by Liz Fielding
That she was no more than a temporary trophy wife.
‘I’m not talking about your looks, although that’s true too. You are lovely. It was your warmth, your vitality, a smile that could melt permafrost that drew me to you. I always knew you wouldn’t stay.’
‘Permafrost? You appear to have overestimated its power.’
‘No. If you hadn’t melted it, why would I care?’
‘I didn’t leave you because you so plainly didn’t want children, Ivo. I left you because I couldn’t stand the coldness. The distance. Couldn’t bear the thought of waking up alone one more day.’ And then, as if everything had suddenly fallen into place. ‘That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?’
He didn’t ask her what she was talking about. In the last week he’d talked to her about Daisy. And about Miranda.
His sister’s desperate need for love had driven her into a series of disastrous relationships. Too needy, too desperate. When, over and over again, everyone she loved, in whom she had invested her emotions, rejected her, she’d spiralled down into a destructive phase of anorexia. Rejecting herself.
Stealing from Belle, he knew, had been prompted by the same self-destruct response in Daisy. Anticipating rejection, she’d provoked it.
He’d been there himself. Had fought his own demons in his own way. Self-destruction came with the territory.
‘You were waiting for me to reject you,’ Belle said, slowly, wonderingly. ‘Protecting yourself from being hurt.’
‘It didn’t work.’
‘You held me at such a distance, Ivo-’
‘I meant about the hurt.’ Living with himself had been a world of hurt. The only relief had been in her arms and selfishly he’d sought to win her back. Keep her. ‘I cheated you. Lied to you. You were right to leave. You deserve better.’
‘Life isn’t about what we deserve, Ivo.’ She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘If it was about what we deserved then there wouldn’t be any kids on their own, cold and hungry. Scared women. Men for whom fatherhood is an unfulfilled dream.’
‘Leave me out of your list of deserving souls.’
‘Why? You’ve suffered too.’ Then, with a sudden frown, ‘What happened to you, Ivo?’ she demanded, the bit between her teeth now, fearless in her refusal to accept anything less than the whole truth. ‘Were you sick as a child? How do you know that you can’t have children?’
He’d hoped she wouldn’t think to ask him that. Unlikely. What man, unless he’d attempted to father a child and failed, would know he was infertile?
He had none of the pity-inducing excuses to offer. No mumps or childhood fever to blame. Only himself.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘because ten years ago I had a vasectomy.’
A vasectomy.
The word filled her head, swelling until she thought it would explode.
Belle looked at the food laid out temptingly on a platter for them to help themselves. Grilled baby aubergines, olives, sundried tomatoes, paper thin slices of meat. All of them untouched.
She made a helpless gesture, then, covering her hand with her mouth to hold in the cry of pain, she scrambled to her feet, rushed outside, desperate for air.
Just desperate.
Neither of them said a word when Ivo emerged in a rush a few moments later, catching up with her as she walked blindly through the lunchtime crowds of the market, draping her abandoned coat around her shoulders.
The tenderness of the gesture caught her unawares. Without warning, the strength went out of her legs and she subsided on to a bench, sat, bent double, her face pressed against her knees.
The awful thing was that she didn’t have to ask why he’d done it. She knew. Understood. The sins of the father. His grandparents, his parents, the fear that he too would follow the genetic imprint-become another cold, distant parent of unhappy children.
Understood why he was so driven-the relentless pursuit of wealth and power filling a bottomless void.
He sat beside her, not touching her, said, as much to himself as to her, ‘At the time it seemed so rational.’
She didn’t look up, just reached out a hand. There was an endless space of time before his fingers made contact with hers; maybe he thought that she was the one who needed comfort. He wasn’t a man who knew how to ask for it.
‘I suspect I was on the edge of a breakdown. Miranda was already there. I’d just signed the papers to keep her in hospital for her own protection…’
‘You don’t have to explain.’ She risked an attempt to sit up. The world tilted, then steadied. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
Oh, yes. He’d thought he was protecting some unborn child from what he’d been through. He was, like Miranda, like her sister, like her when she’d been too scared to tell him that she was marrying him not because of his millions, but because she couldn’t imagine living without him-like most people faced with the prospect of pain-just doing what he had to in order to protect himself.
Not self-destruction, but self-preservation.
‘I tried to have it reversed. When I realised what I’d done. What I’d done to you.’
She turned to look at him then. ‘You’d have done that for me?’
‘I…’ He faltered. ‘Yes, I’d have done that. Done anything.’
‘Except say the words.’
‘I…I didn’t know how to.’
‘There is more than one way of showing love, Ivo. Words are the least of them.’
The fact was he hadn’t left her on their honeymoon, left her to return home and face Miranda’s cold welcome by herself simply to chase down some deal, but to try and have the vasectomy reversed.
‘I’d been able to justify what I’d done, marrying you, not telling you, because…’ He broke off.
‘Because I said that the only reason I’d marry you, marry anyone was for security.’
‘Sex and money. I thought we’d both got what we wanted and then you started talking about a future, a real future, children, and I knew-’
She tightened her grip on his hand to stop him.
