by Anne Mather
'I don't think we want to hear about that, Ray,' Jaime's mother exclaimed impatiently, but his grandfather's words had spiked Tom's interest.
'I do,' he declared staunchly, ignoring his mother's look of disapproval. 'I mean, we are related, aren't we?'
'We're not,' retorted his grandmother, giving her husband a quelling look. 'Now, have we all finished?'
Tom pursed his lips. 'But they are my relations,' he insisted. 'You never know, Uncle Ben might want to see me.'
'I don't think that's at all likely,' averred his mother, gathering the dirty dishes together. Then, aware of her son's resentment, she sighed. 'Tom, forget about Ben Russell. I wish to heaven he'd never decided to move to Kingsmere.'
'Well, he has,' said Tom sulkily, and even Mr Fenner looked a little discomfited now.
'I think you should do as your mother says,' he remarked, apparently losing his appetite for the extra roast potatoes. 'If the Russells had wanted to keep in touch, they wouldn't have left it fifteen years—'
'Ray!' His wife glared at him. 'Just leave it, will you? I think you've said enough.'
Of course, Tom had brought the subject up again on their way home. But Jaime had managed to evade his most personal questions. She tried to tell herself it was natural that he should be curious about his father's family, but, having lived for so many years believing herself free of the Russells' influence, it was unnerving to discover how mistaken she had been. As long as Tom believed that Philip Russell was his father, the connection—however tenuous—would continue to rankle.
Now, however, Tom evidently decided not to pursue his probing. His mother's withdrawn expression warned of an uncertain temper, and after scuffing his bare toes against the carpet he got up and left the room.
Meanwhile, Jaime restarted the vacuum cleaner with some frustration. How long was this going to go on? she wondered irritably. Was Ben's name to become an integral part of their conversation? It wasn't Tom's fault, of course. He was not to blame for what had happened. But how was she going to cope with this nagging complication in their lives?
By the following Saturday evening, Jaime was wishing she had had the guts to refuse Lacey's invitation. She simply wasn't in the mood for a party. Although her relationship with Tom seemed as good as ever, she was unhappily aware that the problem with Ben was not going to go away, and it soured everything she did. On top of that, after spending the day catching up on her housework, she felt tired. Physically tired, she told herself, refusing to admit that it wasn't as simple as that.
Returning to her bedroom after taking a shower, Jaime viewed her pale face and wet hair without enthusiasm. She should have made an appointment at the hairdresser, she acknowledged, plugging in the hairdrier. But hairdressers were expensive, and she was used to doing her own hair. Fortunately, it was fairly easy to handle. Thick and wavy, and silvery blonde in colour, it used to be the envy of her friends. In her teens, its silky curtain had reached halfway down her back, but these days she kept it much shorter. A monthly trim caused it to curl quite satisfactorily into her nape, and she seldom noticed how attractive it looked.
With her hair dry, she considered her face with equal criticism. At thirty-three, she had grown accustomed to the singular composition of her features, and the high cheekbones, widely set eyes, and generously curved mouth aroused no sense of gratification. She looked what she was, she always thought: a working housewife, with little time to spend on either her clothes or her appearance.
Leaning forward, she smoothed a thoughtful hand over the skin below her eyes. She didn't have too many wrinkles, she reflected, but that was probably because the skin was stretched so tautly over her bones. She could do with losing some weight, but if she did she would probably look a hag. As it was, a hip measurement of thirty-eight inches would allow Lacey to chide that Jaime was letting herself go. Still…
Of the few items in her wardrobe suitable for such an occasion, a tan-coloured silk jersey seemed the most appropriate. With luck, it would not be a terribly formal affair, and the wrap-over neckline and button-through style gave it an indeterminate purpose. In addition to which the sleeves were long, which meant she didn't have to wear a coat. It was a warm evening, and with swinging gold earrings in her ears, and a handful of chunky bracelets on her wrist, she thought she looked ready for anything.
