A Moment in Time

by Yvonne Whittal

  'I don't want your contract!' she threw at him, stressing her refusal, and wishing he would go and leave her alone.

  'Do me a favour, Christie,' Sammy said, rallying swiftly and picking up the document which had lain on the carpeted floor at his feet. 'Just read it, and I'll call you in a couple of days.'

  He placed the contract on the telephone table beside the door and left, and she was alone at last.

  Christie started shaking. She was shaking so much that she had difficulty in locking the door and sliding the safety chain into position. She had never been this angry and disappointed before. Sammy had insulted Lyle, and he had deliberately placed a new barrier between Lyle and herself. Lyle, on the other hand, should have given her the opportunity to explain how she felt about the contracts Sammy periodically pestered her to sign, but instead he had jumped to the obvious conclusion, and he had left Sammy victorious by walking out on her.

  Damn, Sammy! And damn Lyle for not trusting her a little more. If she had to decide who was to blame for ruining her life, then they were both equally guilty, and in that moment of anger she mentally washed her hands of both of them.

  She was still fuming quietly when she was lying in bed that night, but her anger vanished when she switched off the light, and she found herself lying there in the darkness fighting against a depression which seemed to weigh her down. She felt lonely and miserable, but she was not going to wallow in self-pity. She had to think. She had to decide about her future, and she would have to do so without being influenced by her emotions, but somehow her mind was in a ruthless turmoil of indecision that gave her no peace during the long, dark hours before dawn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dennis arrived at Christie's flat a week later, and he found her looking like a ghost of her former self. Pale and hollow-eyed, Christie invited him in, and he followed her silently into the kitchen. She was glad that he had come, she decided while she made coffee. He was someone to talk to, and someone to laugh with, but the problem was that she had a stronger desire to cry.

  She was aware of Dennis's eyes following her as she moved about her small kitchen, and she knew why. No matter how skilfully she had applied her make-up, she could not disguise the evidence of her sleepless nights, and Dennis was an observant and shrewd young man.

  'Have you been ill?' he asked eventually, coming up beside her and leaning against the cupboard to observe her intently.

  'No, I haven't.' She tried to evade his question. 'I haven't been sleeping too well lately, but that's nothing unusual.'

  'Are you worried about something?'

  'Why should I be worried about anything?' she counter-questioned evasively, but she could feel that she was weakening.

  'You can answer that question better than I can,' he said, watching her while she poured their coffee and added milk to it. 'I was merely thinking that it helps sometimes to talk to a friend who is impartial.' He leaned closer to her so that she was forced to meet his glance. 'You can trust me, Christie, you know that, don't you?'

  'I know,' she smiled slightly, touching his cheek lightly with her fingers, but her delicate features sobered the next instant, and her eyes mirrored her torment. 'God knows, I suppose I need someone to talk to if I don't want to go slightly crazy,' she heard herself confessing.

  'Let's take our coffee through to the lounge, then you can tell me all about it,' he suggested, and Christie did not argue as she led the way out of the kitchen.

  She did not want to burden anyone with her problems, least of all Dennis, but her resistance was low, and somehow he succeeded in wheedling the truth out of her. Bit by agonising bit, she found herself telling him almost everything from the first moment she had met Lyle. Once she had started she found that she could not stop, and it poured from her lips like matter escaping from a festering wound to ease some of the pain. If she had expected Dennis to be shocked at the discovery that she had once been married to Lyle, then she was disappointed. He took the news calmly, and he quietly encouraged her to continue until she had reached the point where Lyle had walked out of her flat a week ago.

  Dennis had lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then he looked up at her and asked bluntly, 'Do you blame the professor for thinking you were going to sign that contract?'

  'No,' she shook her head miserably, 'but I do blame him for not giving me the opportunity to explain.'

  'Perhaps he's just as afraid as you are of being hurt a second time.'

  'Perhaps,' she agreed, her mind bouncing his theory about, but without much success. 'I'm so confused, and I wish I knew what to do,' she groaned, pressing her fingers against her tired eyes.

  'Have you thought of going to him and explaining everything?'

  'I've telephoned three times in an attempt to speak to him, but he was either out, or in conference with someone.' A cynical smile twisted her lovely mouth. 'I left a message, asking him to contact me, but I imagine it was too much to hope for that he would respond, or come to me when he must know that he has been too hasty in his judgment.'

  'The professor has his pride, and so have you, it seems,' Dennis said, placing a harsh finger on the core of the problem. 'One of you will have to overcome that obstacle, and the obvious one is you.'

  'Haven't I tried?' she demanded indignantly.

  'Perhaps you haven't tried hard enough, Christie.' He slammed the ball back into her court. 'I think you and the professor haven't been honest with each other, and if you love him enough, then you can't let pride stand in your way.'

  'You think I should bury what little pride I have left and go on my knees to him?'

  Dennis's green gaze met hers challengingly. 'If you want him enough you'll go to him and clear up this misunderstanding between you.'

  Christie had come to this same conclusion often enough during those long sleepless hours, but her awful pride, and a gnawing fear, had always made her cast aside the thought. 'What if he rejects me?'

