‘Look, Sam, I’m sorry about the car,’ she said heavily. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose. I was tired, worrying about the children and thinking about a patient. The car really wasn’t uppermost in my mind.’
He sighed. ‘It’s OK. We all do silly things from time to time. I’ll go and pick something up.’
‘Just make sure it’s not a woman.’
He snorted. ‘I haven’t got the energy. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been tackling the garden all day.’
‘I noticed—I’m still hungry,’ she said pointedly. ‘It must be lovely to have time to play around in the garden on a nice sunny day like today.’
The tightened jaw and black look warned her off.
‘Are you having a sense of humour failure, Sam?’ she teased gently.
‘Yes, I bloody well am,’ he scowled, and, picking up the keys of the Mercedes, he stalked out of the door. ‘Chinese or Indian?’ he threw over his shoulder.
‘Anything but pizza.’
The door slammed.
‘So do you think it’s feasible? Perhaps I should have sent her to the hospital for investigation. What if she’s right—what if her failing eyesight is caused by something in her brain?’
‘The optician would have picked it up. Sally, have faith,’ Martin Goody said encouragingly. ‘You’re a good doctor. Trust your instincts.’
Sally sighed and drained her coffee-cup—the fourth that morning. ‘OK. I’m sorry.’
Martin smiled. ‘Don’t apologise. It must be difficult coming back in without warning.’
She returned the smile weakly. ‘Yes, well, I always was impulsive.’
Martin pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shot Sally a searching look. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but are things OK with you and Sam?’
She struggled between loyalty to Sam and honesty with his senior partner, her old trainer and their longtime friend. ‘Ok-ish,’ she said eventually.
‘Only ish? Sounds worrying.’
She threaded her hands through her hair—still a mess. She must do something with it—and met Martin’s searching honey-brown eyes. ‘Yes. I think it is worrying. I’ve lost him, Martin. We had so much, and it’s gone. I feel I don’t know him any more. We used to have such fun together, but just recently…’
Martin reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t give up on him, Sally. Make him take stock, make him fight for what he wants. He loves you—he thinks the world of you and the children. He probably doesn’t show it on a day-to-day basis, but God knows that’s easy to let slip. I did, and look where it got me.’
He paused, his face sad. ‘I didn’t realise how much I’d lost until it was gone, but without Jane and the kids life’s just an empty shell.’ He met her eyes, and his were filled with lonelines and pain. ‘Don’t let your love slip away, Sally. Hang on to it. It’s just too damn precious to lose…’
He stood up abruptly and left the room, his shoulders ramrod-straight.
Sally’s heart went out to him. He had been divorced for three years now, and in all that time she had hardly ever seen him smile.
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t let it happen with her own marriage. They had too much to let it go without a fight.
She had the first part of the afternoon off—she would use it to good effect. Reaching for the phone, she rang the hairdresser. If she had to fight to get Sam back, she needed every weapon in her armoury honed to perfection—starting with her hair.
Later that afternoon, after she had had her hair cut and some low-lights put in it to liven up the colour, she went back to take her evening surgery.
Her last patient was a woman of about her own age or slightly older, intelligent, educated but depressed.
‘I think I need HRT,’ Mrs Deakin told her. ‘I’m tired, fed up and I’ve got no sex drive.’
Join the club, Sally thought to herself. ‘Do you have a partner at the moment?’ she asked, following up on the tired and fed up before the HRT.
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. Ungrateful husband, ungrateful kids—I love them, but it’s like a millstone.’
‘Do you work?’
‘Did you mean outside the home?’
Sally returned the wry smile. ‘I did.’
‘No. I suppose that’s the trouble. No change of scene. A friend of mine told me there’s no aphrodisiac like a new lover. Maybe I should try it.’
Sally’s smile faltered. Would she come to that with Sam? ‘Interesting idea, but it’s hard to reconcile with loyalty and fidelity, isn’t it?’ she said to Mrs Deakin.
‘I was joking—I think.’
Sally twiddled her pen, thinking of Sam again. ‘Perhaps you need to rediscover the old lover.’
‘I thought HRT might help me do that.’
‘Not if boredom is the only problem.’ Sally questioned her about any menopausal symptoms, family history of thromboembolus, heart disease, hypertension and osteoporosis, and her own history of menstrual bleeding patterns, loss of libido and vaginal dryness.
‘I’m not really dry—I’m just not interested.’
It was a symptom Sally recognised only too well. ‘I could try you on HRT if I examine you and find no physical reason to exclude prescribing,’ Sally told her, ‘but I really wonder if your problems aren’t as much emotional as physical. Can you take off your things and hop on the couch?’
While she examined her breasts and pelvis for any mass or abnormalities, Sally delved deeper into the history of her current problems. There didn’t seem to be anything concrete, just a grumbling not-quite-rightness that was obviously distressing.
She picked up the woman’s hand and looked at her nails. They looked fragile and brittle. Mrs Deakin told her it was a relatively new problem.
‘Are you having any night sweats or flushes?’
She shrugged. ‘Well—yes, but I thought that was just the heating being on at night over the winter. My hair seems to be dry and uncooperative, too—I wish it would look like yours.’
