Cruel Legacy

by Penny Jordan

  He shook his head. He had already said more than he wanted to. Not even Sally knew about all of the humiliation he had suffered in his early years at school when one of the teachers had objected to his touching the school books with his dirt-grimed hands. It had, after all, been before he knew her, a painful memory which he had fiercely suppressed because of the shame it had caused him—and yet for a second he almost revealed it to this woman who was not just a stranger to him but who had, he suspected, no idea what it meant to live in the kind of semi-poverty, the uncertainty which he had known as a child.

  ‘The garage is this way,’ Philippa told him.

  The garage was large enough to house three cars, and hers looked small and forlorn alone in it. The dealer had repossessed Andrew’s within days of his death. It had not, apparently, been paid for. Fortunately, hers had.

  As Joel went to switch on the light, Philippa flushed guiltily, remembering that the bulb had gone and that she hadn’t replaced it.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it,’ Joel told her.

  ‘I can change a light bulb,’ Philippa told him, adding wryly, ‘Just about! I think I’m going to have to find a night-school course of basic house maintenance. It’s ridiculous in this day and age not to be able to change a fuse or wire a plug…’

  Joel could hear the frustration in her voice.

  ‘It’s not that difficult,’ he told her quietly. ‘I could teach you easily enough.’

  For no reason that she could account for, Philippa could feel her skin starting to heat.

  ‘I’d… I’d better go and let you get on…’ she told him huskily. ‘I—er—would you like a cup of coffee?’

  Philippa deliberately didn’t linger when she took Joel his coffee. His head was bent over the open bonnet of her car. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were much broader than Andrew’s had been, much more muscular, his skin faintly tanned beneath its covering of dark hair.

  A tiny frisson of sensation went through her. Guiltily she looked away.

  What was wrong with her? She was behaving like some textbook sex-starved widow. Which, given the true state of her married sex life, was absolutely ridiculous.

  She was in the kitchen half an hour later when Joel knocked on the door and walked in.

  ‘I think it will be OK now,’ he told her. ‘The plugs needed a bit of a clean. It probably needs a good run as well…’

  Philippa grimaced slightly. Giving it a good run meant filling the tank with petrol… something she couldn’t afford. The electricity bill had come this morning. She saw Joel glancing at it.

  ‘Ours came too,’ he told her. ‘According to Sally it’s higher than usual—my fault, of course. I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just…’ He stopped.

  ‘It must be a worrying time for both of you,’ Philippa sympathised. ‘But at least you’ve got each other to share it with.’

  Joel laughed harshly. ‘You think so? Sharing isn’t something we do much of these days…’

  She had obviously touched a raw nerve, Philippa recognised.

  ‘For a man to lose his job is very stressful in a relationship,’ she said quietly. ‘Sally… your wife is probably very worried about you; she…’

  ‘Is she?’ Joel demanded harshly. ‘Well, you’d certainly never know it. All I get from her these days is, “Joel, do this, Joel, have you done that? Joel, don’t touch me——"’

  He broke off, tensing as he looked at her. He had said more than he’d intended to say, Philippa recognised, and the old Philippa—the Philippa who preferred to turn aside rather than face up to things—would have pretended the comment had never been made; but she wasn’t that Philippa any more, and so she looked back at him and said quietly, ‘Lots of women do go off sex when they’re under stress… and men as well.’

  ‘What I want from Sally isn’t just sex; what I want to share with her is called making love, and it involves a lot more than a handful of seconds of clinical physical thrusting inside her body. A hell of a lot more.’

  Philippa couldn’t help it—she could feel the hot colour running up under her skin, knew that her face was on fire with it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joel apologised, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, it’s just… Why do women always call it sex when they want to make you feel bad about it… when they want to make you feel guilty, as if we’re some kind of emotionless animals? To listen to her now you’d never think there was a time when Sally…’ He shook his head.

  ‘But you’ve got enough problems of your own without having to listen to mine. He was your husband, after all.

  ‘Look, is it OK if I wash my hands?’ They were covered in oil, Philippa saw, and there was also a smear of it across his cheekbone.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry… You can use Andrew’s bathroom,’ she told him as she opened the kitchen door and led the way across the hall. ‘There’s a shower in it, although I’m not sure how hot the water will be.’

  ‘Andrew’s bathroom?’ he queried sharply.

  Philippa flushed.

  ‘Yes… it’s… it’s all right… I’ve removed all his personal things… and…’

  ‘You had separate bathrooms?’ Joel questioned, ignoring what she was saying.

  ‘Yes… yes, we did,’ Philippa told him uncomfortably. ‘It was… it was easier that way. Andrew… he… he was a very private man… he…’ She was floundering desperately for words, both angry and alarmed by what she was being forced to reveal.

  Joel could sense her discomfort. What kind of relationship had she actually had with her husband? Not, he suspected, a very close one either emotionally or physically. He wondered if they had had separate beds as well as separate bathrooms and then cut himself off from the thought, sensing the danger that lurked behind it.

