by Anne Mather
But the knowledge that he also could have come to the house again when Tom was there deserved some appreciation, and, much against her better judgement, Jaime pulled the menu towards her. 'Perhaps—perhaps I will have a sandwich after all,' she mumbled, following the list of fillings with her finger. 'Um—I think I'd like egg mayonnaise, if that's all right with you.'
Ben frowned. 'Why not?' he agreed indifferently, checking what she wanted, and putting the menu aside. 'One egg mayonnaise sandwich,' he ordered, when the waiter brought their drinks. Then, 'Cheers,' he added, raising his glass to his lips.
Frustration almost choked Jaime. 'Are—aren't you having anything?' she exclaimed, totally ignoring her glass.
'Not hungry,' responded Ben calmly. 'Now, if you've finished wasting time, perhaps we can get to the point of this meeting.'
'If I've finished—'
Jaime was on the verge of another defensive outburst, when a premonition gripped her. Of course, that was what he wanted. This whole exercise was designed to upset her, to put her at an emotional disadvantage. And Ben, who had once used his controversial debating skills to disconcert Members of Parliament and foreign diplomats, knew that better than anyone.
So, instead of indulging his ego, she broke off and picked up her glass. 'Cheers,' she murmured, raising it towards him, and had the satisfaction of witnessing his frustration instead.
But it was a fleeting glimpse at best. Ben was too experienced a tactician to allow his feelings to dictate his mood, and, returning his glass to the table, he said quietly, 'Why didn't you tell me?'
There were any number of answers Jaime could have given, and she had spent long enough, goodness knew, considering all of them. Her first instinct was to pretend ignorance, to pretend it wasn't true—to offer him the story she had given Tom not so long ago. But Philip was Ben's brother, and that complicated matters. She didn't want Philip involved in this. She had no intention of allowing her ex-husband to muddy the situation.
'Jaime!'
Ben was waiting for an answer, and not even the return of the waiter with her sandwiches could delay it any longer. But she smiled at the man, and picked up one of the neatly cut triangles and examined its contents, before saying carefully, 'It was nothing to do with you.'
'Nothing to do with me?' Briefly, Ben lost his cool, and his eyes blazed angrily. 'I have a son, and you say it's nothing to do with me!'
Jaime took a determined bite of the sandwich. 'As—as you pointed out, you were married,' she declared doggedly. 'You ought to be grateful. I could have told Maura.'
Ben's lips twisted. 'That bugged you, did it? That I refused to leave my wife?'
'Bugged me?' Jaime could stand his baiting tongue no longer. 'Well, yes,' she said angrily. 'Yes, I think you could say that. It's not very flattering to hear that, although you're good enough to go to bed with, you're not worth sacrificing a perfectly good marriage for. Of course, I can appreciate that. I mean, I wouldn't have been as understanding if I'd found out my husband had been sleeping with someone else. But, hey! What do I know? I was just a diversion. A little bit on the side. And the fact that I was your brother's wife just added to the novelty!'
'That's not true.'
'It is true.' Jaime was into her stride now and, oblivious of where they were, or whether anyone else might be able to hear what she was saying, she went on, 'I believed you, Ben. When you said you cared about me, I really believed you. What a fool I was! Totally naive! Well, we were both suckered, weren't we?'
Ben's face was grim. 'You don't understand.'
'Don't I? I think I do.' Jaime put the remains of the sandwich down, unable to even pretend she was enjoying it. 'Can you wonder I've tried to keep Tom away from the Russells? One brother a sadist, and the other a bastard!'
'You don't understand,' intoned Ben again. 'I couldn't leave Maura. She—needed me.'
'Needed you?' Jaime was scathing. 'How convenient! Is that how you usually absolved your conscience?'
'Usually, the situation didn't arise,' declared Ben harshly. 'What happened between you and me—'
'Nothing happened between you and me,' Jaime retorted grimly. 'Tom—Tom's conception was just a—a biological accident. I don't regard you as his father. I never did.'
'Well, damn you, I do,' grated Ben savagely, and then glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid his angry words had been overheard. 'Whatever kind of fiction you've managed to convince yourself of, Tom is my son! You can't duck out of that as easily as you ducked out of our relationship.'
