He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  Her gaze was steady, but his lingered on the locket at her throat, her slim, bare shoulders and slender arms before he looked into her eyes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the period of being turned off men has ended?’

  If only you knew, she thought, and her hands tightened on her knees briefly. ‘Perhaps. You surely can’t object?’ she added huskily.

  He looked at her dryly. ‘No. All the same, I think we should employ some discretion.’

  ‘Oh, I’d be quite discreet,’ she responded. ‘But I have to tell you I find your attitude inexplicable. This has blown up out of nothing. I only met the man today, and so far my only intention is to see if I’m a good enough potter to be commercial.’

  ‘So you’ll have a career to go to when our marriage ends?’

  ‘Brett.’ She discovered her heart was beating strangely. ‘I can’t spend the rest of my life looking after your children. Can I?’

  He didn’t answer, but continued to watch her thoughtfully. In fact, the way he looked at her was curiously as if he was summing her up, judging her on a scale of one to ten, trying to see her as other men might see her.

  She swallowed and looked away. She felt her nerve-ends tingle, and she wondered whether her filmy dress was any barrier to those probing hazel eyes. Would Brett do that to her? Undress her with his eyes, even if only to assess what her level of desirability would be to other men?

  The thought that followed was worse, as she wondered whether she was giving off any unconscious indication that she sometimes yearned for his touch on her skin—when she wasn’t hating him, that was. Such as now, with his dispassionate survey of her.

  I can’t go on like this, she thought torturedly. Hating him, loving him, wanting him, and now this ridiculous ploy of trying to make him jealous. Not that I’ve done anything except agree to show my work to a man who could be interested—until I was goaded into saying I’d like to get to know him better. But why is he goading me…?

  She sat up suddenly, and clasped her hands.

  ‘What?’ Brett said quietly. He’d changed back into his brown and white T-shirt and cotton jeans, but it didn’t matter what he wore. There was always the attraction of that strong, lean body, those clever eyes, but…

  No, she thought chaotically, he couldn’t be jealous. Surely he’d have given some indication by now—surely he would have. So why was he so disapproving? And why, this morning in the car, had he sounded different, almost as if he was giving some thought to ending this marriage?

  ‘I don’t understand, that’s all,’ she said, barely audibly.

  ‘Your father,’ he said abruptly, ‘would have been just as—cautious, Nicola, about granting or withholding his appmval.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘So, perhaps I should just say this. You’re going to inherit an estate worth a couple of million dollars, you’re extremely attractive, but…’ he paused, and their eyes locked ‘…but you’re still very young. Don’t rush into anything. Not even to get away from me.’

  Her breath escaped with a sibilant little sound. So that was it—he was still standing in for her father. She said expressionlessly, ‘And when do you think you’ll be able to stop acting in loco parentis, Brett?’

  He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. She listened to the waves breaking at the base of the Knob and heard a fruit bat chitter in a mango tree. Then he said, with a slight shrug, ‘We could have a re-evaluation after your birthday.’

  ‘You think a week or two is going to make much difference?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Who knows? In the meantime, bearing my words of wisdom in mind, why don’t you invite Richard Holloway to dinner on Tuesday night? I’ve invited Tara Wells, and we’ll have the Masons too. You could show him your pottery at the same time.’

  Nicola wrinkled her brow. ‘Tara Wells? Do I know her?’

  ‘No. I had dinner with her on Saturday night She’s just joined the firm. She’s moved up here from Brisbane and I imagine she’s feeling a bit lost and lonely at the moment.’

  ‘A solicitor?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘A litigation specialist. I think you’ll like her.’

  ‘A formal dinner?’ she said slowly, but with her mind far from slow.

  ‘If you like. You do them rather well.’

  ‘Thank you. But isn’t it a little early to be inviting the Masons back?’

  ‘I’m sure they won’t mind—it could even reassure them that today wasn’t an entire debacle.’

  She looked briefly amused. ‘All right, I’ll ring the Masons tomorrow to thank them and invite them at the same time. Why not?’ But she stopped to ponder why she suddenly seemed to have lost interest in her pottery.

