Never Leave Me

by Margaret Pemberton

  Dominic shrugged his shoulders miserably. ‘It’s no good, Mel,’ he said, his hands dug deep in his pockets, his grey eyes bleak. ‘You’ll have to go back to London. But I’ll see you again. I promise I will.’

  Melanie turned to her mother, her small face pinched and white. If Dominic said she had to go, then she had to go. She wondered if she would die from loneliness. Obediently she said goodbye to Aunt Heloise and Uncle Henri, and Aunt Lisette and Uncle Greg and Lucy, and climbed into the rear of the taxi cab. She wouldn’t cry. Dominic would think her a baby if she cried.

  Her father was kissing Aunt Lisette goodbye and a funny little muscle was twitching at Uncle Greg’s jawline. She liked Uncle Greg. She liked France. If Dominic lived in America then she was sure she would like America too. She didn’t want to go home to London. Not ever. Her father stepped into the cab and slammed the door behind him. Everyone was waving goodbye. Everyone but Dominic. He was standing apart from his parents and grandparents, his hands still deep in his pockets, his eyes suspiciously bright.

  ‘Goodbye Dominic,’ she whispered, raising her hand against the glass and waving until she could no longer see him, until the taxi cab turned left at the end of the long, linden-flanked drive and plunged down the steep hill towards Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts.

  Lisette had always enjoyed the five-day crossing from Le Havre to New York. It was as if France stayed with her until the moment she disembarked. The menus were in French, the food was French. The cabin staff spoke French. Their fellow passengers were often French. It was only when she stepped ashore that she felt the spasm of alienation she had felt so many years before. Here, she was no longer Madame Dering, but Mrs Dering. No longer a Frenchwoman in France, but a stranger in a country she had never succeeded in making her own. She let out a long sigh. Before, it had not mattered. Greg had loved her and she had wanted passionately to make him happy. Now he loved her no longer. He would not tell her so. He was too kind for that. But she had known, the day he had suggested that they sleep apart, that the lustre of their marriage was fading for him.

  Greg cancelled the bookings he had made at the Plaza. He had intended that they spend a week in New York before travelling home, but he was no longer in the mood for an extended holiday. He wanted the whole debacle to come to a swift end. He had stood on the walls of Falaise castle and seen her spontaneously put her hand into Luke Brandon’s. Seen the misery on her face as she had looked up at him. Misery occasioned, no doubt, by the fact that all physical contact between them was restricted to the moments when he, Greg, was out of sight. He had known that he should have asked her for a divorce. He had tried to make her happy and he had failed. There was an ease between herself and Brandon that he knew was not there in his own relationship with her. She seemed to visibly relax in Brandon’s company. To shed whatever inner burden it was that she carried.

  He had not asked her for a divorce. He could not. He knew he had lost her as a lover, but he clung hungrily to the shreds that remained. She was still at his side. He could see her. Hear her. Outwardly their family unit was secure. And as long as he made no physical demands on her, there was every chance that it would remain secure. His eyes darkened. He wasn’t a eunuch. If he didn’t share her bed, there would have to be other beds. He didn’t for one moment think she would mind. But he had to be sure.

  They were alone in their compartment. Chicago was behind them; the Prairies ahead.

  ‘Our marriage underwent quite a change while we were in France,’ he said abruptly. ‘I have to know that you’re happy with it, Lisette.’

  She dropped the book she had been trying to read and he was aware again of the air of frailty that clung to her. That had no doubt clung to her when she had braved bombs and mortar shells to save Luke Brandon’s life. That had clung to her through the long days and nights when she had worked tirelessly in the makeshift operating theatre. It was the kind of frailty that invited outrage. A sexual frailty that had instantly aroused him and still aroused him. He moved abruptly across to the window, knowing that if he weakened, if he reached out for her, there would be a hideous re-enactment of the scene that had taken place between them at Valmy.

  ‘Do you mean, am I happy that you no longer love me?’ she asked uncertainly. She was wearing a high-necked dress of raspberry crushed wool. Her hair fell softly to her shoulders and she looked heart-breakingly young. Far too young to be the mother of two children, one of them a boy of eight.

