He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘Oh—why?’

  ‘Because—’ she eyed him impishly ‘—I intend to dance with everyone at the table while I’ve got this music in my soul. In fact, in lieu of being able to work anything out, and because the only other thing I can think of doing is going to Tibet to get away from it all…’ she looked rueful ‘…I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy myself!’

  It started as a look of surprise in his eyes, then became an unwilling salute, and finally he laughed softly. ‘Point taken. There are times when you’re unique, you know.’

  She looked away, and to her horror heard herself say, ‘Not unique enough for you, though.’

  ‘Nicola—’

  ‘Don’t Sorry, I didn’t mean that—uh—it must be the champagne. Oh, look who’s here. Richard. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be very discreet—and I certainly won’t dance the samba with him.’

  He gazed down at her steadily, but the expression in his eyes suddenly struck her as being bleak, even filled with pain for a moment, before he looked away.

  It was as if a hand had squeezed her heart. She didn’t know what would cause him to look like that, but she was pretty sure she could guess—it had to be Marietta and the new man in her life.

  And here I am, playing the fool, adding to his problems… She closed her eyes briefly and said, barely audibly, ‘Brett?’

  He looked down at her again, searchingly.

  ‘Sony—that’s all. I am being girlish. I’ll—don’t worry about me this evening. I’ll be… I won’t cause any problems.’

  What he would have said she never knew, because, with a drumroll, the leader of the band announced that the speeches were due to begin and invited Brett to take the rostrum.

  Throughout his speech, even though the lights were dimmed, Nicola, without turning her head, could see Tara’s rapt expression and the unconscious, sheer admiration the other woman couldn’t hide. For her own part, she found she couldn’t concentrate on what Brett was saying, because running through her mind were all the Bretts she knew—not just this polished man of the world, who spoke with a mixture of authority and humour.

  Brett with the children. Brett on the beach. Brett with her, before she’d destroyed the balance of their relationship. Brett hurting because, as she’d always known, he could never forget Marietta—even though he might tell himself it had all burnt out.

  Is that why Tara has ceased to get to me? she wondered. How can I get him to understand that Marietta, without knowing it, might just have taken the Reverend Callam’s advice? I’m sure it’s got to be that! What if I go and see her…?

  She realised suddenly that his speech had ended and he was coming back to the table—and she was the only one not applauding enthusiastically.

  She started to clap belatedly, then he was beside her, sitting down, looking wry.

  Tara immediately leant over to congratulate him. ‘Well said, Brett! I particularly liked the bit about…’

  Nicola grimaced inwardly and switched off—in a manner of speaking. In fact, so much so, he had to touch her arm to bring her back.

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ she murmured.

  ‘You looked as if you were a million miles away.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Would you like to go?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Wouldn’t that…? No, I’m fine. Why?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘I’m not enjoying myself much either.’

  She studied him, then slipped her hand over his. ‘A bit later. It would look strange.’

  He transferred his gaze down to her fingers on his and said, ‘You’re right. OK, let’s soldier on.’

  So they did. But the effort, on top of an aimless, unhappy day, told on Nicola, and she fell asleep in the car on the way home, only to half wake up and find that he’d carried her into her bedroom.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

  He handed Nicola her pyjamas and paused. ‘Can you manage?’ he said quietly at last.

  ‘Of course, but thanks.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  And she was alone, suddenly wide awake, staring at the door as he closed it quietly behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS pouring with rain the next morning, and cool.

  Nicola got up reluctantly and looked out to sea, but the horizon was obscured and the whole world looked grey and bleak. She shivered and pulled on a brave yellow tracksuit, which helped to warm her body but did not release any burst of inspiration in her mind.

  Then the utter silence of the house struck her again. Of course—it was Ellen’s day off, as well as there being no children in residence, but when she glanced at her watch to see that it was nine o’clock, she frowned. Brett was not that late a sleeper, even on Sundays.

  Nor was he this Sunday, she discovered, for his car was gone. Then she saw a note on the fridge from him, saying that one of his clients had got himself into trouble and he was at the watch-house with him.

