by Penny Jordan
Instinctively she responded to it, moving closer to him, touching him, silently acknowledging her inner awareness of all that he was showing to her.
When they kissed, it was not with passion, but with a slow, gradual acknowledgement of one another, a true binding together of their differentness into one perfect whole.
‘I love you too,’ Marcus whispered shakily. ‘And if this house really is what you want…’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘It isn’t the house,’ she told him. ‘What I really wanted was what it represented to me. You were right, anyway, buying it isn’t a practical proposition. Why didn’t you say something, though, Marcus? Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want it?’
‘I couldn’t,’ he told her starkly. ‘I couldn’t admit to you that I was jealous of it.’ He took hold of her arm. ‘Let’s walk,’ he told her. ‘There’s a lot I need to tell you.’
* * *
Eleanor listened to him in silence.
‘You were jealous of Vanessa…! But I thought…’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were irritated because I couldn’t cope with her. I felt you blamed me for her aggression. I felt you were comparing me with another woman who might have been able to reach her and establish a real bond with her. I felt such a failure, Marcus. And not just with Vanessa but with the boys as well. They were so unhappy, and I hadn’t even realised it.’
As she looked at him, Eleanor recognised how hard it must have been for him to examine his own feelings, to exhume the painful memories of his own childhood and face up to his deep-rooted fear of being displaced in her affections for his own child. Now, having heard him talk about his own suffering and his real feelings about it, she could understand him so much more clearly; understand why he had felt it necessary to withhold this part of himself from her.
‘When I was listening to Piet, I recognised what I’d been trying to conceal from myself, and that was my own fear of being rejected, of being found wanting for being the wrong sex.
‘It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? So obvious,’ he added ruefully.
‘People’s emotions are never simple,’ Eleanor comforted him. ‘It can be very hard to accept certain aspects of ourselves; we’ve both been guilty of not having enough faith in each other or in ourselves to admit to our vulnerabilities. I was afraid of losing you… of…’
‘You could never lose me,’ Marcus told her gently, turning her round to face him.
Eleanor searched his face slowly and then told him quietly, ‘I saw you at the airport with Sondra. I came to tell you I was sorry… about our argument. I rang you at your hotel that first night. There was no answer.’
‘No, I was in the shower… I’d just got back from seeing Piet. I thought you might be Sondra,’ Marcus admitted wryly. ‘It seemed safer not to answer…’
She wasn’t going to ask him any more, Eleanor acknowledged; not now, and maybe not ever. Not because she was afraid of the answer, but simply because it was no longer of any importance.
* * *
‘Are you sure you don’t mind… about the house, I mean?’ Marcus asked her later that night.
‘No,’ Eleanor assured him. ‘It’s served its purpose; helped me to see… to understand… to face up to what I am and what I can never be. I wanted to be so perfect for you, Marcus.’
‘You are,’ he assured her. ‘You always have been. Even more so now,’ he murmured, as he bent his head to kiss her.
It was unfamiliar and very precious, this feeling of absolute freedom and lightheadedness it gave him, knowing that she knew all there was to know about him; that he had revealed to her all the dark places within him and that she had acknowledged and accepted them… That she loved him with them.
Contentedly, Eleanor leaned her head against him. He was so precious to her, even more so now that he had told her what he really felt, allowed her to see the pain he had suffered; a pain Vanessa must not be allowed to endure, they were both agreed about that.
‘What can I do?’ Marcus had asked her, when he had explained to her his own ambivalent feelings towards his daughter.
‘Just love her, Marcus,’ Eleanor had told him gently. ‘Love her and show her that you love her. She needs that more than anything else.’
It wasn’t going to be easy, but somehow they would find a way. Jade had offered her the use of her flat as somewhere to work; she didn’t want to let it until she was sure she was going to stay permanently in New York, she had told Eleanor.
They would still have to move, but this time, this time they would be searching for a house, instead of merely her frantically trying to fulfil a dream.
What would happen to Broughton House? she wondered. She hoped it would find someone who loved it, someone who would cherish it and bring it back to life. It needed and deserved that. She smiled faintly to herself, her mind busily engaged on all that she had to do, and then she looked at Marcus and firmly banished them.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she whispered to him.
He looked startled. ‘It’s only just gone nine o’clock…’ And then, when he saw the look she was giving him, he too started to smile.
‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘I could do with an early night. All that travel weariness.’
‘Mmm… you poor thing,’ Eleanor murmured against his mouth. ‘You must be totally exhausted.’
‘Totally,’ Marcus agreed, laughing, as he started to kiss her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TODAY was her day off and Zoe had the flat to herself. There was so much constraint between Ben and herself these days that she was actually glad he had already left for work, she admitted miserably.
She had made all her arrangements and her decisions. It had been a piece of good luck that both her mother and father happened to be away. Ben had given her one of those quick, sharp, assessing looks she was getting from him increasingly these days when she had made her announcement.
