by Susan Napier
She looked at herself gravely in the mirror, sobered by the thought. She didn't see the beauty of the wide grey eyes, or the sensuality of the rosebud mouth, or the charm of her creamy, freckled skin and honeyed waves. She saw a loving mother who for a guilty moment wanted to deny her motherhood, deny the son who had given her life meaning. How could she, even in fantasy, wish that he didn't exist? What kind of monster was she? Or was it something all women faced, the opposing pull between the fulfilment of a biological and emotional drive and the desire to be free, like a man, to roam, to hunt, to live life on one's own terms?
Clare adjusted the ruffles on her cream silk blouse and smoothed her black velvet skirt. The gold band on her left hand was her only adornment—Lee hadn't been able to afford an engagement ring, and it hadn't mattered, for their love was the only jewel Clare had coveted. She thought she looked just right, feminine but not flirty, attractive but in an austere, monochromic fashion that she hoped would reaffirm her intention to remain aloof from any attempt at seduction. Yet she couldn't help the quicksilver trickle of exhilaration through her veins at the risk she was taking. Clare, who never took risks! David would view her aloofness as a challenge. He would look at her with that dark, exciting glow in his eyes and seek to break down her reticence…
She heard Tim call out, and curbed the wicked trend of her thoughts as she went into his room. By rights he should be well asleep by now, but as soon as she saw him Clare's heart sank. Her mouth tautened as she ran to his side, disgusted with herself for her momentary twinge of impatience. Tim was leaning against his pillows, struggling for each harsh breath. Clare helped him sit up, talked soothingly as she straightened his back and tried to encourage the rest of his body to relax.
'Try and breathe from your diaphragm, Tim,' she urged, putting her hand against the lower part of his chest as with her other hand she fished in his bedside drawer for his inhaler. Usually his breathing soon eased, but tonight the air still whistled through his restricted air passages and suddenly he leant over and retched, vomiting all over the bedclothes and Clare's skirt. The spasm seemed to unlock the muscles in his throat, but soon his rasping breaths were clogged by sobs. Clare whisked the soiled bedclothes back and held his shivering body against her for a few minutes until his crying settled to a series of dull shudders. Murmuring a reassurance, Clare slipped into the bathroom to sponge off her skirt and fetched a warm, soapy flannel and towel so that she could clean Tim up. She undressed him, put on fresh pyjamas and held his head over a bowl as he retched miserably again. When she was sure that he had finished being ill, she got the sheets and duvet from her own bed and tucked it around Tim, brushing the damp hair off his pale forehead.
'Better now?'
Tim nodded, but tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. His silent misery thickened Clare's own throat. She knew that, even if Tim felt well enough for her to leave him, she couldn't go out now. She would spend all evening wondering how he was.
'Breathe deep and slow.'
'My tummy hurts.'
'I know, darling; you squeezed all the muscles when you were sick.'
'My throat's burning, too.'
She got him a little boiled water from the kettle and he drank it gratefully. His breathing was still irregular, but at least he didn't bring up the water.
'Are you going soon?' Tim quavered, his hands tight on the sheet.
'I think I'll stay home tonight. I can go out another time,' Clare told him lightly.
'Will David be angry at me?'
'Of course not, honey, he'll understand.'
'But you won't be friends.'
'Of course we will. Now, you just snuggle down while I get rid of these sheets. Shall I leave the light on?'
Tim nodded wanly, 'You wouldn't go without telling me?'
'You know I wouldn't, Tim. Now you close your eyes and relax the way the doctor told you. If you need anything I'll be just here in the lounge, OK?'
'OK.'
Clare dialled David's suite as soon as she had delivered the sheets down the hall to the laundry, and fetched new ones, leaving her door open in case Tim should decide to test her honesty.
Tamara answered with laconic disinterest.
' 'Lo?'
'Tamara, it's Clare. Can I speak to your father?'
'He's just getting ready for his hot date.'
