The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  'Two days…' As he stood on the steps he was standing below her, his eyes directly level with hers. Just before he turned away from her he asked conversationally, 'By the way, do you ever hear anything from Scott these days? I have to go to Australia on business later this year—I thought I might look him up. We still exchange the odd Christmas card… he named his eldest son after me…'

  Sage felt the breath leak from her lungs in small excruciatingly painful spurts, like blood from a fatal wound.

  As he turned and walked away from her into the darkness, she stood where she was and prayed that he wouldn't turn round and see the tears burning like acid in her eyes.

  Scott… Scott… Even now part of her still mourned him, still ached for him, still refused to accept that he was gone from her. She no longer desired him, had stopped desiring him many, many years ago—that night in Daniel's room, in actual fact—but she hadn't stopped needing him. Hadn't stopped feeling that losing him had been like losing part of herself… that without him in some way she was physically incomplete.

  His loss was an ever-open wound that would never heal… She had kept that fact a secret from everyone who knew her, and yet here was a man who didn't know her at all, and yet at the same time who knew her so well. Who read her so intimately that he had with a few casual words shown her just how vulnerable she was to him, just how few her secrets from him were. She trembled as she went inside, wondering just what else she might have betrayed to him. Just what other secrets he might have discerned. Just what other vulnerabilities she might have accidentally and dangerously laid bare to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sage woke up abruptly. Traces of her nightmare still clung to her mind like sticky veilings of mist, darkening her perceptions, even while her conscious mind acknowledged reality.

  She had been dreaming about her childhood; about her father… about her longing to get close to him, to be accepted and loved by him in the same way that David was accepted and loved.

  The incoherent, blind jealousy and rage she had felt so strongly as a child, and which through her mother's strict control of her she had never been allowed to voice, had known no such barriers in her sleep, and yet there had been none of the satisfaction, the relief there should have been in giving vent to it; rather a sickening awareness as she stood there looking into her father's aloof, withdrawn face that she had now added contempt to his dislike and disapproval of her.

  Why hadn't he loved her as he had David? Was it because she was a girl? Once she had thought so, had clung to that belief because it was far easier to be rejected for her sex than for a specific lack of something in her personal make up.

  She touched her face, not surprised to discover it was wet with tears, closing her eyes momentarily as she fought to break free of the weight of the nightmare's misery, as she fought to ignore that shocking moment of clarity when she had looked into her father's face and seen all his dislike of her laid bare in it, and then shockingly his features had melted into the shadows and somehow rearranged themselves, so that it wasn't her father looking at her with such resentment and contempt, but Daniel.

  Daniel… What was she going to do if he actually refused her demand? Would she expose him to the Press—could she? He deserved it for what he was doing. She shivered, hugging her knees. Even if he did agree, even if he did withdraw from the contract, he would soon be replaced. She couldn't halt the construction of the new road for ever. Would the time she was buying be sufficient to allow her mother to recover and take over?

  She pushed her hand into the heavy mass of her hair. Her body felt drained of all physical energy, while her mind conversely was almost hyperactive, her thoughts feverishly intense and confused.

  She didn't need a psychiatrist to tell her that her nightmare had been brought on by her own doubts about what she was doing, her own insecurities, her own fears. What she didn't understand was why Daniel Cavanagh should have become the focus for those fears. Or was it more that she didn't want to understand?

  He had always been a powerfully male man, the kind of man she had automatically shunned when she was younger, sensing the danger within herself of any responsiveness to his brand of sexuality. His was the kind of maleness which would mean that he would automatically and instinctively seek to subjugate a woman to his sexual charisma, and for some reason she had sensed even in those days that she was particularly vulnerable to that kind of intense relationship, that something within her almost wanted to be absorbed and swamped by the sexual power she sensed within him, that some part of her had wanted simply to sink herself into its potency, to abandon independence, self-will: everything she had fought all her life to have.

  She had been like an animal fascinated by the danger of fire, wanting its heat and light and yet knowing that to allow herself to get too close could destroy her—and yet still she had lingered within sight of the flames, resenting their power over her, hating herself and hating him, because, despite the strength of her love for Scott— a kind of love which had a clean, sharp purity about it, a simplistic, wholesome innocence—she had still been conscious of the darker side of her nature, had known it was slowly gathering force inside her, had known that it responded to everything that was male in Daniel in a way that no part of her had ever responded to Scott… Had known that Daniel had the ability to reach out and touch that innermost part of her that she kept hidden and locked away not only from others but from herself as well.

  In those days she had feared that deep core of sensuality; had compared it to her mother's icy purity, to David and Faye's idyllically romantic relationship, had felt the deep yawning gap that existed between the emotions she perceived in them and those she knew herself to be so unwantedly capable of feeling, and had angrily repudiated her sensuality, seeing it as the whole centre of her flawed personality, sensing with burgeoning maturity that still clung too much to childhood to allow to her to assess it either accurately or with detachment that it represented danger to her, that it exposed her to vulnerability and to emotional and physical abuse. She had felt she was not as the other members of her family; that those deep, dark tides that moved within her were almost an ancient and destructive curse which she must learn to control and deny, so that the moment she had looked at Daniel and felt them rise inside her in a wild, fierce rip-tide of responsiveness to him, she had hated him with all the intense passion of her still untamed nature.

