by Anne Mather
Liz had already had her breakfast; like Rachel, she had had only toast and coffee, and leaving Robert to his plate of bacon and kidneys, the two women adjourned to the living room. Like the morning room, this room also was at the back of the house, and Rachel seated herself on the wide banquette that circled the long jutting bay window.
‘Now—’ Liz pushed the letters her husband had not wanted to see away into the small bureau, and added several cards to the collection already hung about the mantelpiece. Unlike the sitting room, there was only an electric fire in here, but the efficient central heating system banished any sense of chill. ‘Let me see what I have to do.’
‘Can I help you?’ Rachel would be glad of the diversion. The last thing she wanted was to be sitting about aimlessly when Jaime eventually decided to put in an appearance.
‘Well, you could get me one or two things at the store, if you’re going down to the village with Rob,’ Liz considered. ‘He hates going in there, you know. It’s such a gossipy place. And if they’ve heard that Jaime is home, Mrs Dennis will be dying to ask questions.’
‘All right.’ Rachel doubted they would remember her, and even if they did, she was not perturbed. ‘You make out a list, and I’ll do your shopping for you. And afterwards I’m quite willing to help around the house.’
Liz smiled. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Rachel, and I’m very fond of you.’ She touched her cheek gently, with a probing finger. ‘I’m so sorry Jaime hasn’t even had the good manners to come and speak to you. And I shall give him a piece of my mind, when I have the opportunity.’
‘Oh, no, don’t! I mean—’ Rachel broke off in embarrassment. ‘Really, I prefer it this way, honestly. He—he and I have nothing to say.’
‘If you insist.’ But Liz still looked slightly doubtful. Then, dismissing her momentary solemnity, she gave another smile. ‘Andy is installing the tree in the hall this morning. Perhaps you could help me dress it before Robin and Nancy arrive.’
Rachel displayed an enthusiasm she was far from feeling, and Liz bustled away to see Maisie, to find out what was needed from the village. Left alone, Rachel gazed out pensively at the seagulls wheeling above the heaving waters, and wondered rather apprehensively how Jaime’s parents would introduce her to their daughter-in-law.
She was lost in thought when a voice broke into her reverie: ‘Well, hello, Miss Williams! It is Miss Williams, isn’t it? You know it’s so long since we met, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m confusing you with someone else.’
Rachel swung round to face her tormentor, and gazed up resentfully into Jaime’s dark mocking face. He was standing just inside the doorway, a sinister Machiavelli, in a black shirt and black denims, his dark hair smooth, and brushing his collar at the back.
‘I suppose you think you’re very amusing, don’t you?’ she demanded tautly. ‘If this is your idea of saving me embarrassment, then don’t bother.’
‘Ah, but that was last night,’ remarked Jaime annoyingly, using his stick to walk heavily across the carpet. ‘And you turned me down. So you can hardly blame me if I try to protect my own interests.’
‘Didn’t you always?’ retorted Rachel angrily, turning back to her contemplation of the view, then stiffened instinctively when he approached the window seat and lowered himself down on to the banquette beside her.
‘What a vindictive tongue you have, Grandma,’ he taunted, glancing over his shoulder to see where she was looking. ‘Reliving the halcyon days of the past?’ He propped his stick against the wall. ‘I seem to remember we spent one memorable afternoon down there.’
‘I don’t recall it.’ Rachel’s mouth compressed. Then: ‘I thought you were supposed to be resting. Mrs Armstrong was going to serve you breakfast upstairs.’
‘And so she did,’ said Jaime carelessly. ‘Only I didn’t feel particularly hungry, and naturally I felt honour bound to come and offer you felicitations.’
‘You needn’t have bothered!’
‘No. But my parents don’t know that, do they?’
‘I’m surprised you care.’ Rachel was behaving badly, she knew, but she was overwhelmingly aware of his thigh only inches away from hers on the cushioned seat, and the muscled length of his legs, splayed carelessly beside her. ‘In any case, I—I’m going out soon. Your father and I are—are walking down to the village. So you could have saved yourself the trouble.’
