‘Emma, are you all right?’
Richard’s voice, harsh with concern, cut into her blurred thoughts. She blinked and caught a glimpse of herself in the side-mirror of the car. Her face seemed to have turned a delicate shade of pale green that exactly matched her dress. Swallowing hard, she forced a smile.
‘Just dizzy.’
‘You’ve been overdoing it, you little fool. Come and sit down for a moment.’
His voice was stern, his arm hugely strong and comforting about her as he marched her to a secluded bench in a cool thicket of shrubs overlooking the water. For a moment he did nothing except hold her in his arms. Gradually the ground began to steady under her feet and some warmth crept back into her cheeks.
‘That’s better,’ said Richard with relief. ‘What’s wrong with you, Emma? You had me really worried.’
She hesitated, on the brink of telling him her suspicions. Perhaps he’d be overjoyed, delighted. He might crush her in his arms, hold her at arm’s length to look at her with incredulous pride and then haul her back to him with a triumphant shout. Or he might not. She thought of those hurtful words he had flung at her by the swimming-pool in Bali and winced. No, she couldn’t bear it if she told him and he rejected her. Better to wait. Anyway she wasn’t certain.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said briskly.
‘Well, I want you to see a doctor.’
‘Don’t boss me, Richard. I will if it happens again.’
‘Promise?’
‘All right, you panic-monger! I promise.’ She was recovering rapidly now and his concern was beginning to make her feel edgy. ‘Look, Richard, I’m finely Honestly. I’ll be well enough for the office tomorrow.’
He made a low rumbling sound deep in the back of his throat that was half-amusement, half-exasperation.
‘I don’t want to bully you, Emma, but you still look pale. Why don’t you take some time off, maybe have lunch with your mother tomorrow or do something just for fun?’
Emma paused, considering his suggestion. But, fond as she had become of her mother in the seven years since her father’s death, she didn’t want to see her right now. Jane Prero was entirely too shrewd and too perceptive. Half an hour alone with her and she would undoubtedly extract the true story of Emma’s reunion with Richard. Emma flinched at the mere thought. Even the glib lie that she and Richard were trying to patch up their marriage hadn’t gone down well with her mother when she had phoned her on her return from Bali. ‘After eight years and all the women he’s been involved with? I hope you know what you’re doing, Emma…’ she’d said. No. She definitely didn’t feel brave enough for lunch with Jane.
‘My mother’s very busy at the moment!’ she blurted out.
‘Have lunch with a friend, then,’ persisted Richard.
‘I don’t have any friends,’ said Emma with a rueful grin. ‘I’ve been working too hard for the last seven years to have time for friends.’
Richard scowled thoughtfully.
‘Well, what about that girl who used to live next door to us in Woolloomooloo? You used to get on well with her. The one with red hair and freckles who was married to a law student. Nick Somebody.’
‘Smithers,’ prompted Emma.
‘That’s right. What was her name, now? Jenny? Jill? Something like that.’
‘Jenny,’ said Emma. ‘Yes, she was nice. But I’ve lost touch with her. Ever since my father died I’ve been too busy to breathe, let alone go out with friends.’
Richard shook his head disapprovingly.
‘Your life’s a mess, Emma. You’ve traded everything important for money and power.’
‘But it wasn’t my choice!’ she protested. ‘The ball was thrust into my hands and I just had to keep running.’
‘Well, it’s got to stop. You have to figure out what you do want from life. Look, why don’t you begin by doing a few easy things that you like? Sleep in late, start getting the garden in order, try and meet some new people. It would do you good, Emma.’
Much as she resented Richard’s interference, Emma had to admit to herself that it was good advice and the following morning she took it. She didn’t even wake until nine o’clock, when Richard had already left for work. After a long, leisurely shower, she pulled on jeans and a knit top and ambled yawning down to the kitchen. To her surprise, she found the table neatly set, with fresh croissants, butter, a pot of strawberry jam and coffee in a Thermos. Propped against the Thermos was a note and her heart gave a little skip at the sight of it. Was it a love letter? But no, when she looked it simply said in bold capitals, ‘WE HAVE NO MILK.’ Emma’s lips twitched.
Early in their marriage, Richard had been in the habit of writing her notes about anything she forgot to buy at the supermarket. Hundreds of notes. Notes that confronted her in every nook and cranny of their house. Now, with an expectant smile, she walked to the pantry cupboard and opened the doors. As she had guessed, a note on the cornflakes packet in huge red letters proclaimed that awful fact, ‘WE HAVE NO MILK.’ Another one exactly the same lurked in the refrigerator, while replicas lay hidden in the bread bin, the linen closet, the crockery cupboard, the cutlery drawer, the underside of the dirty laundry basket, and the centre page of the newspaper. As she sat down to eat her breakfast, Emma began to giggle weakly. She didn’t drink milk in her coffee anyway, but Richard did. She remembered a similar incident years before when she had become so enraged by his tactics that she had chased him into the bedroom, taken up a pillow and begun beating him over the head with it. Inevitably, a note had fluttered out of the pillow case which said, ‘WE HAVE NO MILK.’ And when at last they had ended up wrestling passionately in the middle of the vast bed Emma had looked up to find that the underside of the bedroom light held a similar message. ‘WE HAVE NO MILK.’ Richard was such an idiot sometimes! However much he infuriated her, he had always been able to make her laugh…
As she sat eating her croissants and drinking her coffee, her thoughts turned again to Jenny Smithers. Yes, Richard was right. It was a pity that she had let the friendship slide. She had always liked Jenny and it was awful to have your life so taken over by work that you had no time for friendships any more. Besides, Jenny was an extremely good listener. Just as she was thinking it, the front doorbell rang and she got up to answer it.
