by Anne Mather
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t let’s start all that again, Mike. You know how I feel. I told you. And if that’s why you’ve rung—’
‘I rang to ask how you were feeling,’ broke in Mike swiftly, before she could go on. ‘Hell, Shelley, I’ve been worried about you. And when I got back from the States and found you were gone—’
Shelley sighed. ‘How did you get this number, Mike? I didn’t leave it with anybody but Dr Lanyard, and he—’
‘I’m a newsman, Shelley. It didn’t take much deduction on my part to guess where you’d gone. You and that termagent, Manning! You always were as thick as thieves.’
‘Even so—’
‘Her number’s ex-directory? I know. But we have our methods, Shelley, as you should appreciate.’
Shelley’s shoulders sagged. It was a relief to know that Dr Lanyard had respected her desire for privacy, but she should have guessed that Mike would seek her out, no matter what.
‘At which point I should add that your shrink seems singularly incapable of grasping that I was—I am—concerned about you,’ Mike continued. ‘Okay. So things got a little tough. It happens to all of us, Shelley. Just so long as you remember I do care about you. And, when you’ve got yourself together again, you’ll realise I’m right—’
‘No, Mike!’
‘What do you mean? No, Mike? Shelley, I love you. I need you. And now that Lesley’s gone—’
‘No, Mike.’ Shelley could feel the familiar frissons of panic rising at the back of her throat. ‘Please, I told you—I tried to make you understand—’
‘To understand?’ he echoed harshly. ‘To understand what? That you led me to believe you cared about me, when my wife was alive and well? But that as soon as she became ill, and there was a remote chance that we might legally be together—’
‘Mike, it wasn’t like that, and you know it!’ Shelley caught her breath. ‘You told me you were free. You told me you and your—your wife—were separated; that you were waiting for your divorce to become final. I—I would never have gone out with you if I’d known—if I’d suspected—’
‘No?’ Mike sounded sceptical. ‘Come on, Shelley, we both know how ambitious you were! Good God, everyone at the station knew you were determined to make it, one way or the other. And—well, I’ll admit it—I was only too happy to go along. We were good together, Shelley. We can be good again—’
‘No! No!’
‘If you keep on saying no, Shelley, you’re going to force me to make you believe it. For Christ’s sake, Lesley’s death was a shock to me, too. But it was nothing for you to get so steamed up about. I mean—you hardly knew the woman.’
Shelley trembled, as memories of the whole sordid affair swept over her again. Of course she had been upset about it. There were times when she had almost convinced herself that Lesley Berlitz’s death had been a direct result of her own selfishness, a cross she was being made to bear for the recklessness of becoming involved with a married man. The fact that as soon as she had learned that Mike was not in the process of divorcing his wife, that Lesley was, in fact, a major shareholder in the television station, and Mike had no intention of jeopardising his position by seeking a separation, Shelley had broken off their relationship, was harder to believe—particularly as Mike had continued to pursue her as energetically as before. But, so long as Lesley was alive, Shelley had been able to cope with that. His wife’s death from cancer, some twenty months later, had brought the situation to a head, and the subsequent drain on Shelley’s mental resources had caused the virtual breakdown of her nervous system.
‘I don’t think there’s any point in continuing this conversation,’ Shelley said now, her knuckles almost as white as the receiver she was holding. ‘I had hoped my—my absence would make you see the truth of what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past three months, but evidently it hasn’t. I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it—’
‘Like hell!’ Mike lost his temper. ‘You listen to me, Shelley: I won’t take this, do you hear? I don’t care what some over-priced psychiatrist has been telling you. I don’t care if your conscience won’t let you accept what you know is true. We belong together, and I’m going to see we stay together. Goddammit, you belong to me!’
Shelley replaced the receiver she was holding with a distinct little click, starting seconds later when the phone gave an unexpected little ping. But it reminded her that Mike could easily dial her number again, and after a moment’s consideration, she lifted the receiver off the rest again, and laid it down beside the phone on the bedside table. Then, after giving herself a few moments to recover, she got determinedly to her feet and walked back to her own room.
