Starting Over

by Sue Moorcroft

She bit her lip. It would start, of course; she’d only stopped to look at the scenery. Then he’d shrug, ‘Bring her in sometime and I’ll check her out.’ Climb into the cab alone and proceed with whatever errand she’d interrupted. No ride in the wrecker for her.

  ‘It won’t start.’

  ‘Try it,’ he repeated impatiently.

  ‘It won’t start,’ she declared defiantly. Snatching her keys out of her pocket she hurled them into the bustling water of the drainage ditch and watched the bright green algae close up as if the keys had never passed through. ‘See?’

  He looked from her to the water, and back, frowning horribly, with the once-familiar air of trying to weigh her up. ‘Have you gone quite mad?’

  A big shrug and she stuffed belligerent hands into her pockets and waited to see what he’d do, certain he wouldn’t abandon her. ‘How about a tow home?’ she suggested again.

  Gazing into the drainage ditch, he seemed hypnotised by the scurrying water. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said at last, ‘I’m on my way to fetch a car. You’ll have to ring someone to ferry you. Or,’ he offered, tepidly, ‘tag along. Got to get this car so it’s the round trip or nothing.’

  ‘Round trip, I suppose.’ She left the Freelander unlocked, waltzing ahead of him to the wrecker, skipping up into the cab, moving a leather holdall from the seat and into the space behind. And, as he buckled himself in, she dared, ‘Thanks for stopping.’

  The radio came on with the ignition. He grunted, turned the truck, and they pulled away towards Peterborough, past piebald ponies grazing a scrappy paddock of yellow weeds, thistles and rusty sorrel and a farmhouse huddled behind a tree windbreak.

  She gave him ten minutes to get used to being put upon. ‘How are things?’ she began tentatively.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Plenty of work?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He didn’t ask, but she told him about her latest commission. He nodded in between checking mirrors and waving faster vehicles past, changing gear, watching the traffic.

  They were safely on the A1(M) before he asked roughly, as if he couldn’t hold the question back, ‘Where did you go?’

  No point in pretending she didn’t know what he meant. Fresh sweat sprang into her palms. She cleared her throat. ‘Northampton. Hotel then a rented terrace.’

  His fingers tapped thoughtfully. ‘Why Northampton?’

  ‘It was handy.’

  He nodded as if at a perfectly sensible reply and began singing along with the radio under his breath. A new silence lengthened. Her breathing caught at the thought of how she must break it. But break it she must, or be condemned forever to this distant excuse for a relationship.

  ‘Ratty ... I’m very sorry. I’m sorry I left the way I did, and I’m just, just slaughtered there was no – baby. Really.’ Her voice wobbled and she coughed twice. Stole a glance, was unnerved when their gazes coincided. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have leapt to the moral high ground. And I shouldn’t have left without telling you. Or at all.’

  If her soul baring had softened him at all, he hid it well. He listened and nodded, and when she’d finished, responded surprisingly gently. ‘It’s all water under the bridge now.’

  That wasn’t right! Her imagination had obligingly supplied her with pictures of him reacting with joy to such repentance, letting his emotions spill, admitting he still loved her. But, no, he just kept his hands on the wheel, watching the traffic, checking his mirrors.

  Her stomach sank. For the millionth time, why hadn’t she found some other way of coping with his paternity of the little boy? Jason. And what was Jason like? Did he have dark curly hair and blue eyes? Would he grow to be his own man with his own ways? What was his mother like, was Ratty in contact?

  But when courage was the currency, she’d soon overspent. She couldn’t ask.

  Early evening. White headlights, red tail lights, blue dusk. Tess stretched, glad Ratty had finally swung the wrecker into a motel car park. She could kill for a cup of tea and a plate of chips. ‘Where on earth is the car you’re fetching?’

  Ratty pulled the leather holdall out from behind her seat and locked the doors. ‘Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton?’ She scurried to catch up with him as he strolled to Reception. ‘That’s miles!’

  ‘Yes, it’s an overnighter. There’s a foyer shop here, I think, you’ll be able to buy a toothbrush.’

  ‘Godsake! You didn’t say we were going to Brighton!’

