He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  And she often thought it was during those sad months that she’d fallen in love with Brett Harcourt. But it was on the understanding that what was between him and Marietta was not resolved, and that somehow things would be patched up.

  She’d spent a lot of time with his children, though, during the restless months after her father’s death, often staying with them rather than rattling around home alone. She had done this not only on his account, but the children’s, and Marietta’s too. It had been like having two waning members of her own family around, both of whom she loved.

  She couldn’t forget all the years she’d known Marietta. Could never forget how Marietta had flown home for her father’s funeral to play some of his favourite pieces. They had brought him so vividly to mind, yet in the way they’d been played—so exquisitely and gently—had laid him to rest in her heart, even though she still suffered, and had no idea what she wanted to do with her suddenly empty life.

  Brett had suggested university again, but she hadn’t wanted to commit herself. She wasn’t even sure whether she’d agreed to a Bachelor of Arts in the first place only to please her father. She’d suggested an overseas trip, but Brett had vetoed it, saying she was too young to go on her own. That was when she’d first discovered that she might love Brett Harcourt, but it didn’t prevent her from being in discord with him…

  Indeed, that was what she’d thrown at him after she’d drifted into company with a fast set of so-called friends—another cause for disagreement between them—and, without quite understanding how, had got herself so embarrassingly compromised by a man of whom, ever since, the mere thought made her shudder.

  It had all been so trite and sordid.

  A party of them had been going up to the Tablelands for a long weekend, or so she’d been led to think. But no one else had turned up, and she’d found herself alone, in a remote cabin, fending off the distinctly amorous and then frighteningly violent attentions of a man who called her a rich, spoilt little bitch and speculated that she was Brett Harcourt’s mistress—she certainly spent enough time at his house, and it was already the subject of some comment around town, wasn’t it?

  Nicola had suddenly been more horrified than frightened, and this had given her the momentum to slap his face, then storm off proudly when he’d drawled that she’d have to find her own way home.

  That was something she hadn’t been able to do without calling on Brett for help when she’d finally found a phone.

  The interview that had followed as he’d driven her back to Cairns had been deadly. How could she have been such a fool? Hadn’t he warned her about the company she was keeping and the men she was going out with? What did she think she looked like, wandering around the countryside dusty and dishevelled with her dress torn?

  That was when she’d thrown the idea of an overseas trip at him in her anger and shame.

  He’d driven her straight to Yorkeys Knob, but as he’d been about to get out of the car she’d swallowed suddenly and said, ‘No, not here…please.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just can’t.’ But her face had burned, and something in the way she’d refused to look at him had made him pause. Then he’d said unemotionally that he’d take her home and had done so. Only once there he’d proceeded to insist on being told everything. But, instead of being shocked and disgusted by the news of the kind of gossip they were the subject of, he’d merely said that she should have a shower and get changed because he planned to take her out to dinner.

  And it had been over dinner, when she was much calmer and no longer feeling such a fool, that he’d proposed marriage—of a kind.

  She could still remember the blue linen tablecloth and the steady flame of a candle in a glass, the music in the background and the dress she’d worn—black with white flowers, a high little mandarin collar and a row of pearl buttons down the front. Her hair had been lying on her shoulders, clean and slightly fluffy because she hadn’t had time to dry it properly.

  She remembered the half-eaten butterfly prawns she’d ordered, the glass of wine she’d been toying with. And her first shocked response—‘What about Marietta?’

  He smiled dryly. ‘That’s all over. Didn’t you know?’ He looked at her ironically.

  ‘But is that why it’s only to be a—a fake marriage?’

  ‘No. It’s because you’re too young to be marrying anyone, Nicola, but at least this way you’ll be able to be comfortable and happy, and doing something you obviously enjoy.’

  She picked up her wine glass, then looked challengingly at him over the rim. ‘Taking care of your children?’