Realising there was no chance of her being able to rest with the knowledge of Mike’s call to disturb her, Shelley decided to get dressed. A cool shower and two of her tablets—which she noticed were getting rather low—made her feel slightly more human, and ignoring the pounding in her head, she went downstairs.
Breaking one of her own rules, she went to find Marsha in her studio. Until now, she had refrained from disturbing her friend, whatever the provocation, but in this instance, she knew she had to talk to somebody.
One look at the younger woman’s pale face was enough to convince Marsha that something was seriously wrong, and abandoning her painting, she came quickly to meet her.
‘My dear—what is it?’ she exclaimed, gazing anxiously into Shelley’s bruised green eyes, and Shelley shook her head dazedly before seeking the support of a wooden chair.
‘Mike rang,’ she said bleakly, allowing her slim wrists to hang weakly over the arms. ‘I’m sorry. I just had to tell someone.’
Marsha moistened her lips and then, realising she was still holding her paintbrush, she quickly disposed of it. ‘How did he know where you were?’ she asked, coming back to kneel by Shelley’s chair, and Shelley gave a helpless shrug before making a response.
‘He guessed, and then used his influence to get the ‘phone number,’ she responded flatly. ‘I told him our relationship was over, but he wouldn’t listen.’
Marsha frowned. ‘You mean—he doesn’t accept it?’
‘No. He doesn’t accept it,’ agreed Shelley, repeating her words parrot-fashion. ‘Oh, Marsha, what am I going to do? I can’t go back to that, I just can’t!’
Hearing the rising note of hysteria in Shelley’s voice, Marsha endeavoured to calm her. ‘You don’t have to go back,’ she declared, taking the girl’s hand in both of hers and squeezing it reassuringly. ‘Darling, have you forgotten? There are weeks and weeks before you need even think about going back to London!’
‘But sooner or later—’
‘Sooner or later, Mike Berlitz will get off your back,’ declared Marsha firmly. ‘He’ll get the message. Just don’t give in to him.’
Shelley shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘Marsha, he’s my boss! He practically owns the television station!’
‘No one practically owns a television station,’ declared Marsha convincingly. ‘Shelley, the man’s persistent, I’ll give you that. But if he’s threatening you with losing your job—’
‘He’s not threatening me,’ said Shelley wearily. ‘At least, not with losing my job, anyway.’ To her relief, the panic inside her was beginning to respond to Marsha’s calming influence. ‘He just won’t accept that I don’t love him. And right now, I don’t know if I can handle that.’
‘Then stay here until you can,’ said Marsha reasonably. ‘Now that Dickon is getting married, I don’t have any other commitments.’
‘Oh, Marsha—’ Shelley closed her eyes against the unpalatable reminder of her own deceit. It seemed that whichever way she turned, she was faced with problems of her own making. Perhaps she ought seriously to consider an alternative solution; one where Mike, and Marsha, and most particularly, Ben, would not be hurt by her destructive personality. ‘I—thanks, but no thanks,’
she murmured unhappily, withdrawing her hand from Marsha’s grasp, gently, but firmly. ‘You’re sweet, but I can’t take advantage of your kindness. I—I’ve got to deal with this myself. In my own way.’
‘Well—just so long as you remember Dickon and I are behind you, every inch of the way,’ said Marsha staunchly, and Shelley despised herself anew for getting involved in their lives.
* * *
During the following week, Shelley made a determined effort to put the past behind her—a past that contained not only Mike, but Ben, too. Both relationships were doomed to failure, and if she wanted to make a successful future for herself, she had to stop looking over her shoulder.
All the same, it wasn’t easy trying to behave as if Marsha’s support was all she needed, and her small supply of capsules dwindled alarmingly. Dr Lanyard had said she should only take the capsules if the headaches became unbearable, but lately she seemed seldom to be without one. In addition to which, she found the analgesic quality of the drug helped to keep her brain less active, and in consequence she was forced to consult Marsha about the possibilities of renewing her prescription.
‘Why don’t you go and see Charles?’ suggested Marsha at once, but Shelley was not enthusiastic.
