For Better for Worse

by Penny Jordan

  He paused, turning to look back over his shoulder, and Fern wondered sickly if somehow he could have felt the ache of her own yearning, as to her horror she realised that he was crossing the square, coming towards her.

  Pride kept her where she was, pride and the fear that in retreating she might somehow betray what she was feeling and in doing so embarrass him and humiliate herself.

  ‘Fern.’

  She closed her eyes against the soft warmth of his voice, immediately taking a step back from him, turning away from the small frown pleating his forehead.

  ‘How are you?’

  How did he manage to make the casual, impersonal question seem so tender and caring? But then that was Adam, his concern embracing everyone he knew. Even her…

  ‘I’m fine… fine,’ she lied. ‘And you… Lily… ?’

  ‘Lily?’ His frown deepened.

  ‘Yes…’ Fern was stammering slightly now. ‘I thought… I heard that you… that she… I thought you were in Italy with…’

  His frown eased slightly. ‘Yes, I was, but I had to come back… some business.’

  Behind her a car entered the square. Adam reached out a hand as though to guide her closer to him, but Fern immediately stepped away from it, from him… out of reach. Her throat ached with pain and emotion, with the sickness of loving him.

  ‘I must get back,’ she was stammering again, her face flushing, her body tense.

  ‘Yes…’

  She could feel Adam looking at her, but she dared not look up at him. If she did…

  She turned away from him quickly, hurrying in the opposite direction, willing herself not to give in to the temptation to look back.

  Adam watched her sadly. He didn’t try to deceive himself—he knew quite well that if she had been able to she would have disappeared without speaking to him. Could he blame her? In her shoes, wouldn’t he have done the same thing?

  He felt the pain and the guilt tighten around his heart in a familiar vice-like grip, its pressure relentless, remorseless.

  Fern… If he stood still and closed his eyes and breathed in slowly without moving, without disturbing the air around him, it was still just… just possible for him to breathe in the elusive fragrance of her. Once that fragrance had been his, wrapped around him, engulfing him, clinging to his skin, so that even after she had gone he had felt as though he carried a part of her with him.

  Fern… He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat while his gaze dimmed and glittered. Fern…

  * * *

  By the time she returned home Fern told herself that she was over the shock of seeing Adam and that she wasn’t even going to think about it. What was the point? She was a woman, not a girl; she had other problems, other pressures.

  She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down with her books, willing herself to concentrate on reality and not drift into pointless and impossible daydreams.

  Determinedly she picked up one of the Relate leaflets she had already read and started to study it.

  When she heard someone knocking on the front door she frowned and put the leaflet down. It couldn’t be Nick, of course, he had a key…

  She opened the door and stared at her unexpected visitor in surprise. ‘Nick isn’t here,’ she told her quietly.

  ‘No, I know he isn’t.’ Venice was inside before Fern could object.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she announced, ‘he’s in my bed; he spent the night with me last night.’

  If Nick had spent the night with her, what was she doing here? Fern wondered.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Venice added. She grimaced openly as she glanced around her. God knew why Nick wanted to hang on to this place. It was badly decorated, and even more badly furnished.

  Fern turned round, perplexed, unable to see the purpose of Venice’s visit.

  ‘Nick wants a divorce,’ she heard Venice telling her, and then, before she could say anything, never mind attempt to point out that Nick already knew that as far as she was concerned their marriage was already over, Venice dropped her bombshell.

  ‘I’m pregnant… it’s Nick’s baby.’

  Fern stared at her. She wasn’t sure what stunned her most, the fact that a woman like Venice could prove vulnerable enough to conceive by accident, or the fact that Nick was prepared to publicly accept responsibility for the conception.

  What she did not feel, she realised with relief, was any sense of envy or anguish, and as that knowledge flowed gently through her she recognised how very badly she needed to be free of her marriage; how intensely damaging it had been… how destructive.

  ‘I know how you must feel,’ Venice was saying to her. ‘But Nick and I… Well, we tried to fight what was happening… Neither of us wanted to hurt you.’ She looked directly at Fern, tears standing out brilliantly in her eyes.

  Fern blinked, wondering if Venice actually expected her to believe her.

  ‘But now for the sake of our baby…’

  Venice was enjoying herself, Fern recognised. Relishing the role she had cast for herself.

  But what of her role… the role of deserted, abandoned wife left alone to face the humiliation of seeing another woman carrying her husband’s child… another woman bearing his name… ? If she had in actual fact loved Nick…

  But she didn’t love him, and Nick knew that. He also knew that she was no barrier to his relationship with Venice. So why hadn’t he told her that?

  A cold finger of apprehension stroked down her spine. Nick had left the house last night claiming that there would be no divorce… that there was no reason for them to divorce.

  Fern thought quickly. Just now, sitting daydreaming about the future she could potentially have, the independence, the satisfaction of working to help others, she had known how strongly she wanted to be free. And if that meant aligning herself to Venice… allowing herself to adopt the role Venice had cast for her… if it meant suffering public speculation and pity, well, she had the strength to endure it.

