by Anne Mather
‘What’s there to say?’ He didn’t turn.
‘Well . . .’ Catherine stared helplessly around her. ‘Is there nothing I can do to help you?’
‘There’s nothing anyone can do to help me,’ replied Morgan flatly. ‘Do you think they haven’t tried?’
‘No, but. . .’ Catherine slid to the edge of the bed now, realising how unselfconscious she was of her nakedness with him. ‘I could try to help.’
‘How?’ He spun around then, staring at her with impatient eyes, and Catherine’s brief spell of positive thinking evaporated. With fumbling hands she searched for her bra and panties, half turning away from him as she did so, to avoid his contemptuous gaze.
‘Here,’ he said, his voice sounding immeasurably closer, and she glanced behind her to find him squatting beside the bed. He was holding her flimsy scraps of underwear out to her, and, taking them from him, she endeavoured to put them on. But her hands betrayed her once again, and, although she managed to step into her panties, Morgan was obliged to fasten her bra for her.
‘What a novelty,’ he said drily, handing her her sweater. ‘A man usually takes a woman’s clothes off. He doesn’t help her to put them on again. But then, I’m not a man, am I?’ he added, getting to his feet, and returning to his stance at the windows.
‘Well, I’m not a woman!’ blurted Catherine tremulously, and again he turned to give her a scathing glance.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I mean it,’ said Catherine fiercely, zipping up her trousers. She reached for her boots, as much to avoid looking at him as anything. ‘I-I can’t have children. I’m-barren. Isn’t that what they call it, in the Bible? I can’t fulfil my function in life.’
'Oh, God!’ Morgan’s expression softened, and he shook his head. ‘You didn’t have to tell me that!’
Catherine bent her head, pulling on her boots. ‘I wanted to,’ she said simply. ‘Apart-apart from Neil-and my mother-I’ve never told anyone else.’
Morgan groaned, but he didn’t move. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’ Catherine looked at him then. ‘Well, like you, I don’t like sympathy either. It’s just one of those things. A freak of nature, I suppose.’
‘It’s not that important,' said Morgan quietly.
‘Isn’t it?’ Catherine got to her feet. ‘It’s why Neil walked out on me. He wanted children, you see, and I couldn’t give him them.’
Morgan’s lips curled. ‘Then he’s crazy!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Leaving you, because you couldn’t have a baby.’ Morgan made an anguished sound. ‘It wouldn’t matter to me. If I could have you, I’d consider myself a happy man.’
Catherine caught her breath. ‘If you . . .but-you can have me,’ she exclaimed, covering the space between them, but Morgan backed away.
‘No. No, I can’t,’ he said intractably.
‘Why not?’ Catherine was pleading with him, but she didn’t care. She loved him. Oh, God, she loved him! she realised shatteringly. Whatever he was, whatever he had done, whatever had been done to him, she loved him, desperately. And he was sending her away. She knew he was.
‘It wouldn’t work.’ His tone was dogged. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’
‘What you are doing to me is worse,’ protested Catherine helplessly. ‘Oh, Morgan, don’t-don’t say we can’t see one another again. You-you started this. It isn’t fair!’
‘I tried to finish it,’ Morgan reminded her wearily. ‘I didn’t ask you to come here. You came of your own volition.’
Catherine spread her hands. ‘But-you didn’t send me away!’
‘God!’ Morgan cast his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘What do you expect of me, Cat? I may be only half a man, but I am human! I wanted to send you away, but I couldn’t do it. I care about you, for God’s sake! Hurting you is like hurting myself !’
Catherine’s lips parted. ‘Then. . .’
‘Go home, Cat,’ he intoned tiredly. ‘We had-what we had, but now it’s over. Find yourself a man who can love you-in every way. You deserve it.
Between us, Neil and me, we’ve really screwed up your life!’