  ‘You should’ve asked, if you were fussy. But your options looked pretty limited to me.’

  She stumped off to the shop while he booked them separate rooms.

  He handed her the punched card bearing her room number. ‘I’m going to crash out for an hour or two. I’ll knock on your door eightish, we’ll eat.’ He walked her to the door by his, pointed out, ironically, ‘Next door neighbours!’

  It was OK, the room, for a separate room. A little shower, a double bed with the bedspread tucked under and around the pillows, as only ever seen in motels, two armchairs, a kettle with coffee sachets, a TV. After all the practice, she shouldn’t even notice when she was by herself, let alone feel lonely.

  The usual free shampoos and gels made her spend a long time in the shower. She untangled her hair as best she could with the inadequate brush from the shop’s travel pack, blew it dry with the wall dryer, brushed it again and dressed. Oh, for terrific clothes and brilliant make-up and mind-blowing perfume so that she could knock Ratty’s eyes out! But, she supposed, dejectedly, she might just as well be in khakis and a shirt, rather ordinary, for all the reaction she had been getting.

  Still only 6.47 p.m. She watched some television. 7.14. Hopped channels. Played with the satellite stations and got lost in the radio channels. 7.37.

  Checking her reflection, she smoothed her eyebrows. Then studied her hands and tried all her rings on different fingers. 7.55 – nearly ‘eightish’!

  Except that Ratty didn’t knock on the door until 8.29, by which time she’d stuck her head out to look about six times and brushed her hair another twice.

  In a clean shirt, hair still damp, he looked fresh and self-possessed. ‘Let’s get off the motorway and find a pub.’

  He found one ten minutes away with a very brightly coloured carpet and a jukebox. They ate pizza and drank beer, made stilted conversation about Angel and Pete and the kids and how Jos seemed to have moved Miranda in but was too shy to say so.

  Ratty was pleasant, but not friendly. There were no sexy grins to make her feel like the only woman in the room. On the contrary, she caught him twice noticing the talent and noticed three women noticing him.

  To gain his attention, she told him that Lester and Elisabeth had been to see her. He knew. And she’d seen her own parents who were relieved and furious and exasperated. He could imagine. Olly had told her she pissed him off. How outrageous. Even Guy had said she ought to get a hold of herself and grow up. That was rich. And Guy and Lynette wanted to start a family. An unlikely plan.

  By the time they returned to the motel, she’d talked herself out and he was just as polite and impassive as he had been since finding her at the roadside.

  She hesitated outside her room.

  He walked straight past. ‘Goodnight.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Here she was again. Firmly escorted to her separate room, and dumped.

  Bedtime. Bathroom, hairbrush, she sat up in bed, brushing absently. He was right behind that wall, doing his own well-remembered bedtime stuff. Watch off, shoes kicked under the bed, teeth brushed with rapid efficiency.

  He didn’t want her back.

  Reality slapped her. He didn’t want her back. Here they were with all the ingredients for joyous reconciliation and he was treating her with courteous reserve. God, he really didn’t want her or he would’ve engineered it: a nightcap in her room, a late film in his.

  She tapped the hairbrush, thinking, remembering Elisabeth’s contention that Ratty believed in making things happen.
If he wasn’t prepared to make this happen, then what? She smiled nervously at her reflection.

  Then she’d have to!

  Maybe bravery, or rather bravado, would win him.

  With no choice of clothes, she wriggled into the undies she’d bought in the foyer, boring cotton but clean and her long shirt all crinkled at the bottom. Shivering on her nerves she thrust her arms into her jacket, remembering to stuff her key card in the pocket. One last fluffing of her hair – he loved her hair – and she marched into battle.

  He answered the door in only trousers, raised his eyebrows at her shirt-cum-very-mini-dress and let her in, shutting the door behind her. Said nothing.

  Smiling felt stiff and peculiar. ‘I, um.’ She looked past him, at his shirt over the chair, Classic Car magazine on the bed, darted a glance back to his face.

  He shifted impatiently on bare feet. ‘What’s up? Problem with your room?’

  ‘Sort of, yes.’ Deep breath. ‘I don’t want to sleep there.’ Licking her lips, she stuffed her hands in her pockets, withdrew them, shifting on bare feet. ‘I want to sleep here.’

