Guilty

by Anne Mather

  ‘An overweight matron, right?’ Laura quipped, hoping to dispel the sudden shift in the conversation, but Jake only shook his head.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Put yourself down. It seems to be an occupational hazard with you.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘Did you know you kick the sheets off when you’re sleeping? And that thing you’re wearing barely covers you. You were cold, when I pulled the quilt over you.’

  ‘You pulled—–’ Laura broke off abruptly, aware that she had been in danger of showing how easily he could disconcert her, and she was not going to give him that satisfaction. ‘Well—thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Jake rocked on his heels. ‘I guess that’s why the bed’s in such a state. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if you’d had company—–’

  ‘I always sleep alone,’ Laura broke in tersely. ‘And I don’t think it’s any concern of yours what my bed looks like. Now—–’ she took a breath ‘—I think you’d better go.’

  ‘OK.’ To her relief, he turned towards the door, but he paused on the threshold, and gave her a dangerously attractive smile. ‘But, just for the record, I don’t think you’d have kicked me out, if I had got in beside you. In that easy time, between sleeping and waking, you’d have had no chance to think of an excuse. I’d have seen to that.’

  Laura had had just about as much as she could take. ‘Will you get out?’ she demanded, her hands opening and closing convulsively, and with a gesture of resignation Jake closed the door behind him.

  When she went downstairs some fifteen minutes later, the aromatic scent of fresh coffee and toast was filling the air. Evidently, he wasn’t unused to taking care of his own needs, and, although she told herself she should resent his casual assumption of her role, there was something decidedly appealing about having her breakfast prepared for her. She wasn’t used to it. Not since she’d used to live with her parents had anyone taken the trouble to wait on her, and she couldn’t deny it was—nice.

  For her part, she was still struggling with the need to put what had happened in perspective. Jake had spent the night at the cottage, that was true, but apart from those few minutes, when she’d got back from town the previous afternoon, she had done nothing to be ashamed of. The trouble was, the longer they were together, the harder it got to withstand his easy charm, and she was not immune to his attraction. On the contrary, it would be all too easy to believe the things he told her, and only her strength of will stood between her and certain disaster.

  When she carried the tray into the kitchen however, the idea that Jake might exert any unwelcome influence over her seemed totally misplaced. With a tea-towel draped over his shoulder, he was in the process of ladling a pan of scrambled eggs on to a serving dish. A plate piled high with golden-brown toast was keeping warm on the hob, and her coffee-pot was simmering on its stand.

  ‘I don’t know if you like scrambled eggs,’ he said, when she set the tray down on the drainer. ‘But I thought you might like something substantial, as you barely touched your dinner last night.’

  She didn’t think he’d noticed, but she should have known Jake didn’t miss a thing. And when she turned to put the serving dish on the table, and she met his lazy eyes, she felt the potent heat of their awareness.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, when she stood there like an idiot, gazing at him, and, although she felt she ought to put up some opposition, she did so. ‘Help yourself,’ he added, setting the plate of toast in front of her. ‘Go on. It won’t poison you, I promise.’

  Laura dragged her eyes away from his, and stared at the food. It did look inviting, certainly, and she was hungry. Ridiculously so, in the circumstances. Her whole system seemed to have been thrown off balance, but starving herself was not going to achieve anything. She needed her strength if she was going to come out of this with some semblance of dignity, and with a faint upward lift of her lips, she spooned some of the creamy eggs on to her plate.

  ‘Good?’ he asked, bringing the coffee to the table, and seating himself across from her, and she nodded.

  ‘Very,’ she said, her voice sticking in her throat, and Jake grinned as he helped himself to a generous portion.

  It was difficult to remain detached with someone when you were eating the food they had prepared, and when Jake began asking her how long she had lived in the village, and what the people did hereabouts, Laura felt obliged to tell him. She found it helped to talk about impersonal things, and only now and then did the incongruity of the situation cause a corresponding ripple of unease to disrupt her uncertain stomach. But the food definitely helped, and by the time she had eaten her eggs and two triangles of toast, and drunk two cups of coffee, she was feeling decidedly less threatened.

