant London house which was to be their base once he was elected.
Nothing was to upset her, she had told Nick; there were to be no arguments, no unexplained absences from her side.
She had smiled at him as she said that, just as she had smiled at him when she had explained that Lucy Ferrars, the pretty little brunette who worked for the PR firm and who had soothed his battered ego with her obvious adoration, had lost her job.
‘Peter didn’t feel she was the right type and I must say I had to agree with him. From now on Peter himself will take charge of your public relations, Nick.’
It baffled Nick sometimes how Venice, who during the last weeks of her pregnancy never seemed to stir from the house, complaining that she felt too ill and looked too awful, nevertheless seemed to be aware of exactly how he spent every single second of his day.
His business had been sold; he wouldn’t have time for it any more, Venice had told him, adding with one of those dangerous, calculating smiles he had come to loathe so much that it had hardly been the type of thing that would do anything to add to his prestige.
‘It’s not as though you had any proper qualifications, a proper profession, like Adam for instance, is it?’ Venice had purred.
She gave him a generous allowance, very generous, but he had seen the look in Peter Villiers’ eyes when it had been discussed; the amusement and contempt that had made him seethe with resentment and rage.
When he had tried to express his feelings to Venice, she had simply shrugged her shoulders.
‘What does it matter what he thinks?’ she had asked him carelessly, ignoring Nick’s complaint that there had been no reason for the man to be in on a discussion which should have been limited to Venice, Nick and her accountant.
There had been some delay over the party’s accepting Nick as a prospective candidate. Nick wasn’t sure, but he suspected that it came from Jennifer Bowers herself. In the end, though, Venice had got her way.
What did a small delay matter? she had told Nick when he had fumed and protested. ‘Much better to get the birth of the baby out of the way first anyway.’
He was the one who was going to be elected, not her, Nick had wanted to say, but for some reason he had not been able to.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of her, of course. How could he be? She was only a woman… his wife, sitting decorously beside him now, dressed, like him, in the subtle elegance of one of Italy’s premier designers, her hair newly styled, casually elegant, the scarlet nail polish banished and replaced by demurely natural buffed nails.
‘You should take a leaf out of Venice’s book,’ Peter had told him, his voice warm with approval as he added, ‘She knows exactly what to do… exactly how to present herself. You’re a very lucky man,’ he had added.
Lucky? Was he? Nick wondered sourly. Sometimes he felt that Venice treated him like a toy she had bought in a shop, something akin to one of those expensive clockwork things she had bought for Guy.
Guy�
�� he hadn’t even been allowed to choose his own son’s name. Not that either he or Venice had very much to do with the baby, other than pose for carefully arranged ‘casual’ photographs.
‘The fact that you’ve got a baby, that Venice can be seen to be part of the new movement towards women combining motherhood and a career, can only be—is bound to be—an added advantage,’ Peter had enthused.
Nick had noticed the way Peter had flushed slightly beneath his tan as Venice looked at him and smiled slowly.
On the podium Jennifer Bowers was saying, ‘And I should now like you to welcome our new MP, Nicholas Wheelwright.’ The clapping was polite and controlled.
Nick stood up, paused for a second to take a last final glance in the glass before walking towards the podium.
‘It should have been you, you know,’ Jennifer Bowers told Adam regretfully as they watched Nick circulating, Venice at his side, smiling prettily as they accepted people’s congratulations.
Adam turned his head, his arm still round Fern’s waist, a greatly expanded waist at the moment, Fern reflected ruefully as she felt one of the twins kicking energetically inside her.
She had laughed when Dr Riley told her she was expecting twins. There was a lot of laughter in Fern’s life these days; a lot of laughter and a lot of love.
She leaned slightly into Adam’s warmth, watching him as he listened to Jennifer Bowers.
‘You would have made a far better MP than Nick, Adam, you must know that.’
‘It wasn’t what I wanted,’ Adam told her. ‘It would have meant making far too many sacrifices. I have all I want here,’ he added, turning to smile down at Fern.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Jennifer agreed softly.
‘Venice wasn’t too pleased when the party refused to give her a free hand and let her organise this “do” herself.’
She made a rueful face. ‘Apparently she had hoped to persuade Lord Stanton to let her put a marquee up in the hall grounds. She wanted to bring in top London caterers and of course make sure the media knew what was going on.’