by Anne Mather
‘No.’ Rachel’s hands were trembling so much, she could hardly hold on to the receiver. ‘You mean—you mean you—’
‘I’m Betsy’s father, yes. Didn’t Jaime tell you?’
‘No. I—why—’ Rachel found it almost impossible to think coherently.
‘I thought you knew. I thought he told you,’ exclaimed Jack Morrison disbelievingly. ‘But surely, when you two split up, he explained the situation then?’
‘No. No.’ Rachel was holding the phone away from her ear now, almost as if by doing so, she was keeping his words from her. ‘I—I’m sorry, I had no idea. You must believe that.’
‘It doesn’t matter, my dear.’ Mr Morrison sounded almost conciliatory. ‘I’m only sorry you and Jaime didn’t make it. He’s a good man, and he deserves some happiness.’
Rachel gasped. ‘How—how can you, as—as Betsy’s father—say that?’
‘Why not?’ Mr Morrison expelled his breath heavily. ‘I learned long ago that one has to be realistic, Rachel. I fooled myself for far too long.’
Rachel couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You mean—you condoned Jaime—Jaime’s—’
‘The happiness he found with you?’ he interrupted her quietly. ‘Of course. Why not? It was my fault. Everything that happened was my fault. If I hadn’t blinded myself to the truth—’
‘Oh, I don’t want to hear this!’ Rachel couldn’t stand any more. ‘Please! The past is over, it’s done with. I—I—just don’t tell Jaime I rang, that’s all. Th-thank you.’
She put the phone down then, while she still had the co-ordination of her muscles to do so, then rested both elbows on the desk as she cupped her face in her hands. Dear God, what manner of man was Jack Morrison to denounce his daughter like that, and what manner of man was Jaime to take advantage of it?
She was shaking so much, she felt physically ill, and the realisation that Jaime was here, in London, and had never left the country at all, filled her with indignation. How could he deceive his parents like that? How could he leave on some trumped-up assignment without giving them a second thought? Robin was right. There had been no call from London. Jaime had left because it suited him to do so, and she refused to acknowledge that most of her resentment stemmed from the fact that he had evidently wanted to get away from her.
* * *
By lunchtime she had herself in control again, and with this control came the realisation that if she could contact Jaime now, he might reach Newcastle in time to be with his mother. No matter how unwilling she was to face him again, particularly today after her telephone conversation with Jack Morrison, it was something she had to do, and putting it off could only aggravate the situation.
In consequence, she telephoned the studios again at twelve o’clock, and this time she asked to speak to Jaime himself.
‘Who shall I say is calling, miss?’ asked the receptionist politely, and Rachel heaved a sigh.
‘Miss Williams,’ she said wearily, and tightened her hand around the receiver.
The silence stretched as she waited for them to find him, and she thought it would be just her luck if he had already left for lunch. But after a few minutes she heard the click as her call was connected, and presently Jaime’s attractive voice came on the line.
‘Rachel?’ he said, and there was an underlying note of—what? Anger? Curiosity? Anticipation? ‘Rachel, where are you calling from?’
‘My office. Where else?’ said Rachel flatly. ‘Jaime, I—I know this is short notice, but—could I see you?’
Another silence sharpened her nerves, stretching them intolerably, making her skin raw and tender to the touch. She could almost feel his mind working, probing the implications of her invitation, trying to anticipate why she might want to see him.
‘You mean—this evening?’ he said at last. ‘I—er—I’m pretty tied up at present. But we could have dinner—’
‘No, I mean now,’ Rachel inserted briefly. ‘I thought we might meet for lunch. I appreciate you’re busy, but this is rather—important.’
Jaime was clearly nonplussed by her urgency, and she wondered if it would have been simpler just to go to the studios and see him there. But she had wanted to avoid all those faces who had once known her so well, and known of the reasons behind her resignation from LWTV.
‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘We’ll have lunch.’ He paused. ‘Do you mind if it’s just a bar snack?’
