The Millionaire's Christmas Wife

by Helen Brooks

‘If you didn’t despise her it frightened you though, didn’t it?’ he said more quietly. ‘Terrified you. Tied you up in knots.’

  His insight was more unnerving than his rage. Bracing herself, she said tightly, ‘Haven’t you a plane to catch?’

  ‘That’s it? Don’t tell me, you aren’t prepared to discuss this any further, right? Because I’m getting close, too close.’

  She went for total honesty. ‘Yes, you are. And I can’t handle that, OK? More than that, I don’t want to handle it. I should never have married you, Jay. I’m not cut out for marriage. I see that now.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Eyes that had turned as hard as amber held hers. ‘Like you’ve pointed out so distinctly, I come into contact with a lot of women and you’re more suited to be a wife and mother than all of them. Look at this afternoon—can you tell me in all truthfulness it wasn’t heaven on earth? We didn’t have sex, Miriam. We made love. There’s a hell of a difference.’

  She steeled herself to remain strong. ‘This afternoon was—was goodbye.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  She raised her head and no one could have mistaken the determination in her voice. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

  The moment stretched and lengthened. ‘Goodbye?’ he said softly. ‘You’re sure about that?’

  He reached out and stroked a wisp of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on the silky skin of her neck. Miriam fought the unbidden visceral response to his touch with all her might. Somehow she managed to keep the trembling out of her voice as she said, ‘Yes, I’m sure. When you come back from Germany I don’t think we should see each other. There—there’s no point. You must see that? It’s just prolonging the agony.’

  ‘The arrangement was till Christmas.’ The hard, handsome face was suddenly imperturbable and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. ‘Or is that another promise you’re going to break?’

  ‘Don’t—don’t be like this.’

  ‘I rather think that’s my line.’ He reached down and took the coffee she’d prepared for him, swilling it down in a couple of long gulps before straightening. ‘There’ll be a taxi waiting downstairs whenever you’re ready to leave, but don’t rush,’ he said evenly, his tone almost completely devoid of expression. ‘Goodbye, Miriam.’

  His mouth skimmed hers in the lightest of kisses and then he turned before she could speak or react, walking to the door of the suite and opening it.

  ‘Jay?’

  Her voice caught him on the threshold and he turned, looking straight into her drowning eyes as he drawled, ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you love me like you say you do then please let this be goodbye right now. What’s the point in delaying things a couple of weeks?’ she said unsteadily. ‘I need things to be like they were before we saw each other again.’

  She saw him draw a deep breath. ‘Then you’re crying for the moon,’ he said simply.

  And shut the door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN Miriam left the hotel thirty minutes later the snow which had looked so Christmassy and pretty when she’d been warmly wrapped in Jay’s arms in the suite was positively vicious in the wind, stinging her cheeks and whitening her coat before she reached the taxi parked a few yards away.

  ‘We’re in for a packet,’ the taxi driver remarked cheerfully as she climbed into the back of the cab. ‘Can’t see much evidence of global warming in this lot, can you? Where to, love?’

  After giving him the address, Miriam settled back in her seat and prayed he wouldn’t be the chatty sort. The thought of having to make conversation horrified her. As it was the atrocious weather conditions kept him occupied and she was left to her own thoughts, a dubious blessing in the circumstances.

  She had made an awful mistake in sleeping with Jay again. How could she have been so foolish? It hadn’t been fair on him, sending mixed messages and confusing the issue, and as for her…She bit her lip, trying hard not to cry as she gazed out of the window at the solid sheet of whirling snow. How could she get through the rest of her life without him?

  But she would. She blinked the tears away, wishing she were home in her little bedsit with the door locked so she could give way to the storm within. She had been incredibly stupid today to give in to the desire to be close to him one last time but it was done now and she couldn’t undo it. She just had to pick herself up and brush herself down and go on from here. Easy—in theory. In practice it might be a whole lot more difficult.