  Philippa waited in the kitchen for him to come back downstairs. When he did his hair was still damp, his shirt clinging slightly to his skin. As he brought her the towels he had used she could smell the scent of soap on his skin and her stomach muscles knotted frantically against the sensation curling through her body.

  ‘I… thank you for looking at my car for me,’ she told him huskily as she looked away from him.

  She looked so small standing there, with her blonde hair down and parting to show the soft curve of her neck. If he reached out now he could touch that soft skin with his fingertips. If he did, would she push him away as Sally did or would her body quiver in mute acknowledgement of the desire he could feel aching inside him; would she turn her head and look at him, silently acknowledging what was happening between them… accepting… inviting?

  ‘I’m sorry you’re having a difficult time at home,’ Philippa told him shakily. ‘I wish there were something I could do to help. I feel…’

  I feel so guilty, she had been about to say, but Joel moved closer to her and suddenly her throat closed up, trapping the words.

  ‘Just being here with you… talking to you helps,’ Joel told her, and as he said it he recognised that it was true, that there was something about her that drew him to her, compelled him to confide in her in a way that was totally foreign to his nature.

  He felt at home with her… at ease and yet at the same time fiercely buoyed up by the sexual tension he could feel building between them.

  He wanted her, he acknowledged… he wanted her very, very much indeed.

  ‘You must go,’ Philippa told him quickly as she stepped away from him. ‘I hope everything works out… at home for you. I’m sure it will.’

  If he bent his head now, he could still kiss her, Joel decided. But if he did… once he did…

  Reluctantly he moved away from her. Didn’t he have enough problems as it was without… ?

  Without what? He was a normal man with all the normal male urges, but he had never once been tempted to be unfaithful to Sally before, had never felt this fierce surge of sharp desire for another woman before.

  After he h
ad gone, Philippa walked back to the kitchen and picked up the damp towels he had used, lifting them to her face. She could still smell him on them, the scent of his skin, his maleness. With a small shudder she dropped the towels back on the floor.

  Thank goodness she wasn’t likely to see him again. Just now, standing next to him, she had sensed his awareness of her and his desire, had known that all she had to do was simply to turn towards him.

  * * *

  Joel had almost reached the town centre when he suddenly heard someone calling his name. Stopping, he turned his head and saw Duncan hurrying towards him.

  The youth had changed since he had last seen him. His body had begun to fill out and he walked with more confidence, holding his head up instead of shuffling along with it downbent.

  ‘Joel, how are you?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ Joel responded. ‘And you… ?’

  ‘Great, especially since I joined this club they’re running down at the leisure centre for people who are out of work… You ought to come along; they…’

  ‘Can’t afford it, mate,’ Joel told him.

  ‘It’s free,’ Duncan announced, adding, ‘Look, I’m on my way there now—why don’t you come along? Quite a few of the lads from the factory do; as well as being able to use the leisure club’s faculties, there’s all kinds of voluntary work you can do if you want to.’

  ‘Voluntary work?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve got me going down to the hospital visiting some of the old folks they’ve got in there, doing a bit of shopping and the like for them…’

  ‘Oh, that’s where you’ve got those muscles, is it… doing a bit of shopping?’ Joel commented drily.

  Duncan flushed and then grinned. ‘No… I’ve been working out at the gym… Might as well, since it’s free. Helps to pass the time and you get a bit of company.’

  He fell into step beside Joel. Grinning, he told him, ‘Why don’t you give it a go, get a few muscles of your own?’

  Joel laughed. ‘Watch it…’ he warned him.

  He opened his mouth to tell Duncan that he couldn’t go with him, then closed it again. After all, what had he really to go home for? Sally would still be out at work, the kids would be out with their friends. All that was waiting for him was the television and Sally’s list of chores… might as well go with Duncan. That way at least he wouldn’t be wasting money on electricity… Sally’s money.

  * * *

  It was gone six o’clock when Joel left the leisure centre. He glanced guiltily at his watch. He still hadn’t been round to see Daphne and Sally would kill him when she got home if he didn’t.

  He had been surprised to discover how many of his workmates from the factory were making use of the leisure centre’s policy of free entry for people who were unemployed. It seemed that it had become something of an unofficial meeting place for quite a large group of them.

  Like him, none of them had managed to find a new job, but as he’d listened to them and contrasted their attitudes to his own Joel had discovered that they had something he didn’t. They certainly seemed to be a lot more optimistic and to be getting a lot more out of their lives than he was.

  On his way past the swimming-pool he’d stopped to look inside.

  ‘You used to be a keen swimmer, didn’t you, Joel?’ one of the others had commented.

  Joel had frowned in surprise.

  ‘You used to swim for the school team,’ the other man had reminded him.

  ‘That was a hell of a long time ago,’ Joel had pointed out.

  ‘Maybe, but you were good… I remember watching you. They’re looking for volunteers to help coach the junior team they’ve started here and to give swimming lessons to beginners. You’d be good at that. I remember watching you teaching that lad of yours…’

  Joel had shrugged uncomfortably. Teaching his own son and daughter was one thing; teaching others… ‘They’ll be scraping the barrel if they can’t find someone better than me to do it,’ he’d retorted curtly.