  The sentence rang around her head, echoed as she watched expressions ripple across his face. Surprise, curiosity.

  Then – unmistakably – fury, blazing in his eyes.

  She flinched. This was why she wasn’t that good at confrontation! Heart thumping, she studied his naked chest and shoulders, his jawline. Oh for the safety and pleasure of being embraced against that torso, revelling in his heat and strength!

  Ignoring his murderous expression, she closed her eyes and reached for him.

  And Ratty went berserk.

  ‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing?’ He thrust her hands away and lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘Barging in and demanding to sleep here? Aren’t you the one who ran away and left me half-demented, not knowing if you were alive, even? And now you just say sorry and expect I’ll forgive the lot?’

  She recoiled, wavering, but forced herself to stand firm and meet his eyes. ‘But I love you! I still want ... Don’t you love me any more?’ She couldn’t seem to control her hands; they lifted, supplicating, and fluttered towards him again.

  He grabbed her arms hard. ‘Do you think I’ve got no feelings?’ His fingers were inflexible, his eyes frightening as they blazed at her. ‘You tell me you’re pregnant then you abandon me! It was a false alarm – but you don’t tell me. I was merely the father!’ His strong fingers dug into the complaining muscle of her arms. ‘Do women seriously think they can just bring us into play when it suits? You didn’t tell me!’

  He let go of her abruptly.

  She teetered, as if only his hands had been keeping her upright, tears burning in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry!’

  He seemed in no mood for apologies. ‘You came back and let me find out accidentally! You’re hopeless,’ he spat, bitterly. ‘Hopeless, helpless, useless. When are you going to learn to deal with life properly?’

  She rubbed her arms, wincing at his contempt as he turned away.

  It was her chance to escape, but she doubted her legs would take her. Even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. Anger was beginning to uncoil in her stomach.

  ‘Oh, I’m sick of saying how sorry I am,’ she snapped. ‘But you told me you had a son, one you’d never made the least effort to take responsibility for! I freaked out, OK? I’m sorry if the mighty Arnott-Rattenburys deal with crap like that better than I do! I thought I was pregnant and I reacted badly.

  ‘Yes, if you want, you could say I ran away. But I did come back and try and mend fences and I did come here tonight and even suggest –’

  He swung back, one arm shooting around her, his other hand capturing her head, snatching her to him, the length of her body crushed bruisingly against his. ‘Is that all you came for? Fine!’ His hands became callous and irresistible, pushing her jacket down her arms, wrenching her shirt up, bending her arms to pull the sleeves off, rough, careless.

  ‘If you’re here to drop your knickers, let’s do it! You always were good value in bed.’ His hands yanked her briefs down, his hard mouth pounced on hers, stifling her protests.

  It was awful, it was terrible! Swooped off her feet she crashed to the bed, knocked breathless as he landed half on top of her, pinning her, dragging his jeans off with furious movements. ‘I can oblige, if this is what you want!’

  No, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what she wanted. He was taking, there was no love in it and she didn’t have the strength –!

  ... Oh, just let him.

  Suddenly, she felt powerless, drained.

  This wasn’t Ratty, this spiteful, vengeful, punishing stranger. This was some monster she’d created. A monster that was going to have sex with her as a primitive act of reprisal.

  ‘She asked for it,’ he would be justified in saying. Nobody had ever asked for it more than she just had. Literally, tramped into his room and asked for it.

  Let it happen, let it happen. It would soon be over. Afterwards she could retreat to her separate room, make her way back to Peterborough by public transport. She’d think again about staying in Middledip. But if she left, she’d do it in her own time, with purpose and dignity. Appoint an estate agent and choose somewhere rather than accept the first place she stumbled across. The Outer Hebrides sounded good, a nice long way from this room of smashed dreams and harsh comeuppance.

  He was naked before she felt him pause. She could feel his breath on her clenched face. Her heart, which she’d thought had taken all the punishment it could, folded up with one huge, wretched squeeze as his hand lifted and she cringed.

