A Husband's Vendetta

by Sara Wood

  Luc, of course, would never understand this. He’d probably forbid her from ever seeing Gemma again. Thank God he never came within five miles of her! Giving a heartfelt grunt, she banished stray breadcrumbs from her stomach. Luc always sent his devoted PA to deliver and collect Gemma on the regulation four times a year she came to visit.

  Ellen’s skin tightened like wafer-thin paper over her slanting Garbo cheekbones, her mood sobering despite her resolution. Luc shunned her because he couldn’t bear to set eyes on her, as if she were some vile kind of Gorgon. But then she’d committed the ultimate sin of walking out on him, their marriage and their six-month-old baby. No one did that to an Italian male and came off lightly.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ she muttered in exasperation.

  For, despite all her high-flown intentions, she was reliving it all now and quivering like a leaf, desperately fighting down the nausea which always came with the unendurable memories.

  Ellen stared blindly into space, wondering if she would ever get over what had happened, if one day the pain would become just a dull ache and then vanish completely. As much as she tried to forget, and to look to the future, some days she thought that she couldn’t stand the situation any longer. There were times when she felt it would be better never to see Gemma at all.

  Ellen let out a long, unhappy sigh. Sometimes it was as if she were living on a perpetual white-knuckle ride. Every time she got her life back together again and stopped crying into her pillow, Gemma’s next visit hove into sight. And she, Ellen, had to go through the mill all over again.

  Well, a short while ago she’d decided that she’d had enough. Living in the past was getting her nowhere. Grab happiness where she could, enjoy each moment—that was to be her rule. She had to protect herself from negative thoughts.

  She pulled the cushion from behind her back and cuddled it. No wonder absent fathers sometimes chose not to retain their visiting rights, she thought sadly. Part-time parenting was a desperately painful thing to do. Her heart was in shreds every time Gemma left.

  And everything became magnified out of all proportion. How could you act naturally when you desperately wanted everything to be perfect? Who could shrug off small organisational hiccups like stair-rod rain on the day you’d planned a picnic? Or when your child looked with contempt at a toy you’d spent hours searching for and couldn’t even afford?

  Feeling aggrieved, she drew her knees up to her chest, hating Luc with all her heart, angry with him for not supporting her when she’d needed him so badly after Gemma’s birth. He’d thought the worst of her. And so she’d lost her child.

  For the millionth time, Ellen tried to persuade herself to do the sensible thing: to call Luc and suggest Gemma stopped visiting at all. The kiddie hated coming to England. She hated the language, the weather, the food, and the insularity of everyone…

  Nothing Ellen ever did could shift the boredom and resentment which showed in every line of Gemma’s small body. Oh, yes. She knew what she ought to do. But she couldn’t bring herself to make that final break because she loved her daughter desperately.

  Tears sneaked up on her unawares and began to trickle into her hair, tracking their way over her temples in hot, sticky rivulets. It was natural that Gemma would find separation from her father hard to bear. Natural that she should be scared in a strange country and would reject everything connected with it.

  And so Ellen had built a wall of protection around herself. It was the only way she’d coped with the heartbreaking goodbyes. The result was that the two of them remained politely suffering strangers.

  There were no hugs, no spontaneous laughter and no kisses. She’d seen other women with their children and had ached to be loved so. But the bond had never been made between them.

  Sitting up, she gazed in blurred sentimentality at the most recent photo of Gemma. And lovingly, unable to caress her child, she stroked its shiny surface instead. Then she picked up the photo from the table beside the sofa and held it to the softness of her breast.

  This was what she was reduced to. Nursing a bit of glossy paper. Pathetic. Oh, Luc, she reflected, her eyes full of sorrow, if only we’d met now, and not seven years ago!

  ‘Telephone!’

  She groaned at her landlord’s yell. Impatiently he began to pound on her door. ‘Who is it?’ she called irritably, expecting any minute to see his big hairy hand punching a hole in the thin plywood.

  ‘Some bloke for you!’ bellowed Cyril.