  But, when the meal was over, and Jake was lying back in his chair, regarding her through lazily narrowed eyes, Laura knew she had to address the subject that she had been avoiding for the last half-hour. Putting her coffee-cup aside, she moistened her lips, and then said evenly, ‘Will you be telling Julie where you spent the weekend?’

  Jake’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Do you know, you have an incredibly sexy mouth?’ he remarked softly, and Laura closed her eyes against his blatant sexuality.

  ‘I think it would be—unwise,’ she continued at last, resting her elbows on the table, and tucking her hands around the back of her neck. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose that depends on when we’re going to see one another again,’ Jake responded now, running a hand into the opened neckline of his shirt, and Laura wondered if everything he did was designed to disconcert her. He must know how her eyes followed his every movement, and it took the utmost effort to look down at the square of table in front of her.

  ‘We—won’t be seeing one another again,’ she declared steadily, and then gulped back a startled cry, when he abruptly thrust back his chair, and got to his feet.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded, coming round the table to stand over her, and Laura steeled herself to tilt back her head and look up at him.

  ‘I said—–’

  ‘I comprehend the words you used,’ he told her bleakly, his accent appearing again as he strove to keep his patience. ‘What I am asking is—why are you saying this?’

  ‘Why am I—–?’ Laura broke off, and, jerking her gaze from his dark exasperated face, she crumbled the corner of the last piece of toast left on the plate. ‘What do you want me to say?’ she demanded at last. ‘I’ve told you how I feel about your coming here. Oh—tell Julie, if you must, but don’t be surprised if she refuses to see you again—–’

  ‘And do you think I care?’

  His violent response tore into every nerve in her body, and, when she lifted her horrified face to his, his mouth curled contemptuously.

  ‘Have I shocked you?’ he asked bitterly. His lips twisted. ‘What kind of a man do you think I am?’

  ‘I don’t—I didn’t—–’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did,’ he told her thickly, and before she had time to realise his intentions he bent his head towards her. With one hand supporting himself on the back of her chair, and the other imprisoning hers to the table, he covered her mouth with his.

  It wasn’t a gentle kiss. There was none of the tenderness he had shown the day before; just an unleashed passion, that savaged her emotions, and laid bare the unguarded hunger of her soul. She had no more hope of resisting him than she had of resisting a whirlwind, and when his tongue thrust possessively into her mouth her head tipped back helplessly on her shoulders. Her legs felt incapable of supporting her, and when he let go of her hands, they made no move to stop his assault. Indeed, when his knuckles brushed the tender peaks of her breasts, she sagged towards him, and when he suddenly let go of her she felt a bruising sense of bereavement.

  She watched him leave the room with lacklustre eyes, hardly capable of understanding what he was doing, until he appeared in the doorway again wearing his leather jacket.

  ‘So,’ he said, as she struggled to her feet to face him, ‘if
you will move your car, I will trouble you no longer.’

  Laura blinked. ‘You’re leaving?’

  She was unaware of the depth of feeling in her voice, and Jake’s mouth took on a mocking slant. ‘That is what you want, isn’t it?’ he queried huskily, and his sardonic words brought a belated sense of self-preservation.

  ‘What—I—of course,’ she got out unevenly, as the full awareness of what he had done swept over her in sickening detail. Her fists balled with frustration. ‘I’ll get the keys.’

  ‘If that’s what you really want.’

  Jake’s hand brushed her cheek in passing, but she flinched away from him. ‘It’s what I really want,’ she averred, and she had the doubtful satisfaction of having the last word.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘MATTHEW SUTCLIFFE! What kind of shoes are you wearing?’

  ‘These, miss?’ The boy Laura had addressed lifted his foot and examined it with apparent thoroughness, much to the amusement of the rest of the class. ‘They’re trainers, miss.’