  But, when they touched her, the fingers were gentle again, peeling sticky hair back from her face. Smoothing. Soothing.

  He sank onto his back, breath grating in his throat, pulled her sad head onto his shoulder. ‘I’m such a terrible shit!’ He pulled a sheet over their bodies.

  Tess listened to her own breath slowing, the madness, the crisis, slowly passing. Relief, relief. She was left ridiculous with her shirt around her neck and her knickers at her knees. Cautiously, she tried to wriggle back into her clothing.

  His hand stayed her, sliding underneath the sheet to rest familiarly on her naked hip.

  Quietly, bleak but unthreatening, he told her how enraged he’d been when she left. ‘I wrecked the house. The windows, the furniture, even your grandmother’s glasses and the pictures of McLaren and Lucasta.’

  Fresh guilt humbled her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered for the hundredth time.

  He shushed her. ‘No excuses. It was self-indulgent lack of control. I regret that as much as what I let you think I was going to do a minute ago. Nothing like that will ever happen again, I promise you.

  ‘And then there’s Jason.’

  The silence went on so long that she lifted her head and flicked a glance under spiky lashes. ‘Have you seen him?’ Her voice was throaty from tears. ‘Or doesn’t his mother want you to?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’ Something in his voice. Some ... regret? The hand on her hip moved upward and the thumb began absently to stroke her lower ribs. ‘He’s not my child.’

  Thud. Then her heart began to race. ‘Not?’ she croaked.

  ‘No. DNA testing proved it.’

  ‘But she claimed you as the father?’

  ‘I was the most likely candidate. But she had a ding-dong with someone else at the same time, he’s not mine. I suppose she had to do the CSA thing again with whoever’s second on her list.’ He sighed. ‘Christ, the game’s weighted against the man. She tells me I’ve got a child, and she says, “Let’s wait for the result of the paternity tests before you see him”. Then he’s not mine, and she says, “Sorry if I caused you any trouble”!’ His fingers ceased to stroke, just rested on her ribs as they must’ve done a hundred times. She felt a fairy ring of goosebumps rise around his hand.

  ‘All for nothing.’ She shuffled to fit the lines of her leg more comfortably against his. Nothing. The whole, unbelievable mess had be
en for nothing. Love beyond anything, thrown away. For nothing. A nothing which had brought them to this hideous physical fight here in a motel room near the M25. Bedspread scratchy; half naked; relationship in shards.

  And now she had to extricate herself. To do him the courtesy of leaving him to his justifiable brooding. To face a realistic future with him as a neighbour or, in time, maybe a friend, forgetting what could’ve been.

  Tentatively, she crept her arms into the sleeves of the shirt ridged absurdly around her neck, to ease her underwear back to its proper place, ridiculous and undignified.

  Just when she thought she’d achieved some haphazard semblance of decency and was rehearsing, ‘This was a mistake and I’ll go now,’ he turned his head.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  Don’t go? Her heart tripped up.

  He sighed and tightened his arms, claiming back the inches she’d withdrawn. ‘Shit, Princess, there’s no car to fetch from Brighton. I was on my way home when I saw you.’

  Funny that her heartbeat should increase to deafening proportions when she seemed to have stopped breathing altogether. He levered himself up above her, the darkness of his hair bobbing in ringlets against thick eyebrows. A naked leg slid its way between hers and sent shock waves up the middle.

  The expression in his eyes softened. ‘I want you,’ he whispered, dropping a tiny kiss on her face. ‘I always want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. Or will ever.’ His lips trailed along her jawline. ‘When you left I went mad. I wanted to kill you for your unfairness. I wanted bloody revenge for the pain. But through all that, even on my worst, spiteful, days’ – he let his fingertips drift over the sensitiveness of her belly, carrying the by now well-travelled fabric of her shirt up again – ‘I’d indulge myself with wild fantasies of making love to you again, Princess. You.’ His hand – iron, minutes ago – found her breast with velvet touch. His breath hissed in between his teeth.

  She clutched him fiercely. He still wanted her! ‘I love you! I’ve never stopped. And I’ve missed you so much!’ In a moment she was wriggling smartly back out of her shirt, pressing eager breasts against the hot breadth of his chest.