  The taxi driver had to drop her at the top of her street because the snow was so thick in the side-roads. As she entered the house she glanced towards Clara’s front door and wondered if her friend was in and whether Brian was with her. She hadn’t given Clara a thought all afternoon. She stood for a moment or two looking at the closed door. She didn’t really want to talk to Clara—she didn’t want to talk to anyone—but would Clara expect her to ask how things went with Brian? But then if he was there they might be otherwise engaged. From the look on both their faces when she’d left that morning she had the feeling the celibacy notion might well have gone out of the window.

  Her forehead knit, she stood hesitating and then decided she’d see Clara the next morning before they had to leave for work. By then she would be able to give Clara every ounce of her attention without being worried she was going to spoil the moment by crying all over her.

  Once in her bedsit Miriam drew the curtains to shut the world out and took off her coat and shoes. Her feet were icy cold and damp where she’d waded through the thick snow to reach the house, and she decided she’d change and pop down the landing to the bathroom for a long, hot soak. But still she just sat there on her sofa, feeling waves of self-recrimination wash over her. She was stupid, so stupid. And what must Jay be thinking? He’d obviously assumed everything had been sorted between them when she’d spent the whole afternoon making love, and why wouldn’t he?

  He had been so angry. She groaned, her eyes liquid with tears. The things he had said…Not that she blamed him for any of it—in fact, how could she when he was absolutely right? But it had still been painful to hear.

  She swallowed hard, telling herself she had to get it together, and then her mobile rang. Reaching for her bag, she got her phone out, half expecting it to be her mother, in which case she’d let the answer machine cut in. But the little screen said otherwise.

  Her voice shaking, she said, ‘Hello, Jay.’

  ‘I’m at the airport,’ he said flatly, ‘but I wanted to make sure you got home OK. You are home, I take it?’

  She nodded and then realised what she was doing. She was definitely losing it. ‘Yes, I’m home.’

  ‘Good. The weather’s foul and we’re grounded as we speak but apparently there are signs the storm’ll be over shortly.’ There was a pause and Miriam wondered if he expected her to say something, but she couldn’t. He might detect her silent tears.

  ‘Look, Miriam, I’ve been thinking over what you said, about not seeing each other when I’m back from this trip. After all we said this afternoon I’m beginning to see there’s no hope for us. To be frank I don’t think I can take any more of this banging my head against a brick wall.’ He paused again, and then said, ‘Miriam? Are you there?’

  It took more willpower than she’d imagined she possessed to keep the tears out of her voice when she said, ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You clearly want out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your mind’s made up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s better if we do this quickly and cleanly right now without any long-drawn-out goodbyes or bad feeling. What do you say?’

  Somehow she managed the one word again. ‘Yes.’ He might think she was being awkward but he’d never know the effort it was taking to get that solitary word past the enormous constriction that had her throat in a vice.

  ‘OK.’ His voice was still flat, almost stony. ‘Well, take care of yourself for me. We’ll start the ball rolling in the New Year once Christmas is
out of the way if that suits? Goodbye, Miriam.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ He meant it, she thought sickly. She had got what she wanted, but still when the phone went dead she could hardly believe it had finally ended.

  She sat for a long time without moving, senses and mind numb. Aeons later she made herself rise and take off her clothes, slipping on her bathrobe and collecting her toiletries before making her way to the bathroom.

  All the while she lay in the hot bubbles the numbness didn’t lift and Miriam welcomed it, embraced it. She didn’t want to feel, to think. She wanted to stay in this peculiar state of suspended animation for ever.

  Eventually, when the water was cool and her skin resembled a wrinkled prune, she made herself get out of the bath and towelled herself dry. After her customary routine of creaming and moisturising she went back to the bedsit and put on her comfortable old pyjamas that had seen better days but which were perfect for couch-potato moments. She even made herself a plateful of hot buttered toast and a milky hot chocolate, eating her tea curled up on the sofa while she watched the news and then listened to the weather girl—who was muffled up like an Eskimo, having been banished outside to give the forecast as though everyone in Britain didn’t know they were in the grip of wintry blizzards—explain this high and that low had caused Siberian storms to hit the UK.