  ‘No, that speaks for itself.’ His voice was savage and she physically flinched. He didn’t look at her. He stared out over the flashing panorama of endless wheat, his eyes narrow, his mouth a tight, thin line.

  She remembered the laughing soldier who had swung her round in his arms on his return to Valmy. The laughter of their days in Paris. The laughter that had sustained them even when the physical side of their marriage was degenerating, and that sustained them no longer.

  ‘Then I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

  He swung to face her. ‘We’ve agreed there’ll be no divorce. The problems are too great. You would want to return to France and I couldn’t possibly let you take the children.’ He saw her shudder and hated himself for the threat that had been implicit in his words. She would never leave him if it meant leaving Dominic and Lucy as well. ‘But if I’m no longer sleeping in your bed,’ he continued brutally, ‘then I’ll have to sleep in other beds.’

  For a moment she did not understand what he meant and then understanding came and she gasped for breath as if she had been physically struck.

  ‘Can you think of another alternative?’ His eyes burned hers. She could, but it was one she was in no position to suggest. She had failed him miserably in bed and now he no longer desired her there. Was he suggesting she return to France, leaving the children behind her? She felt as if she were drowning, as if her lungs were incapable of taking in air. ‘No,’ she said stiffly, her voice that of a stranger. ‘I can think of no other alternative, Greg.’

  She saw the bitter disappointment flare through his eyes before he turned his head away from her, and knew that he had wanted her to say that a divorce was possible. That she would allow him custody of the children. In a polite, tight voice, she excused herself, stepping out of the compartment and stumbling along the corridor, blinded by her tears.

  It was a week later that she saw him with Jacqueline Pleydall. Dominic and Lucy had returned to school. She had survived the days since his shattering announcement that he no longer intended to be faithful to her by clinging steadfastly to the routine of their lives. She continued to breakfast with him before he left for the agency. They spoke of Dominic’s near fluency in French. Of the agency’s pitch for a pharmaceutical account. Of the opening of a local art gallery. It was the conversation of near strangers.

  Chrissie had telephoned her, eager to regale her with gossip after her two month absence, and they had arranged to meet for lunch and to browse around the shops together afterwards.

  She had parked the car outside the restaurant and was just about to step onto the sidewalk when she saw Greg. He was head and shoulders above the other pedestrians, the cut of his dark business suit immaculate, his thick shock of curly hair burnished bronze by the sun. She saw him grin and her heart missed a beat. Not since before their trip to France had she seen his eyes crinkle at the corners, his teeth flash in one of his brilliant smiles. She smiled back, fumbling eagerly with the catch on the Lincoln’s door, and then she saw that he was not smiling at her. That he had not even seen her. His gaze had gone beyond her, to the tall, slender blonde crossing the road to meet him. She sank back against the Lincoln’s pale blue leather upholstery, watching as the blonde ran up to him; as his arms closed round her; as they entered the restaurant hand in hand.

  She had thought she had long since become immune to shock. That nothing had the power to devastate her, as Dieter’s death had devastated her. She had been wrong. She was shaking uncontrollably. He had told her. Warned her. Yet in the deepest recess of her mind
she had not believed him. She slammed the car into gear, screaming out into the mainstream of traffic without even looking to see if her way was clear. She forgot all about Chrissie. She was overcome with the need to escape. To put as many miles as possible between herself and the crucifying reality of Greg, his arm circling Jacqueline Pleydall’s waist.

  She swerved onto Marina Boulevard, speeding past the Presido Military Base with scant regard for other traffic. He didn’t want a divorce. He had told her that he didn’t want a divorce. She clung to the knowledge like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. A reconciliation then? Yet what reconciliation could there be, when her frigidity had ensured that their bed was not a haven but a battleground. She swerved to a halt, knowing that Greg had not betrayed her, but that she had betrayed him. Crossing her arms on the steering wheel, she lowered her head to her hands, weeping unrestrainedly.

