by Anne Mather
'You do understand how I was placed, don't you?' she pleaded, cajolingly. 'I mean, when Damon asked, what could I say?'
Abby's head was beginning to ache. 'It doesn't matter now, Liz. It's over. I—well, I've got to go. Brad wants these letters typing by lunchtime, and it's getting late.'
'All right, darling.' Liz was sympathetic. 'Give me a ring in a couple of days. We could meet for lunch or something. After Rachid has gone back to Abarein.'
'Good idea,' Abby agreed, grateful for the respite. 'See you soon.'
'Sure thing,' Liz answered eagerly, and Abby replaced her receiver.
Yet, in spite of her comparatively easy exchange with the other girl, for the rest of the morning Abby found herself wishing she had not admitted that she and Rachid were discussing divorce. It wasn't that it wasn't true, it was just that Liz did work for a news agency, and information like that was solid gold.
She had lunch in the staff canteen. A bowl of soup and a cup of coffee were all that she could stomach, and she returned to her office feeling utterly dejected. The aftermath of the previous nights' events was beginning to take its toll on her, and depression deepened the feelings of guilt and self-deprecation she nurtured.
She entered her office wearily, head bent to extract the key of her desk from her handbag, and then halted aghast at the sight of her husband lounging familiarly in her chair, his feet raised to rest comfortably on the end of her desk.
He still looked pale, but the unhealthy feverishness had left him, and in its place was a hard implacability that sent ripples of apprehension tingling along her spine. At her appearance he swung his feet to the floor and stood up, tall and forbidding in the dark leather car coat he was wearing. She found it incredibly difficult to believe that only the night before he had been trembling in her arms, and yet when she met his smouldering gaze it was not impossible to remember his unleashed passion.
'Abby!' He greeted her politely, the slight bow of his head reminiscent of Karim, but his manner in no way resembled that of an inferior. 'I have been waiting for you.'
'Have you?' Abby's clipped words were indicative of her instinctive withdrawal. 'I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had an appointment.'
'An appointment?' For a moment his jaw hardened in response to the implied insult, but then he controlled himself again, and said quietly: 'Why did you walk out on me, Abby? It was not very kind. We still have a lot more to say to one another.'
'Really?' Abby's tone was deliberately offhand, as she put the width of the desk between them. 'I should have thought last night said it all. At least, it's shown me that I was a fool to trust you.'
'What do you mean?' His voice was raised, but then, as if realising that there might be people in the surrounding offices who could overhear their conversation, he spoke more levelly. 'Surely last night must have convinced you that we belong together, that we have wasted so much time by staying apart?'
Abby gasped. 'You really mean that? You think because —because we went to bed together that—that I'll be persuaded to come back to you?'
'Abby, be reasonable‑'
'No, you be reasonable!' Her eyes flashed. 'You took advantage of me, whatever way you look at it. All right, I know you were feverish, that perhaps you wouldn't have acted as you did if I hadn't felt foolishly sorry for you‑'
'Sorry for me!' Rachid circled the desk with a threatening tread, his dark attire accentuating his Arab ancestry. 'Do you pretend you allowed me to make love to you because you were sorry for me! You wanted me, Abby, just as much as I wanted you, and feeling sorry for me had nothing to do with it!'
'That's not true.' Abby backed away from him. 'I did feel sorry for you. Why else did I stay? Ask Karim. He asked me to keep you company.' She licked her dry lips. 'And you took advantage of that.'
'You little‑' Rachid bit off an expletive, his dark eyes glittering dangerously. 'Do you mean to tell me that last night meant nothing to you? Nothing at all?'
'It proved that you'll use any method, any method at all to humiliate me!' she flung at him tautly, the wall at her back preventing any further withdrawal from him. 'Perhaps you weren't ill, perhaps that was just a ploy to get me into the bedroom‑'
'Be silent!' His hand crushed the words on her lips, and his mouth was a thin hard line. Then he shook his head half incredulously, staring into the shadowy purple irises that met his gaze so fearfully. 'I do not believe this,' he said, his voice low and thick with emotion. 'I will not accept that you merely responded to a given stimulus. You were with me, Abby, every step of the way, and what is more, I have the scars to prove it!'
