by Helen Brooks
‘How noble,’ he said derisively.
‘No, it’s not noble,’ she said very quietly, her face deathly pale. ‘Just love. A few weeks ago you said you’d destroy me if I stayed with you and that you couldn’t change. What you are offering me is no different to what you were offering then, however you have convinced yourself otherwise. I have missed you every bit as much as you have missed me, but lying to ourselves is not the answer. The house is not the issue, children are not the issue, your work is not the issue—don’t you see? And if we start again under false pretences and you do destroy me with your jealousy—’
‘So it’s all me!’
‘Yes, it is,’ she bit back with equal ferocity. ‘And I won’t be bought or silenced with the offer of a doll’s house or anything else. Your other women were happy to take you on the terms you offered—perhaps a sterile relationship suited them as much as it does you; I don’t know—but I want more. I want you. I don’t expect you to be perfect—I know I’m not!—but I want you. All of you. Not the little bit you’ve offered me in the past.’
‘How can you say that after what we’ve shared the last couple of days?’ he said angrily.
‘That should be my line, Zeke.’ The stark bitterness brought his gaze shooting to the chalk-whiteness of her face and her wounded eyes. ‘You came here knowing exactly how you were going to play it for maximum effect, didn’t you?’ The breath caught painfully in her tight throat but she forced herself to go on. ‘I don’t know if you thought you were buying me or fooling me or blackmailing me or what, but I can’t live like you want to live. Not any more. And if you have any real feeling for me at all you won’t ask me.’
‘I love you, Marianne.’ His voice reflected her own agony and she almost softened. Almost.
‘If you love me, Zeke, really love me like I love you, you’ll trust me enough to give me my freedom,’ she said huskily. ‘Trust that I would come back to you of my own free will, without having to be kept in a beautiful gilded cage. Trust me enough to talk to me about your innermost fears and know that I wouldn’t put you down or think any the less of you for being human. You should be able to give me everything, as I’ve given you everything.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘No, I probably don’t, not completely. Because you won’t let me,’ she said sadly. ‘But I’d like to.’
There followed a silence so profound she didn’t dare break it. This was it. This was make or break time, she told herself silently as her senses clamoured and her mouth went dry. Let him just reach out, just the slightest…
‘I’d better go.’
She heard the words, the tight, clipped tone registering on her bruised mind, but she didn’t really take them in until after he had reached for his coat and overnight bag. And then she stood taut and still, enduring the light kiss on her forehead and his muttered, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ with just a nod and a raising of her chin.
At the last moment he turned in the doorway and looked at her, and for a moment, a second, she thought he was going to change his mind. He cleared his throat, and the dark-haired, serious-faced little boy was very evident when he said, ‘I shouldn’t have come, should I?’
She stared at him, willing herself not to break down. ‘I don’t know, Zeke,’ she said, with a flatness that spoke of bitter anguish. ‘Only you can answer that.’
He flinched visibly. ‘I’m a mess, Marianne, aren’t I?’ It was not really a question, and didn’t require an answer, but the unmasked desperation in his grey eyes hit her like a blow.
Nevertheless she stayed exactly where she was, although every fibre of her being wanted to fly across the room and take him in her arms. He stared at her, his face setting as the seconds ticked by, and then he said, his voice so low she could hardly catch it, ‘I would still like you to have the house, no strings attached. It…it’ll be a good place for you to start again.’
‘The house was a package.’ Her voice was very flat; it was either that or scream at him. ‘It would mean nothing without you. Sell it or live in it. I don’t care.’
‘Marianne—’
‘Just go, Zeke.’ Another moment and she would break down completely. ‘Please.’
And he did just that.
She waited until she heard the outer door bang shut and then sank down on to the sofa, her face awash with tears and the pain in her heart unbearable. Christmas was over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARIANNE saw the New Year in at a party at Pat’s parents’ house with her father, and during a quiet moment in the somewhat rowdy proceedings she filled Pat in on all that had happened since she had seen her last. She wished she hadn’t afterwards.