‘I don’t want to discuss my physical weaknesses with him, Marsha,’ she protested unhappily. ‘I’d prefer to speak to a stranger; someone without any preconceived ideas about my way of life.’
‘Mmm.’ Marsha was not entirely unsympathetic to her point of view. ‘It would have to be a doctor in Low Burton then. I’ll ask Charles. He might know someone.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ Shelley gave her a rueful smile. ‘Honestly, Marsha, I’d prefer to make my own arrangements. The fewer people who know what a wreck I am, the better.’
‘Oh, Shelley!’ Marsha sighed. ‘You’re not a wreck. You’re just having a difficult time, that’s all. Look—why don’t you ask Dickon? He’s bound to know who to recommend and who not.’
Faced with this second alternative, Shelley felt obliged to concede. She had no good reason for refusing, and besides, it might bring Ben to his senses to learn that she was far from the untarnished innocence of youth.
‘I’ve made you an appointment with a Dr Sheridan,’ Marsha remarked the following afternoon, when Shelley returned from a visit to the village. ‘Dickon says he’s the most experienced of the doctors in the practice, so I made the appointment for tomorrow morning at ten.’
Shelley moistened her lips. ‘Ben—I mean, Dickon’s been here?’
‘No. I rang him,’ said Marsha airily. ‘I waited for you to do it, and when you didn’t I did.’
‘I see.’ Shelley forced a smile. ‘Well—thanks. I—I was waiting until he came out here.’
‘I shouldn’t hold your breath,’ commented Marsha drily. ‘So long as Jennifer’s father is so ill, Dickon’s not going to have a lot of free time. And I suppose it’s only natural that he should want to spend what he has with her.’
Shelley hesitated. ‘Did he say that?’
‘More or less.’ Marsha grimaced. ‘I don’t know. Dickon seems different somehow. I’d have thought, with you being here, he’d have done his damndest to spend some time with us. Heavens, before you came, he could talk of nothing else.’ She paused, regarding her friend with sudden inspiration: ‘You haven’t—I mean, you and Dickon haven’t had a row or anything, have you? If you have, I wish you’d tell me. It’s just not like him to be so—distant.’
‘Of course not.’ Shelley’s answer was automatic, and to her relief Marsha accepted it without demur.
‘I didn’t really think you had,’ she admitted gloomily. ‘Nothing is ever that simple. You don’t think—well, I have wondered if he and Jennifer are having problems he doesn’t want to tell me about. I did give the idea that she might be pregnant some consideration, but surely Dickon would know that I’d never reproach him for that.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘Good Lord, I’d be delighted. Even if I would have to abandon all my plans for a white wedding.’
Shelley’s nails dug into her palms as she turned away. Knowing what she did, the idea that Jennifer might be pregnant seemed an unlikely solution for Ben’s absence. But it did promote another disturbing notion. Although she had not thought of it at the time, she had taken no precautions when she and Ben had made love, and she knew he had been in no mood to care. Indeed, remembering that interlude, with all its unrestrained passion, she doubted if either of them could have made that choice even had they wanted to.
Involuntarily, her hand strayed to the quivering flatness of her stomach. It was possible, she supposed, though highly unlikely in her present condition. But, nevertheless, it was proof of her weakness in her dealings with Ben, and a salutary reminder of a more physical vulnerability.
‘What do you think?’
Realising Marsha was looking at her rather doubtfully now, Shelley quickly thrust her hands behind her back. ‘Oh—I think you’re probably being too sensitive,’ she murmured, reaching for a magazine. ‘I—er—how old is this Dr Sheridan? Did—did Dickon say?’
Marsha shrugged. ‘No. But as he’s the senior partner I imagine he’ll be in his sixties, at least.’ She made an effort to put her own problems aside, and smiled. ‘He’ll probably tell you that what you need is a husband and a handful of children to worry about.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Which isn’t such a bad idea, when I come to think of it.’
In fact, Dr Sheridan was not as old as Marsha had predicted. Shelley gauged his age to be somewhere in his middle fifties, and he wasn’t half as old fashioned as she had anticipated.