  She heaved a sigh. It often was. Men seemed to be fascinated by her indifference to them and would never take ‘no’ for an answer until they’d heard it several times. But there had been no man in her life since Luc. She’d been hurt too badly. And, despite her new confidence, she wasn’t ready to risk a new relationship. Some time in the future, perhaps. Not now.

  ‘OK. Coming!’

  Reluctantly she replaced the school photo. Her daughter was growing up fast—without her. Ellen drew in a ragged breath and scrubbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Tough. That was her lot. Some people had worse burdens.

  Fiercely counting her blessings, she stood up, rearranged her face into an expression of polite enquiry and yanked her skirt snugly into place as her fluid stride took her quickly across the poky little room and she began her struggle with the door.

  ‘Push!’ she yelled.

  Cyril leant his considerable body-weight against the door, and after a while they managed to drag it open. ‘Sounded urgent,’ he wheezed, in his sleazy manner.

  As always, he did his best to remove her clothes by will-power alone, leering eagerly at her bra-less top and her bare legs and feet. Ellen gave him a cool and level stare.

  ‘Then I suggest you move out of my way so I can get to the phone quickly,’ she said briskly, determined not to squeeze past his sweating bulk on the narrow landing.

  He smirked, clearly wanting her to do just that. Ellen hardened her eyes till they gleamed like flint, folded her arms and took a purposeful step forward. ‘Move,’ she said, sweetness laced with steel. ‘Or delicate parts of your person and my knee will become painfully acquainted.’

  He stepped aside faster than she would have thought possible. With her body jarring on every angry thump of her bare heels, she stalked to the phone.

  Girl power 1, vile old man 0! She blessed the girls in the supermarket where she worked during the day. It was they who’d taught her how to deal with male harassment and had coaxed her back into the real world again.

  ‘Italian bloke. Loo-charno,’ offered Cyril grumpily.

  Luciano! Her stomach and heart did a few high jumps. Incredulously, she saw that her hands had begun to shake at the prospect of talking to him. Since their parting they’d only spoken through intermediaries.

  Suddenly, into her head came the unforgettable sound of his liquid, seductive voice which made everything he said sound lyrical and sensual—even the reading of a shopping list. She’d adored listening to him. Often she’d coaxed him to talk about his life in Naples purely to hear him speak.

  Her bones seemed to flow like warm treacle in anticipation. ‘OK. Thanks,’ she said, trying to get them back to their normal state. What a stupid reaction!

  And then it dawned on her why he must be calling. Gemma! Something must be wrong! Petrified, she froze, staring at the dangling receiver and listening in dismay to the violent bumping of her heart.

  Cyril’s hot breath drifted moistly over the long sweep of her exposed neck, sending shivers down her back. ‘Men are always calling you!’ he complained loudly. ‘I’m fed up with answering the phone and taking messages.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating! This,’ she snapped, grabbing the receiver from him and covering the mouthpiece as a precaution, ‘is probably my husband.’ Wisely she omitted the word ‘estranged’. ‘A bad-tempered and possessive man, topping six foot and with the biceps of an ox,’ she invented in a rush, desperate to get rid of her landlord.

  To her relief, Cyril took the heavy hint. In the ensuing silence, s
he could hear Luc impatiently calling her name. Her breathing quickened. She knew he wouldn’t have rung unless it was a real emergency. Blocking her mind to several nightmare scenarios, she made herself speak.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, fear making her voice catch breathily in her throat. ‘Is it Gemma? Is she all right? What—?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ he broke in.

  ‘Thank goodness!’

  Ellen subsided in relief and then registered that he didn’t sound liquid or seductive at all. In fact he seemed positively furious, his voice harsh and rasping.

  ‘Who was that man I spoke to?’ he demanded.

  Ellen blinked, her anxiety forgotten. ‘Nobody you need to know about!’ she replied in stunned surprise.

  ‘I do. So stop stalling and tell me!’ Luc ordered.

  ‘What on earth for?’ she countered, bristling at his arrogant manner.