Zeke had never liked Pat, and Marianne knew her friend fully reciprocated the feeling, but she had expected Pat would try to understand all the complications that went hand in hand with their split. Not so.
‘He’s a male chauvinist pig and you’re well rid of him if you want my opinion,’ Pat said firmly. ‘A typical “keep ’em barefoot and in the kitchen”. He won’t be happy until you’re under his thumb.’
‘It’s not like that, Pat. Really.’
‘No? Get real, Annie. He manipulated you at Christmas and he’ll try and do it again, you mark my words.’
Marianne glanced at her friend’s scowling, obstinate face and was wise enough to change the subject. Pat didn’t understand. How could she? She herself had been Zeke’s wife for over two years and she barely had a handle on the thing.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ Pat asked a little later in the evening as they sat down with a plateful of food each. ‘Divorce him?’
Marianne’s stomach turned right over and suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more. ‘I don’t know,’ she said carefully, ‘but I suppose it will come to that. For the time being Mrs Polinkski has offered me a permanent job until I start college somewhere in the autumn. I’m looking into which one, out of the four I’ve narrowed it down to, would give me the best offer—or if any will,’ she added ruefully.
‘With your A level results? They’ll snap you up,’ Pat said positively. ‘They like a few mature students anyway, looks good on their records.’
‘Oh, thank you so much! I’ll take my walking stick and hairnet with me, shall I?’ Marianne said drily, both girls laughing.
‘So you’re definitely going for it, then?’ Pat was suddenly serious.
Marianne answered with equal solemnity, ‘You bet your sweet life I am, Pat.’
‘And you’re not going to take a penny from him? You’re mad, Annie. It’d make life so much easier, and he’s rich enough not to miss a few hundred thousand. He’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be laughing, Pat.’ And then Marianne raised her hand as Pat went to say something more. ‘Let’s agree to disagree about Zeke,’ she said very quietly. ‘I love him, Pat. I shall always love him but I can’t live with him, okay? Subject closed.’
Pat glanced at her friend’s straight face, sighed and then nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ she said flatly, ‘but not even a teeny-weeny allowance?’
‘Pat!’
‘My lips are sealed.’
When she returned to London on the third of January Mrs Polinkski had a parcel for her. ‘From your husband,’ the plump, motherly woman said conspiratorially.
‘Zeke came here?’ Marianne bit her lip. ‘When?’
‘The day after you go to see your father,’ said Mrs Polinkski, her accent very pronounced in her earnestness. ‘I tell him where you were, that you were going to the big party with friends and relations, and he asked me to give you this when you return.’
‘Thank you.’ Had Zeke spent New Year’s Eve at home alone, or had he had company? It was a thought that had tormented her all the time at Pat’s parents’ party. Or perhaps he’d gone to the theatre followed by a small, select dinner party? That was the way they had spent the previous New Year’s Eve.
When she opened the parcel she found it contained a
mobile phone and a note written in his crisp black handwriting.
My solicitors tell me you returned the second cheque I sent you three days ago, which is absolute foolishness, Marianne.
The writing became almost savage at this point.
However, I can’t force you to accept what is rightfully yours if you don’t want to. If you insist on living in that place at least let me sleep easy at night knowing you have some means of communication with the outside world. I’m seeing to the rental so please humour me and use the damn thing. Z
As a love letter it wasn’t exactly flowing poetry, but as Marianne gazed down at the package she felt as touched as if it had been. And then she wanted to cry and shout and wail, to stamp her feet and have a major paddy at the absolute waste of it all. Instead she took off her coat and started work.
That evening, once she was comfortable on the sofa with a mug of coffee, she dialled the apartment’s number. She would be formal and businesslike, she told herself as her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. Just thank him for his thoughtfulness, assure him she would use the phone, and leave it at that. No asking him how he was or any kind of social intercourse.