  ‘As for Sasha, I think we should just ignore the subject,’ he said wryly.

  Nicola raised an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t proposing to go into detailed explanations. But ignore it until the next time she embarrasses us do you mean?’

  ‘She was led into it, somewhat.’

  Nicola grimaced, then stood up. ‘I never did finish the household accounts. Goodnight.’

  ‘Nicola—’ He stopped.

  She turned back to him and waited politely.

  ‘I…’ He paused and examined her courteous bearing, which barely overlaid something much more taut and wound up. ‘I do have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘So you say, Brett. I’ll take your word for it. Goodnight.’ She was about to sweep indoors when he stopped her again.

  ‘What now?’ she queried coolly.

  ‘Two things,’ he responded, a little dryly. ‘Don’t forget the law society ball next Saturday night, and that tomorrow we’ve been invited to attend an open day at my old high school. You,’ he reminded her, ‘are to present the achievement award I donate annually.’

  Nicola said something unprintable beneath her breath, because she’d forgotten both events. ‘Why me? Surely you can do it on your own?’

  ‘I’m making the speech. All they want you to do is hand over the prize. If you recall, you made quite a hit last year.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she murmured.

  ‘I can tell you. All the girls saw you as a vision of grace and loveliness and dignity to emulate, and all the boys—were watering at the mouth.’

  ‘Brett, that’s—‘ But she stopped in time, because he was laughing silently at her outraged expression.

  ‘Not so far from the truth, actually,’ he murmured, then raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You’ll come? They’ll be so disappointed if you don’t.’

  Nicola ground her teeth. ‘And that’s blackmail if ever I heard it—yes, I’ll come, but under duress.’ And this time she did sweep inside.

  Leaving Brett Harcourt to watch her until the house swallowed her up, then swear beneath his breath as he turned to scan the dark sea.

  Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

  So much so that Nicola got up and had a shower, merely for the soothing benefit of warm water running down her body. Then she chose a fresh, crisp cotton nightgown, smoothed the bed and got back into it to lie on her back with her ankles crossed and her hands clasped behind her head.

  You know what I think? she mused to herself. I think the old order is about to change, even if he won’t give his approval on my father’s behalf to an involvement with a man. And I’m deadly afraid this Tara Wells might be the cause of it. What a name…conjures up Sadlers Wells or Bath and Wells or Scarlett O‘Hara. But why else would he suddenly, this morning, after having dinner with her last night, sound as if he could entertain the thought of us parting?

  But how doubly ironic, she mused, and sat up abruptly to blow her nose and dab her eyes, that—now it could be about to happen—to be set free, what I thought I wanted, is not going to be what I want at all…

  ‘See what I mean?’ Brett said softly, for her ears alone the next morning. She’d just presented his achievement award and sat down on the dais to extremely enthusiastic applause.

  It was a warm
, shimmering day. She wore a short-sleeved linen suit, with a short skirt in a chalky violet, a huge hat with a curved down brim and a confection of tulle and violet and pale grey flowers around the crown, with matching patent pale grey shoes and purse.

  She’d purchased this stunning ensemble to wear to the Cairns Amateurs, a premier racing event in the state, let alone Cairns, and had been worried that it was too dressy when Brett had suggested it, but he’d only murmured, ‘The dressier the better.’ And it seemed he’d been right. It was certainly finding favour with the students of his old school.

  It also found favour with the headmaster and his wife, when they shared a table with them in a marquee on the sports oval. ‘We very much appreciate your doing this, Mrs Harcourt, and with such style,’ the headmaster said earnestly. ‘It’s so easy, in this tropical climate especially, to get lazy over matters of dress, and then matters of mind, and the finer things in life generally. But your presence helps to make this day special.’

  But in Brett’s car on the way home—Nicola had offered to drive herself, so he could go straight on to work after the presentation, but he’d said they’d go together and leave together—she took her hat off and put it over on the back seat, and said gloomily, ‘Now I feel a real fraud.’