* * *
She broke her spectacles in her flight down the stairs. There was only so much she could take without breaking herself, and the flimsy frames crumpled beneath her boot. She picked them up, of course, and, when she did so, she saw Morgan watching her from the top of the stairs. But he said nothing, and nor did she. There was nothing more to say.
Of course, in the cab going back to Orchard Road Catherine told herself he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. Sooner or later, his will would crack, and then he’d come and find her. He cared about her. He had said so. That had to mean something. He couldn’t throw it all away.
But, in the weeks that followed, that belief was slowly eroded. In spite of her conviction that he would come after her, he didn’t. Once again, she was reduced to losing her breath every time the phone rang, or her heart skipping a beat when someone came to the door. But, as before, disappointment always followed anticipation, and slowly but surely she was compelled to acknowledge the superior strength of his will. He had meant what he said. Their brief affair was over.
That was when she started to develop other symptoms. Although during daylight hours she managed to withstand the agony of emotional withdrawal, the hours of darkness posed an entirely different problem. She grew to resent having to go home to her little house in the evening. She began staying at her desk, long after her colleagues had gone home, working sometimes until the building supervisor came to lock up.
Of course, she accomplished a lot of work; not all of it good, but most of it adequate. And, because she was always willing, people began to take advantage of her. It wasn’t that they were particularly selfish, she realised.
It was just that they had lives to lead outside the office, and if she was prepared to shoulder some of their responsibilities, it gave them more time to spend with their families-or lovers.
Naturally, she didn’t actually put this into words. It would have been too painful to consider what it really meant. She didn’t want to think of other people sharing their lives. Her own life was so sterile that she even found watching couples together on television almost more than she could bear.
No; she steeled her mind to concentrate only on the evaluations she made, declining all offers to socialise with an indifference that bordered on psychopathic.
Nevertheless, eventually, she was always compelled to go home, and, when she did, Hector greeted her like a long-lost friend. She knew that in his feline way he must know something was wrong. Cats were very intelligent, and she had never neglected him in the past. Indeed, he. had always been her ally, her friend, her bastion against loneliness. His company had compensated her for Neil’s absence, but he could never compensate her for Morgan’s. And, in the dark reaches of the night, the memories of what she and Morgan had had- and what they might have had-tore her emotions to shreds.
She supposed it would have been better if she had never tasted what she was missing. Until Morgan had taken her to bed, that side of a relationship was not something she had thought she needed. When she had missed Neil, it had been his company she had coveted, the companionship of knowing someone else was in the house. Hector had filled that space fairly satisfactorily, and if she had missed having someone to talk to she had got over it.
But Morgan was something else. In a few days he had achieved what Neil had been unable to achieve in almost five years of marriage, and she was absolutely desolate. She ached for him; she literally ached with the needs he had aroused in her. She would have given anything just to be able to see him, to touch him, to feel his arms around her. Some nights, her skin felt so hot and vulnerable that it was as if she had exposed an open wound. How could he do this to her? she wondered. How could he do it to himself?
Apart from the men at work, who probably thought her change of temperament signalled some kind of premature menopa
use, her Aunt Agnes was the first to notice that something was seriously wrong. Her mother was always so busy with her life, and, although she suspected Catherine wasn’t happy, she assumed Neil was at the back of it. She was more concerned about the fact that her daughter was losing weight, and every time they met she asked if Catherine had seen a doctor yet.
But her father’s sister, who called unexpectedly one Saturday afternoon, and found her niece sitting in the front room, staring blindly at the television, was infinitely more astute. The unnatural tidiness of the house, the hollows beneath Catherine’s eyes, and the lack of any kind of expression in her voice, disturbed her deeply. Her niece had always been such a level-headed young woman, and, although she had been upset when her husband had walked out on her, she had never lost her sense of humour. Now, however, she was like an automaton, and, although Agnes Lambert was a pragmatist, she guessed instinctively that the problem was an emotional one. '
‘Who is he?’ she asked pleasantly, after having prepared them both a cup of tea, and carried it into the sitting-room. ‘You might feel better if you talk about it.’