  It was just nine o’clock when Clara knocked on the door. Miriam had been watching a comedy-drama but the moment she turned away from the TV she’d forgotten what it was about.

  Clara had been grinning like a Cheshire cat when Miriam opened the door. Her face straightening in the blink of an eye, she said, ‘What’s the matter?’

  Miriam wanted to say that nothing was the matter, that everything was fine. She wanted to ask what had happened between Clara and Brian, to say she so hoped everything was sorted out, that Brian seemed a lovely man and she could see the two of them being ecstatically happy together. Instead she stared into her friend’s concerned blue eyes and burst into tears.

  It was some minutes and plenty of tissues later be-fore Miriam could explain what had happened, and when she did Clara offered no well-meaning advice but simply sat and listened as she patted her hand. Then she made them both a cup of strong coffee and settled herself on the floor at Miriam’s feet.

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ She tilted her head as she surveyed Miriam’s ravaged face. ‘You love him and he loves you. You now think he almost certainly wasn’t carrying on with this awful Poppins woman—’

  ‘He wasn’t, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But you still don’t think you can go back to him,’ Clara continued as though she hadn’t interrupted, ‘because…’

  ‘I’d always be waiting for a real Belinda to come along.’

  It didn’t make sense but Clara understood anyway. ‘But if he loves you like he says he does, he wouldn’t stray.’

  ‘My father said he loved my mother—he swept her off her feet, in fact. She thought the world revolved around him and when he left her she never really recovered. I…I don’t want to be like that, Clara.’

  Clara was silent for some thirty seconds, a long time for Clara. Springing up, she fetched the biscuit barrel from the kitchen area and dug out a chocolate digestive. Her mouth full of biscuit, she mumbled, ‘I know I’ve only met your mother once, and that wasn’t exactly the hit of the century, but she didn’t strike me as the sort of woman to wait forever for a low life like your father.’

  Miriam delved in the barrel. ‘Well, she did.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, have you ever discussed how she felt with her?’

  ‘I didn’t have to; I was there, remember?’

  ‘You were a child.’ Clara reached for another digestive. ‘People see things differently as a child.’

  Miriam shrugged. ‘I know how it was, Clara.’ Purposely changing the subject, she said, ‘I didn’t like to call on you earlier in case Brian was there. How did things go?’

  Clara said, almost apologetically, ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘Hey, just because Jay and I have got problems it doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled for you and I want to hear every detail, all right? I mean it. Start at the beginning when you let him in.’

  Clara started at the beginning and finished at the end and by the time she left it was close on midnight. Once snuggled down in bed, however, Miriam found she couldn’t sleep. Now her mind had fully emerged from the numb state of shock she found she couldn’t turn her thoughts off and they all featured Jay. His golden eyes, his sexy smile, the strong planes and angles of his handsome face, and his body…the broad expanse of hair-roughened chest, his lean muscled stomach, sinewy limbs and powerful arousal. She shivered. She could almost smell the scent of him on her skin, the places where Jay had kissed and caressed and nibbled.

  At three o’clock she gave up all thoughts of sleep and after wrapping the duvet around her went and sat by the window. It had stopped snowing and the night was clear and sparklingly new, the rooftops virgin white and the odd light or two in the distance giving a Christmas-card magic to the view.

  She’d thought she was all cried out but the lump in her throat indicated otherwise. Jay was probably in Germany now, in some hotel room fast asleep before an early start in the morning. She had always relished the moments she could look at him to her heart’s content when he was asleep. He had always appeared more boyish then, his thick eyelashes curling onto his cheekbones and his firm, faintly stern mouth relaxed. But very masculine. And beautiful. Virile. Dangerous.

  She made a sound deep in her throat, a hundred and one conflicting emotions tearing at her. She was a mess, she acknowledged bitterly. And she didn’t know how to begin to unravel the tangle in her mind.