  ‘I know what kind of shoes they are, Sutcliffe,’ retorted Laura, regarding the chunky-soled sports shoes, with their thick protruding tongues and untied laces, with some disgust.

  ‘Then what—–?’

  ‘You know you’re supposed to wear proper shoes for school,’ Laura interrupted him crisply. ‘What’s happened to those black leather ones you were wearing the first few weeks of term?’

  The fifteen-year-old adopted a cheeky grin. ‘I’ve lost them, miss.’

  Laura sighed. ‘You can’t have lost them,’ she began, and then, realising she was setting herself up for an argument, she amended it to, ‘When did you lose them?’

  ‘Last week,’ said Sutcliffe at once.

  Although she knew she was wasting her time, Laura persisted, ‘Where?’

  ‘On my way home from school, miss.’

  ‘On your way home from school?’ Laura gave him a sceptical look. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss.’

  Sutcliffe gazed at her with a look of wide-eyed innocence, but Laura was not deceived. ‘I suppose you’ll be telling me next that someone took them away from you,’ she remarked tersely, and the youth grinned.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Don’t be insolent, Sutcliffe.’

  ‘I’m not being insolent, miss.’ Incited by the admiration in the faces of the pupils around him, he added cockily, ‘Just because you’re in a bad mood—–’

  Laura gasped, and a ripple of anticipation ran round the room. ‘What did you say?’ she exclaimed.

  Sutcliffe shrugged, not a whit daunted by her furious expression. ‘I said, just because you’re in a bad mood, miss, you don’t have to take it out on us.’

  ‘Out here, Sutcliffe!’

  Laura pointed to a spot directly in front of her, and the stocky teenager pushed himself resignedly up from his seat, and sauntered forward. ‘Yes, miss?’

  He was unrepentant, that much was obvious, but Laura was half sorry she had to send him to the headmaster to be disciplined. This class of fourth-years was one of her favourites, and she was loath to alienate any of them by over-reacting.

  The trouble was, he was right. Oh, not about the shoes. She had no doubts on that score. Half the pupils in the school were wearing prohibited footwear, and picking on Matthew Sutcliffe would do no good at all. She was fairly certain the black shoes he had previously worn, as part of the school uniform, were residing in a cupboard back home. But, like the other boys, who had persuaded their parents to buy them a pair of the current craze in canvas boots, he wanted to show off in front of his friends.

  No, it was the fact that she wasn’t in the best of humours that now stirred her conscience. For the past two weeks, she had been living on her nerves, and, although she had done her best to carry on as normal, the frayed edges were beginning to show.

  It infuriated her that this should be so. It wasn’t as if anything had happened on which she could hang the blame for her impaired sensibilities. Since Jake had driven away that Sunday morning—exactly two weeks and three days ago—she hadn’t heard from either him or Julie, which seemed to point to the fact that he had kept their sordid little affair to himself.

  Not that it had been an affair in the usual sense of the word, she reminded herself impatiently. He had kissed her, that was all. Even if she added everything together, she couldn’t get past the fact that their romance added up to very little. He had wanted her, and she had refused. That was all there was to it.

  Of course, it wasn’t. In her more honest moments, she had to admit that, given time, she would have succumbed to him. He had known that, as well as she did. But that was because he knew exactly how to play upon her senses, she thought defensively. She had been a tempting challenge; an older woman, with the added twist of being his girlfriend’s mother!

  She told herself it was perverse; that, no matter how she phrased it, he had been attracted by their relationship. Or perhaps by the fact that she was so inexperienced, she pondered. A timid, middle-aged woman, who had never really known a man…

  Now, making one last attempt to rectify the present situation, she said quietly, ‘If you apologise for that last remark, and give me a serious answer as to why you’re wearing those unsuitable shoes, I’ll overlook your behaviour this time.’ She paused. ‘Well? What do you say?’