  She crumpled it up and threw it into the garbage bin, then absently made herself a boiled egg for breakfast. As she ate she went through the kaleidoscope of memories of the night before. Three things stood out. The half-formulated idea of going to see Marietta and trying to explain how things stood, the foolish words she’d uttered about not being unique enough for him, and…

  But the third was the most vivid mental image she carried. Despite her sleepiness the night before, when Brett had carried her from the car to the bedroom, it had shouted itself to her that he, once he’d put her down, was determined not to lay a finger on her.

  All the more reason I should do something, she thought, and brushed a stray tear away.

  She did a few chores after her breakfast, but in a halfhearted fashion. It was as she was tidying Brett’s bedroom that she heard his car. She hesitated, then went on making the bed.

  She heard him come through the connecting door to the garage, heard what sounded like the kettle being filled and was nerving herself to go and greet him when he appeared at the bedroom doorway.

  ‘Hi,’ she said uncertainly, straightening. ‘Got your note. Is he in serious trouble?’

  Brett wore jeans, boots and a pale grey jumper. His hair was ruffled and damp and his eyes bleak. ‘Serious enough. He threatened to shoot both his wife and himself if she persisted in leaving him for another man. He was only restrained in the nick of time.’

  Nicola gasped. ‘Who is it? Do I know him?’

  Brett told her who it was and she did know him. ‘But that’s incredible—he’s not that kind of man,’ she protested.

  ‘Who knows what we’re really like under the surface?’ he said dryly. ‘Who knows, for example—? Oh, what the hell.’ He strode over to his veranda door and slammed it shut, then stood staring at the rain through the glass panels moodily.

  ‘Brett,’ she said after a long moment, then paused to marshal her thoughts and choose the right track to approach him in this mood. ‘Brett—’ She stopped and looked around.

  This was the bedroom he and Marietta had shared, and he’d changed nothing, not the king-size fourposter bed, with its glorious coverlet of rich forest-green quilted silk—a colour that had suited Marietta perfectly—nor had he changed the gold-braided head roll pillows, the gold foil lampshades or the fuchsiaframed paintings on the white walls.

  ‘Brett—that was the kettle. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter much to him.

  ‘Come into the lounge; I’ll bring it through.’

  She made a plunger pot of Blue Mountain coffee and put out some of Ellen’s homemade biscuits.

  ‘What I was going to say…’ she eyed him as she poured the coffee; he was sprawled out on one of the settees with his hands behind his head ‘…was this. We do have…something between us, don’t we?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘I mean, we are friends, if nothing else, and we’ve been through a bit together, haven’t we? I think losing my father affected you greatly as well. And we… always
put Sasha and Chris first—that kind of thing, so—’

  He sat up abruptly. ‘So? What’s this leading up to, Nicola?’

  She shivered inwardly, because his eyes were hard and cold, but she found she was determined not to be scared off. She got up to carry his cup over to him, then sat down again. ‘It’s leading up to this—won’t you please tell me what happened yesterday? Even if I can’t help I’ll probably understand, and it might just help to tell someone.’

  ‘Understand?’ he repeated sardonically, and scanned her troubled expression, her brave yellow tracksuit and the faint blue shadows under her eyes. ‘Nicola…’ He looked away and his shoulders slumped. ‘There are some things I hope you never understand.’

  She chewed her lip. ‘Then I can’t be much of a friend in your eyes, Brett. And I guess you still regard me as a child.’ There was a faintly mocking little glint in her blue eyes and her chin was tilted dangerously.

  ‘All right,’ he said harshly. ‘What do you make of this? Marietta is using this new man in her life—who, incidentally, is younger than she is but besotted with her—to point out to me the pitfalls our children are going to encounter if we don’t remarry. You see, her days of touring the world to perform are over, and she intends to settle in Sydney—she’s been offered a teaching post at the Conservatorium of Music and a guest spot with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra for the next three years.’