  'What if he doesn't?' Dennis bounced back. 'Could you live with the uncertainty of never knowing? Could you cope with the knowledge that you never tried?'

  She considered this for a moment and felt herself shrink inwardly. 'What you're saying makes sense, but that doesn't prevent me from being afraid.'

  'If you want something badly enough you ought to go all out to get it,' he argued. 'How badly do you want the professor?'

  Christie could not answer him immediately. He had asked her a question which she had not paused to ask herself during the agonising hours of the past week, but now she was being forced to delve a little deeper into her soul for the answer.

  'I want him so badly that I gave up my career three years ago because it meant nothing to me without him, and I've always hoped that somehow… someday… he would come back to me,' she said at length, and her hyacinth-blue eyes were shimmering with tears she could not hide.

  'If you had the courage to give up your career,' Dennis concluded quietly, 'then you shouldn't have a problem overcoming your pride and fear of confronting him.'

  Christie stared at him through a blur of hot tears. It was strange how everything had suddenly shifted into place, and it had taken someone like Dennis to help her get things into perspective. She had selfishly thought only of herself, and she had never taken into consideration that Lyle also had his pride. She could not blame him for thinking the worst. She had let him down once before because of the rigid demands her career had made on her, and it was obvious now that the next move had to be hers. If he rejected her, then she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that she had tried, but, while there was still a slim chance that he would accept her explanation, there was hope.

  'Thank you,' she whispered shakily when Dennis got up to leave, and she rose quickly to kiss him briefly on the cheek.

  He looked taken aback. 'What are you thanking me for?'

  'For everything,' she told him sincerely, 'but most of all for being such a good friend.'

  Christie was left with a lot to think about, and there was a great
deal of pain involved in her self-analysis. When Lyle had walked out on her five years ago she had had no choice but to let him go, but this time she was in a position to do something about it. It was only fair that she should go to Lyle and explain to him how wrong he had been in thinking that she had contemplated signing that contract and, regardless of how he felt about her, she had to tell him somehow that she loved him.

  She was impatient now to get it over with before her courage failed her, and she glanced up at the digital wall-clock in the kitchen. It was eight-fifteen, and still early enough to take a drive out to Lyle's home, but she hesitated. Her pride was finding a list of plausible reasons why she ought not to go, and she wasted precious seconds fighting a silent battle with herself while she rinsed the cups and left them in the rack to dry. She had to see Lyle; she had to clear the air between them, and it was that thought which helped her to emerge the victor.

  She entered her bedroom at a running pace to put on a warm jacket and to check her make-up, but nervousness suddenly knotted her insides. Explaining to Lyle about the contract was going to be easy, but telling him that she loved him was going to take a great deal more courage than she possessed at that moment.

  Her fingers fiddled absently with the gold pendant hanging about her throat, and her eyes absently followed the action in the mirror, but the next instant an incredible idea took shape in her mind. The ivory discs! She would take them with her and, if she gave Lyle the appropriate one, he would know at once what she was trying to tell him, and this would give her the opportunity to explain how she had found the matching disc.

  Excitement boosted her courage and, with the blue velvet pouch in her jacket pocket, she left her flat and took the lift down to the basement where her Mazda was parked. She drove through the busy, well-lit city streets, and out towards the suburb where Lyle lived. She knew the address, but finding it in the dark took most of her concentration and left her no time to rehearse what she was going to say.

  The lights were on in Lyle's Tudor-style home, but for some inexplicable reason Christie decided to park her car at the gate and to walk along the curved path to the front entrance. The driveway lay to her left, and through the privet hedge she glimpsed a car parked there which did not belong to Lyle. She hesitated. Perhaps she should have telephoned rather than bursting in on him like this when he obviously had visitors.

  Indecision made her pause at the foot of the steps leading up to the door with the stained-glass windows above it. Had she come this far only to turn back? Would she have the courage to bring herself this far again? Too much time had been wasted already, she decided firmly, and she was not going to waste another minute if she could help it.

  Christie ascended the half-dozen steps, and the heels of her shoes clicked loudly on the quarry tiles when she walked the short distance towards the door. Her heart was beating in her throat, and her hand was shaking visibly when she pressed the button beside the door. She could hear the bell chiming somewhere in the house, and moments later the door was opened by a white-coated black man.

  'I'd like to see Professor Venniker,' she answered to his polite query, and the door was opened wider to admit her into a spacious, thickly carpeted entrance hall which was bare except for a small rosewood table being used as a telephone stand.

  She was led across the hall, past the wide staircase, and down a right turning passage towards a door which stood slightly ajar. The man knocked and stepped into the room. 'A lady to see you, sir.'

  Christie could not hear Lyle's reply, she was deaf to everything except the thundering beat of her heart, and then she was being gestured into that room while the black man retreated silently. She swallowed nervously, scraped together her flagging courage, and entered the room, but the next instant everything seemed to freeze inside her.