  Someone not knowing her as well as she knew herself would undoubtedly wonder why after being repudiated by Daniel she should have flung herself headlong into what appeared to be a series of intensely physical affairs.

  The reason was that those men with whom she had enjoyed the physical expression of her deeply sensual nature had not had the power to touch the equally intense emotional core of her.

  Physically she had desired them, had found their lovemaking pleasurable, had even with some found them intellectually stimulating, but always, always she had taken care never to become involved with anyone to whom she might become vulnerable emotionally.

  The lessons of her life had been hard learned. None of those whom she had loved had ever returned the intensity of that love—all of them had seen the flaws in her and rejected her because of them: her father, her mother, Scott. She was safer by far allowing herself only the physical, sexual expression of that intensity, and now even the pleasure of that had palled. Like a child sated on too many sweet things, she had found herself turning away from those pleasures, abandoning their reckless pursuit, finding a longer lasting pleasure and satisfaction in her work than she had ever found in the arms of a lover.

  Now when she looked back she viewed the woman she had been with distant amusement. For the first time in her life she had begun to feel at ease with herself, to accept herself as a whole person, flaws and all, to acknowledge that she could never be her mother, that she could only be herself…to accept herself. As she watched the companions of her early twenties marry and settle down to produce families she remained aloof from
their—to her—lemming-like desire to fulfil their hormonal destiny. She was a loner; she liked it that way, she was content with her life, or at least as content as any human being could expect to be. She was well past the age when she had believed that the only real value of a human life came from sharing that life with a twin soul; had long since abandoned the restless searching of her growing years for that part of herself she had always felt was missing, that cooling sanity of mind to still the heated frenzy that was her own emotional burden. In Scott she had believed she had found that person, had believed it so intensely and so passionately that to lose him had been like losing a part of herself.

  She had long since accepted that had they married she would ultimately have destroyed him, that in ail the wrong ways she was the stronger of the two, and yet those months she had spent with him had had such a softening effect on her, had made her feel so different about herself…

  Daniel Cavanagh… Even now she had not forgotten that final collision between them. That night when she had gone to him in an agony of need and despair, when she had deliberately blinded herself to everything she knew both about herself and him, when she had…

  Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Stop it… Hadn't she writhed for long enough on the acid fires of self-hatred and contempt? So Daniel had rejected her. She ought to be thankful that he had. If they had become lovers…

  Against the darkness of her mind, she had a moment's brilliant awareness of how many dangerous memories were still stored in the sensors of her body, of how she could still conjure up so clearly the sensation of those long-fingered hands touching her skin, of how the shocking thrill of that contact had run along her nerve-endings, drawing tight the pulsing flesh of her nipples, spiralling an aching, restless heat through her belly, making her want to reach out and touch him in turn, not gently, or virginally, but with hunger and need, with all the deep yearning heat that boiled inside her.

  Yes, she ought to have been grateful that he rejected her… To have given in to that need would ultimately have destroyed her, and yet the shadows cast by his rejection still darkened certain areas of her mind, still lay like bruises against her pride. There were still nights when she woke up, her body aching and her mind confused, tears on her face, heat under her skin, aware that somewhere in her dreams she had been pursuing the touch of hands so much needed by her body, so intensely desired by her emotions that she was destined to pursue it ceaselessly throughout eternity and beyond. And then reality would sweep away the darkness of her dreams just as she banished what she considered to be an illogical weakness. She hadn't thought about Daniel in years now, not since she had finally grown up and accepted that she was more than capable of being her own person, that she could survive alone, that she had more strength, more will-power, more pride than she had ever allowed herself to admit.

  She didn't need Daniel Cavanagh in her life.

  So why was she deliberately seeking him out? She wasn't… At least not for any personal reasons. She was simply using him because he was there. That was all there was to it.

  She moved restlessly, pushing aside the bedclothes, and swinging long slender legs to the floor. It was time to get up and stop dwelling on the past. She had far more immediate and important things on which to focus her mind.

  When she got downstairs Faye and Camilla seemed to be arguing. She paused on the threshold of the breakfast-room, frowning as she listened to them.

  Camilla's voice was indignant and angry, Faye's sharper than usual.

  'I'm sorry, Camilla, but I don't want you to go. For one thing, you've got your A levels coming up…'

  'And one evening off from studying is going to make the difference between passing and failing?' Camilla retorted indignantly. 'Come off it. You don't want me to go because you don't want me to enjoy myself.'

  'Camilla, that isn't true,' Faye protested. 'Of course I do—'

  'No, you don't. Otherwise you'd let me go. Everyone else is—'

  'Everyone?' Faye asked her wryly. 'I thought you said you were going in a minibus?'