  In some strange way things were better between them after she knew that Jacqueline Pleydall had eased her way back into his life. She never told him that she had seen them together. She was too fearful of where such a conversation would lead. But she now had much more to think about and dwell upon than her guilt over his belief that Dominic was his son. She had loved him for a long time, but in the months after she had seen him with Jacqueline, she knew that she was as fiercely in love with him as a young girl is with the first love of her life. She saw him not as her husband, kind and caring, but as other women did. As Jacqueline Pleydall no doubt saw him. An indecently handsome man, tall and toughly built, carrying the glamour of his wealth and his position as head of one of the world’s most successful advertising agencies with nonchalant ease.

  Their bedrooms remained separate, but something of their old camaraderie returned. There were family breakfasts on the patio. Family excursions to the beach and to the mountains. She was grateful for any physical contact at all. His fingers brushing hers as they both reached for a picnic basket at the same time. His hand steadying her as they walked with the children up through the woods around Lake Tahoe.

  With bitter irony she knew that now he long longer needed her body, her body was at last free of the shackles that had constrained it for so long. If he turned to her now, she would be able to respond with all the passion she had always felt for him. But he didn’t turn to her. He was affectionate and considerate – and he made no sexual overtures to her whatsoever.

  She discovered painfully what Luke and Greg had sensed about her from the first. That she was a woman of deep sexual needs. Her frigidity had stifled those needs, hidden them from her, but now they could be hidden no longer. She was confounded by desire for a man who no longer made any attempt to share her bed. A man to whom she could only show her love by her care for his child, and for the child that he believed was his. When Luke telephoned her from Los Angeles, saying that he was attending Johnson Matthie’s annual general meeting and asking her to meet him, she knew that she dare not agree.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t meet me?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Of course you can meet me!’

  ‘No!’ There as an underlying panic in her voice and his eyes sharpened, his hand tightening around the telephone. ‘I can’t meet you, Luke. I’ve arranged to take the children to Carmel.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ he said smoothly. ‘The children are at school. I know, I spoke to Greg on the phone only five minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh …’ She closed her eyes. He was her friend. Her best friend. And she wanted to see him more than anything in the world. She opened her eyes. She was not in love with him. She was not going to go to bed with him. She was panicking unncessarily.

  ‘It will take you about five hours to drive up here. I’ll meet you outside the Presidio. And then we’ll go for lunch.’

  ‘Good,’ he rasped. ‘Tu m’as manqué.’ I missed you.

  ‘I missed you too,’ she said, and as she put the receiver back on its rest, her hand was trembling.

  Chapter Twenty

  The house was empty. The children were at school. It was her housekeeper’s day off. She walked quickly up the wide sweep of the stairs, refusing to think any further than that she was getting ready to meet a friend for lunch. If Greg had been home no doubt they would have gone to meet Luke together. But Greg hadn’t been home. And he wouldn’t be home until late. He would be with Jacqueline Pleydall. She stepped into her bedroom, turning on the shower with a sharp twist of her hand. She mustn’t think about it. To think about it would be to go mad. She undressed quickly, stepping beneath the steaming spray of water, turning her face upwards, closing her mind to everything but the feel of the water on her skin, the fragrance of the soap, refusing to acknowledge the abyss yawning wide at her feet.

  She dressed as if she were going to meet Greg. A cream silk dress that she had bought in France. A long strand of pearls dipping to precisely the right length of the softly draped neckline, her stockings sheer, her ivory kid pumps high. She swept her hair off her neck, piercing the neat twist she created with long, tortoiseshell pins, spraying Je Reviens on her throat and wrists. She paused as she left the room, looking at herself in her full-length mirror. She looked very French. Very chic. Not at all American. It was how Greg liked her to look. A spasm of pain crossed her eyes. She picked up a small clutch bag that matched her dress, closing the door behind her, running lightly down the stairs. She mustn’t think of Greg. To think of Greg was to think of Jacqueline Pleydall. Of Jacqueline Pleydall enjoying his kisses. His love-making.