  ‘But why? I mean, she’s at her peak! She’s worldfamous.’

  ‘She’s also suffering from RSI. She has to cut down or it could get to the stage where she could never play again.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Nicola said painfully. ‘How will she cope? But—the other night…’ She gestured and frowned. ‘There was no sign that she’s taken a blow like this. She was her normal—her—’

  ‘Her normal ebullient, outrageous self,’ Brett commented dryly.

  ‘Well, she was!’

  He stared down at her. ‘That’s because she’s switched obsessions,’ he said grimly. ‘You, of all people, must know how good she is at doing that.’

  ‘Switched—? You mean…’ Nicola swallowed ‘…to recreating your marriage?‘

  ‘Precisely. Only, in typical Marietta fashion, she’s doing it in a below-the-belt fashion.’

  A vision of the Reverend Callam’s face swam through Nicola’s mind, and of the way Richard Holloway had fallen, unwittingly, into a scheme of things that could also be described as ‘below the belt’. She shuddered inwardly this time. ‘That’s…that’s… I don’t know what to say.’

  He smiled unamusedly. ‘I thought you might not. But it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Is it a good idea for Sasha and Chris to be—exposed to this, though?’ She flinched at his cutting little look.

  ‘As you keep pointing out to me, she is their mother,’ he said with irony. ‘And I would imagine the trauma of me trying to withhold them from her could be equally damaging.’

  ‘But what’s he like? The oboe player?’

  Brett shrugged and grimaced. ‘If you met him in other circumstances, you’d probably like him. A gentle giant—and he’s very good with kids. They took to him immensely.’

  ‘Oh, Brett,’ she said softly, and with a wealth of compassion in her voice.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said with sudden violence. ‘The last thing I need from you is—sympathy.’

  She stood up as her face paled, and she whispered, ‘Why?’ Then she stiffened and turned, as if to run from the room.

  ‘Nicola—Nicola.’ He was on his feet swiftly and reached for her. ‘Don’t. I’m sorry. I…’ He stared down at her.

  She saw that he was pale too, but she said huskily, ‘Let me go, Brett. It doesn’t matter—’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ He gathered her close and buried his face in her hair. She felt all the tension in his muscles, then the sudden, involuntary slackening of them, and he raised his head, looked into her eyes briefly, and started to kiss her.

  Shock held her immobile. Then she jumped as he pushed his hands beneath her tracksuit top. They were cold and hard on her skin, but their movement was gentle, as if he was trying to warm them on her, and a flood of feeling ran through her—desire, but not only that. A yearning to offer him the warmth he so obviously needed, physically as well as emotionally. Sympathy, yes, but so much more.

  Oh, Brett, don’t do this to me, she thought. You can’t make me a substitute for Marietta.

  But none of her anguish was proof against the increasingly hungry way he kissed her.

  Nothing could erase her own hunger as he tapped it right to its source, with his hands unerringly moving to the most sensitive parts of her body. Slipping beneath her bra to touch her breasts and tease her nipples to tight little peaks. Sliding beneath her tracksuit pants and cupping her hips, then moving beneath the elastic of her bikini briefs, holding her hard against him and kissing not only her mouth but her throat while she clung to him dizzily and her body, her very core, revealed to him all that he did to her.

  She had no idea what made him raise his head suddenly, and made his hands go still. Then she heard it herself—car doors closing, voices, children.

  Shock etched itself in her eyes and she all but fell as he released her. He immediately steadied her with his hands around her waist, but she went paler than she’d ever been before and could only stare at him, horrified.

  He swore softly. ‘Nicola, don’t look like that, I’m sorry.’

  She licked her swollen lips. ‘I… I…’ But nothing more would come out.

  His face tightened as the doorbell pealed. ‘It’s OK, I locked it,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve got a few moments—we’ ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘But I feel…’ I feel like a pawn in this game between you and Marietta—but then I always was, wasn’t I? she thought despairingly, and abruptly pushed herself away from him. ‘No, we haven’t,’ she said starkly. ‘You go. I’ll just tidy myself up…’ And she spun suddenly on her heel and ran for the safety and seclusion of her bedroom.