Tom whistled appreciatively when she came downstairs. 'You look great, Mum,' he said admiringly, and Jaime wished she didn't have the suspicion that his admiration was tempered by the fact that Angie's parents had invited him to their home for supper. 'You know, I bet if Dad could see you now he'd regret he ever walked out on you!'
Jaime let the comment go, acknowledging she would have to put up with her son's present preoccupation with his paternal forebears. It would pass, she told herself. It had to. Once the initial excitement of Ben's moving to Kingsmere died down, Tom would probably forget all about him. There was nothing like indifference to dull enthusiasm, and when it became apparent that Ben wasn't interested in them Tom's curiosity would wane. Perhaps her father was right. If she persistently questioned his attitude, Tom might begin to wonder. He was an intelligent boy. He must already have his own ideas about what had caused his parents to separate, and continually suppressing his enquiries could work against her. She would just have to go along with his comments, and hope that time would achieve what she couldn't.
Now, issuing Tom with final instructions about locking the door before he left, she bade him goodbye, and went out to her car. She was aware that several of her neighbours' curtains twitched as she crossed the pavement, and she guessed her unusually smart appearance was already attracting some comment. But still, she thought, tucking her long legs beneath the wheel, it was good to dress up now and then.
Lacey Haines met her at the door of the bungalow Felix had bought immediately after his second marriage. Large, and impressive, it stood in its own half-acre of garden at the head of a cul-de-sac. The cul-de-sac itself was part of the Lister Estate, a small community of luxury homes on the outskirts of the town. Jaime had never been there before, but there was no mistaking its identity. Apart from the many cars parked in the driveway and overflowing into the road, the sounds of music and conversation were distinctly audible.
'Oh—Jaime,' said Lacey, as she opened the door to her guest, and Jaime got the distinct impression that her presence was no longer so welcome. She didn't flatter herself that her appearance was responsible for the change in Lacey's attitude. Felix's second wife was everything Jaime was not. Small, and slim, and vivacious, Lacey could hold her own in any company, Jaime was sure. The sequinned jacket she was wearing alone would have kept Jaime and her son in groceries for some considerable time, and, despite the fact that Felix had told her that Lacey was suffering the early effects of her pregnancy, she looked every bit as self-assured as ever.
'I'm so glad you could come,' she added now, moving aside so that Jaime could enter. 'Come in. Felix is about somewhere. I'll get him to introduce you to everybody.'
So much for Lacey's wanting them to be friends, thought Jaime drily, stepping into the wide hallway that was being used as a reception area. 'Please, don't bother,' she murmured, observing Peter Manning and his wife not far away. Peter Manning was the manager of the accounts department, and a friend. Assuring Lacey she could cope, she headed in their direction.
'I didn't expect to see you here,' remarked Peter frankly, after they had exchanged greetings, and Jaime returned his rueful grin.
'Neither did I,' she confessed, smiling at his wife. 'But Lacey rang last weekend and invited me herself. And, in all honesty, I couldn't think of a convincing excuse.'
Marjorie Manning shook her head. 'Well, I wouldn't have thought you and Lacey had much in common.' She looked to her husband for confirmation. 'We only come to these gatherings because Peter's more or less obliged to do so. I feel awful about Maggie, but what can we do?'
'Nothing,' said Jaime firmly, accepting the glass of wine Peter had rescued for her f
rom a passing tray. 'But who are all these people? Should I know them?' She indicated the crowded living-room beyond with the hand that held her glass. 'I didn't realise Felix had so many friends.'
'He doesn't,' declared Peter flatly. 'Most of these people are friends or associates of Lacey's. From the amateur dramatic society, most of them. Don't you recognise Gil Fleming, the male lead? And there's Stephanie Collins. She's usually his leading lady.'
'Hmm.' Jaime sipped her wine. 'Well, I'm afraid I don't go to the theatre very often.' She shrugged. 'But Lacey has certainly pushed the boat out. Do you think Maggie knows about the baby?'
'Knowing Lacey, I'd say it was a definite possibility,' answered Marjorie, with a grimace. 'Imagine Felix being a father again, after all these years!'