  Besides… It had occurred to her just now, rereading the leaflets, that instead of staying here in Avondale she should consider moving to Bristol. There she would have a better chance of finding non-skilled work; she could also hopefully enrol on a postgraduate course of study.

  Why the hell didn’t the stupid bitch say something instead of staring dumbly at her? Venice wondered impatiently. It had surprised her that her announcement of her pregnancy had not provoked the intensely emotional reaction she had anticipated. Venice considered herself to be a shrewd judge of character. She had had to be. Fern was the self-sacrificing type, the humble, irritating, walk-all-over-me-and-then-turn-round-and-kick-me type that Venice acutely despised.

  At the very least Venice had anticipated that the announcement would provoke shocked tears, perhaps a denial followed by the acknowledgement that no, she could not stand in their way, could not rob an innocent child of its father.

  ‘I know how you must be feeling,’ she prompted, concealing her irritated impatience. She had other things to do. She didn’t want to leave Nick on his own for too long at this stage. She didn’t want him getting cold feet, changing his mind. Not that he could afford to. She had seen to that.

  ‘If it weren’t for my baby…’ She lowered her head mock modestly. ‘You can see, can’t you, that I… we have to put him first.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ Fern agreed calmly.

  If they did, it would probably be for the one and only time in Nick’s or her life, she reflected ironically, as she watched Venice fight to control the triumph gleaming in her eyes. It was plain that she felt she was on safer ground now. Her head came up, her body tensing almost like that of a fighter.

  ‘There will have to be a divorce, of course… and quickly. Nick will accept full responsibility… admit adultery. He’ll make the house over to you, of course…’ Venice paused delicately. ‘And provided there aren’t any problems… any delays…’ She stressed the word, looking directly at Fern for the first time. ‘I’m sure he�
�ll want to make proper financial arrangements for you…’

  First the threat and then the bribe, Fern reflected. What kind of woman was Venice? Did she honestly think that, if Fern had actually really loved Nick, she would have wanted to put him through the misery of a long-drawn-out and acrimonious divorce? Love meant putting the other person’s needs first, not one’s own. And as for that comment about the house and the money, Nick must be besotted with Venice if he had agreed to that.

  For the first time she allowed something of her own feelings to enter her voice as she told Venice coolly and very drily, ‘That’s very generous of Nick, but quite unnecessary.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Venice that the last thing she wanted was any kind of reminder of the misery her marriage had been, much less this house which Nick had always so determinedly claimed was his and his alone.

  Venice looked nonplussed. ‘You mean you’ll agree to the divorce?’ she questioned.

  Fern permitted herself a small inner smile. ‘How can I not?’ she responded sorrowfully. ‘For the baby’s sake.’

  She could see that her capitulation coupled with her rejection of the money had confused Venice, who now did not seem to know exactly what to do.

  ‘Nick’s clothes…’ she suggested. ‘You’ll want… If you’d like to wait I could pack them… or…’

  Venice stared at her. Could this woman be real? Her contempt for her grew. How could she be so submissive, so… so accepting?

  Fern could see the look Venice was giving her, but of course what the other woman did not know was that the last thing she wanted now was for Nick to come round, change his mind. The last thing she wanted was any further contact with him.

  It didn’t take her long to pack; she literally threw everything into the suitcases, reflecting with savage satisfaction that it would no longer be her job to keep his pure cotton shirts flawlessly uncreased, his wool suits immaculately pressed, his shoes cleaned.

  Not that she could see Venice performing any of those tasks for him.

  As she heaved the final case downstairs, Venice came out of the sitting-room. She was holding a small booklet in her hand.

  ‘I was just reading this. I hadn’t realised that the Broughton House gardens had been designed by Gertrude Jekyll.’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Fern agreed. ‘Mrs Broughton showed me the actual plans.’

  ‘Do you know where they are now?’ Venice demanded. Fern looked at her. ‘The plans?’ Venice prompted excitedly. ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘Well, I presume they’re with the rest of her papers, with her solicitor,’ Fern responded.

  What on earth had prompted Venice’s excited interest in Broughton House’s gardens? Fern wondered curiously.

  ‘So it’s agreed, then?’ Venice announced, after Fern had carried the final case out to the car for her. ‘You won’t contest the divorce and, in return, Nick will sign the house over to you and make you an allowance?’

  ‘I shan’t contest the divorce,’ Fern told her quietly, and she certainly didn’t intend to accept any money for her compliance.

  Her compliance… Why hadn’t Nick told Venice that she, Fern, had already announced that she wanted a divorce?

  With that kind of deceit between them, how could their relationship—their marriage succeed? But then that was their worry and not hers…

  Thank goodness.

  She glanced at the phone. She would ring Cressy, tell her what had happened, ask her what she thought of her moving to Bristol.

  She couldn’t believe how good she felt… how relaxed… relieved… how happy… how free…

  * * *

  Venice got out of the car, almost running into the house. Nick was seated at the table in the breakfast-room dressed in a towelling robe, glowering moodily into a cup of coffee.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded as she walked in. ‘And where are my car keys?’

  ‘I don’t know… have you lost them?’ She gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. The car keys were safely locked away in her bureau, and the key was on her keyring. There had been no way she had been going to allow him to leave until she had seen Fern.