‘-I knew that’s what I wanted too,’ he persisted. ‘I’d just been too afraid to admit it to you, to myself. I thought I could fix it. That I could come back and we could begin again. But you didn’t wait.’
No. He’d said he would come back once he’d dealt with ‘business’ but there had seemed no point. They had been in paradise and she had wanted more. Had destroyed it.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t blame yourself. Neither of us were brave enough to risk everything for something as dangerous as love.’
‘No.’ Then again, ‘No.’ And, almost to himself, ‘“…the coward does it with a kiss…”’ He sighed. ‘Confronted with what I’d done to you, I knew I had to get home to see the doctor who’d performed the original surgery. Beg him for a miracle.’
‘I’m so sorry…’
He shook his head, rejecting her pity. Never had she felt so helpless. Felt the lack of words to express the way she ached for him.
‘I can’t say I wasn’t warned when I first went to him. He hadn’t wanted to do it. Had advised me against it, suggested some kind of counselling. He only relented when I made it clear that if he wouldn’t do it there and then, I’d find someone who would, even if it meant going abroad. He was kind enough not to remind me of that.’
He looked down at their locked hands.
‘When I thought Daisy was your daughter, when I thought that you had a chance to be a mother, it seemed like a gift. The miracle I’d hoped for.’
‘A difficult teenager?’ She managed a smile. ‘Not everyone’s idea of a miracle.’
‘She’d have been your difficult teenager. Our difficult teenager,’ he said, and she thought her heart would break for him. Almost wished she had been a teenage mum with a kid out there somewhere just waiting for her to get in touch.
‘She’s not my daughter, Ivo, but she still needs us. If it hadn’t
been for you…’ She looked at him. ‘Did I ever say thank you for what you did?’
‘Don’t…’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t ever thank me.’
She owed him more than thanks, but she let it go and said, ‘Daisy needs us, Ivo. Not just me, but you. A decent man in her life. And there’s her baby. Seven months from now there’ll be a little one who’ll need an aunt and uncle to spoil him or her rotten.’
‘Don’t be kind, Belle. Don’t pretend that it doesn’t matter. I saw your face when you told me that Daisy is expecting a baby.’
‘Still jealous of my little sister? Not a very attractive picture, is it? Especially from someone as lucky as I’ve been.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it. You radiate warmth, Belle. It was there from the first moment you looked up from the telethon switchboard, smiled into the camera, said “Call me” in that sweet, sexy voice. Half the country reached for their phones.’
‘Sex sells,’ she said dismissively. ‘I got my break because it was hot and I’d undone one too many buttons.’
‘Do you really think that’s why the network is so desperate to hang on to you that they’d pay you any amount of money? Because of your cleavage?’ He finally smiled. ‘Lovely though it is.’
‘No. They’re offering me big money because it’s easier-cheaper-than finding someone to take my place. Go through all the time-consuming, expensive, image-building hoops with someone new.’
He breathed out another uncharacteristic expletive and said, ‘You haven’t got an egotistical bone in your body, have you?’
‘What have I got to be vain about? Other people put me together, made me what I am.’
‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ he said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was angry with her.
‘Ivo…’ she protested uncertainly. He didn’t lose his temper, didn’t get angry.
‘What you are, Belle, what makes you a star, won you that award, has nothing to do with image consultants or PR. The viewers adored you from that first husky giggle, a fact the network wasted no time in taking advantage of. All the professionals did was put the polish on a very rare diamond.’
‘Oh, please!’ Belle knew she was blushing. It was ridiculous…Then, ‘I have to get back,’ she said. ‘Daisy will be wondering where I am.’
‘You’re an adult, Belle,’ he replied, refusing to back off. ‘Daisy has to learn to trust you when you’re out on a date.’
And without warning the whole tenor of the conversation shifted. One moment he’d been angry with her, the next his eyes were a soft hazy blue-grey that she knew was for her alone. That never failed to stir an echo from somewhere deep inside her.
She swallowed. ‘This is a date?’
‘We’re sitting on a bench holding hands. The last time we did that…’
He stopped, but her memory filled in the rest. The last time had been the first time. She’d been talking to someone about the charity they were all supporting that night when something had made her turn. It was all the invitation he’d needed and a path had seemed to open up before him as he’d walked across the Serpentine Gallery, offered her his hand and said, ‘Ivo Grenville.’
And she’d said, ‘Belle Davenport.’ And took it.
And that was all. He was a workaholic millionaire, she was a television celebrity, their histories were public knowledge and words weren’t necessary. And when she placed her hand in his, he tucked it beneath his arm and walked out of the gallery with her, through the dusky park, along the side of the lake until, eventually, they’d reached a bench set in the perfect spot. And they’d sat on it, her arm tucked beneath his, his hand holding hers.
‘I remember,’ she said, her voice thick with regret for all the wasted years. Was it too late? Could they go back to that moment? Start again? ‘Do you remember what comes next?’