‘Not at all.’ Rachel thought it might be easier in a public bar. And easier, too, to leave once she had delivered her message.
They arranged to meet at the Dragon, a pub midway between his office and hers, and Rachel quickly repaired her make-up before leaving the building. This was one occasion when she wanted to look her best, but she was not very happy with her hollow-eyed appearance. She looked—haunted, she thought impatiently, then brushed the thought aside as she went to hail a cab.
Jaime was waiting outside the pub, hands thrust into the pockets of his denim pants, a black leather jacket completing his ensemble. It was hardly the outfit for a January day, with lowering skies threatening snow, and a chill wind whipping up the last of the leaves in the park, but he seemed not to feel the cold. He had shed his stick, she saw, though he still favoured his left leg as he came to help her out of the taxi, but he had recovered that air of arrogance that she remembered so well.
‘Rachel,’ he said, when she was standing beside him on the pavement, looking up into his dark face. And then more thickly: ‘Rachel!’ as he covered her parted lips with his own.
It was an intimate kiss, made the more so by Rachel’s involuntary response to it, her quickened breathing promoting an emotional reaction that was both unexpected and unwanted.
‘Don’t!’ she exclaimed, pulling back from him after a moment, her fingers pressed against her lips like some outraged heroine. ‘I—I—what on earth do you think you’re doing?’ and she saw the anger come to replace the warmth of passion in his eyes.
With hardening features, he stepped back from her then, the hands that had gripped her shoulders dropping to his sides, his mouth thinning into a narrow line. ‘Why did you want to see me, Rachel?’ he asked, without curiosity or expression, and Rachel expelled her breath wearily, feeling completely unequal to the task.
‘Shall—shall we go inside?’ she suggested, gesturing towards the building, and Jaime inclined his head politely.
‘Ah, yes, lunch,’ he inferred bleakly. ‘Of course, we mustn’t forget why you came.’
‘I’ll pay for my own,’ declared Rachel, as they passed through the porch entrance, but Jaime only compressed his lips.
‘Just tell me what you want,’ he suggested coldly, and she ordered a Martini and a ham sandwich, not really caring what she ate.
They managed to find a table in the corner, surrounded on all sides by businessmen and secretaries, all chattering loudly, and filling the air with a cloud of cigarette smoke. It was noisy, but private for all that, and Rachel waited until Jaime had seated himself on the stool beside her before she broached what she had to say.
‘I promised Liz I’d speak to you,’ she said, nibbling at the corner of her sandwich, noticing as she did so he had ordered himself only liquid refreshment. ‘She—I—well, she wanted to speak to you herself, but with you leaving so unexpectedly—’
Jaime glanced her way. ‘Didn’t you tell her she was wasting her time?’
‘Wasting her time?’ Rachel was confused. ‘Why should I tell her that?’
‘Oh, come on.’ He gave her a cynical look. ‘You know as well as I do what my mother’s hopes are, so far as you and I are concerned. Why didn’t you just explain that you’re so Goddamned selfish you don’t give a cuss for anyone’s feelings but your own?’
‘That’s not true!’ Rachel was indignant. ‘I care—of course I care. I care about your mother.’
Jaime looked sceptical, raising his Scotch to his lips and drinking it without pause. Then, before she could say anything more, he returned to the
bar and ordered himself another one, carrying it back to their table with evident reluctance.
‘So—go on,’ he said wearily, after he was seated again. ‘What does Ma want you to tell me? That I should go on hoping, when all hope is gone?’
‘No!’ But Rachel was disturbed in spite of herself. ‘Jaime, I don’t want to quarrel with you.’
‘Don’t you?’ His brow quirked. ‘Why not? Maybe it would clear the air between us. I could do with a damn good row to get rid of your tainted image!’
‘Jaime!’ Rachel glanced about her anxiously, but fortunately no one seemed at all interested in their conversation. ‘Jaime, what I have to tell you isn’t personal at all—at least, not to me. It’s your mother, Jaime. She—she’s having an operation. Today.’