‘Talk of the devil!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just thinking of you.’
Jenny stood grinning in the doorway, her face still covered with zillions of freckles, her amber eyes gleaming mischievously and her whole body radiating vitality. She looked exactly as Emma remembered her, apart from the fact that she now appeared to be at least seven months pregnant.
‘Richard phoned me,’ she explained. ‘He suggested I come and visit you. Oh, Emma, it’s so good to see you again.’
They hugged each other warmly and Emma led Jenny through to the kitchen.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she suggested.
‘Yes, please. White with one sugar.’
Emma nearly cracked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped when at last she was able to speak. ‘We don’t have any milk.’
Jenny looked at her strangely.
‘Then can I have tea? Weak and black?’
Emma brewed a large pot of tea and they sat down together at the kitchen table. At first she had been afraid that the lost years might have created a feeling of awkwardness between them, but to her delight they seemed to have the same easy rapport they had enjoyed several years before when both their husbands were law students. Jenny buttered a croissant lavishly, dribbled a trail of strawberry jam across its cut surface and gazed curiously at Emma.
‘I can’t believe you and Richard are back together,’ she said frankly. ‘What happened?’
Emma hesitated. But Jenny looked so friendly, so concerned, so nice that to her amazement the whole truth tumbled out. Halfway through the recital, Emma had to leap up, snatch a box of tissues and mop furiously at her face before sh
e could continue. She was on her third cup of tea and her tenth Kleenex tissue by the time she had told the whole story.
‘So, according to you, Richard cooked up this whole reunion just so that he could have his revenge and then abandon you?’ demanded Jenny in an outraged voice.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Emma tragically.
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true. He told me that was all he wanted. Three months of using me and then a divorce.’
Jenny made a rude noise and reached for another croissant.
‘It may be what he wants you to believe,’ she retorted sceptically. ‘He may even believe it himself. But it’s not the real truth. It can’t be. He was crazy about you, Emma.’
Emma pulled a face.
‘ “Was” is the operative word,’ she sighed. ‘Not any more.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Jenny thoughtfully. ‘Deep down he’s probably still in love with you. But that very fact would make him feel angry and confused and vindictive. After all, you really gave him a kick in the teeth, running off with Nigel Wellings.’
‘Is that what Richard told you I did?’ demanded Emma indignantly.
‘Yes. Isn’t it true?’
Emma wriggled uncomfortably.
‘Sort of,’ she admitted. ‘I did have a brief relationship with Nigel, but only because Richard was already being unfaithful to me. I couldn’t bear it and wanted to hit back. For a while I tried to convince myself that I could love Nigel, but I soon realised it wasn’t true.’
Jenny whistled softly.
‘That is a mess. Still, at least it’s all over and done with. It’s in the past.’
‘I wish it were,’ said Emma savagely. ‘But I’m not even sure that that’s true. You see, I’ve got a horrible feeling that Richard’s got another woman on the string right now. A glamorous, efficient lawyer called Amanda Morris. She even lived here for a while before I came back.’
‘Oh, hell!’ exclaimed Jenny in disgust. ‘Emma, you’ve got to get this sorted out. You can’t go on with this sort of misery and suspicion.’
‘I know,’ replied Emma. ‘And it’s even worse than you think. I’ve got a strong suspicion that I’m pregnant.’
She told Jenny about her symptoms: the nausea, the dizziness.
‘Low blood-pressure,’ said Jenny, nodding authoritatively. ‘I had that in the early months too. Oh, Emma, if you’re going to have a baby, you must get your life sorted out.’
‘But what can I do?’
‘What do you want to do?’
Emma was stricken speechless. The question was so simple and yet so hard. What did she want to do?
‘Do you still love him?’ Jenny asked.
Emma picked up the silly note about the milk and read it through. Her face creased in a brief, wry smile and then contorted. Was it love? The shared jokes, the pride in his achievements, the silent empathy that sometimes bound them together with invisible force, the passionate, frenzied lovemaking? She wasn’t sure. Then she thought of how she would feel if Richard left her now. Desolation, grief, a dreary certainty that all the colour and passion in her life would vanish forever. She might hate him for the way he had wronged her, but there was no other man who could steal her heart as Richard had done. Wasn’t that love?
‘Yes, I do,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not sure that I want to, but I do.’
‘And do you want to keep him as your husband or would you rather give up the struggle and let Amanda have him?’
Emma was shocked by the scorching rush of indignation that filled her at this question. Richard was hers, nobody else’s. And no hard-nosed, scheming lawyer was going to take him away from her.
‘I want to keep him.’
