by Liz Fielding
‘Hello, Anthony. Thank you for the flowers.’
‘Oh, Julie thought you would like them. You sound terrible.’
Good old Julie, she might have known. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s all right, Anthony. I know I sound terrible. How are you coping?’
On the safer ground of work, Anthony was effusive. ‘Very well. Quite a few people had recovered enough to get in today and Julie’s sister was a great help over the weekend.’
‘She’s a nice girl. We could do worse than offer her a job when she leaves school.’ A spasm of coughing caught her and she paused for breath. ‘How are you? No sign of succumbing?’
‘No, thank goodness. Mother has been working herself into such a state. I don’t know what I would have done if Julie hadn’t very kindly done some shopping for her on Saturday afternoon.’
Rosalind felt the unspoken criticism. Anthony had thrown out a good many hints in her direction about doing his mother’s shopping during the flu outbreak. She had studiously ignored every one of them.
‘Julie’s a very kind person.’
‘Mother asked her to stay to supper.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She had expected you, so it was no bother,’ he added, in case she was worried that Mrs Harlowe had been put to any trouble.
‘No. Well, that was...nice.’ She wondered what on earth she was doing standing in a chilly hall having a conversation about Julie. ‘Who looked after her children?’ she asked. There was a catch of something in her voice, but Anthony didn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh, she brought them with her. Beautifully behaved little girls. Mother was very taken with them. I always thought Julie was divorced you know, I hadn’t realised she was a widow.’
‘Anthony I must go. It’s cold in the hall.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just wondered if there was anything we could get for you? Julie offered—’
Julie again?
‘Nothing. I...I think I’ll go and stay with my mother for a few days. I’ll ring you from there.’ She put the phone down and turned to find Jack watching her from the doorway. ‘Anthony rang,’ she said, guiltily. ‘You can’t hear the phone from the kitchen.’
‘Come back to the fire. You’re shivering.’ He slipped his arm around her and she leaned gratefully against his shoulder.
‘The wind seems to howl under that door.’ She shuddered convulsively. ‘It’s a very effective way of keeping down the phone bills.’
He put a mug of hot chocolate into her hand. ‘Drink this and then I think perhaps you should go back to bed. You’ve been up for long enough.’
She nodded and sipped the drink. ‘Jack?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve decided to go and stay with mother for a few days. If it will help, well, you can stop here for a few more days.’
‘You changed your mind about leaving me to the tender mercies of the Salvation Army, then?’ He squatted down in front of her. ‘What about Anthony?’ he asked. ‘Won’t he object?’
She shrugged, awkwardly. ‘He needn’t know.’
‘And if I insisted you tell him?’ he asked.
‘I...’ She faltered, not ready to betray feelings that were too new, too tender to stand close scrutiny. Her eyes begged him to understand.
He touched her cheek, very gently, with the tips of his fingers. ‘Thank you for the offer, Rosie. But I’m afraid I’ve never been interested in fifty percent of anything.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE sudden peal of the doorbell prevented her from flinging herself into his arms and making a complete idiot of herself.
For a moment Jack stayed there, almost as if he hoped she might still commit herself. Then he stood up and went to answer the door. Her mother burst into the room bringing with her a taste of cold air and a fit of scolding.
‘Why on earth didn’t you have your flu shot, Rose?’ she began, without preamble. ‘I reminded you at the beginning of the winter.’
‘Hello, Mum.’
Mrs Parry turned to Jack. ‘She hates needles. I should have realised she wouldn’t do it unless I came and held her hand.’ Then she frowned. ‘I don’t know you. Are you a neighbour?’
He glanced at Rose. ‘I live nearby,’ he agreed. ‘I left a message on your answering machine.’ He held out his hand. ‘Jack Drayton.’
‘Jane Parry.’ She took his hand. ‘Thank you for letting me know that Rose was ill.’ She looked back at her daughter and tutted. ‘Into bed with you. You look like a damp rag.’