‘I suppose you’re used to being told that a woman isn’t cut out to be a high-powered executive, aren’t you?’ he remarked, after giving her a brief examination. ‘But, believe me, I get just as many business men coming in here, suffering from the effects of hypertension. We used to call it overwork in my young day, or high blood-pressure, if the patient looked apoplectic.’
‘But—I don’t have high blood pressure, do I?’ protested Shelley in some alarm, and the physician smiled as he put his stethoscope away.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I think I can reassure you on that score. You’re too pale, of course, and you need to put on at least seven pounds in weight, but apart from the headaches you mention, you’re in fairly good shape. Physically, at least.’
‘Thank you.’ Shelley was relieved.
‘So—’ He arched an eyebrow and regarded her encouragingly. ‘Do you want to tell me what caused them to start?’
‘I’d rather not.’ Shelley bent her head. ‘Something happened that—that I couldn’t cope with. I just collapsed one day at work. My doctor called it a—a trial breakdown.’
‘I see.’ Dr Sheridan nodde. ‘Well, I suggest you try and avoid the kind of situation that creates these headaches. You say they’ve persisted—even though there’s presumably no reason for them now?’
‘Not exactly.’ Shelley could feel the warm colour entering her cheeks as she endeavoured to sidestep his question. ‘Oh—really, I’m feeling much better; honestly. If you could just repeat the prescription, I shan’t bother you again.’
The doctor agreed, but reluctantly Shelley knew, and as she emerged from the surgery into the cool chill of the damp morning, she suspected he would be getting in touch with her own doctor to inform him of the situation.
A Land-Rover overtook her as she walked towards the market square and the chemist’s shop she had seen there. Its grey lines did not make it in any way distinguishable from any other Land-Rover, but Shelley could tell from the prickling of her flesh that it was Ben’s. It was hardly any surprise when it didn’t slow or stop, and she walked on determinedly, ignoring the hollow feeling in her stomach.
When she reached the square, however, she found the vehicle in question parked outside the pharmacy, and she thought what bad luck it was that he should have business there at the same time she did.
But Ben was not in the chemist’s shop. When Shelley came ab
reast of the Land-Rover she discovered he was still seated behind the wheel, though he thrust open his door and slid out to confront her.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked abruptly, and Shelley stared at him blankly, too shocked to respond. It was so good to see him again, however she might deny it, and her eyes moved hungrily over his lean frame, severely encased in black roll-necked sweater and matching jeans. ‘You went to see Sheridan,’ he reminded her, nodding towards the folded prescription she was clenching in one hand. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Oh—’ Shelley managed to drag her scattered senses together and shook her head. ‘I—no. No, I just went to get something for—for a headache. How are you? Still working overtime, I suppose.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Ben was aggressive, and she could hardly blame him. After all, they had hardly parted on the best of terms, and she had not forgotten his anger on that occasion.
‘Your mother says you’ve had very little free time,’ she replied now, carefully. ‘What with Jennifer’s father being ill, and—’
‘We’ve got a replacement,’ Ben cut in coldly. ‘Dennis Armitage. I believe I mentioned him to you. He’s given up his holiday to help out.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Shelley put up a hand to her head, feeling the dampening strands of hair that had freed themselves from the knot clinging to her neck. ‘Well—I’m sure your mother will be relieved.’
‘But not you,’ Ben inserted harshly. ‘Evidently I’m responsible for your feeling out of sorts. Or at least that’s what my mother thinks.’ His lips twisted mockingly. ‘What have you been telling her?’
‘Nothing!’ Shelley almost choked on the word. ‘What do you mean? What has Marsha been saying? I’ve never mentioned you.’
‘Oh, I can believe it.’ Ben expelled his breath heavily. ‘Nevertheless, my mother wants me to show you a little more—courtesy. You’re fond of me—or so she says—and I haven’t shown you the consideration I should.’
‘Oh, Ben!’ Shelley gazed at him helplessly, and Ben tore his eyes away to stare broodingly at the toes of his boots.