'Who's taking my name in vain?'
The subject of their discussion suddenly appeared behind Jaime, insinuating himself into their circle, and giving his secretary a challenging look. For some reason, his glance reminded Jaime of that scene at the office several months ago, and the embarrassment she had felt then stained her cheeks anew.
'We were just commenting on the fact that you're about to embark on fatherhood again,' said Peter quickly, leaping to what he thought was Jaime's defence. 'How long is it since your youngest was born? Twenty years?'
'Nineteen, actually,' admitted Felix, without rancour, and to Jaime's relief he switched his attention away from her. 'I know, I know. I'll be more like its grandfather than its father. But it's what Lacey wants, and that's what matters.'
'Of course.'
Marjorie's tone was dry, and Felix acknowledged it with a wry smile. But then, turning back to Jaime, he manoeuvred her into a position where only she could hear what he had to say. 'I suppose you disapprove, too,' he remarked softly, bending his head so that he could inhale the clean fragrance of her hair. 'What's the matter? Does it remind you of what you've missed?'
Jaime caught her breath. 'No.'
'Oh, well…' Felix shrugged'… I suppose you're feeling a bit miffed because he isn't here.'
'Who isn't here?'
'Although after the way you reacted that day when I told you he was coming back, I'd have thought you'd be relieved.'
Jaime blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.'
'I don't.' Jaime was confused. 'I thought we were talking about the baby.'
Felix gave her a doubting look. 'You mean Lacey didn't tell you?'
'Tell me? Tell me what?'
'That she invited Russell here this evening? He's in the neighbourhood, you know. I believe he's staying at the Crown while the final adjustments are made at the house.'
Jaime was glad of the press of people around her to support her suddenly unsteady legs. 'You mean—Ben?' she echoed faintly, realising something was expected of her, and Felix nodded.
'She didn't tell you?'
Jaime swallowed, managing to control her reaction. 'I—obviously not,' she articulated carefully. 'Did—er—did he say he would come?'
'He didn't respond at all.' To her relief, Felix didn't seem to notice how his words had affected her, and the noise and jostling of his other guests were a constant diversion. 'But, what the hell? There's enough people here as it is. Did you ever see such a scrum? Goodness knows what the neighbours must think, eh?'
Felix drifted away soon after that, and Jaime resumed her conversation with the Mannings. But his words had disturbed her, and every time there was a new arrival her eyes darted anxiously towards the door. But she needn't have worried. Although her nerves remained on edge, the man she had never expected to see again did not put in an appearance, and Lacey's hopes of achieving a social coup went unfulfilled.
Even so, it took some determination to swallow a couple of canapés, and exchange a few more words with her hostess. Lacey made no mention of her disappointment, and Jaime had to suppress a simmering sense of resentment. No necessity now to wonder why she had been invited, she thought bitterly. All that talk about motherhood, and being friends, had had an ulterior motive. She couldn't imagine why Lacey might think Ben would react positively to her presence, but she apparently had.
She managed to stick it out for another half-hour before making her departure. 'I don't like leaving Tom on his own for too long,' she excused herself, aware that no one here knew he wasn't waiting for her at home. In fact, she was glad he wasn't herself. She would welcome a few minutes to restore her defences.
It was only a quarter to ten when she turned into Dorset Road, and she guessed her son wouldn't be home much before half-past. Still, her appetite was returning now that she had left the source of her emotional upheaval, and she thought she might make herself an omelette for supper. In fact, Tom might like one too, when he got back. Although he enjoyed being invited to the Santinis', he wasn't too keen on Mrs Santini's cooking. Lots of pasta and spicy sauces did not appeal to her son's digestion, and he invariably made himself a sandwich after he got home.
To her surprise, however, the lights were on in her own living-room, and she knew a moment's anxiety as she pulled into the kerb. There was an enormous Mercedes parked directly across the road from her house, so at least the Morrisons were home, she thought gratefully. She might need their help if she had an intruder.