  But she should have known she’d be wasting her time. For the boy to back down now would be to humiliate himself in front of his cronies. At the moment, he was regarded as something of a hero, and his shoulders hunched against any retreat.

  ‘Very well.’

  Laura squared her own shoulders, as she prepared to deliver her verdict. But before she could say a word, the classroom door opened, and Janet Mason, one of the school secretaries, put her head through the gap.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Fox,’ she said, her eyes indicating that she had some news to impart. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Laura sighed. It had been Mr Carpenter the headmaster’s idea that she should be addressed as Mrs Fox, but there were times when she wished she could just be herself. Still, being regarded as a married woman—or a divorcee—did have its advantages. At least, she was not continually being taunted by her unmarried status.

  Now, bidding Matthew Sutcliffe to remain where he was, she stepped out into the corridor. ‘Yes, Janet?’ she said, trying to keep a watchful eye on the class. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You’re wanted on the phone,’ said Janet at once, and Laura could tell from her expression that whoever was calling had aroused some curiosity in the office. For one wild moment, she wondered if it could be Jake, and her knees went weak. But Janet’s, ‘It’s your daughter,’ quickly squashed that thought, even if the news that Julie was calling her at school was something of a body-blow. What could she want? she asked herself. What could possibly be important enough to warrant interrupting her mother during lessons? The answer seemed rather obvious, and Laura’s nerves clenched. Jake must have finally got round to telling her daughter about his fall from grace.

  She couldn’t reveal her dismay to Janet however. The other woman was quite curious enough as it was, and Laura wished Julie was not so impulsive. But it wouldn’t occur to her that speaking to her mother at school might prove rather awkward. Or if it did, it was not something she would care about.

  But for now, she had other matters to attend to. After assuring Janet that she would be right there, she went back into her classroom to deal with Matthew Sutcliffe.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ she told him, well aware that her conversation with Janet would not have gone undetected. ‘Sit down, please. I’ll deal with you later. The rest of you, open your books at the first scene of act four. I want you to read Portia’s speech about the quality of mercy while I’m away. I shan’t be long, and I shall expect you to be able to tell me what Portia’s definition of mercy is, when I get back.’

  There was the rustle as books were opened, but Laura had n
o doubt that once they were alone, there would be little actual reading going on. For all they were one of her better groups, there was still a sufficiently unruly element among them to curtail any attempt by the rest of the class to work quietly. In consequence, she put her head round the door of the adjoining room, to ask one of her colleagues to keep an eye on the group while she was away. She wanted to trust them, but she had no intention of coming back and finding half the class had disappeared.

  The phone she had to use was in the staff-room. Thankfully, at this time of the afternoon, there were only one or two members of staff in there, but, all the same, it wasn’t very private. Nevertheless, Laura picked up the receiver with an air of confidence. There was no point in looking anxious. It was too late for that now.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, when the call had been connected. ‘Julie? Is that you?’

  ‘How many daughters have you got?’ asked Julie drily. ‘Yes, of course, it’s me, Mum. Have I caused a problem?’

  Laura moistened her lips, and exchanged a rueful smile with Mike James, who taught woodworking. ‘Well, I was teaching,’ she murmured, her mind racing furiously. Julie didn’t sound as if she was angry, but was that any assurance?

  ‘I guessed you would be,’ Julie responded now. ‘But I’ve got to fly to Belgium later this afternoon, and I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible.’

  Laura was confused. ‘You did?’ She took her life into her hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got an invitation for you,’ said Julie flatly, and now Laura was sure this call had nothing to do with that weekend. ‘It’s from Jake’s mother. She’d like you to spend a weekend at Castellombardi. Jake and I will be going in a couple of weeks and it was his suggestion that you should come with us.’

  Laura spent the evening trying to prepare a worksheet on war poetry for her first-year pupils. But the words of Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke only danced before her eyes, and when the flickering lights of an approaching migraine forced her to put her books away she did so willingly.