  Sonia Deacon was leaning against the mantelshelf in the book-lined study, and Lyle was standing close to her with a look of annoyance on his face as if he disliked this intrusion. Christie felt as if she had turned into a solid block of ice, and the pain that accompanied it was so intense that she had to clench her jaw for fear of crying out with the agony of it.

  'It seems to me, darling, you can forget about that peaceful, quiet evening, you were hoping for,' Sonia purred into the awkward silence, while a slender, scarlet-tipped hand reached out to clasp his arm possessively, and that gesture spoke louder than words. 'He's mine, and don't you forget it!' it said.

  'What can I do for you?' Lyle asked, his features granite-hard, and his voice coldly impersonal as if he was addressing a stranger.

  Christie stood white-faced and frozen. She tried to speak, but no sound passed her stiff lips, and Lyle's sudden burst of harsh laughter mocked her ruthlessly.

  'Are you going to stand there all evening without giving me an explanation for your intrusion into my home?' he demanded bitingly.

  Christie felt as if she had become enmeshed in a nightmare from which there was no escape, and somewhere deep down inside her a door slammed shut. 'I—I was hoping that I could—could talk to you about something important, but there—there's no longer the necessity for it.'

  Sonia's beautiful features adopted a look of angelic concern. 'If I'm in the way, then I'm perfectly willing to leave you alone for a while.'

  'That won't be necessary!' Christie bit out the words.

  'Well, if you're sure…' Sonia's voice tapered off into a clever and significant silence, but Christie knew that her consideration was as false as her eyelashes.

  The only thing Christie wanted at that moment was to get out of that house as fast as her trembling legs would carry her, but she still had some unfinished business to attend to. Her hand dipped into the pocket of her jacket and emerged again clutching the small blue pouch. Her fingers tightened about it jealously for a brief moment, then a smile of self-mockery curved her wide mouth.

  'I have something which belongs to you, Lyle.' Her voice was choked with suppressed tears as she dropped the pouch on to his desk, and with it she shed the last fragment of her foolish hopes and dreams. 'Goodbye… and good luck,' she added in a thin whisper, then she turned and fled.

  Christie's running footsteps made no sound on the carpeted floor in the hall, and she was almost blind with pain when she wrenched open the door and raced out into the darkness of the garden. Her fingers were so cold that it seemed to take ages before she succeeded in fumbling the key into her car's ignition, but the next instant she pulled away from the curb with a speed that made the tyres squeal on the tarmac.

  He had lied to her about Sonia! That was the only thought stabbing through her tortured mind as she gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead of her with dry, stinging eyes. He had lied to her about Sonia, and he had made her believe that there was a chance they could recapture what they had once had. Oh, what a fool she had been! What an idiot!

  The traffic lights stopped her at an intersection, and she tapped her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel as a cold, frightening anger took possession of her, shutting out the pain. Lyle would never again have the opportunity to humiliate her like this. Never again!

  The lights changed to green and she put her foot down hard on the accelerator. The Mazda shot across the white line, and suddenly there was a car bearing down on her from the left. She was aware of its headlights stabbing at her eyes as she tried to avoid it, but her state of mind had slowed down her reflexes, and seconds later she felt a crunching jolt as the car collided with her Mazda.

  In her haste to get away from Lyle's house she had neglected to use her safety belt, and the impact flung her forward like a lifeless doll. There was a stabbing pain in her head as it slammed against the steering wheel. Light and sound was magnified for an instant, then a blanket of darkness shifted over her.

  Christie could not recall afterwards whether she had regained consciousness slightly, or whether she had simply had a weird, cruel dream that Lyle was there beside her, clasping her hand tightly in his. If her mind had simply conjured up
his image, then she had not objected to it. She had drawn strength from his imaginary presence, and she had clung gratefully to that strong hand.

  It was at dawn the following morning that Christie regained her consciousness sufficiently to realise that she was in hospital. She could not recall for a moment why she was there, and then she remembered the accident and everything that had occurred before it. She had also had a recurring dream that Lyle was sitting next to her bed. She could still see his white, grim face, but there was no one there now, and neither was there a chair next to the bed. It could only have been her subconscious mind which had conjured up his presence.

  'Good morning, Mrs Venniker,' a bright and cheery voice greeted Christie, and she frowned at the white-clad nursing sister approaching her bed.

  Mrs Venniker?

  'How do you feel this morning?' the woman asked while Christie still fought to absorb and analyse her form of address.

  'I ache all over and my head is pounding, Christie confessed as the sister checked her blood-pressure.

  'That's only to be expected, but it will ease off as the day progresses,' the woman assured her brightly, checking the reading on the sphygmomanometer and smiling as she freed Christie's arm.

  'I haven't broken anything, have I?' Christie moved her body cautiously and winced.

  'You have a small cut beneath the hairline of your forehead, and other than that you have a couple of nasty bruises which may make life a little uncomfortable during the next few days.'

  A thermometer was pushed beneath Christie's tongue which prevented her from speaking, and cool fingers gripped her wrist to check her pulse-rate. The sister smiled and nodded with something close to approval, and moved down to the bottom of the bed to make the necessary notes on the chart which hung there conveniently.