A Family Affair (20 page)

‘I wanted
you.
'

‘But you wouldn't leave
her.
Five years I waited, Guy. Five bloody years. All wasted.'

‘Well, if you think they were wasted …'

‘All right. Not wasted the way you mean, but where did they get me? I'm thirty-one years old and I'm on my own. If I'd known in the beginning how things would turn out … I never set out with the intention of being the eternal mistress, Guy. In the beginning …'

‘We fell in love.'

‘All right – we fell in love. Or
I
fell in love. I'm not sure about you.'

‘How can you say that?' he demanded, interrupting. ‘I'm here, aren't I?'

Her anger died again, quite suddenly, leaving her feeling tired and defeated.

‘Yes. You're here, all right. My point is that if you'd felt the way I did you wouldn't have let anything stop us being together. I'd have crossed oceans for you, Guy. Literally. And I certainly couldn't have continued to live in a sham of a marriage.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, Helen, do we have to go over all that old ground again? The children …'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘We do have to. Unless something has changed. Has it, Guy? Has anything changed?' He was silent and she sighed. ‘I thought not. You'll never leave her. I know that now. And all this business about the children is just an excuse and you know it.'

‘It is not an excuse, Helen. They are ten and eleven years old. I can't leave them. I'd destroy their world. When they're older …'

‘You think? When they're older, Guy, there'll be another reason – perfectly good, perfectly sound, perfectly … plausible … a very comfortable life with the daughter of a top surgeon for a wife and all the goodies that spring from the cornucopia of Daddy's generosity. If you left Marian for me you'd have to leave the house – that grand monstrosity with an address in Bristol 8 – and you'd have to forego the sort of lifestyle that goes with it. All the consultants' jollies, all the port-soaked dinners, all the little white-aproned catering staff who come in and fluff around when you entertain. You wouldn't even
be
entertaining, Guy. Not if you were with me. There'd be a chorus of outrage and disapproval in all the circles that count with you. It would probably even affect your career. Have you thought of that? Oh yes, I bet you have!'

His head was bowed; he raised it to look up at her.

‘Have you quite finished?'

‘Oh, Guy …' Suddenly she wanted to cry. ‘Why the hell did you have to come here? Why start it off all over again?'

He shook his head, splayed one hand helplessly.

‘I suppose I hoped …'

‘That I might have changed my mind? Gone soft?'

‘If you put it like that.'

‘Well, I haven't. Five years, I gave you, Guy. Surely to God you can't expect me to give you more, without anything in return?'

‘Nothing in return. What about this?'

His hand shot out, grasping her wrist and taking her completely unawares. With a forcefulness she remembered only too well he held her pinioned like a butterfly against the solid frame of her desk, bending his head to hers. Powerless to resist, emotionally if not physically, she let him kiss her and for all their anger, all their conflicting needs, it was a kiss they both enjoyed, briefly at any rate. It had always been this way, from the very beginning, the chemistry between them could make a nonsense of reason. Had it not been so, the relationship would have ended many times during those five years.

‘You see?' he said, drawing back. ‘You still want me, Helen.'

‘I never said I'd stopped wanting you.'

‘Why then? Why does it have to be like this? Let me come and see you. I'll take you to dinner.'

She could feel the temptation eating away at her defences.

‘To dinner.'

‘Yes. It would be safe out here. We wouldn't be likely to bump into anyone I know.'

And with those few words he undid all the progress of the last moments.

‘You see? That, Guy, is what I can't take! That's it in a nutshell. Being your guilty secret. I want more! I'm
worth more
, for God's sake!'

‘I know that, Helen. Don't be like this, please! I love you. I can't live without you …'

‘Guy – don't. You shouldn't have come and I'd like you to leave. Please go.' Her voice was rising.

‘Helen …'

‘Go!' She was shouting now.