In her agitated state, the sarcasm passed dare by. Besides, she had already put up with countless little digs, between puffs, during a workout in the gym that afternoon. She had been surprised, given Tamara's outrage at the learning of the dinner á deux, that the girl had deigned to join her, but the reason was soon obvious. Water dripping on stone had nothing on Tamara. Clare had been given chapter and verse of all the brilliant, talented, witty, rich, gorgeous women who had set their lustful sights on her father.
'He might have slept with them, but he didn't care about them; he just moved on to the next woman in the next city. He's not looking for permanency. He's had a vasectomy, you know, so he doesn't have to worry about being trapped by a woman with an eye to the main chance. My mother had a really tough time having me, and the doctor warned her not to have any more children. Dad loved her enough to sacrifice any future hope of sons to carry on the family name. That's probably why he's paying so much attention to Tim. Tim's just the kind of son he'd like to have had.'
'I really don't think you should be telling me this, Tamara,' said Clare tersely.
'Why not? You should know what you're in for if you're planning an affair with Dad.'
'I'm not planning anything. It's just a simple dinner,' Clare lied. Nothing about her feelings for David Deverenko was simple.
'Sure.' The single word was loaded with scepticism. The fact that it was partly justified drove Clare into working particularly hard at the routines, and she felt a mean sense of satisfaction when Tamara's competitive hostility insisted that she keep up with the pace. Sweat dripped off the tense young face, and Clare couldn't help but be impressed by her dogged persistence and the fluidity of her moves after an initially jerky start.
'I hope you haven't overdone it,' said Clare, feeling guilty as the girl stumbled on their way back to the changing-rooms. Tamara looked very young and vulnerable, all angles in her colourful leotard. 'I shouldn't have pushed you so hard.'
'Why did you, then?' Tamara demanded, expecting some adult prevarication in response.
Clare smiled ruefully to herself. 'Revenge, I guess. I wanted to pay you back for telling me some unpalatable truths that I'd rather have ignored.'
Tamara was struck into silence for a moment before she, too, smiled half-heartedly. 'Hey, who's the juvenile around here, you or me?'
Clare accepted the weak joke in the spirit it was offered. 'It can't be me, I feel at least ninety.' She sat down on a bench and rubbed a calf muscle. 'I think I'm the one who overdid it, trying to keep one step ahead of you.'
Tamara slumped on the bench beside her, mirroring her exhaustion. 'I feel pretty wobbly myself,' she admitted frankly. 'It's a lot harder than it looks. But you know what? Although I feel shattered, I feel good!'
She looked so surprised that Clare laughed. 'That's the idea. And the great thing about 'jazzercise' is that once you have the moves and a music tape, you have your own portable gym. It's fun to make up your own routines and invent new variations on old ones. Do you want to come again?'
Tamara was instantly diffident. 'Maybe.' But a few minutes later she was preening when the instructor passed them in the foyer and said, 'You're new, aren't you? You were pretty good for a beginner. You were really reaching for it and you have a good sense of rhythm. You'd better look out, Clare, or this protégé of yours is going to have you eating dust!' The last comment had pleased the girl no end.
Now she ignored the girl's sarcasm, and said, 'Tamara, I need to talk to your father.'
'Why?' She could tell the girl was enjoying keeping her dangling.
'Because Tim is sick.'
'You mean you're not going o
ut, after all?' Tamara sounded elated by the news. 'Just a moment, I'll go and tell Dad—'
'Tamara—' Clare winced as she imagined how the girl would phrase the news, but the receiver had already thumped down.
Then there was a clatter as it was picked up again, and she was surprised to hear Tamara say, 'He's not really bad, is he? The kid? I mean, he seemed pretty OK this afternoon.'
She and Tim had actually spent some time together playing a video game on the office computer, a cartoon-character one that made losing as interesting as winning, and involved typing in instructions rather than merely working a joystick or firing button. They had treated each other with casualness bordering on disdain, but there had been surprisingly little open conflict. Now Tamara sounded as if she was bothered that 'the kid', as she enjoyed calling him disparagingly, might be seriously ill.