  Sage saw her niece flush angrily. 'Well, almost everyone. Look, I don't see why you don't want me to go.'

  'Don't you? You say you're going to a party, but you don't seem to have any real idea of where it's being held. You say you're going with friends from school, and that one of their boyfriends will be driving this minibus, and yet you don't seem able to give me any of their names. I'm sorry, Camilla, but I don't feel that I can allow you to take off with a crowd of young people I don't know for a destination you don't seem able to give me to attend a party. You must have seen for yourself the dangers of attending these Acid House affairs and—'

  'This isn't anything like that,' Camilla protested. 'Honestly, Mother, do you really think I'm so stupid? And anyway, why should my generation take the blame for something started by yours? It was all right for you when you were young. Everyone knows what the sixties were like. Drugs… sex… Anything went, and what do we get? Everyone lecturing us about drugs and promiscuity.'

  Over Camilla's head Faye gave Sage a helpless, pleading look.

  Coming to her rescue, Sage said quietly, 'Your mother's right, Cam. It's sheer irresponsibility these days to take off anywhere with people you don't know properly—and you're right as well. Our generation does have a lot to answer for. Recklessly we thought we could break all the rules, and now it's your generation that's paying the price for our so-called pleasure. I can understand that you want a break from your studying, though,' she added calmly, sitting down and pretending not to be aware of Camilla's sullen pouting face.

  None of them was the same person she had been before her mother's accident, Sage reflected inwardly. All of them had changed and were still changing, Camilla perhaps most of all, because in so many ways she had been the closest to her mother. Underlying her present recalcitrance there ran, Sage suspected, a frighteningly fast-flowing flood of fear. Camilla was at that very vulnerable age when to lose someone she loved and relied on could have far-reaching consequences that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  She personally had never heard mother and daughter exchange a cross word before and had often marvelled a little enviously at the harmony that existed between them. Now with her mother's accident that harmony had vanished, and Faye, like Camilla and herself, had changed. Sage had never seen her so on edge, so… so human—as though the fine bubble which had always seemed to protect her from reality had finally burst, leaving her exposed to the rough abrasions of real life.

  She even looked different, Sage reflected, studying her. There was more colour in her face, more fire in her eyes, and an unmistakable air of tension about her movements.

  'Oh, I might know you'd side with Ma,' Camilla expostulated, and then added bitterly, 'If Gran were here, she'd understand—'

  'Don't be ridiculous, Camilla,' Faye interrupted her crossly. 'You know quite well that your grandmother would no more have sanctioned this party than I would. Please be sensible. You've got your exams to think about.'

  'Exams, exams… Is that all you think about? Is that all I mean to you? A set of A level passes you can brag about to your friends? Only I forgot—you don't have any friends, do you? But I'm not like you, Mother, I can't spend the rest of my life shut off from everyone else. I want to live. I'm sick of studying, sick of doing what I'm told. I'm almost eighteen. I'm not a child any longer—'

  'Then stop behaving like one.'

  Sage sighed under her breath. Couldn't Faye see that all she was doing was alienating Camilla even more? Couldn't she see that the underlying cause of her rebellion was probably her fear of losing her grandmother? That this bid for independence, this furious teenage anger, was probably sparked off by that fear?

  Sage flinched as Camilla stood up abruptly, pushed her chair back, tears thickening her voice as she claimed, 'I might have known you wouldn't understand. Well, whatever you say, I'm not a child. I have a right to choose what I want to do with my life, not to have you make t
hose decisions for me.'

  'Camilla, come back here.'

  Faye stood up too, angry spots of colour burning along her cheekbones as she stared in disbelief at Camilla's retreating back.

  'Let her go,' Sage counselled.

  'I can't understand what's got into her. She's always been so sensible…'

  She saw the way Sage looked at her as she asked drily, 'Isn't that rather dangerous? Sensible behaviour from a teenager… a sign perhaps of hidden unrest and turmoil beneath the surface?'

  'You mean that you think that Camilla's been deliberately repressed?'

  'No… What I mean is that Camilla is reacting fairly predictably. She's young and she's frightened. Alongside yourself, the one person she can normally rely on to listen to her and to guide her, the one person she has always felt she can rely on, has suddenly become frighteningly vulnerable herself Right at this moment, she's probably lying on her bed, crying her eyes out, wondering why on earth she feels . furious with Mother for having this accident and feeling guilty because she does feel angry. Is this party really out of the question? It might do her good to relax, let her hair down a bit…'

  'Absolutely. For one thing she can't or won't tell me who's organising it or where it is. All she will say very vaguely is that a crowd of girls from school are going, and some boys that they know.'

  'Mm…it does sound rather suspect. How about organising a rival distraction? A sort of pre-exam fling… There's plenty of space here and I'm sure Jenny would be only too pleased to help out with the food et cetera. It might even be an idea to get Camilla and her friends to do the catering themselves. Give her something other than Mother and her exams to occupy her mind…'

  'You mean let her have a party here… now, with Liz still desperately ill and—'