Sally laughed. ‘I’ve just had it done—it looked like yours this morning. Perhaps you just need to spoil yourself a bit.’
Mrs Deakin shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. I just feel I’m falling apart.’
While the woman dressed Sally tapped the computer buttons and called up the HRT drugs available to her. ‘Look, I don’t think you’re bad, but I want to try you on patches. The hormone’s gentle, there isn’t too much of it and it could be what you need to make all the difference. Come back and see me in a fortnight, OK?’
She handed the woman her prescription, and as she rose to leave, Sally gave her another piece of advice. ‘Get your hair done. It won’t change anything, but you’ll be amazed at how much better you feel about yourself.’
‘That sounds a bit autobiographical.’
Sally grinned. ‘I wonder why?’
The woman left, and Sally shut down her computer and made her way to the reception office.
‘Anything for me before I go home?’
‘The garage rang—your car’s ready.’
‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’
Sally drove to the garage, swapped cars and paid the—amazingly—very reasonable bill, then headed home, hugely conscious of her lucky escape and desperately trying not to crash the gears.
There was no sign of Sam as she pulled in, and she put the car away and made her way into the house.
The kitchen was clean and tidy, the dishwasher humming in the background, and she could see something bubbling gently in the oven.
Voices drifted down from upstairs, high, happy children’s voices and Sam’s low rumble. As she crossed the hall she heard a giggle from Molly, and a splash, then Ben ran across the landing, stark-naked and dripping.
‘Hi, Mum!’ he yelled.
‘Hi.’ She went into the bathroom and found Sam perched on the edge of the bath making shampoo castles out of Molly’s hair.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ Molly piped from under the bubbles, and Sam stood up a
nd kissed her cheek.
‘Hello, darlings. Good day?’ she asked.
‘Not bad.’ Sam eyed her thoughtfully, then gave a low whistle. ‘You’ve had your hair done.’
She suppressed the smile. ‘It needed it.’
‘You look lovely. Why don’t you go and get a drink and I’ll rinse Molly off and get her into bed. I’ll be down soon.’
Oddly, she felt excluded. She trailed into the bedroom to the sound of Molly’s laughter, changed into old jeans and comfy slippers and went down to the kitchen.
There was a bottle of wine breathing on the side, and she helped herself, sipping it thoughtfully. Sam was very well-organised tonight. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about last night—or maybe the message had got through.
Her palms felt suddenly clammy. What if he tried to make love to her? She wasn’t sure she felt ready for that yet. They still had too much baggage in the way, too many years of neglect and indifference to get out of the way first.
She heard his footsteps behind her, and a large, warm hand cupped her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go and kiss the kids goodnight and then come back down for supper?’
She nodded, flashing him a bright smile, and went upstairs. What was he up to?
She said goodnight to the children and went back down to the kitchen, to find Sam dishing up rice and chilli.
‘Smells good,’ she said, sniffing over his shoulder.
‘It’s a packet sauce, so it might be foul. Cooking isn’t my forte.’ He handed her the plate and headed for the table, clearly preoccupied.
‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely,’ she told him, and ate it all, even though, as he said, the sauce was foul.
As soon as they had finished he whisked the plates away, poured her another glass of wine and held out his hand.
‘Come into the drawing-room and put your feet up.’
‘Not the sitting-room?’
‘No. It’s a bit chaotic still.’
She resisted the urge to glance in as they passed the door. She knew what she’d find. The kids could wreck a room in two seconds flat. Instead she allowed Sam to lead her into the drawing-room.
It was a chilly evening and the fire was lit, the logs hissing gently in the grate. It was very restful.
She allowed Sam to manoeuvre her on to one end of a sofa, and was unsurprised when he sat at the other end.
‘Put your feet up,’ he said softly, patting the cushion beside him, and she kicked off her slippers and turned round to face him, tucking her toes under his warm, solid thigh.
He studied her thoughtfully. ‘You look lovely,’ he said after a while. ‘She’s done your hair well.’
‘Thank you.’
There was a flicker of something in his eyes. ‘Don’t thank me,’ he said, and his voice had a husky quality that made her shiver. He looked away, running a straight, blunt finger round the rim of his glass.
‘Sally, we need to talk.’
‘Mmm.’
His breath hissed out on a sigh. ‘The other night— your birthday. When I tried to make love to you and you said no.’
‘I was tired and angry, Sam. You’d forgotten my birthday—’
‘Is that all? I don’t think so. I think this is about much more than you being tired and angry because I forgot your birthday. I think it’s much deeper, and much more significant.’
She chewed her lip. She hated confrontations and so did Sam, but once he made his mind up, he could be worse than a terrier.
‘You said something else, too.’
Sally had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She thought she’d got away with it, but clearly not.
‘Something?’ she said weakly.
‘You said you couldn’t be bothered to fake a response.’
She swallowed. ‘I was mad with you. I didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t.’
‘No, you said you couldn’t be bothered to fake a response tonight—as if you had before, in the past.’ He turned his head and met her eyes searchingly. He looked threatened, and she hated what she was about to do to him. If only he’d give up, but that wasn’t Sam’s style.