Rose and Jack exchanged a glance. ‘I’ll be going, Rosie, now your mother’s here.’
‘Jack, wait. There’s no need...’
‘I suppose Anthony’s at home, coddling his hypochondriac of a mother,’ her mother carried on, sweeping her towards the bedroom.
Rose looked back helplessly and her mother followed her glance. ‘Goodbye, Mr Drayton.’
Rosalind was not quite certain what made her angrier, her mother taking over in school-mistress style, or Jack trying very hard not to laugh as she was frog-marched back to bed.
‘Goodbye, Rosie,’ he raised his hand in salute as her mother’s hand in the small of her back propelled her firmly towards the bedroom. ‘Look after yourself.’ And you, Jack, she said silently. Look after yourself.
She was in bed with a thermometer in her mouth when she heard the outside door close with its customary rattle. She had never thanked him for the rose.
‘This isn’t necessary,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m much better.’
‘Be quiet for a minute.’ Her mother whisked her flowers out of the bedroom while she waited for her temperature to register. When she came back she took the thermometer, tutted again and tucked the quilt around her shoulders. ‘I’ll take you home with me tomorrow. I can’t stay away from school, but I can keep an eye on you there.’ She gave her daughter a hard look. ‘You obviously need keeping an eye on,’ she said, with meaning.
‘Mum, I’m not a little girl—’
Her mother patted the bedclothes. ‘Just go to sleep. You can tell me all about it when you’re feeling better.’
All about what? There was nothing to tell.
* * *
When she had been home for nearly a week Rosalind began to get restless. She was unused to idleness and found so much of it tedious. Forbidden to do any housework or cooking by her mother, she had read anything that looked remotely interesting and there was nothing on the television.
She lifted the lid of the piano and let the fingers of one hand run over the keys. Her mother kept it tuned, which surprised her. No one had played it properly since her father left. She sat down and began to pick out a tune, gradually losing herself in her pleasure at rediscovering a small talent. She had been playing for a while when she became gradually aware of an overlaying sound. She stopped. There was a sharp tap at the window and she looked around.
‘Jack!’ He was at the french windows and she flew to let him in.
‘I couldn’t make anyone hear me at the door, but I heard the piano.’ He peered around the door. ‘Is the headmistress home?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re quite safe, Jack. She’s still at school.’ She was suddenly awkward and found it easier to be busy shutting the door, easier to look at her feet. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Is it?’ He tipped her chin upwards. ‘We’ll see. I have a feeling you would be pleased to see anyone after a week of your mother.’
‘Jack!’ Then quite unexpectedly, she giggled. ‘You mustn’t take it personally. She treats everyone like a five-year-old. I think being a head teacher has something to do with it.’
He had wandered over the piano and ran his hand over the keys. ‘Is that why your father left?’ he asked, glancing up at her.
‘No!’ Her forehead creased in a slight frown at this unexpected reminder of that betrayal. ‘No, of course not. He left because...well, playing the piano was in the end more important to him than either of us.’
‘She could have gone with him. Some women do, you know.’ He sat down on the stool and began to pick out the tune she had been playing. ‘But perhaps — when he asked her to make a choice — her home and job were more important to her than he was?’
‘You know nothing about it, Jack.’
‘Do you?’
The question was a shock. No one had ever suggested that the decision to part had been anything but her father’s. Rich Parry had wanted more than a quiet life in a small rural town and so he had left home and hearth for the bright lights. Jack stopped playing and turned to her. ‘How did that part of the tune go?’ She hesitated only for a moment, then moved beside him and played a few notes. ‘It’s pretty.’
‘Dada wrote it for me when I was a little girl. He’d try anything to get me to practise.’
‘Sit down here and play it so that I can follow you.’ She and her father had regularly shared the long piano stool, so she sat beside him and played the notes and he echoed her until finally they finished the tune with a boisterous crescendo. ‘You knew it all along,’ she accused, laughing, as the sound died away.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But wasn’t it a good way of getting you this close?’ She made a move to rise, but his arm was around her before she could escape. ‘Are you really pleased to see me, Rosie?’ he demanded.