Abby choked on his hand, tearing his fingers aside, and feeling the well of nausea in her throat. 'That's a filthy thing to say!' she exclaimed, turning aside from him as the muscles of her throat demanded release, and the spasm of coughing that gripped her successfully evaded his angry retort. By the time she recovered, Rachid had himself in control again, and was turning away towards the door.
'It is obvious you refuse to face facts,' he said harshly, supporting himself against the door frame. 'I had hoped that—but never mind. I can see I am wasting my time. You obviously want your freedom more than you want me. So be it.' He moved his shoulders in a weary, defeated gesture. 'Saida!'
Abby heard his footsteps receding down the corridor, and then she sank down at her desk, her legs shaking so much they would not support her. He had gone. He had gone! It should be a relief. But it wasn't. Resting her elbows on the desk, she buried her face in her hands. Dear God, she couldn't love him after the way he had treated her, could she? But if she didn't, what was this terrible emotion that was tearing her apart?
'Abby!'
Brad's anxious voice broke into her tormented reverie, and with a startled jerk of her shoulders she quickly took refuge in blowing her nose on a tissue from the box she kept on her desk. She guessed it must be fifteen minutes since Rachid departed, and her emotional outburst had left her eyes red and puffy and hopelessly revealing.
'I—I must be getting a cold,' she mumbled, hoping Brad would take the hint and leave her, but he didn't; he leant over the desk and lifted her chin, his expression hardening as it took in the evident marks of her tears.
'In God's name, what's been happening here?' he demanded angrily. 'Who's done this to you? Just tell me and‑-'
'Nobody's done anything to me, Brad,' she protested, pulling herself away from him. 'I just felt—depressed, that's all.'
Brad gave her a sceptical look. 'Pull the other one,' he retorted shortly. 'It's Rachid, isn't it? I should have guessed. When I spoke to you the other morning I knew that something was wrong, but it didn't immediately occur to me that your ex-husband might be in town.'
'He's not my ex-husband,' replied Abby pragmatically, and then flushed beneath Brad's cynical appraisal. 'Well, it's true! If he was, it might be easier.'
'You mean he's making a nuisance of himself?'
Abby sniffed. Making a nuisance of himself! That must be the understatement of the year.
'Oh, you know Rachid,' she said now, blowing her nose again. 'He doesn't like to think I have a mind of my own.' She shrugged. 'Don't worry, I think he's got the message.'
'So why are you crying?' enquired Brad irritably. 'What has he been saying to you?'
'Oh, Brad, leave it, will you?' Abby didn't think she could take any more. 'I'll be all right. Just let me get on with my work. That's the best panacea.'
'You're sure you're up to it?'
'Heavens, yes.' Abby forced a faint smile. 'I've typed those contracts you wanted, and they're on your desk. You did want me to make a copy for Tom Halliday, didn't you?'
Brad hesitated, but without her co-operation there was nothing more he could say. He had to content himself with gaining an assurance from her that if she wanted anything— anything at all—she would let him know.
That evening she found she had had good reason for regretting her impulsive disclosure to Liz Forster. The evening paper carried an article about Rac
hid's impending return to Abarein, and included the information that he had been in London on a private visit, consulting his solicitors concerning a divorce from his English wife.
It was half supposition, and Abby's stomach tightened as she read the malicious comments. Obviously Liz had overlooked her behaviour at the party, and her friend's betrayal added to the weight of depression that was bearing down on her. Maybe Liz really believed that Abby's reactions were only defensive, that secredy Rachid was divorcing her because of her inability to conceive. Whatever, Abby decided bitterly that she didn't care what anybody thought, just so long as she was left alone.
Her father viewed the situation differently, however.
'How did they get to know, that's what I'd like to hear,' he exclaimed, slapping the copy of the newspaper down on the table, and Abby quietly confessed that she had been to blame.‑,
'Well, I'd never have thought it of Liz,' said Professor Gillespie, shocked, taking off his spectacles and polishing them on the hem of his cardigan. 'I thought she was a friend of yours.'