‘Had you?’ he persisted. ‘Faked your response?’
The words seemed about to choke him. Sally looked away, unable to hold his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said softly.
Above her toes she felt his thigh twitch, as if he’d flinched. Guilt tore at her, but he was relentless.
‘When?’
She shrugged slightly. ‘I’m not sure exactly. The first time…’
‘First time?’
She looked back at him. ‘The first time.’
His eyes closed. ‘Go on.’
‘It was a couple of years ago, I suppose. I was tired, you’d changed our holiday dates without telling me and you were mad with me for booking a holiday at the wrong time.’
He groaned. ‘Then.’
‘Yes, then. You wanted to make love to me—or maybe you just thought you could win me round. I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t want to be won round. I felt I had a right to be angry, and I wasn’t going to give it up, but I couldn’t argue any more and I couldn’t face another confrontation with you.’
‘So you faked.’
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’
She nodded, and his breath hissed out sharply.
‘You couldn’t have done—I would have known.’
‘You didn’t,’ she told him gently. ‘You didn’t have a clue. I made sure of that. The next time I felt guilty, and I wasn’t angry, so it was easy to let you coax me into it.’
‘Did you fake then?’ he asked. His voice was scrapy, rusty-sounding.
‘No. I didn’t need to, then or for a while. Later, though, when you were busy at work and getting stroppy about things not being done—I felt used, unloved—’
‘Unloved? Sally, for God’s sake—’
‘Unloved,’ she repeated firmly. ‘Used. Taken for granted. We’d had a row about something trivial, and when we went to bed you tried to make it up by making love to me. I didn’t want another confrontation, so I just…’
‘Faked again.’
‘Yes.’
He swore softly and succinctly under his breath. ‘And since then?’
‘Off and on. Much more, recently.’
His jaw worked. ‘When was the last time I made love to you that you really—that you didn’t fake?’
She took a steadying breath. ‘About a year ago.’
He swivelled towards her, his eyes incredulous. ‘A year?’ he whispered. ‘Dear God, Sally.’
She stared down into her drink, perilously close to tears.
‘Why? Why didn’t you just tell me to go to hell? How could you let me use you like that?’
She swallowed. ‘You weren’t, not really. In many ways I was using you, cheating you. It was easier than talking about all the things that were wrong—easier than facing the fact that we might not have a marriage left.’
Her eyes slid shut, tears slipping down her cheeks.
The silence stretched endlessly.
‘Is that a serious possibility?’ he asked at last.
‘I don’t know. I just know I can’t go on like this, being taken for granted.’
He took her glass out of her nerveless fingers and set it down, then reached for her.
She lay motionless in his arms, unable to respond. She felt so tired, so sad inside.
‘Am I really that much of a brute?’ he asked raggedly.
‘You can be—when you’re tired and you aren’t thinking, you can be very hurtful.’
His hand smoothed her hair back away from her face, and he bent his head and kissed away the tears.
‘I’m sorry. I love you, Sally,’ he said gruffly. ‘I may not show it, but I do love you.’
She couldn’t say the words back to him. He was waiting, but her throat seized up and she couldn’t make a sound.
‘Sally? Do you hate me so much?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t hate
you, Sam, but I don’t know if I love you any more.’
‘Oh, Sally,’ he said raggedly. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to say. Do you really feel so bad?’
‘I don’t know how I feel,’ she told him truthfully.
His hand was hesitant, smoothing back her hair, his fingers trembling slightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and then his mouth touched hers, his lips feather-soft against hers. His kiss was gentle, persuasive, but she was too empty inside to respond.
He lifted his head. ‘Sally?’
‘No, Sam, please.’
‘No?’
‘No—please!’
He sighed and let her go. ‘I don’t want to force you. I only wanted to make it up to you.’
‘I don’t want to make love. Please. I really don’t.’ She straightened away from him. ‘You do this every time, try and win me round by making love. If you weren’t so damn good at it maybe we would have sorted out our problems years ago, instead of me allowing you to distract me and sidetrack me from the real problem.’
He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I’m not trying to sidetrack you, Sally. I know we need to sort our problems out, but for God’s sake, this is a problem, too.’
‘No, Sam, it’s a symptom. For years we’ve treated the symptom and left the problem festering underneath, but it won’t work any more. This needs sorting out properly, not just a quick cuddle to paper over the cracks.’
‘I’ve never tried to paper over the cracks, Sally. I didn’t even realise there were cracks. I just knew that very often the only way I could reach you was to make love to you.’
He took her hand. ‘Sally?’
She turned and met his eyes, and the sadness in them hurt her tender heart.
‘I need you,’ he told her quietly. ‘You’re fundamental to my happiness—the only thing that stops me from going crazy.’ His thumb grazed her skin absently. ‘Don’t leave me, Sally. Please. Don’t go—not without giving me another chance.’
She pulled her hand away gently. ‘Don’t ask me to make promises I may not be able to keep,’ she replied, her voice low. She picked up her glass and drained it, then stood up. ‘I’m going to bed. I’m on duty tomorrow night, I’ll need my sleep.’
Taken For Granted Page 3