The door opened without so much as a warning knock. Paul stood there, looking like nothing so much as a scrum half in a rugby team – hair rumpled, jacket rumpled, eyes narrow with suspicion. The contrast between him and the smoothly elegant Guy might, under other circumstances, have been almost laughable. But as things were, no-one was laughing.

‘Is everything all right here?' His thick Tyneside accent lent something close to menace to his voice.

Helen smoothed her hair. She could feel her face flaming scarlet.

‘It's all right thank you, Paul. I'm fine.'

Paul stood his ground, looking at Guy suspiciously.

Guy took the initiative.

‘Guy Holden.' He extended his hand in Paul's direction. ‘Helen and I are old friends. We used to work together.'

Paul ignored the outstretched hand.

‘And you are?' Guy asked.

‘Paul Stephens. A partner in this practice. If you don't mind, Mr Holden … I think it might be best if you were to pursue this conversation outside surgery hours.'

‘He was just going,' Helen said. ‘We've said all we have to say to one another, haven't we, Guy?'

For an uncomfortable moment she thought he was going to argue. Then: ‘You know where to find me if you change your mind, Helen.' And he was gone.

‘What the hell is going on?' Paul demanded.

‘Just don't ask.' Helen felt on the verge of tears, partly as a result of her churning emotions, partly with a wretched, and particularly perverse, longing for Guy. All very well to tell him to get out of her life. That was her head talking. But loving him still made it an incredibly difficult decision to stick with. Pain washed over her and she swallowed at the tight knot in her throat. ‘I apologise for my private life impinging on the professional. That was a totally unexpected visit.'

‘So I gathered.'

‘I hope it won't happen again.'

‘Helen …' He touched the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Are you sure you're all right?'

‘Mmm.'

‘You don't look it. Put the kettle on, why don't you, if you've finished your surgery, and we'll have a cup of tea.'

‘No – thanks all the same. I've got a big round to do. I really ought to be getting on.'

To be honest, all she wanted was to get out, to feel the fresh air cooling her hot face, blowing the cobwebs of confused emotions out of her brain. His obvious concern was only making her feel worse. She was embarrassed, too, that he should have overheard at least part of what had been said.

‘What about afterwards?' he said.

‘Afterwards?'

‘When we've both finished work for the day.'

‘You mean I come back here and make a cup of tea for us?' she said, trying to lighten the mood and regain some of her equilibrium.

‘Not quite. By that time I shall want something a bit stronger than a cup of tea. I was thinking more on the lines of a beverage of the alcoholic variety. Something to eat, too, if you like.'

She might have laughed if she hadn't been so close to crying. Two invitations to dinner within the space of a quarter of an hour. For an old spinster like her – unbelievable!

‘Purely in the interests of getting to know one another better, of course,' he added quickly. ‘With me at Tiledown and you here we don't ever really get the chance.'

‘All right,' she said. ‘If you put it like that, how can I refuse?'

That, of course, was it – in a nutshell. The last thing she felt like doing was socialising, but it was a good idea to get to know Paul better. They could very well be partners one day – her greatest ambition now was to be offered a partnership – and for that she would need the support of both Reuben and Paul.

And besides … There was something pleasantly solid and undemanding about him. In his own way he'd been a good friend this morning, coming to her aid when he'd thought she needed it. This much she owed him.

‘I'll pick you up then, shall I? Say – what? – half-seven?'

‘OK.'

The cobwebs had lifted a little, the heat in her cheeks burning less fiercely. But Helen still felt sick at heart as she went out to make a start on her home visits.

Why the hell was she still in love with such a selfish bastard? Why couldn't she simply tell herself she was well rid and leave it at that? But there is no accounting for the vagaries of the heart. Helen knew that if only – if only! – Guy would meet her halfway she would gladly run to him, and to hell with the consequences.