If the whisky had given him a temporary release from the problems of the day, her words had an immediately sobering effect. With careful deliberation he set down his glass, and facing her tautly he said: ‘What kind of operation?’
Rachel chose her words cautiously. ‘It’s an abdominal operation. To remove a growth—’
‘Cancer, you mean?’ Jaime was impatient.
‘Could be.’ Rachel nodded vigorously. ‘But no one knows yet if the growth is malignant.’
‘God!’ Jaime raked his fingers over his scalp. ‘How long has she known?’
‘I don’t know. Not long, I think. But she wanted to wait until after New Year to have the operation. She didn’t want to spoil Christmas—’
‘My God!’
‘That—that was really why she invited me to—to Clere Heights,’ Rachel went on steadily. ‘She wanted me to tell you. She—she didn’t expect you to be home, you see.’
Jaime looked haggard. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go and see her.’
‘Yes.’
‘What time did you say this operation was taking place?’
‘This afternoon. I’m not sure of the time.’
‘So if I caught the early evening flight, I could be with her when she wakes up.’
Rachel nodded. ‘I think she’d like that.’
Jaime nodded, too. Then he looked at Rachel. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Oh, no.’ Rachel moved her head awkwardly from side to side. ‘I mean, she doesn’t need me. She just wanted me to—to tell you. She thought you were away, you see.’ She paused. ‘We all did.’
Jaime’s brows descended. ‘So how did you find out that I wasn’t?’
Rachel sighed. ‘I rang the studios—your studios—to find out what plane you were flying back on.’
‘I see.’ Jaime’s mouth was hard. ‘Well, you can’t blame me for that. I thought it was the best thing to do.’
Rachel’s jaw quivered. ‘Best for you, you mean.’
‘All right.’ He didn’t try to deny it. ‘After what happened, I knew I had to get away.’
‘There was no need.’ Rachel bent her head. ‘I could have gone. Your family would have preferred that.’
‘Did they say so?’
‘No. But it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Rachel’s lips were tight. Then: ‘When—when do you go away again?’
‘I don’t.’ Jaime’s voice was flat now. ‘As a matter of fact, Masota was my last assignment. Isn’t that ironic?’
Rachel stared at him. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Freelance. Write. Produce that best-seller that’s every newsman’s dream.’
‘But—’ Rachel shook her head, ‘can you do that?’
‘Why not? I’m not hard up. I can give myself a year at least, to discover what kind of talent I’ve got. If it doesn’t work out I can always go back to reporting, or producing. Max says he’ll give me a trial, if I’m desperate.’
‘And—and will you stay in London?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ He frowned. ‘I guess it will depend how Ma makes out.’ He shrugged. ‘But if all goes well, I may take a trip to the Pacific. I rather like those islands south of Fiji.’
Rachel absorbed what he was saying without further comment. In spite of all her testimony to the contrary, the idea of Jaime leaving London for good filled her with dismay. It was one thing to sever their relationship, knowing he was only the price of a telephone call away, and quite another to accept that not only would he be out of sight but also out of reach.
‘Well, I guess that’s it, isn’t it?’ Jaime said now, finishing his drink, and Rachel hastily pushed her scarcely-touched sandwich aside. ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ he added, getting to his feet. ‘I wasn’t very polite, and I should have been.’
‘It’s all right.’ Rachel stood up also, stiff and apprehensive, and Jaime’s mouth twisted in sudden comprehension.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I won’t touch you again. This time I know it’s for ever.’
Is it? Is it?
The desperate plea was never spoken, and somehow Rachel managed to follow him to the door. Outside, the cold air quickly dissipated any lingering sense of melancholy, and she nodded quite composedly as he bid her goodbye.
‘Good luck,’ he said shortly, then turned away, and had disappeared into the lunchtime crowd before she could make any response.
* * *
Rachel phoned the Newcastle hospital that evening to find out how Liz was, but when she explained that she was not a member of the family, only a friend, she was asked if she would ring back again in the morning. Rachel guessed the staff were busy and overworked, and were unwilling to supply information to outsiders at such a time, and resigned herself to the overnight wait. Surely nothing was wrong; surely there could be no other reason for their reticence, she consoled herself, but all the same, a small core of anxiety formed inside her.