When there was no answer she felt such a keen disappointment it necessitated a five-minute talking-to about her stupidity.
She tried again an hour later, and then once more at just gone ten o’clock, and this time the receiver at the other end was picked up fairly swiftly.
‘Hallo?’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and gurgling with an American accent. ‘Can I help you?’
Marianne found she was gripping the telephone so tightly her fingers were hurting, but after a panic-stricken moment—when she almost pressed the button to finish the call—she forced herself to say calmly, ‘Is it possible to speak with Mr Buchanan, please?’
‘Zeke? Sorry, he’s in the shower,’ the Marilyn Monroe lookalike—if voices were anything to go by—fluttered sweetly. ‘Can I give him a message?’
I’m surprised you aren’t in there with him! The words were on the tip of her tongue, and, horrified at herself, Marianne said quickly, ‘Oh, just tell him Marianne says thanks for the phone,’ before immediately ending the call. She stood for a moment, the phone held to her chest and her heart thudding sickeningly, and then she turned the phone right off. If Zeke called back—if—she wouldn’t be able to be civil.
This does not matter; it does not. When she found herself pacing the room she stopped abruptly. She was the one who had forced the separation when all was said and done, and Zeke was perfectly entitled to have women friends back to the apartment—hundreds of them if he so wished! She had no right to complain or object.
She shut her eyes tightly and took a deep breath, forcing her hands, which had been clenched into tight fists at her sides, to relax.
After turning on the TV she ate a whole box of chocolates which Wilmer—with dewy eyes—had presented to her at Christmas, but the feel-good comfort factor didn’t work. She just felt slightly queasy now, as well as furiously angry.
And then she gave up all pretence of reasonableness, had a good cry and called Zeke every name under the sun, and a felt a little better. But not so much better that she could sleep that night.
At three in the morning, when she still hadn’t had a wink of sleep, she padded across to the kitchen area and made herself a mug of milky cocoa. She took it back to bed with her, along with half a package of chocolate biscuits—which she ate with a que sera, sera disregard for her waistline—and a good book, and resolved to put every thought of Zeke Buchanan out of her mind. It didn’t work.
Later, after watching the night sky outside the window give way to the first pink tentative fingers of dawn, she went along the landing and ran herself a hot bubbly bath. She lay for a long time in the warm silky water, her thoughts spinning and whirling, before she washed her hair.
Her body lotion brought more thoughts of Zeke—he had always taken great pleasure in smoothing cream on to every inch of her body—that made her angry at her own weakness and she shed a few more hot tears.
‘Enough.’ She glared at her pink-eyed reflection once she was back in her room. ‘You are going to look great today, as though you haven’t got a care in the world. Zeke is not the be-all and end-all of your existence! Understand?’
The reflection nodded obediently, and after another long, narrow-eyed, critical stare Marianne set to work. She dried her hair in thick, silky waves about her shoulders, leaving it loose for once, and then gave herself a manicure. She painted her nails—fingers and toes—in bright, challenging red. She didn’t particularly like the shade—it had been part of a Christmas present from Pat—but it suited her mood this morning.
Nails finished, she pulled on a thick cream jumper and a fitted bottle-green corduroy skirt which finished a couple of inches above her knees, teaming them with her new boots, and then set to work on her face.
Subtle golden-brown eyeshadow and mascara deepened her cornflower-blue eyes to violet, and in a spirit of recklessness she used the lipstick which matched the nail varnish Pat had given her.
There. She gazed at herself again in a searching appraisal that was very analytical. She looked young and bright and attractive, she decided, as her blue eyes shone back at her. A woman who knew where she was going and what she wanted, and who intended to have fun getting there.
Her lashes dropped, hiding her eyes as she turned away from the mirror, and not for the world would she admit to herself that she was disturbed by what she saw. She had started this ball rolling, and no matter how fast it gathered momentum she had to see it through to the bitter end, she told herself silently. She just wished that a situation she had thought at one time was so straightforward and clear hadn’t turned into such a giant tangle, that was all.