  Brett turned his head to study her briefly as her hair blew out behind her like a pale gold silk scarf.

  ‘I mean, I’ve done nothing to earn that kind of admiration,’ she added.

  He stopped at a traffic light and slid one arm along the back of her seat. ‘Why don’t you just consider yourself as—one of the finer points of life?’ he suggested with a little glint of wicked amusement. ‘Not to mention a distinct asset to a man,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Of course, that’s the other reason I feel a fraud,’ she commented.

  ‘Are we getting back to the wife-in-name-only discussion, Nicola?’ He withdrew his arm and set the car in motion as the light changed.

  ‘It seems fairly topical.’ She gazed steadily ahead. ‘It’s hardly a proper marriage.’

  ‘You do have a tendency to bring it up, I agree.’

  Nicola hesitated, then glanced at him. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal suit, white shirt and discreet green and black tie, and it occurred to her as she studied his aquiline features, his breeze-ruffled thick brown hair and his lean hands on the wheel, that he could be described as one of the finer things in life.

  And all of a sudden she felt guilty, because—what—ever might be between them—this occasion represented not only what he’d achieved with his life but his desire to help others, to put something back. His speech, not in the least condescending but encouraging and amusing, had earned as much applause as she had…

  She sighed suddenly, and rested her head against the back of the seat. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked dispassionately.

  ‘For being—well, churlish about today. You may not realise it, but, all else aside, I’m very proud of you, Brett. And so would my father be today.’

  They’d flashed up the Knob as she said all this, and now he drew up in front of the house. Nicola opened her door before he could speak, and got out. Then she leant over and retrieved her hat. ‘I just didn’t want you to think I was so wrapped in myself that I couldn’t appreciate what you’ve done.’

  ‘Nicola…’ He said it with a mixture of exasperation and something she couldn’t quite define—almost as if he didn’t know how to go on. Indeed, his gaze wandered over her, so slender and regal in her beautiful suit, and he shook his head, then opened his mouth.

  But her lips curved, and she murmured, “There—I’ve surprised you, Brett. Why don’t we just leave it at that? See you tonight.’ And she walked down the drive, swinging her hat in her hand.

  It was a moment before Brett put the car into gear again, and he found himself thinking, You lovely, captivating, unique child-what am I going to do with you?

  ‘Reef and beef, Ellen—how does that sound?’ Nicola said that afternoon. ‘For this dinner party tomorrow night, I mean.’

  Ellen, in her fifties and a widow, but spry and birdlike, and with the energy of a small dynamo, cocked her head. ‘My brother’s due in tomorrow morning. I’m sure I could get some fresh squid off him.’

  Her brother was a trawlerman, in fact it was on his trawler that Brett had worked as a teenager, as a deck hand and prawn-sorter in his spare time. And that was how a bond had been forged with Ellen’s family, and how Ellen had come to think the sun shone out of Brett Harcourt.

  ‘Calamari,’ Nicola said with deep satisfaction. ‘Especially the way you do it, Ellen. The perfect entrée! Then I thought of Beef Wellington and…’ she tapped a pencil against her chin ‘…a mocha mousse?’

  ‘You do have a light hand with a mousse,’ Ellen commented. ‘Drat that child!’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ Nicola asked resignedly.

  Chris deeply resented being left at home while Sasha went to school, although he did attend a kindergarten—baby school, as Sasha called it—three mornings a week.

  ‘I knew he couldn’t have eaten his mashed potato, although it was gone from his plate and him looking all angelic. He put it in my shoe! I slipped them off while I washing the floor.’

  Nicola looked around to see whether Chris was in earshot, but there was no sign of him, and she started to giggle helplessly. Ellen, after a moment, joined in, although she said, ‘Just wait until I get my hands on him!’

  ‘I wonder if his father was as naughty?’

  ‘More likely he got it from his mother,’ Ellen said darkly. She’d never forgiven Marietta for leaving Brett—if that was how it had happened.

  ‘Here, I’ll clean it for you.’ Nicola picked up the shoe and began, distastefully, to fork mashed potato out of it. ‘You know, I’m thinking we should enrol him for something. Something physical.’