‘Ma’s been feeling a bit down lately,’ she had told him, striving to appear casual and relaxed. ‘So I thought I’d spend a bit of time with her, go and see her on my day off and stay overnight.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
Ben’s voice had been edged with an unfamiliar hardness that made her ache inside.
Things had been different between them since he had asked her if she was seeing someone else. Part of her had wanted to laugh hysterically at what he was implying, and another part was so filled with anger and hurt that he should be so blind to what was really happening to her that she had almost been tempted, goaded into telling him that there was. Did he really believe she was capable of that kind of deceit? Didn’t he know how much she loved him? How much she needed him?
Tears flooded her eyes now as she got out of bed. She felt sick and shaky; the relief she had anticipated would follow the final making of her decision had not come; instead…
Instead she was filled with a nerve-grinding mixture of panic, fear and despair.
As hard as she fought to suppress the growing demands of the new life inside her and tried to cling to the reality of just how devastating an effect having a baby would have on not just her life but on Ben’s as well, the baby fought just as hard, mustering some kind of deceitful hormonal trickery into making her vulnerable to its presence, its claims on her.
Sometimes she even found herself talking to it, trying to reason with it, to explain that it wasn’t simply a matter of Ben’s claims on her over its own.
Even if she left Ben, ignored her love for him, made it easy for him to walk away from them to a life without them, she would still be guilty of damaging Ben’s future. Without her, it would be impossible for him to go ahead with the new venture; he needed her to work alongside him and to shoulder the day-to-day administration of the business, leaving him free to concentrate on providing the food which would bring people flocking to the restaurant. How could she let him down?
‘You must understand,’ she had told it fiercely. ‘I cannot let myself love you. There isn’t any po
int. Ben needs me… I owe it to him not to let him down.’
And yet all the time, at the back of her mind, a tiny, bitter voice asked why it was that Ben did not seem to recognise her need… why it was that she was always the one who had to do the giving, the supporting.
She made her way slowly to the bathroom. There was after all no need to rush. Her appointment wasn’t until late morning.
In the mirror, she tried to avoid looking at her naked body. Not that there was anything to see; if anything she had lost weight rather than gained it… all that sickness, all that tension.
‘You’re getting too thin,’ Ben had told her abruptly only the other day.
At first, naïvely, she had assumed that it would all be over quickly and that she would be able to go straight home, but the doctor had shaken her head, explaining that they would want to keep her in overnight, as she had told them that she had no one at home to keep an eye on her. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
Zoe’s stomach had churned and knotted ferociously as she had added quietly, ‘It’s a very safe procedure medically, but an extremely traumatic one emotionally and physically.’
Zoe put her hand on her stomach, shivering frantically. This was perhaps the last time she would do this… the last chance she would have of talking to her baby, of trying to explain…
She removed her hand, curling her fingers into tight fists, tears burning her eyes. How could you explain why you had to end a life, to destroy it before it had even properly begun? How could you explain to a child that its father did not want it, that there was no place in your life for it, that it wasn’t wanted or loved?
Her body started to shake violently, every instinct screaming rejection of what she was thinking, the intensity and passion of her instinctive and immediate denial overwhelming her with pain.
‘No! No!’ she muttered savagely under her breath. ‘You can’t do this to me… I won’t let you.’
It was just her mind playing tricks on her, she told herself fiercely. What she had to do was concentrate on reality, write down all the reasons why it was impossible for her to have this child.
In her mind she visualised the list; it would be long and logical, the facts plain and inescapable, the weight of them heavily outweighing the pitiful, single emotional claim that was all there was to put in the opposing column.
It was too late to change her mind now. The decision was made, everything organised… arranged…
* * *
The receptionist was calmly efficient, greeting Zoe with a professional smile as she gave her name.
A firmly competent nurse came to take her through to her room, her fingers lightly cool and soothing on Zoe’s arm.
‘You haven’t had anything to eat or drink, have you?’ she asked.
Zoe shook her head.
‘Good. If you’d just like to undress, I’ll come back in a few minutes to give you your pre-med.’
Slowly, Zoe took off her clothes, her movements automatic, her eyes and mind deliberately blank.
The paper gown she had been left flapped loosely round her as she pulled it on, her skin icy cold to the touch. A welcome numbness seemed to have engulfed her, even the tormenting little voice which had haunted her so much silenced now, as though it knew that the battle was finally over.
The nurse came back. ‘All right?’ she asked her, as she took hold of Zoe’s arm and dabbed her inner elbow with a piece of antiseptic wet cotton wool.
The light from the window flashed momentarily on the needle.
Zoe stared at it as the nurse lifted her hand, focusing on it…
* * *
The flat smelled hot and stuffy… airless and alien somehow.
It was probably just the contrast between its shuttered, sunstroked windows and the clinical coldness of the air-conditioned clinic, Zoe told herself emptily, as she sat down.
The doctor had been reluctant to let her come home alone, but she had insisted, and eventually they had given way, although they had insisted on a nurse seeing her into her taxi.