‘Could I?’
He turned his head to look at her, and the blood rushed helplessly into her face. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, and sensed the intent scrutiny from between his long dark lashes. They were the only incongruous feature of an otherwise profoundly masculine visage, and she remembered teasing him about them, and stroking her finger over their curling softness…
‘Jaime, please—’
The intenseness of her tone was a source of irritation to her, but she couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what he was doing, taunting her like this, and while her brain insisted that it shouldn’t matter to her how he behaved, her senses responded in a totally different way. He had always had this effect on her, right from the very beginning, and it was this, as much as anything, that terrified her now.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, and she hated him for his arrogance. ‘Why are you trembling? Do I threaten that sterile little world you’ve built around yourself?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or do I remind you of the fun we used to have, before you became so bloody sanctimonious?’
‘Before I discovered you were married, you mean?’ Rachel choked, getting abruptly to her feet, needing the self-assurance that came from being able, physically at least, to look down at him.
‘Okay.’ Jaime shrugged his shoulders indifferently, leaning back against the window with an indolence that both disturbed and infuriated her. ‘So you’ve said it. It’s what you’ve been wanting to say ever since you got here. Well, now I’ve given you the opportunity.’
‘You don’t care, do you?’ Rachel was incensed.
‘Was I supposed to?’ Jaime’s eyes were hard.
‘Don’t you care about—about anything but your own—your own—sexual gratification?’
Jaime’s mouth assumed a mocking tilt. ‘That’s a good old-fashioned way of describing it, I guess.’ One dark brow quirked upward. ‘But I have to say you seemed to enjoy it, too.’
‘You—you—’
‘Cad?’ Jaime pressed his weight down on the stick and got to his feet beside her, immediately reducing her advantage. ‘That’s another good old-fashioned expression. As you seem to be hooked on out-of-date attitudes.’
Rachel clenched her fists. ‘You—swine!’
‘Better.’ Jaime’s smile was malicious. ‘There may be hope for you yet. If you allowed a little more of the real Rachel Williams to emerge, we might find ourselves with a three-dimensional person again, instead of a cardboard cut-out.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this—’
‘Why? Am I getting too close to the truth?’
The sound of footsteps approaching across the hall stilled any response Rachel might have cared to make, and by the time Liz entered the room she had put the width of the hearth between her and Jaime, and was apparently engrossed in reading the cards on the mantelshelf.
‘Oh, you two have met, have you?’
Liz’s reaction was one of relief, although she glanced from her son to Rachel and back to her son again, with a doubtful expression marring her attractively ageing features.
‘We’ve been having a most interesting conversation,’ Jaime remarked, shifting his weight with evident discomfort, and his mother shook her head impatiently, indicating the seat behind him.
‘Do sit down,’ she exclaimed, anxiety colouring her tone. ‘You really should take more rest, Jaime. Dr Manning says it takes time for flesh to knit together.’
Jaime pulled a wry face, but he did sink down on to the window seat again with some relief, and glancing in his direction, Rachel knew a pang of guilt a
t her own obduracy. She had not even asked him how he was feeling, and although she despised herself for feeling that way, she knew she was still concerned about him.
‘So,’ Liz forced a lightness she was evidently far from feeling, ‘has Rachel told you about her promotion, Jaime? She’s an assistant editor now, isn’t that exciting? Who knows, she may produce her own programmes one day.’
‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Rachel deprecatingly, and Jaime’s cynical eyes probed her embarrassment.
‘She doesn’t have the right disposition,’ he remarked, addressing his mother, but evidently speaking for Rachel’s benefit. ‘Her ideals are too rigid. She doesn’t move with the times. Producers have to be modern in outlook, malleable in intent, they have to feel for their subject, and make allowances for human error. And also they need to be capable of distinguishing between truth and fabrication.’