  ‘Because,’ he said tightly, ‘he was panting.’

  In exasperation she racked her brains to understand why that should annoy him so much, but couldn’t think of any explanation. ‘Probably. He often does,’ she agreed, like a mother humouring a child.

  Luc inhaled deeply, as if she’d said something inflammatory. ‘Because he suffers from asthma,’ he queried cut-tingly, ‘or because I interrupted something intimate?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Luc, if you only knew!’ she spluttered.

  Luc growled something rude under his breath, her laughter doing little for his bad temper. ‘I don’t. I’m trying to find out why you took so long to answer.’

  Her laughter faded away and her jaw dropped open in amazement. ‘What is this? Working for the KGB, are you?’ she asked crossly.

  ‘I want to know,’ he said, giving each word heavy emphasis.

  Ellen glared, wishing fervently that her contempt could be conveyed down the line. Wasn’t it just typical that Luc’s first thought was to imagine the worst of her? And who the hell did he think he was, asking about her private life?

  ‘I took a while to answer the phone because my door was stuck,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Is that so?’

  She felt her hackles rising. She’d told the truth. The jammed door had delayed her. But he didn’t believe her. He never believed her.

  ‘Look, the man lives here. He has every right to answer the phone. Do you have a problem with that?’ she asked, upping the count of frost particles in her voice.

  From his silence, it seemed he did, though again she couldn’t understand why. And then she remembered that he didn’t know she lived in a block of flats. He’d assumed that Cyril had answered the phone because they lived together. She frowned. Surely there was nothing wrong with that, even if it were true?

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a lover.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she agreed.

  Judging by the heavy breathing at Luc’s end, either he was developing asthma, had just made love himself, or her non-replies were driving him crazy. She grinned to herself, pleased with the fact that she wasn’t melting all over the floor in response to Luc’s voice—or quivering with nerves from his intimidation.

  ‘So. You omit to tell me something that could affect Gemma. Could your relationship with this man be responsible for her distress last time she visited you?’ he rapped out, for all the world, Ellen thought in amazement, like a prosecutor on a murder case!

  ‘Absolutely not! I’ve no idea what upset her,’ she answered confidently.

  ‘Unfortunately I can imagine,’ Luc muttered. ‘Gemma must have been in the way. You had other things on your mind.’

  Displeasure and disgust riddled every word. She had an instant and compelling image of him, as clear as if he stood in front of her. Painfully she saw the anger blazing in his smouldering dark eyes, that anger as volatile as a volcano. But then he came from Naples, which was close to Vesuvius, and he’d told her once that people there tended to live each moment to its fullest, loving and hating with intense passion.

  That was Luc. Her last memory of him was frozen in that moment when his emotions had erupted and destroyed her. It was frightening how a man could turn from lover to tyrant in a matter of weeks.

  God, she’d loved him! Every glorious, gorgeous inch. The glossy black hair, the olive skin and ruinously exotic cheekbones… Ellen groaned. Life was springing into her sexually slumbering body now: fierce, urgent and utterly pointless.

  Why was she doing this to herself? Why torment herself with memories of earth-shattering sex, of days in bed, hours talking, sitting silently and just gazing into each other’s eyes? A searing ache slashed at her like a lightning bolt from her breast to the apex of her loins, and she uttered a shuddering gasp of dismay.

  ‘What the devil is going on now?’ Luc demanded furiously.

  ‘Nothing!’ she mumbled. But that was untrue. There was a battle raging between her brain and her hormones. ‘Am I forbidden to breathe in and out now?’

  ‘If that was breathing, your lungs need attention,’ he said scathingly. ‘Get rid of the boyfriend! Tell him to stop playing around! I refuse to talk to you while he whispers sweet nothings—and does God knows what—!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ she broke in, astounded by his vehemence. ‘Why are you making such an issue of this? You don’t own me body and soul any more! I might have been making mad, passionate love on the kitchen table; you might have interrupted me with my lover,’ she rampaged on, deciding to let Luc stew. ‘But what’s that to you? It’s not any of your business what I get up to!’