She thought about Jaime constantly. She thought of the shock the news of his mother’s illness had been to him, and the lonely journey north, with no one to talk to, or share his anxieties with. She should have gone with him, she chided herself tautly, then dismissed the suggestion, and the implications of its inception. What was wrong with her? Was she losing what little self-respect she had left? Whatever happened, her relationship with Jaime was over. But that didn’t prevent the realisation that she loved him still.
It had crept up on her slowly, this acknowledgement of her own weakness. It had begun the first evening she arrived at Clere Heights, she realised now. She had thought it was compassion, and compassion had been part of it, but it was more, so much more, than that impersonal emotion. When Jaime kissed her in the hall, after they had fallen among the lights for the tree, she had felt the first stirrings of emotions she had told herself were dead, and the morning he had made love to her she had been angry because she had known how easily he could overwhelm her paltry defences. Even knowing of his betrayal, and the undeniable truth of his marriage, she could not deny her feelings, and the bitter awareness that without him life was just an empty shell.
When he spoke of leaving London she was filled with fear and apprehension. She faced a future secure in virtue, and sterile of all hope. Was that what she was made for? Would she some day regret what she had done? And what did it matter what she thought, when Jaime had accepted it was over, and she did not have the temerity to approach him?
CHAPTER TEN
SLEEP WAS a long time in coming that night, and although she must have lost consciousness for a time, Rachel was wide awake when her doorbell pealed around six o’clock. Groping for the lamp on the bedside table, she struggled out of bed, then hesitated nervously in her nightdress, wondering who it could be.
Her flat was in a converted house in a quiet backwater near the Cromwell Road, and although she shared the building with half a dozen other tenants she could not imagine any of them coming and waking her up at this hour of the morning. Her milk and her mail she collected from a rack downstairs, and there was no one else she could think of who might come to her door.
The bell rang again, more insistently this time, and as she pulled on a fluffy pink dressing gown there was a hammering on her door too, and Jaime
’s weary voice calling: ‘Rachel! Rachel, are you in there? Open the door, for God’s sake! I have to talk to you.’
She didn’t stop to put on her slippers, running barefoot across the living room to throw open the door. When she did so, Jaime roused himself from his propped position against the wall and trudged his way heavily into the flat.
He looked awful, she had time to register that, in those first few moments before he spoke. He hadn’t slept, that much was obvious, and there was a night’s growth of beard on his chin, and he was still wearing the leather jacket and denim pants he had worn to lunch the day before.
‘She’s dead!’ he announced, without preamble, and Rachel, who had half been expecting it, grasped the back of a chair for support. ‘Dead,’ he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. ‘Isn’t that the most bloody thing you ever heard?’
Rachel gestured helplessly towards the sofa. ‘Sit down,’ she said, afraid if he didn’t he might fall down, and she would never have the strength to lift him. ‘I’ll make some coffee, while you rest a while. I’m sorry, I haven’t anything stronger, or I’d give it to you.’
‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ he demanded, taking no notice of her suggestion. ‘Don’t you want to know how I got here? Why I’m here?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Rachel tautly. ‘And you know I can’t possibly tell you how sorry I am. But—but you must rest or you’ll be ill, too. You—you obviously haven’t slept.’
‘No, I haven’t slept,’ he agreed dourly, but now he flung himself on to the couch, to look up at her haggard-eyed. ‘I expect you’re thinking I should have stayed with Dad, aren’t you? Well, he has Robin and Nancy, while I—I—’ He broke off then, and buried his face in his hands. ‘God help me, I needed you!’
Rachel’s whole body responded to the need to comfort him, but when she came to sit down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders, he shook her off like a rabid dog.
‘Don’t touch me!’ he muttered. ‘I don’t need your sympathy! Do you think I’m proud of myself for admitting that I had to see you?’