'So did I,' agreed Abby dryly, and took herself off to the kitchen to do the washing up.
The telephone rang later in the evening, and despite her misgivings Abby was obliged to answer it. Half afraid it might be Rachid, her response was reluctant, but it was Liz's apologetic tones that came over the wire.
'Don't tell me, I know,' she exclaimed, before Abby could say anything. 'You think I'm a heel, and you never want to see me again.'
'Something like that,' Abby responded stiffly, unwilling to be sympathetic, but Liz hurriedly tried to alter her opinion.
'It wasn't my fault‑' she was beginning, when Abby interrupted her, saying flatly: 'I know, Damon forced you!' with evident disbelief.
'It wasn't like that,' Liz continued, determined to be heard, and Abby expelled her breath on a sigh as the other girl explained. 'It was Damon who wrote the story,' she insisted, the words falling over themselves in their haste to be voiced. 'But he didn't get it from me. As I hear it, he had the word from the great man himself; Prince Rachid, no less, so don't blame me for betraying your confidence.'
Abby sank down weakly on to the bench beside the phone. 'Rachid told Damon that!' she whispered, appalled.
'Well, something like that,' Liz acknowledged compassionately, and Abby felt as if the last defence she had had been torn from her.
She was silent for so long that Liz said anxiously: 'Abby! Abby, are you still there? Are you all right?' And glad that her friend could not see her face, Abby assured her that she was fine.
'I—I'm glad it wasn't you, that's all,' she got out at last, feeling the prick of tears behind her eyes once more. 'Look, Liz, I've got to go. The—er—Dad's waiting for some cocoa. I'll give you a ring as I promised within the next few days.'
'Okay. If you're sure you're all right...'
'Now that Rachid's gone home, I'll feel a lot better,' Abby promised firmly, and rang off before her uneven breathing could alert the other girl to her real reaction.
Nevertheless, in her own room, she did not try to hold back the storm of tears. There was a certain relief to be found in giving way to her feelings, and by the time she dried her eyes she felt quite purged of emotion. She almost felt up to facing Rachid himself, should he choose to come looking for her again, but she silently acknowledged it was easy to feel courageous when the opportunity to prove it was unlikely to present itself.
Work, as she had told Brad, was the best remedy. She enjoyed her job as his secretary, and perhaps because she had his sympathy, he made it easier for her to forget her problems. A trip to Ireland, which had been planned for after Christmas, was brought forward, and they spent ten days visiting the refinery at Ballyvara, and staying with some friends of his in County Wexford. The climate in Ireland suited her, the mild, sometimes damp days had a gentle quality about them, and Brad's friends, the O'Malleys, were a kind and understanding couple. She didn't know what Brad had told them about her, but they treated her more like his girl-friend than his secretary, aud she hoped he was not beginning to get the wrong ideas about their relationship. It would be ironic if she had to give up her job for those reasons, just when she needed it most.
Back in London, Christmas was beginning to make itself felt. Although it was only November, there were lights along Oxford Street, and all the shops were filled with the paraphernalia of the festive season. Children thronged, starry-eyed, gazing at the displays in the shop windows, and the girls in the office chattered about dances and parties. Abby succeeded in keeping a sense of isolation at bay only with difficulty, and she waited for word from Rachid's solicitors with a mixture of pain and anticipation. Until the final steps were taken she could not relax, and she was glad when Brad suggested she accompany him on a trip up to Scotland, welcoming any excuse to escape the turmoil of her emotions.
However, on the morning they were due to depart, she awakened at six-thirty feeling absolutely terrible. She lay for a few minutes, trying to control the nausea that was gripping her, and then realising it was hopeless, she stumbled into the bathroom.
She was violently sick, and afterwards she leant her hot forehead against the cool tiles, praying the accompanying dizziness would leave her. But it didn't, and she eventually crawled back into bed, feeling like death.
Her father appeared at seven-thirty, after she had visited the bathroom a second time, and one look at her haggard face convinced him that she would be going nowhere that day.
'I'm sorry, my dear, but you're definitely not well enough to go flying off to Aberdeen,' he insisted gently. 'I'll telephone Daley and explain the situation. I'm sure he'll understand, and if it's imperative that you go with him, then he'll just have to postpone his visit.'