  But as he was walking home he remembered how his games teacher at school had told him that he was a natural athlete. He had wanted him to train for the school swimming and diving team, but he had told the teacher that he wasn’t interested.

  It hadn’t been true… he had ached to accept, but what was the point… who would work the allotment if he wasn’t there, who would make sure that the others had food on their plates, and how the hell was he supposed to pay for the kit he would need?

  No—better to have people think that he wasn’t interested than to risk the humiliation of revealing the truth.

  A swimming coach… him… As he’d said to George Lewis, they’d have to be scraping the barrel to want him… Still, wouldn’t do any harm watching the kids practise… It would be something to do to help pass the time, and if young Duncan really thought that he couldn’t work his way around a gym any more…

  Grinning to himself, Joel headed for home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘IT’S the bank who are paying our fees, Deborah,’ Ryan stressed. ‘You might just try remembering that the next time you feel yourself coming all over bleeding hearts.’

  Angrily Deborah stood up.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Ryan—that I’m not being professional?’

  ‘No, of course not; if I didn’t think you were up to the job I wouldn’t have recommended you for it in the first place. I’m just warning you not to get emotionally involved, that’s all.’

  ‘Just because I’m aware of and concerned for the problems that redundancy is bound to cause those who’ve lost their jobs, it doesn’t mean that I’m becoming emotionally involved,’ Deborah protested.

  Any moment now Ryan was going to start accusing her of reacting like a woman—the ultimate put-down that men like him always threw at women when they wanted to bring them to heel and to remind them who was the boss.

  ‘And,’ she added firmly, ‘making sure that such people are aware of their rights is in my view simply good business practice, especially from the point of view of the firm’s reputation.’

  ‘Our reputation with whom, Deborah? Our clients… the ones who pay our fees and consequently your wages, or every down-and-out no-hoper… ?’

  ‘They aren’t no-hopers,’ Deborah protested angrily. ‘These people are out of work through no fault of their own; they…’

  She stopped abruptly as she saw Ryan’s expression. It was a mixture of irritation and boredom, the impatient drumming of his fingers warning her that she had overstepped the boundaries he had drawn for her.

  ‘All I wanted to do was to make sure that the company’s ex-employees knew exactly what the situation was with regard to their financial position…’

  ‘And who the hell is going to pay for the extra time you spend doing that: the extra cost of writing individually to them; the—?’

  ‘We had a moral duty…’

  ‘Grow up, Deborah. This is the real world we’re living in. We’re here to make money, plain and simple, and if you can’t understand or accept that then you’re in the wrong job. I used to wonder what it was you saw in a wimp like Mark; now I think I know.

  ‘I thought you and I were two of a kind… that we’d make a good team. You know how much opposition there’s been from the senior partners about my wanting to promote you ahead of people who’ve been here far longer.’

  Yes, she knew it, Deborah admitted. She hadn’t thought much at first about what the consequences of her promised promotion might be—she had been far too thrilled and excited—but it was already becoming evident that there was a certain amount of jealousy and resentment among her colleagues.

  So far she had managed to ignore it, reminding herself that it was a simple fact of life that when one member of a group was elevated above the others it was bound to cause a certain amount of turbulent negative emotion—for a while. In fact she had optimistically told herself that such a reaction would prove a good learning process for her, that it would enable her to perfect her pe
ople-handling skills. But somehow it wasn’t working out.

  Peer envy she could handle, or at least she had always thought she could, but when it was linked to an ambiguous and somehow elusive-to-pin-down awareness that those peers were putting her promotion down not to her professional skill, but to the fact that Ryan was showing her distinct favouritism, things were not quite so easy.

  No one had directly put such a view to her yet, but it was there none the less. However, confronting it was like trying to reach out and grasp a handful of air. To ask outright among her ex-peers if her suspicions were correct would be an admission of insecurity—an admission to herself as well as to others that she did not have the professional skill to separate herself from their opinions. And it would be to admit to them, and to herself, that she did not have the ability to control and command, the ability to earn their respect even if it was given grudgingly.

  And now it seemed that Ryan was turning against her as well, criticising the way she was handling the liquidation, undermining her self-confidence.

  For a moment she was tempted to challenge him directly and ask him if he wanted her off the account. She had an odd feeling that for some reason Ryan was deliberately trying to unnerve and upset her, by focusing his criticism of her on the one area where women always felt the most vulnerable—her different emotional attitude from that of men.

  Deborah had resolved when she’d first qualified that she was not going to allow the established hard core of old-fashioned chauvinistic men who still occupied so many positions of power within every aspect of the business world to trap her into the ultimately demeaning belief that the only way she, a woman, could survive and succeed in such a world was by accepting and adopting their code of behaviour.

  She was proud of being a woman; of her femininity.

  ‘Look, perhaps I am going a bit over the top,’ she heard Ryan saying more calmly to her. ‘But don’t go and mess up on me, will you, there’s a good girl?’

  A good girl; somehow Deborah just managed to swallow down the retort that sprang to her lips as Ryan walked out of her office.