David couldn't understand what was wrong with Linda. For the past couple of weeks now she hadn't been herself at all and the change in her left him puzzled and frustrated. She had always been such a fun-loving girl, warm and affectionate with a sense of humour and boundless energy. She could dance the night away and still be quite prepared to sit with him in his old Zephyr Zodiac for hours saying good night as they euphemistically called it. She had always been ready for a party or a visit to the pictures or an afternoon drive to the country or the coast.

But something had changed. She was evasive now when he suggested some outing or other, pleading tiredness as an excuse. She had no appetite, pushing her ham salad round her plate when she came to tea on a Sunday afternoon and causing Carrie to complain under her breath about the waste of good food as she was forced to scrape it into the kitchen bin. And perhaps most disturbing of all, she didn't seem to want to snog any more.

This of all things was most unlike her. Though David had never been able to persuade her to go as far as he would have liked, she had always been fond of kissing and cuddling, even petting a little. No longer. And David, who had previously felt that Linda was erring towards taking their relationship more seriously than he was comfortable with, simply couldn't understand it.

The first thought that occurred to him was that she was playing hard to get in an effort to push things along. That would fit in with the impression he'd got a while ago that she wanted a ring on her finger, something he had wanted to avoid for as long as possible. If it was that, she'd discover soon enough that those tactics were useless where he was concerned. He didn't like games, and he didn't like to feel he was being manipulated either.

But somehow he didn't think Linda was that sort of girl. She'd accepted his invitation out for a date in the first place without hesitation and her open sunny nature just didn't lend itself to artifice. That only left one other possible explanation. She was going off him. David was surprised at how much he minded that this might be the case.

Tonight, a Saturday, they were at Linda's, and, as they so often did, they had the house to themselves. They had adjourned to the front room and played some records in which Linda seemed totally disinterested, and when he pulled her down on to the sofa, she squirmed away.

‘Don't, please.'

He frowned. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I just don't feel like it, that's all.'

‘You never feel like it these days.'

‘I do! We're always snogging.'

‘I thought you liked snogging.'

‘I do – but not all the time.'

He gave her a puzzled look, then got up and stared out of the window, hands in pockets, shoulders slumping, while the question burned itself on his lips. Should he ask it – or not? If he got the answer he was dreading, then that would be it. All over, bar the shouting. No, not even shouting. Just a few awkward goodbyes.

Quite suddenly David made up his mind. One way or the other, he had to know. He turned round. Linda was half lying on the sofa, her head tucked into the curve between back and arm. Her eyes were closed. He felt a quick wave of tenderness before the resentment flooded in. Did he bore her so much that he sent her to sleep? If so, he didn't intend hanging around so that she could moan to her friends about him as girls seemed to do in their whispered confidential huddles.

‘Is it that you don't fancy me any more?' he asked.

Her eyes flew open in an almost startled expression.

‘What?'

‘I'm beginning to think you're trying to tell me something. Like you don't want to go out with me any more.'

‘Oh, David!' She levered herself up so that she was sitting on her feet. ‘How could you think that? Oh – I'm sorry. Come here!'

He hesitated, looking at her, fully realising for the first time just how much she meant to him. He still wasn't satisfied with her reply – an impression of such an enormous change in her couldn't be negated so easily, and the thinking part of him wanted to pursue the subject now he had raised it, and try to find out exactly what was wrong. But his body had other ideas.

He went to her, holding and kissing her. She felt fluid and fragile in his arms, her mouth moving beneath his with sweet acceptance, her body moulding to his with a sort of passive compliance that was even more erotic than her usual frenzied approach.

She was wearing a little jersey cardigan. He eased it from her shoulders and ran his fingers down her arms. They felt almost childlike, tiny bird bones barely covered with baby-soft flesh. A little shocked, he glanced down at them and was even more shocked to see a dark bruise staining her upper arm just above the elbow.

‘How did you do that?' he asked.

‘I don't know.' She sounded almost irritable.

‘What do you mean – you don't know? You must know!'

‘Well, I don't.' She pressed her lips against his chin. ‘I thought you wanted …'