'Oh, Dad, Brad will look after me,' Abby protested, propping herself up on her elbows. 'It's just a touch of gastritis, that's all. Perhaps it was that pate I ate last night. It did have a funny taste.'
'The pate was perfectly all right. I had some myself,' retorted her father shortly. 'And in any case, you didn't eat enough to upset a fly. Come to think of it, you hardly eat enough to keep a body alive. Perhaps you should be thinking of eating more, not less, then you might not get so nauseous.'
'Food! Ugh!' Abby grimaced. 'I ache at the thought of it.'
'Well, you ought to eat something,' observed Professor Gillespie thoughtfully. 'A slice of dry toast, perhaps. Could you manage that? Then if you were sick again you wouldn't ache so much.'
Abby turned her face into the pillow. 'I'll get up‑'
'I'll fetch it,' retorted her father firmly, and too weak to argue, she acquiesced.
Curiously, she felt much better after the slice of toast had been digested. So much better in fact that when her father suggested ringing Brad, she begged him to reconsider.
'Honestly, I'm sure I could go,' she pleaded, but for once Professor Gillespie was adamant.
'Maybe tomorrow,' was all he would concede, and as she had expected, Brad agreed to postpone the trip.
'He's coming round later to see how you are,' her father told her, when she came down the stairs, tying the cord of her dressing gown, and she made a gesture of resignation as she passed him on her way to the kitchen.
'There was no need,' she insisted, but Professor Gillespie ignored her, and with a shrug she helped herself to some bread from the bin.
'What are you doing?'
Her father, coming into the kitchen behind her, looked surprised, and she grinned. 'I told you I was all right,' she exclaimed. 'As a matter of fact, I feel ravenous now. That slice of toast definitely did the trick.'
'Really?'
The Professor looked thoughtful, but he made no comment, and Abby, sitting down to a poached egg a few minutes later, felt a fraud for delaying Brad over nothing more than a minor upset.
Brad himself was all concern when he arrived in the middle of the afternoon. He brought her an enormous bouquet of winter roses, but although she was grateful for his consideration, they reminded
her too poignantly of Rachid, and the time they spent together in Paris. Roses always would, she acknowledged, but she thanked Brad sincerely, and tried to apologise for her apparently speedy recovery.
'I told Dad it was nothing,' she exclaimed, fingering the petals of a creamy rose in some embarrassment. 'But he insisted on calling you, and—well, I feel a hypocrite.'
'Don't be silly.' Brad was quick to reassure her. 'There's no urgency about the trip. I suggest we give it a couple of days before we make any more arrangements. That way, you'll be sure of being completely recovered.'
'I'm recovered now,' protested Abby, but Brad was as determined as her father, and she gave in to the warm feeling of security their caring engendered.
The following morning, however, she had reason to be grateful for her father's good sense. She awakened with the same feeling of nausea, and as she sagged over the basin in the bathroom she wondered if she ought to go and see the doctor. She had no other symptoms, of course, but she had been feeling a little tired lately, and he might offer her a tonic to tone her up.
Professor Gillespie appeared as she emerged from the bathroom, and his expression was severe as he studied her pale features. 'Have you been sick again?' he asked, putting cool fingers on her forehead, and at her nod: 'How long is it going to be before you tell me?'
'Tell you? Tell you what?' Abby felt too weak for riddles. 'I don't know what it is, if that's what you're thinking. Perhaps I ought to see a doctor.'
'Perhaps you ought,' agreed her father, accompanying her into her bedroom. 'Tell me ...' He paused for a moment, and then went on reluctantly: 'Is it Daley?'
'Is what Daley?' Abby clambered into bed, sinking back against the pillows with a feeling of helplessness. 'Dad, if you can't be more explicit, then do you mind leaving it until later. Right now, I feel too sick to care.'
'Abby!' Her father came down upon the side of the bed, taking one of her limp hands in both of his and looking at her impatiently. 'Abby, you're not a child. You must know what's wrong with you. All I want to know is, is Daley the father?'