Around them the market was a blur of noise and colour but Ivo was back in another time-another place; in the warmth, the stillness of a summer’s evening with a beautiful woman who, like him, had recognised the moment for what it was. For whom words were an irrelevance.
‘Do you remember?’ she asked again.
Ivo rubbed his thumb over the ring he’d placed on her finger.
He remembered. Every touch, every look. Eyes like warm butterscotch, hair gleaming pale as silver, a soft, inviting mouth waiting for him to take a step outside the emotional vacuum in which he’d imprisoned himself. Waiting now, for him to find the courage to finally break free.
He stood up, his hand beneath hers inviting her to do the same. She rose at his touch, waited.
He lifted a hand to her hair, as he had then.
‘Did I tell you that I like this new style?’ he said. ‘That you look wonderful?’
She didn’t answer, seeming to know that he was talking to himself rather than her.
He laid his palm against her cheek and she leaned into it, nestling against his hand, closing her eyes.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
And when she raised her head, lifted heavy lashes, he kissed her-no more than the touching of lips, it was deeper, more meaningful than any exchanged in hot passion. It said, as it had said then, everything he could never put into words. Say out loud. Admit to.
‘You remembered,’ she said, her sweet mouth widening into a smile.
‘How could I ever forget?’
A kiss. A cab ride. The slow sensual dance of a man and woman making love for the first time. Each touch something rare and new. Each kiss a promise.
‘You took me home,’ she said, tucking her arm beneath his and turning to walk the short distance to her flat. ‘And stayed to be dragged out of sleep by my four o’clock alarm call.’
‘I remember.’ Then, ‘That’s not why-’
‘I know,’ she said quickly. ‘I understand now why you wanted separate rooms. Why you left my bed.’
‘Because the kiss was a lie. If I’d loved you, truly loved you, I’d have walked away then.’
Instead he’d deceived her. Deceived himself. Fooling himself that he was taking no more than the minimum.
Protecting himself from the moment when she’d see their marriage for what it was-a hollow sham. And then, when she’d done just that, driven away by his coldness, he’d discovered that there was no way of protecting himself from loving Belle Davenport. That he couldn’t live without her.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ivo.’
‘Why not?’
She didn’t answer, but as they reached her front door, she handed him the keys and he unlocked it, remained on the step. She didn’t take them from him, but walked up the stairs, leaving him with no choice but to follow.
She’d already tapped on the flat door by the time he joined her. ‘No answer. Daisy’s still out,’ she said, standing back so that he could open that door too, dropping her bag on the hall table before sliding her hands around his neck.
‘Belle…’
He’d said her name in just that way too, that first time. Then it had been a warning that once he’d stepped over the threshold there would be no turning back. Now it was more complex.
He wanted her and right at this moment he was sure she wanted him, but it was simple need, comfort they both craved. Afterwards, nothing would have changed.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Just lie with me, Ivo. Hold me.’ And, for the first time since he’d known her, the tears that brimmed in her eyes spilled over and ran, unchecked, down her cheeks. ‘Please. I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. But if you held me, just for a little while…’
Denying her was beyond him and he took her coat from her shoulders, hung it, alongside his own, on the stand, then took her hand and led her to her bedroom, undressing her slowly, as he had time without number, each button, hook, zip, each brush of his fingers against warm skin sweet torture. When she was naked, utterly defenceless, he lifted back the soft down quilt, settled her beneath it. Then he, understanding her need for closeness
, began to undress.
This was new.
This was new, different, important beyond imagining.
For the first time in three years he was about to share a bed with his wife and not make love to her.
Or maybe he was. Because that was what this was, he thought as he slid in beside her, put his arms around her and pulled her back against him, fitting her to his body like a spoon. Gently kissed her shoulder, whispering soft words of reassurance, words of love that spilled out of some locker where they’d been stored away, not needed in this life.
This was the love, comfort, sharing, being there for someone that he’d been running from all his adult life. He nestled his face into the back of her neck, breathed in her familiar scent. Vanilla. Rose. Something darker, more potent that stirred the passions.
He’d imagined having to fight down his body’s aching need for her, do quadratic equations in his head to distract himself, but it wasn’t like that. This wasn’t about him; it was about Belle. Giving back all he’d taken.
And conversely feeding his desire on a completely different level, transcending the purely physical; this closeness, just holding her, met his needs, fulfilled them in every way that mattered. And he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
BELLE stirred, turned over and found that she was still lying in Ivo’s arms. She’d slept-not surprising; she rose at four every morning to go to the studio.
But it wasn’t her brief nap that made her feel brand-new. It was Ivo, holding her, being there.
She’d slept and he hadn’t left her.
All her dreams rolled into one. Or as near as they could be and she grinned, madly, stupidly happy.
‘This brings a whole new meaning to the expression “they slept together”,’ she said.
Then, because this felt like the start of something new, something different, rather than an ending, she reached out to lay her hand against his heart.
He caught her wrist, held her an inch away from his skin.
‘Belle…’
She ignored the warning. He believed she wanted more than he could give her and because of that had kept her at a distance. Kept himself at a distance.