by Pamela Fudge
‘Have you been drinking?’ I stared at him.
He laughed and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. ‘Well spotted.’
‘But it’s not even lunchtime,’ I pointed out, and then felt foolish because it was, after all, none of my business.
‘Well spotted again,’ he stood there, swaying, and added, ‘you might want to ask yourself why I’ve been drinking.’
‘Actually, I might not,’ I scowled at him, ‘because it’s absolutely none of my business.’
‘Ah,’ he wagged a finger at me, ‘but you made it your business, didn’t you, Mrs Hammond? You couldn’t just enjoy the quick shag that was on offer, all that time ago, and leave it at that, could you? No, you had to pop up like a bloody Jack-in-the box umpteen years later, accusing me of fathering a kid, threatening to tell my wife and throwing ultimatums about all over the place.’
I stared at him. ‘I wasn’t,’ I protested, ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well,’ he carried on as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘I’ve done what you wanted and will be leaving the school at the end of the term.’
‘Oh,’ I must admit I was surprised, but I did my best to hide it and I shrugged, ‘It’s for the best.’
‘For you maybe, but now I’m out of a job and what the hell am I supposed to tell my wife?’
He was beginning to get on my nerves, so I said flippantly, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’ve probably had lots of practice at covering up your numerous indiscretions.’
Ignoring the jibe, he glared at me. ‘And you get off scot free? That hardly seems fair, does it?’
I’d hardly got off scot free when my marriage was in tatters, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what you want and then go?’ I demanded, because I could tell he was definitely after something.
His green eyes gleamed speculatively, and the way he looked me up and down made my flesh creep. ‘Well, now, let’s see, a little leaving present wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’
He took a step towards me and I took a bigger step back. ‘I really think you should leave. My husband will be home for his lunch shortly,’ I hated the fact that my voice trembled over the lie,’ and you wouldn’t want him to find you here, now would you?’
‘Your husband,’ he rasped, ‘is on the train to London as we speak. I was actually on my way here to see you when I saw him leave the house. I followed him to the station and watched him purchase his ticket and get on the train. I hadn’t even left the station when you arrived on a train, presumably returning from London, on the opposite platform. Realising it was obviously my lucky day, I followed you here. We have lots of time for a replay of an event you’ve quite obviously never forgotten.’
He took another step towards me and I took another step back and came up hard against the wall. A huge hand was placed against the wall either side of my head and he leaned forward to kiss me. The smell of whiskey on his breath was over-powering and I almost gagged. I turned quickly away and he laughed long and loud.
‘We both know you want to.’ He sounded confident and very drunk. ‘As I vaguely recall it, you couldn’t get enough of me before and, who knows, you might even get another little William out of it, because you’ve not managed one since without my help, have you?’
My face burned and I raised my hand to slap his face hard, but he caught and held it.
‘You disgust me.’ I spat, and then his mouth was on mine, hard and demanding, and he was pressing himself against me so that I was in no doubt of his aroused state. In no doubt, either, that he intended to have his way with me whether I consented or not. He was obviously past reasoning with, and intent only on one thing.
I tried pushing against him, but it was like trying to shift solid granite. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he was so much taller than me and he used the movement of my leg to thrust his hand up my skirt and immediately began to tear at my underwear.
‘Get off me,’ I pleaded and his answer was to use the opportunity to thrust his tongue deep into my mouth – how I wasn’t sick on the spot I had no idea – and then I heard the sound of his zipper being pulled down and I realised he was going to force himself on me, right there against the wall.
The sudden pounding on the door shocked up both and then he muttered, ‘Ignore it.’ I felt the heat of his aroused flesh against my thigh and realised there was not a thing I could do to stop him raping me right there and right then.
‘Gareth?’ The letterbox rattled, and he actually leapt away from me as if he’d been scolded. ‘Gareth, do you hear me? I know you’re in there so you’d just as well open the bloody door and let me in.’