'No, I think he's just got a chill, but I don't want to leave him. Tim gets a bit worked up about illness, which only makes him feel worse, and he hates being left alone.' Shari had promised to come and babysit, but Clare knew from experience that when he was in the grip of one of his unreasonable terrors Tim could be pacified by no one but his mother.
'Just hang on, I'll get Dad.'
'Clare?' From the hollow echo and the faint sound of water running, she realised that he must be using the cordless phone in Miles's bathroom.
'David, I'm sorry but—'
'Just a moment. Tamara, you can hang up now.'
There was a snort and a click, and some of the echo was reduced. 'Now, Clare, what is it? Cold feet at the last minute?'
'No! Didn't Tamara tell you?'
'That you're still hiding behind Tim? Yes. I'm not as gullible as my daughter, Clare. If you don't want to go out with me, you can damned well tell me honestly to my face.'
He had hung up on her. Clare fumed. If he thought she was that much of a craven coward, why did he want to go out with her? Damn the man for his arrogance. Naturally he would assume that he was at the centre of every situation!
A few moments later she had the chance to vent her anger to his face when there was a sharp knock at the door.
David was in no better mood than she. His pale shirt was hastily buttoned, a fleck of shaving cream on his chin indicating a hasty wipe.
'Well?' he growled at her, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes flickered over her, taking in the make-up veiling her freckles and her subdued finery. 'All dressed up and nowhere you dare to go?'
Clare glared her affront. 'It may be common in the circles you move in to put your own selfish enjoyment above the needs of others, but not in mine. My son is sick and he needs me. And I would far rather disappoint your arrogant expectations than his!'
'Where is he?'
'In his room, and you are not going in there looking like a thundercloud.' She barred his way, bristling with outrage. 'He's already worried that you'll be angry with him, and I won't have him more upset.'
'Are you sure he's not just putting it on?'
'Yes, I'm sure,' Clare gritted. 'Now, will you please leave?'
There was a stiff moment of silence. 'I'm sorry. I guess I thought you might try to cry off, and I was pre-programmed to shoot my mouth off. Can I see Tim? Just to reassure him that there are no hard feelings?'
Smiling suavely, he edged around her and Clare let him go. Let him see for himself that she was telling the truth.
Tim's breathing was harsh in the quiet room, and his face pale except for two hectic red spots high on his cheeks. His eyes looked huge in his small face, sad and watery, and his young mouth was suspiciously stiff. He would hate to cry in front of his hero.
'Hello, old son, having a tough time of it?' David's voice was soft and musical, no hint of his former temper.
Tim nodded, afraid to unlock his brave lips.
'Never mind.' A square hand cupped the boy's tight chin. 'You take it easy, and if you're still feeling bad tomorrow I'll play for you for a change. How's that? Deal?'
Tim nodded again. 'But you haven't got any of your violins,' he managed waveringly.
'That's because they're having a rest. Violins, especially the best old ones, are like people—they need to be rested every now and then. And I just happen to be one of those lucky ones who can take a break from playing and pick it up again without ill effect.' He smiled. 'I discovered that when I was ill once myself. I fretted and fretted about not practising, but when I came to play again I found myself much more relaxed and open to the music. So now I make sure that at least once a year I have two or three weeks in retreat. That's what I'm doing now. But for you I break fast. I can use your violin.'
Tim smiled wanly. 'It's too small.'
'For these magic fingers?' David waggled them comically. 'You wait and see.'
'Thank you,' said Clare softly when they were tack in her lounge.
'For not making a fool of myself? Anyone can see that he's not well,' said David abruptly. 'Have you called a doctor?'
Clare shook her head. 'I've given him some of his asthma medication, but this is really only a mild attack. Maybe he's got a cold coming on, or has a flu bug—his resistance isn't very good to that type of thing—and then he began to panic when he felt sick. I told you about Lee… I wasn't at the hospital when he died, and Tim knows that and so he likes to know I'm around when he's ill. I guess in a way he is putting it on, but it's something that he has no control over, and in this case it doesn't pay to be cruel to be kind. I've tried it, and that's when he gets his severest attacks.'
