For Better for Worse

by Penny Jordan

  ‘What you need is to surround yourself with a large brood of children,’ Jade had informed her once.

  A large brood of children. To compensate for the loneliness of her own solitary childhood. She grimaced. Thirty-eight was no age to start suffering those sort of urges, she told herself.

  There were women of course who did have babies at thirty-eight and older. Second families to go with their second husbands.

  She and Marcus had discussed having children of their own. She had heard that a new baby was often a successful way of linking together all the tenuous branches of an extended family relationship.

  But they had agreed that they did not need to cement their love in that way. It was out of the question in any case. The house wasn’t big enough for them all as it was; and with the commitment she had made to the company, plus the extra demands made on her time as Marcus’s wife… There were a surprisingly large number of events he was obliged to attend, and of course as his wife she wanted to go with him… to be with him.

  The trouble was, their lives were so busy, so fast-paced, that despite the fact that they were married, sometimes they had less time to spend together now than they had done in the days when they had first met.

  She was discovering within herself an increasing need for more time, more space; for a slower, less frenetic pace of life, one that gave her a chance to appreciate things more. There never seemed to be enough time to enjoy anything any more, to savour life’s pleasures.

  Even their lovemaking had increasingly become rushed and hurried; something they had to make a conscious effort to make time for.

  Gone were the days when they could spend the whole afternoon, the whole evening, and even, luxuriously, the whole morning in bed, as they had done in the days before they had married. How much she had enjoyed them, those special intimate hours spent in the privacy of Marcus’s house or her flat, hours when they had been completely and blissfully alone.

  Now it seemed as though they were never alone.

  Did Marcus feel as uncomfortable making love to her with her children under the same roof as she sometimes did with his, or was that something that only women suffered? Or perhaps only women with almost adult teenage stepdaughters.

  She hoped that there was nothing wrong in Louise and Paul’s relationship. She might not like him, but Louise loved him. He was a wonderful father, she had told Eleanor, almost doting on their two boys and fully involved in every aspect of their lives.

  Yes, almost to the point where he was almost deliberately excluding Louise herself from the macho male world he was building around his sons, Eleanor reflected.

  Marcus got on well enough with Tom and even better with Gavin, but he simply wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed exclusively male pursuits, and of course he was not after all their father. As Louise herself had rather unnecessarily remarked the other day when she had been contrasting Paul’s almost excessive involvement in his sons’ lives to Marcus’s attitude towards Tom and Gavin.

  Unnecessarily and tactlessly… Eleanor frowned, nibbling the nail of her index finger. As a child she had bitten her nails, and as a young adult… a young wife and mother. After her divorce she had told herself that she was going to stop biting her nails, and once she had done so she had told herself that if she could do that she could do anything; and yet here she was, happier and more fulfilled than she had ever been at any other time in her life, reverting to this destructive childhood habit.

  What was the matter with her? In a month’s time she and Marcus would have been married for exactly one year. On the day of their wedding she had been filled with such happiness, such optimism… such confidence.

  But then she hadn’t realised how difficult it was going to be to integrate their lives together fully, and not just their lives but those of their children as well.

  Her phone rang and she reached out to pick up the receiver, her mouth curling into a delighted smile as she heard Marcus’s voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Darling, what a lovely surprise.’

  ‘Eleanor, can you come home? The school’s been on the phone. Apparently Tom isn’t very well. I’m going to collect him now, but I suspect that it’s you he’s going to want.’

  ‘Tom? What’s wrong with him? Did they say?’

  ‘Don’t panic. I doubt that it can be anything very serious, otherwise they’d have rung the hospital, not me. They did try to get in touch with you, apparently, but they were told you were in conference…’

  In conference. They must have telephoned while she was with Pierre Colbert, Eleanor recognised. Guilt overwhelmed her. Was she imagining it or had that been irritation she had heard in Marcus’s voice? She knew how much he hated being disturbed when he was working, and she was Tom’s mother, after all.

  She got up, grabbing her coat and bag and hurrying into the outer office. Claire wasn’t there so she knocked briefly on Louise’s door and walked in.

  Louise was on the telephone.

  ‘No, I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t—’ When she looked up and saw her, Louise stared at her for a moment, her face flushing, and then she said quickly into the receiver, ‘Look, I must go.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Eleanor apologised. ‘I’ve got to go home. Tom isn’t well. He’s been sent home from school. Luckily I don’t have any appointments…’

  Louise wasn’t really listening to her, Eleanor realised. Her face was still flushed, and she seemed to be avoiding looking at her. She was uncomfortable with her, Eleanor recognised with a small stab of shock. At any other time she would have instantly queried that recognition, but her concern for Tom and her guilt over not being there, over perhaps even not having recognised earlier that he wasn’t well, overrode everything else.

  As she drove home, she cursed the traffic, heavy and congested even at this time of day, the smell of petrol and stale air rising chokingly inside her car. The tension which never seemed to totally leave her these days became an insistent demanding tattoo of impatience inside her head.

  Although the house possessed a garage it was only large enough for Marcus’s car, and irritatingly someone else was already parked outside their house, so that she had to drive halfway down the street before she could find anywhere to stop.

  Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door. She hurried in, calling out to Marcus in a low voice.

  ‘In here,’ he told her, emerging from his study,

  ‘Tom—?’ she demanded quickly, glancing towards the stairs.

  ‘He’s in the kitchen,’ Marcus told her.

  ‘The kitchen!’ Eleanor stared at him, tension and guilt exploding into a sudden surge of anger. Would he be taking this casual, laid-back attitude if it were his child who was sick?

  Instantly she suppressed the thought, knowing it to be unfair and shaken that she could even have given birth to it.

  Dropping her briefcase in the hall, she hurried into the kitchen. Tom was curled up in a chair in the living area, his attention focused on the flickering images on the television set.

  ‘Tom?’

  When he made no response, Eleanor called his name a little louder.

  Reluctantly he turned to look at her.

  He did look pale, she acknowledged, her heart thumping sickeningly. Why hadn’t she noticed that this morning? She was his mother, after all.

  ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ she asked him as she hurried over to him and placed her hand against his forehead. He didn’t feel particularly hot.

  ‘Sick. I feel sick,’ he told her plaintively. ‘I told you that this morning…’

  Eleanor winced as she heard the accusation in his voice. He had said something about not wanting to go to school but she had put that down to the fact that it was Monday morning and that he was grumpy because he had overslept.

  ‘I was sick after assembly,’ he told her. ‘In Mr Pringle’s class.’

  Her heart sank even further.

  ‘I feel funny, Mum. My head hurts and my neck.’


  Her stomach muscles tensed. The papers had recently been carrying details of several cases of meningitis.

  ‘What about your eyes?’ she asked him anxiously. ‘Do they hurt?’

  ‘Yes… a bit…’

  Half an hour later, after she had got him into bed and telephoned the doctor, she asked Marcus anxiously, ‘Do you think it could be meningitis?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Marcus told her wryly. ‘I suspect it’s much more likely to be Mondayitis, plus the illicit carton of ice-cream he had for supper last night.’

  Eleanor stared at him. ‘What illicit carton of ice-cream?’

  ‘The one I found this morning.’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He says his eyes are hurting him.’

  ‘He says, or you suggested?’ Marcus asked her.

  ‘I’m your wife, Marcus,’ she snapped at him. ‘Not an opposition witness.’ She saw him frowning, but before she could apologise the doorbell rang.

  ‘That will be the doctor. I’d better go and let her in.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise,’ the doctor soothed her fifteen minutes later. ‘I’m a mother myself and I know what it’s like. Besides, it’s always better to be safe than sorry. Luckily this time it’s nothing more serious than an upset tummy and a bit of attention-seeking.’

  She smiled at Eleanor reassuringly.

  So Marcus had been right, Eleanor reflected bleakly as she saw her to the door, and she had panicked unnecessarily. A panic increased by guilt because she had not been there… because Marcus had had to disrupt his working day to go and collect Tom, because she had been too busy this morning to notice that Tom was feeling off colour and because she had been too busy last night to notice that he had eaten the ice-cream.

  What was happening to her? Where was the pleasure in a life that left her with so little time for her children, for her husband… for herself?

  ‘You were right,’ she told Marcus wryly later. ‘It is just an upset tummy.’ He looked up from his desk and smiled at her.

  ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Marcus told her easily, adding, ‘I should have remembered that mothers don’t like having their judgement questioned.’

  For some reason his comment jarred. What did he mean? Was he referring to mothers in general or one mother in particular, the mother of his own child, perhaps?

  Eleanor had been pleased when Marcus had once commented on how different she was from his first wife; she didn’t want to be a second Julia, a copy of another woman who had once been important in her husband’s life. She had been fiercely glad that he loved her as an individual… as herself. Unlike Allan, who, after the initial enthusiasm of being married, had ceased to see her as a woman—a person—and had seen her only as a mother. Sexually he had found it hard to relate to her once she had had the children, and besides, he had accused her, they meant more to her than he did.

  ‘By the way, the Lassiters want us there for eight. What time is the babysitter due?’ Marcus asked her.

  Eleanor froze.

  The Lassiters’ dinner party. She had forgotten all about it… forgotten to make any arrangements for someone to sit with the boys. How could she have forgotten? Harold Lassiter was the most senior barrister in Marcus’s chambers. There was a strong rumour that he was about to be called to the bench as a senior judge.

  Marcus might not have the sharklike instinct and drive, the personal and professional ambition that her first husband had possessed, but as a product of the British public school system, reinforced by the discipline of an army father, he was meticulous about observing a code of good manners which to many people was now hopelessly old-fashioned.

  In fact, that had been one of the first things about him which had appealed to her.

  Typically, Jade had laughed in disbelief when she had told her this, rolling her eyes and demanding, ‘What? My God, trust you! You manage to find one of the most charismatic and sexy men I have ever set eyes on, and all you notice about him is that he held open the door for you. You realise that he probably only did that so that he could check out the view,’ Jade had teased her, explaining when she had frowned, ‘Your rear view, idiot. Men like a nice, well-shaped female behind, didn’t you know?’