To say how pleased she was meant total exposure and she had never given that much of herself to anyone. This wasn’t ever going to be like the civilised arrangement she had with Anthony. If she gave Jack the hundred percent he demanded from her, there would be nothing left for anyone else. Ever. A basic need to preserve a part of herself held her back. ‘Well, Jack,’ she said. ‘As you said, anyone would have been a welcome diversion...’
‘Anyone?’ He tilted his head slightly, regarding her from beneath lids that shaded his amusement.
‘Anyone,’ she confirmed, raising her chin defiantly. He took shameless advantage of this tactical error, bending swiftly to caress the hollow of her throat with warm lips. She shivered as liquid pleasure fired through her veins and his hands slid across her back, pulling her closer into the circle of his arms until she was pressed close against his chest and could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against her breast. ‘Anyone?’ he murmured.
‘Jack...’ Her protest died away as his mouth began to tease the delicate skin beneath her chin, the line of her jaw, then his teeth grazed her earlobe and she shuddered and tried to pull free.
‘Answer me, Rosie.’
‘I...’ Her throat was constricted. She wanted to tell him she had been waiting, hoping every day that he would ring. That the sudden sight of him had evoked a joy so special that for a moment she had been unable to believe it.
‘You seem to have lost your voice again, Rosie. Why don’t you just show me?’ The words grated over her skin, raising a prickle of excitement that tingled along her spine and made her catch her breath.
For a long moment she remained motionless in his arms. She could kiss him. Heaven knew how much she longed to, but he was demanding far more than that. A hundred percent. She wondered briefly if he knew what he was asking of her.
She knew. She had no illusions that life would, could ever be the same. The prospect of her career, a safe marriage, two point four children at decent intervals would be lost forever. Wrapped in the circle of Jack’s arms, she almost didn’t care. But if she surrendered to him she knew she would go anywhere, do anything he wanted. She wouldn’t make the same mistake her mother had and demand that he change for her and she still didn’t know whether she was capable of that amount of giving.
But her arms seemed to know what they wanted, even if her head did not. They slid up the soft wool of his sweater and entwined themselves around his neck. He made no move to help her. A hundred percent. Everything. She swayed towards him, offering her softly parted lips to this raider of her heart. Still he waited, wanting more. Something about that total self-control fired her, kindled an explosive challenge that she rose to as helplessly as a salmon to an angler’s lure.
Shamelessly she ran the tip of her tongue along his lower lip, probing gently, begging admittance and she felt a kind of exhilaration as the tension bit into the muscles under the smooth skin of his neck. Surer now of her power, her demand that he respond to her was suddenly imperative. She wanted him and she showed it in the way she held herself against him, the way her fingers drew him down to her, in a kiss that answered every question he cared to ask of her. And then quite unexpectedly she found the situation reversed.
He was in control and it was she who was submerged beneath the shattering impact of his kiss. His hand slid over her body to caress her breast, the nipple that tightened to the touch of his fingers. His tongue stroked along hers, sweet and urgent until she thought, hoped, that the world would end before they parted. When finally, he drew back, she cried out and clung to him.
‘Jack, I want —’ His fingers on her lips stopped the words.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Parry.’
Rose swung round. Her mother was standing in the doorway regarding her with something like despair. ‘Mum, I can explain...’
‘There is nothing to explain, Rose. I’m not so old that I can’t remember the details for myself. It’s Mr Drayton, isn’t it?’
He stood up. ‘Yes, although I’d rather you called me Jack.’
Her look was not encouraging. ‘Perhaps you would care to make yourself comfortable over there, Mr Drayton. You seem a little cramped on the piano stool.’
‘We were playing...’
‘The piano? Are you a musician, Mr Drayton? You certainly seem to know all the right notes to play.’
‘Mum…’
‘Is Mr Drayton staying for dinner?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Jack interjected. ‘I was just passing through and I stopped to see how Rosie was.’