  She slid behind the wheel of her Lincoln Zephyr, turning on the ignition, forcing herself to think instead of where she would take Luke for lunch. She should have booked a table at the Atlantis. She accelerated, moving smoothly from first gear to second to third. Below her, in the Bay, a large freighter was slowly gliding beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, the sun dazzling on the line of foam in its wake. It would be pleasant to eat down by the water. Perhaps they could go to one of the Italian restaurants on the wharf or to Pier 39.

  For three hours she browsed around the shops, buying a sweater for Lucy, a leather belt for Dominic, and then, refusing to acknowledge her rising tension, she drove towards the Presidio. She glanced at her watch, knowing that she was still early, that Luke would still be on the freeway. As she eased to a halt, the door of a blue Cadillac parked a little way ahead of her flew open and Luke catapulted out onto the sidewalk, sprinting towards her.

  She was only halfway out of the car when he grabbed hold of her, his hand closing around her wrist, pulling her out of the driving seat and upright against him.

  ‘You must have driven like a bat out of hell,’ she began, laughing, and then her laughter faded. His body was hard and strong against hers. She could hear his heart slamming. See the hunger in his eyes.

  ‘God, but I’ve missed you,’ he said fiercely, and uncaring of the curious stares of passing pedestrians, his arms tightened around her and his mouth came down unhesitatingly on hers.

  She knew then what she had known and refused to acknowledge ever since the moment she had agreed to meet him. She was no longer going to spurn his advances. He loved her and her body was desperate for love. With a low moan of capitulation, she pressed herself feverishly against him, her arms flying around his neck, her mouth parting willingly beneath his.

  A tremor ran through him. She sensed his astonishment. His incredulity. He pushed her away from him, holding her savagely by the arms, his eyes burning questioningly into hers. At what he saw there he whipped open the Lincoln’s passenger seat door, bundling her inside, striding round to the driver’s seat and sliding swiftly behind the wheel.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked tersely, gunning the car into life.

  ‘I don’t know …’ her voice was hoarse ‘Anywhere …’

  He shot out into the main stream of traffic, heading south, and she knew that there would be no lunch. That it was not a restaurant he was searching for. She didn’t even notice the name of the motel. It was as if all the pent-up sexual longings of years were screaming for fulfilment. Sh
e clung to his arm as he veered into the parking lot, slamming open her car door the instant he screamed to a halt, running with him across the tarmac to the reception desk. Luke made no pretence of decency. He didn’t explain their lack of luggage. He didn’t refer to her as his wife. He simply booked a double room, snatched the key from the bell-boy’s hand, striding along thickly carpeted corridors towards it as if his life depended on the speed with which he reached it.

  He didn’t ask her anything; didn’t speak to her. The door slammed shut behind him and he seized hold of her, crushing her against him, his mouth savaging hers.

  She knew what she was doing. She knew that she wasn’t in love with him. That she never would be in love with him. That what was taking place was an act of lust, not love. Her lips ground passionately beneath his. It was lust that she craved. She burned with the need to give vent to the sexuality she had suppressed for so long. Luke knew her. He knew things about her that no one but her father knew. He knew, and he didn’t care. It was the only aphrodisiac she needed.

  They fell together on the bed, tearing with animal-like ferocity at each other’s clothes. His shirt was open to the waist, but he didn’t remove it. To remove it would have meant releasing his hold on her, and now that his hands were at last on her naked flesh he wouldn’t release his hold for a second. The exquisite French dress had been ripped from her shoulders, baring her breasts, the skirt pushed high, the silk laying in a tumbled swathe around her waist. Neither of them had consideration for the other. There was no gentleness. No tenderness. He spreadeagled her beneath him, unzipping his fly, crushing her breasts in both his hands as he plunged into her with the pent up longing of years.

  Her nails gouged his shoulders. She bit him, tasting blood, arching her spine, her head back, eyes closed as spasm after spasm rocked through her. But it was not Luke’s name she cried out as her body gave itself to the pleasure so long denied by guilt. It was Greg’s.