Marianne felt a little self-conscious as she walked into the shop that morning, but she threw back her slim shoulders and smiled blithely when Wilmer—who was wheeling a stack of tins through from the warehouse—give a low, approving whistle at the sight of her.
‘You look happy this morning,’ he said softly as he stopped at her side. ‘And very lovely. But then you always look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She gazed back at him and wondered why she couldn’t have been attracted to someone like him in the days before she had met Zeke. He was young, good-looking, virile—so why wasn’t there the faintest trace of a spark?
‘Marianne…’ He hesitated, and then said quickly, ‘It’s my birthday today and I wondered if you’d come out for a drink this evening?’
Oh, no, not again. She had really thought he’d got the message by now. ‘This evening? Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t—’
‘This lunch-time, then?’ he put in swiftly. ‘Just a drink between friends to celebrate?’
‘As friends?’ she emphasised gently, feeling she had to make it perfectly clear where they stood.
‘As friends.’ He smiled a trifle bitterly. ‘I know how you feel, Marianne, so don’t worry. I won’t embarrass us both by pressing my case.’
‘Oh, Wilmer, I’m sorry. It’s just that…’ She didn’t know how to put it.
‘You still care about him.’ He didn’t have to mention Zeke by name; they both knew who he was talking about.
She nodded, unaware of how her mouth had drooped and the shadow in her eyes.
Wilmer stared at her for a moment, wondering what sort of cretin would let a woman like Marianne go, and then he sighed resignedly. ‘I think he’s crazy, Marianne, but then you know that,’ he said lightly. ‘And for what it’s worth there’s always a shoulder here to cry on if you need it. A friendly shoulder, nothing more, okay?’
‘Thank you.’ And she meant it.
‘And now we’ve had this little chat, can I take it you’ll be accepting a few more invitations to dinner?’ he probed determinedly, but with a grin to soften the words.
She blushed at that. She had been chary recently of going for a meal every time Mrs Polinkski had invited her, in an effort to spare Wi
lmer’s feelings.
He turned away without waiting for a reply, calling over his shoulder as he went, ‘Lunch-time, then. And you can buy the first round, considering you haven’t got me a card.’
Marianne nipped out mid-morning to the little paper shop halfway down the street and bought a cheeky card she knew would amuse him, but as Wilmer and his father had gone to visit a supplier she had to content herself with waiting until lunch-time to give it to him, whereupon he roared with laughter.
They were still smiling at they left the supermarket, Wilmer pulling her hand through his arm as they began to walk down the wet, cold street and Marianne’s face uplifted to his as he grinned down at her. And then she froze, quite literally froze, as Zeke’s voice came from a taxi purring gently at the kerb. ‘Marianne?’ It was cold, gritty. ‘Could I have a word?’
‘Zeke, what on earth are you doing here?’ He was only a couple of feet away from her in the taxi with the window wound down, but she would have walked right by if he hadn’t spoken.
That thought had obviously occurred to Zeke, too, as his icy voice reflected. ‘What do you think?’ he bit out harshly with a searing glance at Wilmer. ‘I’m here to talk to my wife.’
She felt Wilmer tighten at the side of her, and now her voice was rushed as she said, ‘I’m just going to lunch. It’s Wilmer’s birthday.’ It wasn’t the most tactful way to defuse what had become an electric moment but she was utterly out of her depth.
‘I see.’ Zeke’s eyes were almost black with dark emotion and his mouth was a thin white line.
He had clearly put two and two together and come up with a wacking great ten, Marianne thought dazedly, and she was just going to explain who Wilmer was and that they were work colleagues when she caught the words before they left her tongue.
What was she doing? she asked herself incredulously. Zeke had been entertaining little Miss America last night—she didn’t have to explain a thing to him! Talk about one rule for him and one rule for her. How dared he object to anything she did when he was seeing other women again?