'I've told you, we didn't have a relationship,' hissed Jaime angrily, leaning towards him, and then reared back in alarm when his hand moved to grasp the slim column of her wrist.
'I hear what you say,' he told her, in a low, dispassionate voice. 'But the fact remains, we did have sex together—more than once—and I got you pregnant, just as surely as we're sitting here exchanging insults!'
Jaime's breasts rose and fell with the tumult of her breathing. She was intensely conscious of Ben's fingers circling her wrist, and the heat of his possession was spreading along every nerve and sinew in her arm. She glanced anxiously about her, but to her relief no one seemed at all interested in what was going on at their table. They might have been alone in the garden.
'And that pleases you, doesn't it?' she retaliated now, realising she would get nowhere by being submissive, but to her annoyance Ben nodded.
'Yes, it pleases me,' he agreed, his gaze dropping insolently down her body. 'It doesn't please me that you chose to keep my son's existence a secret from me, but I remember his conception with rather more accuracy than you do, obviously.'
'Bastard!'
'Liar,' he countered equably. His thumb moved insistently against the network of veins that marked the inner side of her wrist. 'So—what are we going to do?'
Jaime swallowed. 'Don't you mean—what are you going to do?'
'No.' Ben's eyes lingered on her mouth. 'I mean, what are we going to do. I realise I can't come back after all these years and expect us to take up where we left off—'
'Damn right!'
'But there's still a hell of a lot more than indifference between us, and we both know it.'
'No!' Jaime felt incensed.
'Yes.' Ben was implacable. 'Why do you think I came to find you? I didn't know about Tom then. I didn't know what a consummate little actress you'd turned out to be.'
'If you think—'
'I think we need a lot more time to handle this rationally,' Ben cut in steadily. 'Tom hardly knows me yet. I suggest we let events take their natural course. For the present, anyway.'
Jaime stared at him disbelievingly. 'You can't seriously conceive that I'd let you back into my life!' she exclaimed.
'Do you have a choice?' Ben released her wrist abruptly, and took a mouthful of his beer. Then, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his hand, he appended, 'I think Tom might have something to say about that.'
Jaime gasped. 'You'd bring Tom into this?'
'Why not?' Ben regarded her without expression. 'He is involved.'
'No.'
'Yes.' Ben lifted his shoulders indifferently. 'I assume you'd rather I didn't tell Phil about him.'
'Phil!' For a few moments, Jaime had forgotten about her ex-husband, but Ben's words struck a chill into her heart. 'That's—that's blackmail,' she said unsteadily.
'No, it's not.' Ben pushed his beer aside. 'I'm not suggesting I would tell Phil. I'm just pointing out the alternatives I have at my disposal.'
Jaime scrubbed at the wrist he had been holding with her other hand, hardly aware of what she was doing. 'If you don't intend telling Phil, then why did you mention him? You're threatening me, Ben. And I despise you for it.'
'You're wrong.' Ben expelled his breath heavily. 'Jaime, all I want is for you to accept the situation as it really is, and not as you'd like to make it.'
Jaime moved her head from side to side. 'And if Tom doesn't want to see you again?'
Ben's mouth
flattened. 'He will.'
'Why?' Jaime knew she was losing, but she had to make one final bid for her future. 'Because you can offer him big houses, and big cars, and—and swimming-pools?'
'No.' Ben's response was grim, and when he leaned towards her a frisson of fear feathered her spine. 'Believe it or not, I regret what I said on Saturday night,' he told her savagely. 'It was a—gut reaction to your intransigence, but that doesn't alter the fact that I shouldn't have bragged about the house. No, the reason Tom will want to see me again is something much more basic. You may not like it, but we got on rather well. And whatever grudge you think you have against me, I won't let you keep us apart!'