Her legs still felt oddly weak and shaky, her body lethargic, heavy and tired. All she wanted to do was to crawl into bed and sleep forever. It was as though all the emotional turmoil and misery of the last few weeks had finally caught up with her, her mind and body too exhausted and drained now to go on fighting against them, craving only sleep and escape.
She was too exhausted even to bother undressing, never mind wipe away the tears which coursed silently down her face.
She had started crying in the taxi, a silent slow flow of tears that ran as ceaselessly and steadily as blood, and which were just as impossible to stem.
* * *
Ben unlocked the door and walked into the flat, checking as he saw Zoe’s bag on the table.
A sharp, cold thrill of fear pulled his body as taut as a bow. He stood silently tense, his senses alert, like an animal checking for danger.
He had known that Zoe was lying to him about staying over with her mother. Deceit wasn’t something that came easily to her, and he had been sorely tempted to end the misery for both of them by telling her that he knew the truth.
Lying awake at night, wondering who he was, this other man who had taken her from him, he had asked himself bitterly whether it was because he loved her too much that he couldn’t bring himself to do so, or whether it was because he didn’t love her enough.
Loving someone, really loving them and not merely being in love with them, surely meant putting them first, before and beyond one’s own needs and desires, and yet he wasn’t doing that… wasn’t perhaps even capable of doing it. Because, if he was, surely he would have put an end to what was happening between them.
He told himself that with all that he knew of life and people he shouldn’t have been so shocked at how quickly the corrosive acid of mistrust on his side and the death of love on Zoe’s was destroying a relationship he would once have sworn was as secure as any human relationship ever could be.
It had taken him a long time to acknowledge his love for Zoe, and even longer to accept hers for him, but, once he had done so, his commitment to her and his belief in her commitment to him had been total.
One day when the time was right, when Zoe was ready, they would marry, he had hoped. He recognised rather ruefully that there was that need within him for a legalised commitment that Zoe’s stronger sense of security and self-worth did not as yet share.
Zoe was the whole focus of his life, although he had striven not to overburden her with the intensity of his feelings, careful not to suffocate her with his love. Naïvely, perhaps, he had feared losing her through his own intensity rather than to another man.
As he focused on her handbag, he frowned, wondering what it was that had brought her home when she had so obviously planned to be with her lover.
He heard a sound from the bedroom and froze, nausea a burning acid bile inside him as he thought the unthinkable. She couldn’t surely have brought him back here, to their home… their bed…
He stared at the half-closed bedroom door, torn by two equally powerful conflicting male emotions: the first to go in there and take hold of his rival with his bare hands; the second to protect Zoe from the unexpectedness of his return, from the embarrassment and shock she would suffer and even from his disruption of her privacy with her lover; but in the end the deeper, more atavistic feeling won and he strode towards the door, thrusting it open.
Zoe was lying fully dressed on the bed, and she was alone… alone but not happy, Ben recognised, as he saw the tear-tracks on her face and the bleakness in her eyes. She looked, he thought, caught up in a wave of mingled resentment and tenderness, like a bereft, unhappy child.
What had happened? Had the man, whoever he was, let her down? Was that why she had come back here to cry all alone in their bed?
‘Zoe…’
He saw the shocked darkening, the blackness in her eyes as she turned and stared at him, struggling to sit up, one hand resting against her stomach in t
hat odd mannerism he had noticed her adopting so frequently recently.
‘Ben… I…’
‘I finished work early,’ he told her, and then heard himself saying curtly, ‘I thought you were going to see your mother.’
Her face changed, her skin flushing, her eyes flooding with hot tears. He had to fight not to go over to her and take her in his arms, to tell her that it was all right… that he would make it all right… that whoever had hurt her, made her cry, would be punished for it… He wanted, he recognised grittily, to tell her that he loved her, and that he would never hurt her, unlike this other man.
Instead, he sat down on the bed, facing away from her, keeping his voice as steady as he could as he told her quietly, ‘Zoe, we can’t go on like this. I can see how unhappy you are now. What is it? What’s wrong?’
Still struggling with the shock of seeing him, with the trauma of all that happened, Zoe had no resistance left. She had fought hard to protect him, to protect their love, but now her strength was gone and in its place all that was left was a terrible enervating weakness, both physical and emotional.
She focused on his back, so broad, so strong, so powerfully male, his shoulders broad, firmly muscled. Physically he looked so strong… so dependable… but appearances could be so deceptive.
Closing her eyes, she turned her head away from him and took a deep breath.
‘I’m pregnant.’
She had no sense of tension or anxiety, no thrill of shock at having at last told him, no sharp nervous questioning of whether or not she had done the right thing, of wondering how he would feel… how he would react. She had gone far, far beyond all that now.
Earlier, in the clinic, watching the downward descent of the nurse’s arm, knowing what was going to happen, she had suddenly known that she couldn’t go through with it, and had known it so compellingly, so strongly, that it had been as though she had been anaesthetised against some gigantic pain and that anaesthetic had suddenly worn off.
They had all been kind to her… kind and concerned, and, she suspected, although they were all far too professional to show it, pleased by her decision.