  ‘Marietta’s too. And it’s not that I’ll expect you to be a babysitter-cum-governess,’ he went on. ‘You can do whatever you like, but with you there they’re happy, and so are you. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But for how long?’

  He shrugged. ‘As long as it seems necessary. You could even do a part time university course if you wanted to. And if it doesn’t appeal to you—well, at least you’ll know you’ve given it a shot.’

  ‘You sound like my father.’

  He said nothing for a long moment, then added, ‘It is something he would have wanted you to do. By the way, Nicola, it would be an honour to have you gracing my house.’

  Her eyes widened, and that was when the first rash seed of hope sprouted. But she immediately cautioned herself against believing anything. ‘Just say you fall in love, or I fall in love—tomorrow, for example.’ She gestured.

  ‘I don’t think that’s liable to happen to me, but I promise to tell you if it does,’ he said gravely. ‘And if it happens for you, I still think you should wait a while before you allow yourself to believe it’s the love of your life.’

  She shrugged and chewed her lip, then, with the first glint of humour in her eyes for quite a while, said, ‘At the moment I’m thoroughly turned off men, believe me. But—’ she frowned ‘—just say it did happen—mightn’t it complicate things incredibly? Having to explain that I am married but not really, kind of thing, let alone having to go through annulments and whatever?’

  ‘Not for a man who really loves you, no.’

  She blinked, then heard herself saying, ‘I don’t know what else to do. I feel like a ship without a rudder. I suppose because I was an only child and I don’t even remember my mother…that’s why…’ She sighed. ‘We used to do so much together, Dad and I. We’d planned to go overseas together when I finished school.’

  ‘I know. I envied you.’

  ‘Did you?’ For some reason it came as a surprise, and she studied him curiously. He’d left his work to rescue her, and still wore a pale green long-sleeved shirt, fawn trousers and a dark red tie with little green elephants on it. He looked so much a man of the world, so quietly assured and in command, it was hard to imagine him envying her in any way, let alone proposing marriage to her.

  She said suddenly, ‘I think my father looked upon you as the son he never had. He denied it, but it was true, all the same.’ She took a sip of wine, then twirled the glass in her fingers.

  ‘You didn’t mind?’ He watched her narrowly.

  ‘No. What do you think he’d have made of this, though?’ She returned his gaze steadily.

  ‘I think, Nicola…’ he said, and paused. ‘I think he’d rest easily to know we’d devised a way of getting you through these difficult years—and they can be difficult years for anyone, not least for someone as alone in the world as you are—safely and happily.’

  ‘All the same, it’s fraud of a kind,’ she murmured a little dryly, and formed her slender hands into a steeple on the table. ‘Although it remains to be seen whether we fool anyone.’ And there was that glint of challenge in her deep blue eyes again.

  ‘They may draw their own conclusions, but—’ he smiled slightly, a cool twisting of his lips that was curiously intimidating ‘—I can assure you they’d think twice about expressing them, let alone treating you with anything but respect.’

  Her brows
rose. ‘You sound quite formidable, Brett.’

  He said nothing, only looked lazily amused, but if anything that reinforced her growing understanding that he was formidable when he wanted to be.

  ‘Uh…’ She hesitated. ‘There is one person who might be entitled to express all sorts of reservations on the subject—they are her children, too.’

  ‘Leave Marietta to me,’ he said evenly.

  ‘But I think I should know whether you intend to tell her the truth or not, Brett?’

  ‘Marietta waived certain rights, Nicola, when she walked out on her children, but, if it’s OK with you, all I would do is present her with a fait accompli. I can’t see her not being delighted to have you there for Sasha and Chris.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Is that a yes?’

  Coming back to the present, with Sasha and Chris still splashing happily in the pool, Brett and Richard Holloway now onto golf, and the aroma of burnt meat wafting across the terrace at Buchans Point, Nicola grimaced to think that she should have been so naive. Because of course she’d not only said yes, but spent the first year of their marriage still hoping for Brett’s love, despite going out of her way never to give herself away.