Of course, Tom could be home already, she reflected, as she got out of the car and secured the lock. Angie could be with him. But surely her parents wouldn't have allowed her to accompany Tom back to an empty house, she thought uneasily. Trust was one thing; putting temptation in their way was something else.
Her doubts were clarified, however, as she crossed the pavement. The front door opened, before she had a chance to use her key, and her son stood on the threshold. Tom's normally fair skin was flushed with colour, and Jaime's heart sank at the obvious connotation. They must have heard her coming, she thought, and decided to meet trouble head-on.
'You're early, Mum.' Tom's first words were not encouraging, and Jaime could tell by the nervous twitching of his lips that that was not what he really wanted to say. 'I thought you wouldn't be home for at least another hour.'
'No, well…' Jaime stepped past him into the hall, keeping her temper with difficulty '… it wasn't as exciting as you seem to think, and as you were on your own—'
'Oh—I'm not on my own, Mum—'
'No. I suspected that,' said Jaime tightly, watching him close the door with controlled irritation. 'How dare you, Tom? How dare you lie to me?'
'Lie to you?'
Tom looked blank, and before Jaime could sense the significance of his response another voice interrupted him. 'I'm afraid I'm to blame,' said the man, who had appeared in the living-room doorway. 'I suggested I might stay and wait for you.'
Jaime was glad she was standing by the banister. It gave her something to reach out and hold on to. Otherwise, she was quite convinced she would have keeled over, the shock of seeing Ben Russell was so great.
And it was Ben who had propped his shoulder against the frame of the living-room door. Of that, she had no doubt. But he looked very different from the way she remembered him, and she sensed that the years between had not been entirely kind.
Ben had been—was—the younger of the two Russell brothers, but right now he looked more Philip's age than his own. In height, there had never been much to choose between them, but Ben had always looked harder, more muscular, definitely the more physical one of the two, as a member of her father's bar staff had once rhapsodised. He certainly looked harder now—harsh, would have been Jaime's description. He was thinner, for one thing, and the thick swath of dark brown hair was lightly threaded with grey. His face, too, which bore the darkness of his years spent in a tropical climate, nevertheless showed a certain pallor—a sallow cast underlying his skin which pouched around his eyes. But his eyes were still as green as ever, a curious jade-green, that with their distinctive fringe of lashes had caused many hearts to flutter in the days when he had appeared on television. But, althoug
h she knew he must be thirty-eight now, he looked ten years older, and despite the chill of apprehension that had gripped her at the sight of him a reluctant stirring of compassion momentarily kept her dumb.
'Uncle—Uncle Ben came just after you left,' put in Tom stiffly, still smarting over his mother's accusation. 'I said you wouldn't be back until later, but—well, we got talking, and the time just seemed to fly.'
Jaime collected herself with a supreme effort. 'You mean, you've been here for the past two hours?' she exclaimed, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, and Ben flipped back the cuff of his leather jacket. In jeans and scuffed boots, he would have made quite an impression at Lacey's party, thought Jaime in passing. How ironic that he should be here, when she had been alarmed that he might turn up at the Haines's.
'To be precise, I'd say an hour and a half at most,' he replied tersely, after consulting the plain gold watch circling his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist, dark hairs sprouting up between his cuff and the strap of his watch, and Jaime's eyes were glued to them, as she tried to calm her nerves. 'I didn't mind. I had nothing better to do.'
Except attend a party that was supposed to be celebrating a baby's conception but was really in your honour, thought Jaime silently, resenting his assumption of control. 'I mind,' she stated, aware that her appraisal of him had by no means been a one-sided affair. She turned to Tom. 'Leave us, will you, sweetheart? I'd like to speak to—to—our guest privately for a moment.'
Tom looked troubled now, his earlier indignation giving way to a belated sense of responsibility. 'Don't be mad, Mum,' he said, giving Ben an appealing look. 'Why don't we all go into the living-room and talk? It—well, it's not very nice out here, and Uncle Ben's been ill—'