  ‘To tire him out? Good idea. Just don’t try judo or anything like that. He’ll be throwing us around the place before you know it.’

  ‘No.’ Nicola grinned. ‘But he is good with a ball. Maybe tennis lessons? Do they teach five-year-olds tennis? I’ll see what Brett thinks. OK. Back to this dinner party tomorrow night. I really want it to be special.’

  Ellen glanced at her affectionately. ‘They always are. You have a touch of class. But why this one particularly?’

  Nicola chewed her lip. If anyone was in a position to know what a sham their marriage was, Ellen was it, although she didn’t live in with them. But she never made any comment.

  ‘I…’ Nicola hesitated. ‘I just have the feeling I need to be on my mettle tomorrow night, that’s all.’

  ‘All right, I’ll make a bargain with you two. You can watch The Wiggles concert again provided you go straight to bed after you’ve said hello to the visitors—and stay in bed,’ she said the next evening.

  ‘What if I’m dying of thirst or want to go to the bathroom?’ Sasha queried. The children were roaming around her bedroom as she did her hair and make-up. Brett hadn’t arrived home yet.

  ‘You can go to the bathroom first and take a glass of water to put on your bedside table, Sash. Chris, don’t do that.’

  ‘Yuk.’ Chris put the perfume atomiser down. ‘Why do you want that stuff all over you? And why’re you rolling your hair up like that? It looks better down.’

  Nicola paused in front of the mirror. She’d been arranging her hair in a neat, elegant and sophisticated pleat at the back of her head, but she studied herself critically. ‘Do you really think so?’

  “Course I do. Only old ladies wear their hair like that.’

  ‘Oh.’ She pulled the pins out and let her hair flow down her back. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Much better,’ another voice said—Brett’s.

  ‘See!’ Chris said triumphantly, and rushed to hug his father. It was a few moments before they realised why Sasha hadn’t done likewise—she had liberally and inaccurately painted her lips bright scarlet.

  Nicola groaned, and reach
ed for some cleanser and a tissue. ‘Really, Sash! That won’t come off as easily as it goes on. It’s like getting dressed with an army of—I don’t know what!’

  ‘I’ll take them off your hands,’ their father said ruefully.

  Ten minutes later, Nicola looked into the den to see them all watching television peacefully, and with a sigh of relief she went to put the finishing touches to her table.

  The formal lounge and dining area were one big room in the house on the Knob. A lovely old refectory table dominated the dining area, and tonight it was set with cream linen place mats, her own blue-glazed pottery candlesticks and an ivory porcelain dinner service. There was a low bowl of pink Cooktown orchids between the tall candlesticks.

  Satisfied with the table, Nicola inspected the lounge area, plumping up some cushions on the oatmeal linen-covered settees, and the three jewel-bright velvet-covered chairs—one jade-green, one topaz-yellow and one Ming-blue. She adjusted the occasional tables and switched on some lamps, dimming the overhead light.

  Finally she looked around, and nodded.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Brett said from behind her.

  ‘Yes. Are—?’

  ‘They’re fine; they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour. I’ve had a shower, and I think you deserve a drink in the peace and quiet of the next fifteen minutes before everyone arrives.’ He handed her a sherry.

  Surprise made Nicola arch an eyebrow, but. she took it with murmured thanks.

  ‘Sit down,’ he suggested. He’d changed into a fresh blue and white pinstriped shirt and navy trousers.

  A glint of humour lit her eyes as she sank into the Ming chair. ‘I must be looking frazzled.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘You’re looking very beautiful.’ His gaze lingered on her short, straight black dress, with its narrow trim of ivory satin around the neckline, armholes and hem. She wore a five-strand pearl bracelet, pearls in her ears and high, slender black sandals.

  He glanced down the length of her legs, then studied her hair in its fair, smooth sweep to below her shoulders, and finally looked into her eyes, with amusement evident in his own. ‘Do you always take Chris’s advice on your appearance?’