‘And be sexually aware!’ exclaimed Rachel, unable to prevent the bitter retort, and Jaime inclined his head mockingly.
‘That, too, of course,’ he drawled, with heavy sarcasm, and Rachel longed to wipe the smug expression from his face.
CHAPTER THREE
‘OH, WELL—’ Liz licked her lips a trifle nervously, as if afraid she had accidentally stirred up the very hornets’ nest she had wanted to avoid. ‘I suppose we all have our opinions, don’t we?’ She cast an appealing glance in Rachel’s direction. ‘I should have known better than to speak of it in my son’s presence. Producers are not his favourite kind of animal.’
‘It’s all right.’ Rachel had herself in control again, and regretted her momentary lapse and any embarrassment it might have caused the older woman. ‘Fortunately—fortunately, we work for different television stations. Our methods are—different.’
‘Well, I’m sure we all wish you success in your career,’ declared Liz warmly, giving her son a reproving look. ‘It’s good to know a woman can succeed in a man’s world. Generally they seem to regard us as intellectual morons.’
‘Am I missing something?’
To Rachel’s, and to Liz’s, obvious relief, Robert Shard’s appearance was well timed. He came into the room behind his wife, arching his bushy grey brows at his son, and instantly alleviating the tense atmosphere.
‘Oh, we were just discussing Rachel’s work,’ Liz explained quickly, changing the subject before he could intervene. ‘What time are you leaving? Rachel says she’ll get me one or two things from the store, while you’re at the garage.’
‘I see.’ Robert looked thoughtfully at his son, apparently still assessing the situation, and Liz gazed imploringly at Jaime, entreating him not to rekindle the subsiding hostilities.
‘I think I’ll go up to my room,’ he said, responding to her silent appeal. ‘I’ve got some work to do, and Robin won’t be here before lunch, will he?’
‘Not before three,’ his mother acknowledged eagerly. ‘I—er—I’ll have Maisie fetch you up some coffee later. Is there anything I can get you?’
Jaime got to his feet, with his father’s assistance, and subjected Rachel to a momentary appraisal. ‘No,’ he said, and once again she felt he was speaking primarily to her. ‘I guess I’ve got everything I need,’ and with a tight smile he walked with difficulty through the door.
Robert waited until the sound of his son’s laboured ascent of the stairs reached them, then shook his head. ‘He seems—morose,’ he sighed in a low tone. ‘Subdued. Do you think he’s all right? You don’t think he’s holding anything back from us, do you? I had Manning give him a thorough examination, and so far as he could tell the wound in his thigh is the only injury.’
Liz pressed her lips together. ‘I’m sure he’s all right,’ she assured her husband soothingly. ‘He—well, I suppose it was bound to come as something of a shock, seeing Rachel again.’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then added hopefully: ‘Robin will be here this afternoon, and I know he’ll be delighted to see his brother. And Jaime hasn’t even seen his niece.’
‘It’s my fault really,’ said Rachel, with a heavy sigh, and ignoring Liz’s automatic protest she went on: ‘Jaime and I—we had an argument. I’m sure you’d all feel a lot easier if I left.’
‘I won’t hear of it.’ Robert spoke adamantly, and coming towards her he took her by the shoulders. ‘Now you listen to me, young woman—we invited you here, and that’s an end of it. If Jaime chooses to go and get himself shot, and lands up here without word or warning, that’s not our fault, nor is it yours.’
‘I don’t suppose he chose to get shot,’ Rachel observed mildly, but Robert only gave her a gentle shake.
‘You’re staying,’ he said, glancing round at his wife. ‘Isn’t that so, Liz? So go and put on your coat, or whatever it is you wear to keep warm, and we’ll be on our way to the village.’
Rachel expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘All right.’
‘Good.’ Robert let her go. ‘And don’t be too long. I don’t walk as fast as I used to.’