  She had a shower—anything to delay the inevitable—and this time dressed with more care. She chose fine caramel cord trousers and a long-sleeved thin wool sweater in a misty jacaranda-blue with a plain round neck. She tucked the sweater in and added a thin, plaited gold leather belt to the pants. She put her locket on, then rummaged through her drawers and found a jacaranda and beige silk scarf which she tied around her neck jauntily.

  Then she brushed her hair until it shone and fell like a river of pale gold to below her shoulders—and turned her attention to her face. She never used much make-up, but this seemed to be an occasion for it. Anything to draw attention away from the still stunned look in her eyes, the fact that she was unusually pale.

  Ten minutes later she was satisfied. The lightest touch of foundation and some judicious use of blusher had done the trick. She added mascara to her lashes and stood back, then reached for Chris’s despised perfume but put it down almost at once. Enough was enough, and what was she trying to do anyway? she wondered. Upstage Marietta? When had that ever been possible? she thought sadly.

  She was searching for a pair of shoes to complete the outfit when Sasha came to find her—a Sasha brimming with excitement but also saying that they’d missed her.

  It touched her heart, and the hug Chris gave her did the same. Then she couldn’t put off greeting Marietta—a Marietta once again brimming with vitality and looking marvellous in black suede culottes, high-heeled boots and a suede waistcoat over a bottle-green shirt, her flaming hair tied back with a green velvet ribbon. Marietta was exactly the same as she’d always been. Nicola wondered what she’d expected.

  ‘Did you have a nice night, Nicky? I always used to enjoy the law society ball. It gave me great pleasure to wow the pants off them—as you may remember?’ Marietta turned to Brett with a mischievous look.

  But Brett was watching her, Nicola saw, and made no comment. In fact he looked tall, withdrawn and impatient.

  ‘Funny you should sa
y that,’ Nicola found her tongue suddenly. ‘I treated them to a samba last night they haven’t seen the likes of for years. I got a standing ovation.’

  Why she said it, she wasn’t sure. She could never equate Marietta with the likes of Tara Wells, never indulge.in a round of tit-for-tat with the mother of Brett’s children—so why? Because she’d never been good at feeling sadly and righteously misused and wasn’t about to start? Probably. She shrugged inwardly and turned to the large young man standing behind Chris’s wheelchair. ‘Please introduce me, Marietta?’

  ‘Darling, this is Ralph Metcalfe. Isn’t he gorgeous?’

  Ralph actually blushed, and Nicola, studying him critically, decided that he was. He wore a round-necked T-shirt under a trendy tweed jacket with jeans. He was very tall, and in his middle twenties, she judged. He had long blond hair, a physique that would have done the Chippendales proud and features that could have been hewn out of stone. Slightly at variance with them, though, was a pair of soft and friendly blue eyes.

  Nicola blinked, and Ralph said with a sweet, shy smile, ‘I believe you play the harp?’

  ‘I do. And you’re an oboist?’

  ‘Cor anglais, actually.’ He had a decidedly English accent, and he went on with great feeling, ‘Mellower, sadder and much more mysterious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t start him off,’ Marietta intervened with a grin. ‘Ralph, this is Nicola—Brett’s second wife. Contrary to all the norms, we’re very fond of each other.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Ralph said fervently. ‘I abhor unease and upheaval when it’s so much easier to love each other.’ But he studied Nicola with some surprise, her slim figure, lovely hair, the smooth skin and dark blue eyes, then glanced at Brett, almost as if saluting him.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Brett said, moving his shoulders restlessly as Nicola struggled with an insane desire to laugh, ‘thanks very much for babysitting—’

  ‘We’re not babies any more, Daddy,’ Sasha protested, although affectionately, and took his hand to rub the back of it against her cheek. ‘Mummy says we’ve grown up so much in the past few months, she can’t believe it.’ And she reached for Marietta’s hand too.