  Gradually the peace and tranquility of the scene outside worked like a soothing balm on her overwrought nerves, her eyelids becoming heavy. She must have dozed for a while, sitting upright cocooned in the duvet, because suddenly it was six in the morning and she knew exactly what she was going to do. Something Clara had said had obviously permeated her subconscious while she slept. She needed to go and see her mother and ask her about her father.

  Extracting herself from the duvet, she made a pot of tea, returning to her tiny table and chairs and drinking three cups, looking out at the pink-tinted sky where the first rays of dawn were breaking through. Soon the whole expanse was streaked with faint dusky pink, mother-of-pearl and deep charcoal, the white world beneath reflecting light.

  She didn’t really know what good it would do to talk to her mother, Miriam reflected as she washed up the tea things, or even if her mother would want to discuss the man who had hurt her so badly. But she had to try. And it would have to be when George was at work.

  She phoned her mother at eight o’clock once she was washed and dressed and had put the bedsit to rights.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Anne’s voice reflected pleasure at the unexpected call, which made Miriam feel immediately guilty. ‘I was only saying to George last night I hadn’t heard from you for a day or two.’

  More than a day or two. Miriam took the gentle rebuke without commenting. Instead she said, ‘I thought I might call and see you this morning if you’re not doing anything? We could have lunch somewhere.’

  ‘You’re not at work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re ill?’

  ‘I haven’t been feeling too good for a couple of days.’ That was at least the truth. She had never felt so hopelessly bereft and miserable in her life.

  ‘I’ll come to you and bring lunch if you’re feeling poorly.’

  The thought of her mother sitting in the bedsit and inwardly criticising it every moment was too much. Even when Anne wasn’t verbalising comparisons with Jay’s luxurious apartment, her face said plenty. ‘No, it would do me good to get out. I’ll come about eleven if that’s OK and we can have coffee first.’

  Her mother’s ‘All right’ was reluctant.

  Two minutes later the mobile rang, just after Miriam had finished t
he call to her boss to tell him she needed another day off. Her conscience had led her to confess the problem was a ‘domestic difficulty’ rather than physical illness and she would be happy to take the two days as holiday entitlement if he wished. He’d told her not to be so silly, wished her well and said he’d see her the following day.

  ‘Miriam?’ Her mother’s voice was tight. ‘I have to ask. This not feeling too good. You aren’t coming to tell me you’re seriously ill, are you?’

  Oh, dear, Miriam thought ruefully. ‘No, no. I promise.’

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  Sometimes Miriam wondered who was the parent and who was the child. ‘Absolutely. I’ll see you at eleven.’

  The small bungalow her mother and George had bought when they had got married was situated on the northern outskirts of London. Miriam took the tube as far as she could and then finished the journey by taxi. The salting lorries had been out the night before and most of the main roads were relatively clear of snow, but the quieter residential areas were a foot deep in places. Her mother’s street was no exception but clearly the neighbours had all banded together and the taxi could get almost to her mother’s door.

  Her mother opened the door before she knocked. Obviously she’d been looking out for her. They hugged and her mother took her coat and scarf and drew Miriam into the warmth of the kitchen, where the coffee pot was gurgling. Once they were sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of steaming coffee and a piece of fruit cake in front of them, her mother said, ‘Well?’

  Miriam eyed her mother over the rim of her mug. ‘What?’

  ‘Something’s the matter.’

  ‘Why should anything be the matter?’

  Anne Brown fixed her daughter with a maternal glare. ‘This is your mother you’re talking to; you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Is it something to do with Jay? You’ve started the divorce?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What, then?’ And before Miriam could answer: ‘Have you seen Jay? You have, haven’t you?’

  Miriam ran a weary hand through her hair. It would be far easier to come clean in view of what she needed to ask her. ‘Mum, I need to talk to you, and just listen for a while, will you? Without interrupting or asking any questions?’