  ‘I’ve seen Fern. She accepts that we have to put the baby first and she’s agreed not to contest the divorce. I had to promise her the house, of course, and a small allowance, but it will be better that way. People will soon stop feeling sorry for her and blaming you once they see how generous we’ve been.

  ‘I want to arrange a dinner party. Just ourselves, the local agent and another couple. It won’t do any harm to put things in motion… register your interest and, of course, let people see us as a couple. I’ll have to ring my solicitor and get him working on the divorce. Oh, and by the way, Nick, I’ve had the most marvellous idea. It was while I was waiting for Fern to pack up your things. I saw this article on Broughton House. Did you know the gardens had been designed by Gertrude Jekyll?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, my precious, wonderful darling, now you can kill two birds with one stone. Stop dear Adam from getting his planning permission and become recognised, not just locally but hopefully nationally, as an alert environmentalist, ready to protect Britain’s heritage…

  ‘The gardens, Nick,’ she told him when he scowled sulkily at her. ‘If we can prove they were designed by Jekyll, and according to Fern there are actually plans in existence, then we can mount a campaign… get a preservation order on them. Don’t you see… it will be the perfect cause for you? It’s local, environmental… just the kind of thing that has mass sentimental appeal. You’ll become known as someone who cares… someone who gets things done. Look at how it’s worked for Adam; but he’s only got limited local appeal, whereas this…

  ‘It will need careful handling, of course, and the right kind of publicity… the right kind of team behind you. We don’t want anyone else taking over and getting the glory.’

  Nick thought quickly. When he had woken up alone in Venice’s bed this morning and remembered what had happened the previous night, his first thought had been to tell her that he had changed his mind, but now, subtly, she was drawing him back under the spell she had cast the previous night once again, reminding him of the glittering future she had drawn for him.

  Greed had momentarily pushed Adam and his destructive resentment of him into second place… Gloatingly he reflected on how he would make Adam squirm when he was MP… on how he would humiliate and punish him. He would be the one that everyone looked up to then, not Adam.

  Venice was right, he did need a cause. Broughton House…

  ‘What would happen if the house had already been sold before we could do anything?’ he asked Venice.

  She looked at him. ‘Nothing. Whoever bought it would probably lose their money, because one thing’s for certain, there’s no way the heritage people would allow them to destroy those gardens, much less give planning permission on them…’

  As she watched the satisfied smile hardening his eyes, Venice congratulated herself. He was so easy to read, so vainly oblivious to his own vulnerability, so perfect for the role she intended him to play.

  From the first moment she had realised the power over certain men her sexuality gave her, Venice had decided to hone and use it. That had been when she was fourteen, and she had seen the way her stepfather was watching her.

  For the two years until she was sixteen she had skilfully kept him at bay, alternating between subtle promises and fierce rejection, taking the increased pocket money he gave her, the clothes, the treats and then holding him off with virtuous indignation and feigned innocence whenever he tried to demand payment.

  Venice had quickly learned that weak men, sexually hungry men were the easiest to manipulate and control. Her own father had been a successful businessman, but when he’d left her mother to marry his secretary and father a second family there had been an abrupt decrease in Venice and her mother’s standard of living, and a change of school from the small private school Venice had previousl
y attended to a large inner-city comprehensive.

  She had seen then the difference that money, wealth could make, and she had determined that one day she would possess the kind of wealth that no one could ever take away from her. And, being Venice, she had also very quickly decided that the easiest and quickest way for her to get it was via her sexuality.

  There had been a couple of discreet liaisons with wealthy, married men before she had met Bill, but once she had met him she had quickly discarded her then lover, recognising that in Bill she would have not merely access to his bank account in the form of expensive presents, and ‘rewards’ for the use of her body, but control over it in the form of marriage.

  Bill had been a very lonely man, a man who had worked hard all his life for very little personal happiness. Venice had promised that she would change all that, but, as she had quickly discovered once she was Bill’s wife, wealth was one thing, but there were other forms of power, even more of an aphrodisiac, and her hunger for power, complete, absolute and total, was a hunger that had not ceased growing with marriage to Bill—far from it.

  Bill had had no social or political ambitions and Venice had quickly recognised that it was pointless trying to urge him towards them.

  With his death, though, things had changed. Venice was astute enough to recognise that the very sexuality within her which had enabled her to achieve her original ambitions would be counter-effective with her new ones. Those who guarded the social barriers she longed to penetrate would recognise what she was at one glance and debar her, and as for the political ones… Her mouth curled in a cynical smile. Perhaps if her sex had never been given the vote she might have stood a chance…

  As it was… She glanced at Nick. He would serve her purpose admirably. He was neither rich enough nor well-connected enough ever to be able to defy or ditch her; she would always have absolute and complete control over him.

  She glanced complacently down at her body. She would go to Valentino for the dress she would wear for the ball they would give to celebrate Nick’s acceptance as MP. It was a pity Lord Stanton was still alive; the hall was bound to go for a knock-down price once he had died, and the ballroom there would be a perfect venue for such an event.