  ‘Unfortunately it is!’ he insisted. ‘Your morals are very much my business. I have to protect my daughter.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘You! And your lovers. I won’t have Gemma mixing with people of dubious character. I don’t want her watching one man after another pawing you—!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, give me some credit!’ she snorted. ‘What do you think I do when she comes to stay?’ she asked indignantly. ‘Take her out for a lesson in needle techniques with a bunch of drug addicts? Read the kiddies’ Bedtime Kama Sutra? Bed three men a night?’ she suggested, so angry that her imagination was overheating.

  ‘How the devil would I know?’ he flung back. ‘You always wanted freedom from responsibility. And you had one hell of a sex drive—’

  ‘God, Luc!’ she fumed, her disgust growing with every word he uttered. This wasn’t funny any more. He’d woken her desire. She’d responded only to him. How could he not realise that? She wanted to punch him on the nose for being so dense. ‘You’ve built up a nasty little picture of me in your head, haven’t you? You really think I’m stupid, selfish and irresponsible—’

  ‘You said it. And, remember, you proved it.’ He let the accusation lie there in a heavy silence which it was beneath her pride to break. She heard him give a heavy sigh of defeat. ‘Now what?’ he muttered, as if to himself. ‘I clearly can’t trust you.’

  She felt a small pang, knowing that it must be hard for him to surrender Gemma to someone he thought was utterly irresponsible.

  ‘I understand why you worry,’ she said, with marginally more sympathy. ‘I see why you were quizzing me. But I assure you that she’s perfectly safe with me—’

  ‘I would like to believe that. But… Oh, forget it. This is pointless—’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ she cried quickly, scared that he’d cut her access time. She could have kicked herself for not telling him about Cyril straight away. But it was too late now. He’d never accept her explanation. ‘You must know that I’d never do anything to upset or hurt her,’ she said fervently.

  ‘Is that so?’ he bit. ‘What do you call abandoning her, then? Why ignore her needs—and why did you run away the minute motherhood didn’t turn out to be all coochiecoos and dimpled cheeks?’

  She couldn’t speak. He’d struck her dumb with his cruelty.

  ‘You can’t answer, can you?’ he said bitterly. ‘God, I was a fool to imagine you’d change. I should have realised that you’d sti
ll be going your own sweet way and indulging your selfish needs with an over-active love life—’

  Ellen interrupted him with a groan. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. What love life?

  ‘Tell me about it!’ she said wryly.

  ‘I only know what I heard your lover say. It seems you’re not even faithful to him,’ Luc said coldly. ‘Poor fool seemed to think I was another of your boyfriends. Is it any wonder that I despair of your morals? Do you know what it does to me, to imagine—’ He broke off. Then he continued with a blistering passion. ‘To imagine my daughter being exposed to the seamier side of life?’

  Her teeth ground together hard. She seriously contemplated banging the phone down and ending this pointless conversation. He wasn’t to know that men might pester her, but she kept her distance because as sure as hell she wasn’t going to be hurt so badly again. Nor was she going to tell him. But she’d give as good as she got.

  ‘So it’s OK for you to take women-friends and Gemma skiing or lazing on beaches in the Caribbean,’ she said, sweetly poisonous, ‘but I have to live like a Carmelite nun?’

  ‘I should be so lucky.’ He grunted. ‘If you did, at least I’d know Gemma would be cared for and protected.’

  ‘She is cared for and protected when she’s here!’

  ‘Huh.’ He sounded utterly unconvinced. ‘What exactly did she tell you about our holidays?’ he asked warily.

  Ellen winced. He obviously had things to hide. ‘Not a word. She never speaks about you. Or your home,’ she replied, feeling suddenly mournful. ‘I developed a roll of film for her when she was here in August.’

  Seeing the holiday pictures had driven home some painful truths. Luc had no hang-ups about his shattered marriage. The photos had shown him with Gemma, laughing and fooling around and totally at ease with two gorgeous women. She made a face. Was there any other kind where Luc was concerned?