  But he’d been right about one thing. No one had cast any aspersions on their marriage openly, or treated her with any reservations or plain mockery.

  So, it was really ironic, she thought, that sunny Sunday morning, that it should have been Sasha, his own daughter and a little girl of barely six, who had articulated to the world the state of their marriage.

  ‘My dear!’ Kim arrived back, looking hot and bothered. ‘I’m sorry, you must have wondered whether we had to slaughter the beast as well as cook its steaks, but Rod is so unhandy with the barbecue. Would you believe, he couldn’t get it hot enough? Then it went out, then it was too hot, but lunch is ready.’

  ‘Smells wonderful,’ Nicola said consolingly, but untruthfully. ‘I’ll round up the kids.’

  After lunch, and a suitable period to allow it to digest, their hosts suggested that the younger members of the party might like to climb down the hill for a walk along the beach. And when Brett and the children lagged behind, to build sandcastles, Nicola found herself striding out beside Richard Holloway, who said humorously, ‘Do you ever regret eating a large, indigestible meal in the middle of the day?’

  Nicola glanced at him and her lips quivered. ‘They tried so hard. I’m only amazed Sasha or Chris didn’t make some remark. Tact is not their—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘So I gathered,’ he said quietly.

  A rush of colour prickled the skin of her cheeks, but she held her head high and walked even faster.

  Richard Holloway kept up easily. He was lean and rangy, with fair hair and grey eyes. Over lunch he’d been good company, as they’d hacked their way through overcooked steaks and some pointed remarks had flown between the new District Court Judge and his wife. In fact, it had been due to Richard and Brett and the way they’d held the conversation that the little domestic contretemps the Masons were suffering had been defused.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Talk of tactless—that was extremely so.’

  There was a breeze getting up and stirring the hot sand. Nicola squinted as an extra strong gust swirled the sand head-high, and turned around. ‘How long are you staying with the Masons, Mr Holloway?’

  ‘Just for the time being, until I find a place of my own, although Kim assures me I can stay for good,’ he replied a little ruefully as they walked back towards Brett and the children. ‘I’m working on a commission for a new shopping centre—a centrepiece for the main foyer that combines reef and rainforest, a little bit of the Daintry and coral, et cetera—all the things Cairns is famous for.’

  Nicola slowed her pace. ‘Are you an artist?’

  ‘I’m a bit of a jack of all trades. I paint, and I sculpt, but when I realised I wasn’t going to set the world on fire there, I went in for this kind of design work.’

  Nicola looked at him with more interest, and decided he might be a bit younger than her first estimate—twenty-sevenish, perhaps—and that he was also nice.

  ‘I believe you’re a potter?’ he said then.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Kim. She said you mentioned it when you first met. Ever done any commercial work? Because I’m looking for some pottery as it happens.’

  A little pulse of excitement ran through Nicola’s veins, although she said wryly, ‘I might not be good enough.’

  ‘You never know. Would it be possible to have a look?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she said slowly, and was suddenly amazed to have the Reverend Peter Callam in her mind’s eye. No, she thought, I’d never do it. But then again, if Brett was…if… ‘Do you have a wife and family tucked away down south, Mr Holloway?’

  He laughed. ‘No, I’m not married. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ Nicola said lightly and untruthfully as they came up to Brett and the children. ‘Guess what?’ she said to Brett. ‘I could become employed, after all.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  BRETT squinted up at her.

  He was liberally coated with sand—he’d changed into a pair of green board shorts and a white T-shirt for the expedition to the beach but he’d now taken the T-shirt off, and the muscles of his back and shoulders ran smooth and powerful beneath his lightly tanned skin.

  He’d had a swim with the children, and his brown hair hung damp and sandy in his eyes. But Nicola could still see the narrowed, less than impressed expression in them.

  ‘Employed?’