'It's all right, Clare, you don't have to convince me. I feel guilty enough as it is,' said David, cutting across her anxiety. Clare looked very like her son with her pale, earnest face and tense determination not to give in to her fears. Her mind was wholly with Tim, he realised ruefully. David was just a distraction that she didn't really want or need. She had coped before on her own, and that was the way she preferred it. The feeling of thwarted protectiveness, of helplessness, reminded David of the way his daughter made him feel. He was well aware that she viewed his interest in the Malcolms with dismay. Perhaps tonight might be a good time to try some tentative fence-mending. Tamara had all but ignored him for the last few days… perhaps she was waiting for her father to make the first move…
'I'll leave you to look after Tim,' he said reluctantly, turning Clare towards him with a firm hand on her shoulders as she frowned towards the bedroom. 'But let me say first that you look very beautiful, and I'm sorry that the evening has to end before it's begun.' He had her attention now, and he savoured her gentle blush at the sensuous promise in his eyes. 'Another time, perhaps?'
'Perhaps…' Clare murmured vaguely, wondering at the swift succession of emotions he evoked in her. He had made her feel guilt, anger, tenderness and desire, all in the space of ten minutes. Somehow he bypassed her reserve and pierced to the passionate heart of her. His eyes flared with need at her dreamy response, and it was only as he drew her into his chest that reality impinged on her hypnotised state. A faintly sour smell clung to her evening skirt, and reminded her of her obligations.
'Not even a consolation prize?' murmured David, not understanding why she pushed him away, but resigned to the total annihilation to his hopes for the evening.
'I… Tim was sick on my skirt. I haven't had time to change it yet,' said Clare, grabbing the velvet folds against her in embarrassment.
'And you think that might put me off?' David guessed. 'My darling girl, I'm far less squeamish than you seem to think. I've dealt with my fair share of dirty nappies and upset stomachs. Nina made sure I kept in touch with the flip side of parenthood.' He reached for her again, but she backed away, the mention of his wife reminding Clare of all the women that he had romanced—most of them probably just as gorgeous as Tamara had claimed they were. None of them would have glided into his embrace smelling of 'eau de sickroom'. She wanted to be their equal, not pitied and equated with memories of unpleasant bodily functions!
David sighed. 'All right, Clare, have it your wa
y. I'll call later and see how Tim is. If he gets worse or you need anything, you know where to find me.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tim had two more bouts of sickness before he finally fell into a fitful sleep around eleven o'clock. By that time Clare, who had substituted practical jeans for her ruined skirt, was feeling a few stomach pangs herself. She was hungry. The restaurant that David had booked into was one with a reputation for the very rich, heavy, classical French cuisine that Grace disdained, so Clare had prepared herself by eating only a snack lunch. Perhaps some food would lift her out of her depression— a mingling of disappointment and relief. Tim had probably done her a favour by falling ill and saving her from her own unruly desires.
She was debating whether it was safe to leave him for a few minutes and go and forage in the kitchen, or whether she should ring and see if Grace was still up, when the phone rang beneath her hovering hand.
'Is he asleep?'
David. His earlier phone call to check on Tim had been brief enough to cause her to feel slighted, as if he were impatient to have it over and done with so that he could abandon her to her tiresome maternal duties, so consequently Clare was cool.
'Yes.'
'Good.'
Clare listened in disbelief to the terminating click. So much for his appreciation of the flip side of parenthood. Suddenly Clare was both ravenous and angry. He could have at least asked how she was feeling!
Her mind made up, she pulled open her door and stepped into the hall, only to run into David, who was wheeling a covered trolley.
'Hungry?'
'I… yes.'
'I thought you might be. Hold your door for me, would you?'
Clare did so automatically, watching him wheel the trolley into her room and begin to lift off covers. When she didn't move, he paused with raised eyebrows. 'What's the matter?'
She opened her mouth to throw his generosity in his teeth, and then closed it again. That would be cutting off her nose to spite her face, the kind of thing that Tamara seemed to specialise in.