Although her words were not dissimilar to her mother’s, Catherine didn’t do her the injustice of pretending not to understand. ‘I can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘I want to. But I can’t.’
Agnes frowned. ‘I see.’ She' surveyed her niece critically. In close-fitting woolly tights, and a thigh-length cardigan, Catherine’s narrowing hips were sharply defined. ‘I suppose that’s why you’re losing weight. Are you eating?’
Catherine flushed. ‘Enough,’ she said, picking up her teacup and forcing herself to drink the hot sweet beverage her aunt had prepared. ‘I’m not hungry most of the time.’ She grimaced. ‘Good diet, eh? I should write a book.’
‘Hmm.’ Her aunt was thoughtful. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘What?’ Now Catherine did prevaricate, but her aunt’s expression caused her to utter a rueful sigh. ‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. ‘Five or six weeks, I suppose. I-I knew someone. Back in October. But it only lasted a very short time.’
‘And in three weeks it will be Christmas,’ remarked Agnes dauntingly.
‘Catherine, this can’t go on. Does; your mother know what’s happening? I can’t believe she hasn’t noticed.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘She’s noticed I’ve lost weight.’
‘And?’
‘She thinks it’s still Neil.’
‘But it’s not.’
‘No.’
'But it is a man?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine put down her cup and buried her face in her hands.
‘Oh, my dear. . .’ Agnes put down her own cup, and left her seat to comfort her niece. ‘My dear, you’ve got to talk to someone. If you don’t-well, I don’t think you can take much more.’
‘I can’t.’ Catherine pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, but the hot tears squeezed out anyway.
‘You can’t what?’ Her aunt’s arm about her shoulders was very supportive.
‘I can’t-take-much-more,’ said Catherine, her throat constricting. ‘What am I going to do, Aunt Agnes? I love him, and-it’s hopeless!’
Her aunt hugged her closer. ‘He’s married?’
‘No.’
‘But-there is someone else?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I see.’ Agnes looked puzzled. ‘So-doesn’t he love you?’
Catherine lifted her head, her face pale and streaked with tears. ‘Yes,’ she said wildly. ‘Yes, he does. At least, he said he cared about me. But you don’t understand . . .’ She licked a tear from her lips. ‘He-he’s been ill.’
‘Ill?’ Her aunt was getting more and more confused, and, realising she had to explain at least a little of what she was talking about, Catherine nodded.
‘He’s an American,’ she said carefully. ‘He-works here, in London.’
‘At the Embassy?’
‘Why, yes.’ Catherine frowned. ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ admitted her aunt ruefully. ‘It was just a guess. Go on.’
Catherine hesitated. ‘Well-as I said, he’s been ill.’
‘How ill?’ Her aunt was wary.
'Psychologically, I think,’ said Catherine, trying to be honest. If her aunt was going to be shocked, then so be it. ‘He was in Vietnam. And-part of the time, he was in a Vietcong prison camp.’
Agnes drew back to her seat. ‘Oh, Catherine!’ she said weakly. ‘My dear, I don’t know what to say.’
Catherine wiped the tears off her cheeks, and looked at the older woman with empty eyes. ‘I suppose you think I’m well out of it, don’t you?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘Having never met this man, I wouldn’t like to make such a generalisation,’ she replied. ‘And-this is why he. . .well, why you’re not seeing one another any more?’
Catherine bent her head. ‘Partly.’ She sniffed. ‘Oh, Aunt Agnes, I wish you could meet him. You’d like him, I know you would. I’ve never known anyone like him before. He made me realise that I never loved Neil-not in the way you’re supposed to love someone anyway. Oh-I know this probably sounds very unlikely to you, but-’
‘I’m not completely without imagination,’ protested her aunt drily. And then, more seriously, ‘I knew someone once. As a matter of fact, we were going to get married. But. . .’ she shrugged. ‘...he was killed in Korea. It was never the same with anyone else.’