  She smiled coolly at him. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Mr Holloway will explain.’

  Richard Holloway did, enthusiastically.

  ‘Of course, he’ll have to see if I’m any good,’ Nicola added at the end of it.

  ‘Of course.’ Brett stood up, which immediately provoked a protest from Sasha, but he swung her up into his arms then sat her on his shoulders, causing her to assume a regal air. ‘Home, Miss Harcourt,’ he said, and glanced at Richard and Nicola. ‘If that’s all right with everyone?’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Richard responded, and picked up Chris to sit him on his shoulders. ‘We could even make a race of it’

  They did, to the children’s delight, leaving Nicola to follow in their footsteps weighed down with buckets, spades, discarded clothing—and some annoyed thoughts on her mind. But she didn’t give expression to them until later that evening.

  Sasha and Chris were in bed and asleep by seven o’clock, after a light supper, and Nicola spent the next hour tidying up. Sunday was one of Ellen’s days off. She ironed Sasha’s school clothes, polished her shoes and prepared as much of her lunch as she could beforehand. She rinsed all the sandy clothes and put them in the washing machine, as well as rinsing off the buckets and spades and storing them.

  Brett had taken a phone call during supper, then retired to his study. Or so she’d thought. But when she strolled out onto the terrace with a cup of coffee, she found him relaxing on a lounger, staring into space. It was a starry night, and the heat of the day still lingered in the air—the breeze had died completely.

  She paused, then said, ‘Thought you were working. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  He had his hands folded behind his head, and he turned slightly to run his hazel gaze over her. She’d changed into a cool, floral voile dress, sleeveless and strapless and gathered onto an elastic band above her bosom and around the waist. A gold locket nestled in, the hollow at the base of her throat.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Nicola moved to another lounger and sat down, placing her mug carefully on the deck. ‘Then would you care to explain why you were about as enthusiastic as a dead fish earlier?’

  ‘About this pottery thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said genially. ‘That thing. But I should warn you, Brett, I’m going to do it. If I’m good enough.’

  ‘I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem.’

  She frowned. The underwater l
ights in the pool were on, and there was enough light spilling from the lounge behind them for her to see that after that first comprehensive glance he hadn’t looked at her again. ‘What’s that supposed to mean—that you don’t believe I’m much good? As a potter?’

  ‘On the contrary, I do believe you’re good. I’m just not sure if that’s the criteria.’

  ‘What criteria did you have in mind?’ she asked after a moment, with dangerous restraint.

  ‘Nicola,’ he said gently but lethally, ‘you’re no fool, my dear—or you shouldn’t be by now. Richard Holloway was not only struck by you—he could barely take his eyes off you—but his curiosity was no doubt pleasurably activated at discovering we are not man and wife in the true sense of the words.’

  Nicola took hold of the sheer indignation that had bubbled up to say, with amusement, although that was far from what she was feeling, ‘Sprung—and by Sasha of all people. That’s rather ironic, isn’t it, Brett?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I take it you don’t see the funny side of it now?’

  ‘No, Nicola,’ he replied deliberately. ‘Nor did you at the time.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She chewed her lip. ‘It was a bit like being pole-axed. You know, you could have a problem there, Brett When she makes the connection that her father doesn’t sleep with her stepmother or her mother.’

  He was silent

  Nicola moved restlessly, then said, ‘What’s wrong with Richard Holloway? Unless you imagine he’s liable to run off with me?’

  Brett stood up and prowled over to the edge of the pool with his hands shoved into his pockets. ‘Nothing,’ he said at last. ‘Nothing that I know of at this stage.’ He turned and looked down at her. ‘Would you like to get to know him better, Nicola?’

  She was sitting sideways on the lounger, with her hands on her knees, and it was a moment before she raised her eyes to his. ‘I would like to be gainfully employed, Brett, if for no other reason than to see if it raises me in your estimation at all. And, yes, he seems rather nice.’