‘Then you’ve got to confront him. Get him to talk, sort things out. Tell him what you want and listen to what he says. Marriage isn’t easy, Emma. All kinds of things that are only little problems can turn into big problems if you don’t talk about them. You must discuss them. Sort it all out, deal with the pain.’
Emma sighed and pushed the teapot across the table to Jenny.
‘How did you get so wise?’ she asked. ‘You and Nick must have a wonderful marriage.’
Jenny bit her lip.
‘Actually, we don’t have any kind of marriage at all,’ she said. ‘We’re not married any more.’
‘But the baby…’ faltered Emma.
‘I’m going to be a single mother. I do have a boyfriend, but I’m not at all sure that I want to marry him, even now. You see, I left Nick three years ago because I thought I hated him, but I was wrong. All we had were little problems which we didn’t tackle. And now it’s too late, because Nick is married to someone else. So don’t let it happen to you, Emma. If you still love Richard, nurture that love, give it a chance.’
When Jenny finally left, Emma sat down on the couch and pressed her fingers to her temples. She knew in her heart that her friend’s advice was sound and she yearned to follow it in every way. If only she could break down the barriers and talk, really talk to Richard, she felt theirproblems would be halfway to being solved, but apprehension and wounded pride held her back. What if Jenny was wrong? What if Richard really didn’t love her any more and was only trying to hurt and humiliate her? Why should she suffer his sarcasm a second time? After all, she had let down her defences once already and told Richard she loved him. Yet what had it brought her? Only a blistering argument and a renewal of all the old accusations and bitterness! It was true that Richard had shown her a casual kindness while she was sick, but he had never apologised for the cruel things he had said to her. Wasn’t it up to him to make the next move, to back down, to apologise if he really cared about her? Emma shuddered. Nothing in her experience of men in general or Richard in particular suggested that that was a likely outcome! If anyone was going to break the deadlock, it would probably have to be her. But she couldn’t, simply couldn’t face another bout of vindictive mudslinging. There must be some other way… What if she tried to show him without any words how much she wanted their marriage to succeed? She could stay cool but friendly, coax him into their old, favourite hobbies and activities…
At first Emma thought it was working. She let Richard know that his friends would always be welcome in the house and soon the place was humming with social activity. Emma discovered that he liked to mingle with a wide range of people from cabinet ministers through accountants and business people to old friends from his building days. Many of the long, hot summer days were spent at casual barbecues or sailing on the harbour, while at night there were intimate dinners for two at expensive restaurants and dancing in glamorous nightclubs. Richard also encouraged her to make friends of her own and, with Jenny’s help, Emma soon found herself in the thick of a circle of intelligent, hospitable, lively women.
Apart from their social life, Richard and Emma had the business and their home to draw them closer. Although he had ordered her to take a long rest from Piero’s, Richard had no qualms about bringing work home from the office to discuss with her and they spent several lively evenings in his study arguing animatedly about new projects or future directions for their companies. Besides, restoring the house was a constant source of interest to both of them. It was fun to pore over colour schemes and choose furniture together, especially now that they could afford to buy whatever they liked. Richard even helped her with the restoration of the conservatory and the garden, which were Emma’s real sources of delight. In fact, one Sunday afternoon he spent two hours in the garden weeding in order to give her a surprise. He certainly succeeded in doing that. But Emma was so touched that she didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had just dug up all the primulas she had planted the day before.
There were other hopeful signs. Old, private jokes had been resurrected. Sayings that had meaning only for the two of them, reminiscences about past disasters, little gestures that seemed full of significance. These days Richard could well afford expensive restau
rants and had no need to take a packed lunch to work. But on one occasion Emma surprised him with a metal box containing all his old favourites—olive bread, wedges of King Island Brie, pastrami, cherry tomatoes and a can of icy cold beer. That night, when Richard came home from work, he said nothing, but presented her with a sheaf of a dozen long-stemmed red roses whose spicy perfume filled the house for days afterwards. And then there were the nights. Breathless, passionate, exhausting sessions where they explored each other’s bodies with a tempestuous tenderness that made Emma gasp even to recall it. Of course, it was still disappointing that Richard would not talk to her about his feelings, still would not take the final move to bridge the gap between them, but Emma continued to live in hope. Surely he couldn’t really be having an affair with Amanda and then making love to his wife with such stormy intensity, such passion, such sensuality? But if he did still love her, why didn’t he simply tell her so?
For several weeks Emma had the exhilarating sensation that she was skating over very thin ice, skimming along like a bird, enchanted by the inexplicable sense of lightness and joy that sustained her. Yet all the while she had a growing sense of foreboding that this carefree escape from reality would soon come to an end, that she must face the need for painful action. For there was an issue which she couldn’t ignore much longer and which would soon force her to sort out her marital problems once and for all. By now she was almost certain that she was expecting a baby. All the signs pointed to it. Stress or travelling in the past had never made her three weeks overdue and then there was the nausea, the dizziness, the strange mood swings from sudden elation to equally sudden despair. And at times an unexpected serenity that made her feel she could float through anything, that her problems would all be solved without any action on her part. But at last she could postpone action no longer.
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