CHAPTER FIVE
The rest of the week was an anti-climax. Jaime went to work every morning anticipating the worst, and came home every evening fully expecting Ben to have contacted Tom in her absence. But he didn't. Tuesday seeped into Wednesday, and Thursday into Friday, and there was no further communication from him. Indeed, it got to such a point that Jaime actually found herself wondering if he was ill, and although she told herself that that prospect gave her no concern it gave her no satisfaction either. Tom, she knew, was disappointed that his uncle hadn't been in touch. In spite of his brave statement of indifference, he had expected Ben to try to see him again. Of course, he knew nothing about his mother's encounter at the beginning of the week. Jaime had had no choice but to keep that to herself. She only hoped that if Ben did see Tom again he would do the same. She didn't like keeping secrets from her son, but it was too late now to do anything about it.
'Are you going to the disco tonight?' she asked on Friday evening, finding even the prospect of her son's continuing association with Angie Santini preferable to the alternative at the moment, but Tom shook his head.
'No,' he answered. 'I don't feel like it. I think I'll clear out my room instead.'
'Clear out your room?' Jaime turned from straining vegetables at the sink to stare at her son. 'Since when did you clear out your room without being asked?'
'Since now,' exclaimed Tom defensively. 'Well—there's not much else to do, is there?'
Jaime hesitated. 'Well, it's a lovely evening. You could take—Angie—for a walk.'
'Nah.' Tom shook his head again. 'Angie's going to the disco.'
'And you're not?' Jaime couldn't keep the astonishment out of her voice.
'I'm not in the mood,' declared her son, flinging himself into a chair at the table. 'Not tonight, anyway.'
Jaime shook her head now, not quite knowing how to take this unexpected turn of events. She couldn't help thinking that Tom hadn't had these reservations last weekend, and the connection between Ben's visit and her son's sudden aversion to going out was impossible to ignore.
'You've not fallen out with Angie, have you?' she ventured, needing to clarify the situation in her own mind, and Tom looked up at her with guarded eyes.
'No,' he said, toying with the cutlery Jaime had laid on the table. 'Why? Do you want me to go out or something?'
'Of course not.' Jaime was thrown on the defensive now, although another thought had occurred to her. 'It's just not usual for you to spend Friday night at home, that's all. You're not—expecting anyone, are you?'
'Are you?'
'Me?' Jaime was lifting a casserole out of the oven as she spoke, and the word degenerated into a squeak of pain as the dish slipped against her palm. 'Damn,' she added, shoving the offending container on to the hob and pressing her two palms together. 'Who would I be expecting?'
Then, as she was staring somewhat resentfully at her son, the doorbell rang. Like a blatant reaction to her plea of innocence, the sound echoed resonantly around the small kitchen, and Tom was out of his chair and on his way to answer it almost before the chimes died away. But it was the expression he flung at his mother as he did so that caused Jaime's heart to lurch in silent protest. She couldn't be sure, but she thought he believed she knew who it was, and his interpretation was obvious.
Jaime froze as he bounded up the hall, the casserole forgotten on the hob beside her. It had to be Ben, she thought sickly, guessing he had chosen this way to do things to avoid any repetition of the confrontation they had had on Monday. By coming to the house, he was forcing her to accept him. And Tom was simply playing into his hands.
The door opened, but the voice that greeted her son wasn't Ben's. It was female, and as the numbness that had gripped her began to ease Jaime recognised her mother's voice. Her mother's voice! A wave of hysteria swept over her, and she had to physically suppress the urge to laugh out loud. It wasn't Ben, it was her mother. Dear God, was she going mad?
'It's Nan,' announced Tom offhandedly, preceding his grandmother into the room, and resuming his seat at the table. He didn't look at his mother, and, conscious of her own weakness, Jaime guessed her son was suffering the same reaction. He had expected it to be Ben, of course, and the sulky twist to his lips was an indication of his disappointment.
'Hi, Mum!'
Jaime greeted her mother warmly, but Mrs Fenner surveyed the pair of them rather wryly. 'Did I interrupt an argument or what?' she asked, setting her handbag down on the floor and unbuttoning her jacket. 'If I'm in the way, I can easily go back home.'
'Don't be silly, Mum.' Jaime flashed her son a reproving look, and went to help her mother off with her coat. 'You're not interrupting anything. We were just going to eat, actually. Why don't you join us?'