  Now, Eleanor’s expression gave her away.

  ‘You’d forgotten?’ Marcus exclaimed sharply.

  ‘Marcus, I’m so sorry. I meant to organise a babysitter last weekend and then Julia telephoned and asked if we could have Vanessa and somehow or other…’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘I could ring Jade,’ Eleanor suggested. ‘She might be free.’

  She had just picked up the receiver and started to dial Jade’s number when she heard Tom calling, ‘Mum… Mum… I don’t feel well.’

  Anxiously she replaced the receiver and hurried upstairs, just in time to hear him being violently sick.

  It might only be ice-cream-induced and perhaps a fitting punishment for his greed, but there was no doubt that he was feeling extremely sorry for himself, Eleanor acknowledged as she tucked him back into bed.

  At thirteen he was already beginning to consider himself too old and grown-up for maternal cuddles and fussing, but now he clung to her.

  ‘Stay with me,’ he begged her as she started to get up.

  ‘I can’t, darling. I’ve got to go and telephone Aunt Jade to ask her if she can come round to sit with you tonight.’

  Immediately his face flushed and he sat bolt upright in bed, clinging fiercely to her.

  ‘I don’t want her. I want you,’ he told her.

  Dismayed, Eleanor put her arms round him. He normally never clung to her like this… perhaps the doctor had been wrong… perhaps he was more ill than any of them had recognised.

  ‘Tom, darling, I have to go…’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he argued stubbornly. ‘You don’t want to be with us any more. You just want to be with him.’

  Appalled, Eleanor hugged him tightly. ‘Tom, that isn’t true!’

  There was no way she was going to be able to go to the Lassiters’ dinner party, she recognised. Not with Tom so upset and unlike himself.

  Marcus wouldn’t be pleased. She could feel her heart growing heavy with despair mingled with anxiety and panic, a sense of somehow feeling as though her life was out of her own control…

  What was happening to her? It shouldn’t be like this… after all, she had everything a woman could possibly want. Yes, everything…

  And some things that no sane woman would want. Like an accountant who was beginning to issue warnings about dropping profits and rising costs; a partner who had problems which seemed to be putting a strain on their business relationship. A stepdaughter who was growing increasingly hostile to her and who seemed to see her as some sort of rival for her father’s affections; a son who had just destroyed her belief that she had finally slain her inner dragon of guilt about the effect her divorce from their father might have had on her children.

  A house filled with antique furniture and carpets which might be the envy of her single friends, but which was no real home for two growing boys.

  A growing feeling that there were too many things in her life over which she seemed not to have full control.

  And a husband whom she loved and who loved her, and surely knowing that made up for everything else, didn’t it? Didn’t it?

  CHAPTER TWO

  TENSELY Fern checked her appearance in the bedroom mirror, already anticipating Nick’s criticism. She smoothed the matt black fabric of her evening dress over her hips, anxiously aware of how much weight she had lost since she had last worn it for the round of Christmas parties.

  Her mother’s death had been partly responsible for that. It had been a strain taking care of her for those last weeks of her life, especially with Nick being so resentful of her absence.

  She had tried to explain to him how she felt: that it was a mixture of love as well as duty and responsibility which made
her feel that she had to be the one to nurse her mother; but Nick had demanded to know how he was supposed to manage in her absence. He had a business to run, he reminded her; she was his wife, and since she did not work, did not bring in any money herself, he felt he was not being unreasonable in expecting her to be there at home for him when he needed her.

  She had tried to ignore the feelings of panic and misery his attitude caused her, smothering it beneath a thick blanket of anxious self-control, afraid of challenging him because she was afraid of where such a confrontation would lead.

  With her mother so close to death, she had not been able to afford to provoke Nick because she had known she simply would not have either the physical or mental energy to cope with his reaction.

  Her mother was dying and needed her, she had told Nick quietly.

  ‘I need you too,’ Nick had retaliated, and in the end she had compromised as best she could, spending the majority of her time with her mother, dashing home when she could, to ensure that Nick had clean shirts, a fridge and freezer full of food, and doing her best to placate him.

  In the end her mother’s death had come almost as a relief to her. She still felt guilty about that. About that and about so many other things as well, but most especially about…

  She glanced back towards the mirror, grimacing as she studied her reflection. She looked far too tired and drained for a woman of only twenty-seven; the heavy, rippling mass of her hair, tawny brown with rich gold natural highlights in its thick waves, was almost too great a burden for the taut slenderness of her neck. In fact her hair with its rich tumbling mass of curls presented an almost grotesque contrast to her face and body, she acknowledged wearily. She really ought to have it cut short. She was too old now for its careless abundance, a legacy from a childhood governed by the views of much older parents, a mother who believed that all little girls should have long, neatly plaited hair.

  She had toyed with the idea of having it cut years ago when she was at university. She remembered mentioning it to Adam.

  ‘Don’t,’ he had told her in that strong but gently soft voice of his. And as he’d spoken, he had lifted his hand and slowly touched her, brushing the heaviness of her hair back from her face.