The walk to the village was invigorating, and Rachel felt herself begin to relax as soon as they were away from the house. With the wind whipping her hair into her eyes, and the frosty air bringing colour to her cheeks, she let the anxieties of the last few hours leave her, and gave herself up the enjoyment of the day.
‘You’ve been down here before, haven’t you?’ Robert asked, as they climbed the stile to take a short cut across the field, and Rachel nodded.
‘With Jaime,’ she said, deliberately bringing his name into their conversation, and Robert watched her face as he helped her down on to the field path.
‘That must be a good two years ago now,’ he said, setting the pace, and Rachel said: ‘Two and half years, nearly,’ as she quickened her step to accommodate him.
‘Two and a half years!’ Robert shook his head. ‘It doesn’t seem that long really, at least, not to me. So you must be—what? Twenty-one now, twenty-two?’
‘Twenty-three, actually,’ admitted Rachel, with a small smile. ‘We’re none of us getting any younger.’
‘Twenty-three!’ Robert grinned. ‘I wish I was twenty-three again. So Jaime must be thirty-two now, mustn’t he? He is nine years older than you, isn’t he? I forget.’
‘Thirty-two,’ Rachel agreed, pushing her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. ‘I’ve known him—almost five years. Or anyway, it’s almost five years since we first met.’
‘At the studios,’ remarked Robert thoughtfully, and Rachel nodded. Somehow she didn’t mind talking like this with Jaime’s father. Perhaps because she knew there was no bias on either side.
‘But you work for a different studio now, don’t you?’ he enquired, turning to look at her. ‘Didn’t Liz say you’d got some promotion?’
‘Well, yes. But I changed studios two years ago—’
‘After the break-up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity about that.’ Robert moved his broad shoulders regretfully. ‘Your changing jobs, I mean. I thought you liked working for London Westward. Surely you could have continued as you were.’
And risked the chance of running into Jaime at any hour of the day or night? thought Rachel, shivering in spite of herself. Oh, no! That she could not have borne. Particularly not in the beginning when she had been hurt and confused, and hopelessly vulnerable.
‘Isn’t that the vicarage over there?’ she asked now, pointing across the field, and Robert respected her evident desire to change the subject.
‘Yes, that’s old Conway’s country seat. Are you coming with me to see him, or would you rather press on?’
‘Oh, I think I’d rather carry on, if you don’t mind,’ replied Rachel, unwilling to get involved in further explanations with the vicar, who had been here since before she and Jaime had been involved with one another, and Robert acquiesced, and said he would meet her half an hour later at the garage.
But when Rachel arrived at the garage, which was situated just off the main street of the village, she found her escort had not yet ar
rived. The only people about were a boy busily employed in the job of changing the tyre on an old Land Rover, and a young man, who crawled out from under a car he was repairing on her arrival and asked if there was anything he could do to help her.
Even in the oil-smeared overalls he was wearing, he had an attractive appearance, and because it was a relief to meet someone who had no influence on her life, Rachel responded to the admiring smile he gave her.
‘I’m looking for Mr Shard, actually,’ she admitted, glancing about her. ‘He’s not arrived yet, has he? I’m supposed to meet him here.’
The young man put down the spanner he was holding and folded his arms. ‘You’re waiting for—Mr Shard. From Clere Heights?’
‘That’s right.’ Rachel weighed the shopping basket on her arm, and looked around for somewhere to deposit it. ‘He said he would meet me here at—well, five minutes ago, really. But obviously the vicar’s delayed him.’
‘I see.’ The young man looked over his shoulder. ‘Would you like to wait in the office, then, Miss—er—’
‘Williams,’ she replied dryly. ‘And yes, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to wait indoors. It’s sunny, but it’s very cold.’
‘Okay. Come this way.’
With a casual gesture he took the basket from her, then led the way across the yard and into a cosy, if rather untidy, office, adjoining the main body of the workshop.
‘This is my dad’s garage,’ he explained, as he set her basket down on the overflowing desk and switched on the bars of an electric fire. ‘I’m Terry Marshall, and I run the place for him.’