'Oh, no.' Mrs Fenner shook her blonde head. Like her daughter—and her grandson—her hair had once been silvery pale, and although its colour now owed more to the skills of her hairdresser than to nature she was still a very attractive woman. 'I'll just make myself a cup of tea, if that's all right with you. It's so hot! It's years since we've had a summer like this.'
'Are you sure you won't have something to eat?' Jaime moved the casserole on to the table, and took off the lid. 'It's your favourite—chicken.'
'Honestly.' Her mother fanned herself with a languid hand. 'Besides, I had a sandwich before I came out. And I mustn't stay long. I promised your father I'd be back before the place got busy.'
'All right.' Jaime looked at her son again. 'Why don't you fill the kettle, Tom?'
'Oh, sure—'
Tom would have got up from the table there and then, but his grandmother's hand kept him in his chair. 'Stay where you are!' she exclaimed, patting his shoulder. 'When the day comes that I can't fill a kettle for myself, I'll let you know.'
Jaime sighed but, setting the plates on the table, she took her seat. She noticed that Tom avoided her eyes as she ladled some of the delicious-smelling casserole on to his plate, and she guessed he was having a hard time hiding his feelings. She couldn't help wondering what she would have done if it had been Ben at the door. From now on, that would always be a possibility, and it wasn't easy to come to terms with.
'So, to what do we owe the honour of this visit?' she asked now, making a determined effort to act naturally. 'Dad's OK, isn't he? There's nothing wrong?'
'Heavens, no!'
But her mother's response was almost too prompt, and Jaime was disturbed. It was rare that her mother came here unannounced, and never at this time of day. There had to be a reason. But what?
'I—er—I've been to the Cash and Carry,' Mrs Fenner said quickly, putting two tea-bags into the pot. 'I just thought I'd call in—as you didn't come over last weekend.'
'Oh.' That sounded reasonable, but after handing Tom his plate Jaime made no attempt to fill her own. 'Well—as you know, it was the Haines's party on Saturday night, and we just had a lazy day on Sunday.'
'Late night, huh?' suggested her mother mildly, and Jaime wondered what all this was really about.
'Not really—' she was beginning slowly, when Tom broke in.
'Uncle Ben came here last Saturday night,' he interjected, ignoring his mother's sudden intake of breath. 'He came while Mum was out. But he stayed until she got home.'
'Did he?' Now it was Mrs Fenner's turn to look disturbed, and she t
urned half anxious, half accusing eyes in her daughter's direction. 'You never said.'
'Well—I haven't had the chance, have I?' Jaime knew she had no need to feel guilty, but she did. 'I—would have—'
'So, he spent the evening with Tom,' Mrs Fenner murmured faintly, and her grandson nodded.
'Yes. And he was really nice,' he declared, through a mouthful of chicken and vegetables. 'He told me all about working for the BBC, and what it was like living in South Africa. His wife died out there, you know. Auntie Maura, that is. Apparently, she'd been ill for years.' He paused, and looked defensively at his mother. 'Did you know that, Mum?'
Jaime got up from the table. 'I've told you, Tom, I've got no interest in anything Ben Russell says or does. Now—can we change the subject? Mum—' she looked to her mother for assistance '—why don't you go and sit outside? I'll bring a tray out to you.'
'Oh—very well.'
Mrs Fenner looked as if she would have liked to argue, but discretion, and her daughter's tense face, persuaded her otherwise. With a rueful smile at Tom, she opened the back door and stepped out on to the sunny patio.
'I suppose you think I shouldn't have told Nan,' Tom muttered in a low voice as soon as his grandmother was out of earshot, but Jaime only shook her head.
'It doesn't matter to me who you tell,' she retorted, though the cups and saucers clattered a bit as she set them on the tray. 'Finish your meal. There's seconds if you want them.'
It was a relief to step outside. At this hour of the afternoon the sun's rays were muted by the fronds of the willow tree that trailed in a corner of the garden. There were stripes of sun and shadow across the wrought-iron table, where Jaime set the tray, and the warm air was scented with the perfume of the flowers.