‘Clearly she has been able to demonstrate how well she has recovered. I’ll see you out.’
‘Mum, stop it!’ Rose finally found her voice. ‘How dare you be so rude.’ Her mother’s raised eyebrows, honed on generations of naughty boys, nearly stopped her in her tracks. But she had started something that needed to be said and it was too late to back away from it. ‘I’m not five years old, Mum.’
‘So I noticed.’ She glanced at Jack. ‘I was simply thinking of Anthony.’
‘I know. But Jack is my guest, a friend. Perhaps more.’ She felt her cheeks burn. ‘It’s too soon to say. But if you had a lover I wouldn’t be so ill-mannered as to remind you that you’re still married to Dad.’
‘Rosalind! That’s enough!’
‘I’m sorry if that offends you. I’m not sorry that I said it.’
‘Since I still love your father the situation isn’t likely to arise.’ She smiled a little wryly at her daughter’s shocked expression. ‘Oh do sit down, Jack. Wherever you like. I’ll go and make some tea.’
‘No. Thank you, Mrs Parry,’ he said, gently. ‘I really do have to go.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to say goodbye to Rose.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Parry.’ She nodded and closed the door on the way out. ‘Do you think she meant that?’ Jack asked, as he took her into his arms. ‘About still loving your father?’
‘She never says anything she doesn’t mean,’ she said, leaning her head against his chest, stunned by her mother’s declaration.
‘And you? Do you sometimes say things you don’t mean? What about that promise to Anthony?’
‘I meant everything I said today,’ she said, still evading a direct answer. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’
‘If you’re asking for marks out of ten, Rosie, I could tell you were trying hard. Very hard.’ Her face flamed and she tried desperately to pull away, but he held her effortlessly pinned to his chest, his expression fierce, his voice harsh. ‘When you give a hundred percent, Rosie, you don’t have to ask. You know.’
His mouth claimed hers briefly and then he was gone. She was still holding onto the piano for support,
still trying to regain her breath, when her mother brought in the tea tray.
* * *
She returned to work on Wednesday. Anthony was surprised to see her. Shocked almost she thought. She had made a special effort with her make-up and thought she looked quite well, but perhaps she was fooling herself.
‘Are you sure you should be back, Rosalind?’ he asked, anxiously and guilt at his concern made things worse. ‘We can manage for a few more days, you know...’
‘Yes, I can see. You seem to have managed remarkably well,’ she said.
‘Well, Julie has been wonderful.’
‘I’ve always found her very supportive,’ she said, but she wasn’t here to talk about Julie. ‘Anthony, we have to talk about the wedding arrangements.’
‘Do we?’ He shifted in his seat.
‘Yes, I’m afraid we do.’
‘Not in the office.’
No. Not in the office. Hardly the place to tell a man you’ve known for years that you’ve decided that you can’t marry him after all.
‘Can you come round this evening?’
‘No. I’ve a partners’ dinner tonight at the Napier Hotel.’
‘This won’t wait.’ She had to tell him. Get it off her chest. If she never saw Jack Drayton again, she knew she would never marry Anthony and she had to tell him.
‘Won’t it?’ He seemed edgy. ‘I suppose we could meet in the bar for a drink before dinner. About seven o’clock.’
Neutral territory? Perhaps that would be a good thing. And afterwards there would be the dinner to keep his mind occupied.
‘Yes, of course.’
She returned to her own little office space. Julie too was edgy. ‘We’ve made a couple of sales while you’ve been away,’ she said, almost defensively.
‘Fine, Julie. You’ve done wonderfully. Anthony is very pleased with you.’
The woman blushed. ‘The Lodge at Wickham has been sold.’
‘Has it?’ She made an effort at a smile. ‘I rather liked the place myself.’
‘Yes.’ There was something in the woman’s tone that made Rosalind look up and frown. Almost as if she knew. But surely Anthony would never have told her? ‘You said, when you saw the photographs, how much you liked it.’