‘Really?’ Catherine stared at her aunt now, realising that in all the years she had known her she had always taken her mother’s opinion of Agnes’s desire to remain single as gospel. It had never occurred to her that her father’s tall, thin, capable sister might once have been as vulnerable as she was herself. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Agnes was practical. ‘It all happened a long time ago. It probably wouldn’t have worked out. But, there we are: it happened, and I survived. Just.’
Catherine managed a watery smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Has it helped at all?’
‘Some.’ At least Catherine didn’t feel quite so knotted up inside. ‘Will you stay to tea?’
‘If you promise to eat something, too,’ Agnes agreed. ‘And now, let’s go for a walk, shall we? It’s a cold day, but it’s dry. And I think you could do with some fresh air.’
CHAPTER TEN
A WEEK later, Catherine drove to Morgan’s apartment. It hadn’t been her destination when she left the house-or she didn’t think it had; not consciously, anyway-but it was Sunday afternoon, the roads were comparatively quiet, and she found herself turning naturally towards Jermyn Gate.
Not that she intended to run the risk of entering the building again. Apart from the fact that she was sure Morgan would refuse to see her-and the fragile shell which Aunt Agnes was helping her build around herself wouldn’t take that kind of rejection-she wanted to dispel the memory of how she had left here on that terrible evening, when Morgan had delivered his ultimatum. She had run out of the building, clutching her broken spectacles, and she was sure the commissionaire had thought Morgan had assaulted her.
There were few cars parked in Jermyn Gate this Sunday afternoon. Like other modern apartment buildings in London, the cars owned by the residents were housed in the underground garage, and only the visitors’
cars occupied the limited parking spaces on the forecourt.
Catherine halted a few yards from the forecourt of the building. Although it was unlikely, she didn’t want Morgan looking out of his window and recognising the car. Not that it was likely, she reflected impatiently. There must be at least a hundred navy-blue Peugeots in this area of the city alone, and the night Morgan had ridden in her car he had been in no state to notice its colour or its designation.
Turning off the engine, she drew a steadying breath. Well, she was here, she thought tautly. There was the building, and if she looked up eighteen floors she could probably identify his apartment. Not that she had actually looke
d out of the window, she reflected. But the very size of it dictated that, by the law of averages, she was almost certain to be able to see his windows.
But she didn’t look. Like a patient with a phobia, she decided that actually coming here was enough to be going on with. It would be something positive she could tell Aunt Agnes. She had actually parked within a stone’s throw of Morgan’s apartment building without falling apart.
And then she saw him. He came out of the building, and walked across to where the cars were parked. His shoulders were hunched inside a camel-hair overcoat, and he was wearing a hat, but it was him. She was sure of it.
And when he stopped beside a sleek Mercedes and started searching his pockets for his keys, she thrust open her door and got out.
This was not something Aunt Agnes would have approved of, she thought, as she ran towards him. But it seemed like fate that he should have emerged at just that moment, and she would not have been human if she hadn’t felt that irresistible urge to speak to him. Just this one time . . .
He found his keys, and walked round the car. Any minute, he was going to get inside, and her opportunity would be lost. Not hesitating, not thinking, acting purely on impulse, she called his name, and when he turned to look at her, the bottom fell out of her world.
It wasn’t Morgan. Oh, it was like him. The height and build were very similar, but this man was older, much older. And there was no trace of recognition in the enquiring eyes that turned in her direction.
‘I’m-sorry...’ Catherine halted uncertainly, her chest heaving, her spectacles sliding down the perspiration that had beaded on her nose.
‘I-thought you were someone else.’
She turned away, pain and exhaustion making a mockery of her bid for rehabilitation. She felt almost as bad now as she had done that night she ran out of the building, and she shook her head despairingly when the man’s voice arrested her. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to talk to anybody.
‘Miss,’ he said, his accent unmistakably transatlantic in origin. ‘Wait!’
And when she reluctantly turned to face him he added, ‘Are you looking for my son?’