The drunken giant sobered up in an instant and roughly thrust his by then flaccid appendage back inside the fly of his trousers. He became a whimpering child right before my eyes as he pleaded, ‘Can I get out through the back? I can’t let my wife find me here.’
Without waiting for an answer, he went lurching off in the direction of the kitchen and seconds later I heard the key turn, bolts drawn and then the sound of the back door closing quietly behind him. It had all happened in a matter of moments, though it felt like far longer.
‘Gareth, will you open this door?’ Catrin Montgomery sounded angry enough to break the door down.
‘I’m coming,’ I said, but it came out as little more than a squeak. I tried again, more firmly and putting a great deal more of an effort into making myself heard. ‘I’m coming.’
Catching sight of myself in the hall mirror beside the front door, I lifted a shaking hand to smooth my hair, and then put some effort into straightening my clothes. There was nothing I could do about the rash on my face caused by the stubble on his.
I opened the door for the second time in a very short time, and was again thrust aside as Catrin Montgomery burst into my hallway.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded, looking in each of the rooms before coming back to stand in front of me. She gave me a straight look. ‘Don’t try to deny that he was here,’ she held up a wallet, ‘he dropped this on your driveway. Have you two been having an affair?’ she asked bluntly.
I could feel the lie forming, getting itself ready to trip off of my tongue, and then I stopped and, reminding myself that enough lies had been told, I said, ‘It was one night, it was many years ago and it was a huge mistake that I bitterly regret. I never expected to see him again and I have no idea why he turned up here today. He has no interest in me and I have none in him.’ The latter was as close to the truth as I could get.
‘You’re the reason he’s given in his notice, then. He always does that if there’s any chance of his past catching up with him, though it hasn’t happened for quite some time now.’
All the fight seemed to go out of her, her shoulders drooped and she just looked sad.
‘I’m so sorry,’
‘Oh,’ she dismissed, ‘it’s not your fault, if it hadn’t been you it would probably have been someone else. There’s always been someone else for as far back as I remember.’
‘So why do you put up with him then?’
She shrugged, ‘How long have you got? It’s a long story, but if you feel like putting the kettle on...’
I must have looked shocked, though I recovered quickly and offered, ‘Of course, come on through to the kitchen.’
She pulled out a chair and sat down, watching me bustle around for a moment, and then she said, ‘Well, they do say it’s good to talk, and I have very few female friends for obvious reasons,’ I presumed that she meant her husband couldn’t be trusted with them, ‘and I liked you – I still do in spite of everything you’ve just told me.’
It was very strange how we sat there, like the good friends we might have been in another time or place, drinking coffee and eating the odd biscuit, and I listened to a story I wished I could say had nothing to do with me.
‘Gareth is a good husband,’ she began, ‘apart for his weakness for women – and he is a wonderful father to the girls. I have no doubt that he does
love us, in his way.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I said, because I didn’t disbelieve her for a minute, ‘and I’m sure he does.’
‘I put up with him, as you put it,’ she told me, ‘for those reasons and also because I came from a broken home, myself, and I’ve never wanted that for my girls.’
‘I can understand that, I think,’ I nodded, adding, ‘Most relationships are built on compromise of some sort.’
‘Also, as I said earlier, I thought he was over all that. I haven’t caught him out in quite some time’
‘Well, our extremely brief fling was a very long time ago, years in fact, and I promise you that it really was only the once.’
‘So, why all the fuss and the decision to give in his notice after all this time – couldn’t you just have ignored each other?’ There it was, the question I had been dreading.
‘My husband and I had been childless, despite trying for a long time, and then I discovered I was pregnant.’
I watched as the colour drained from her face, ‘And you think the child is Gareth’s?’ her voice was barely above a whisper.
‘I did – I do – I wasn’t sure.’ How could I tell her that I thought her husband had come back into my life because he had an interest in the child we might have created? It was enough already that my obsession had ruined one marriage, I didn’t think I could bear to be responsible for the demise of two.
‘When exactly was this?’ she demanded suddenly.
‘William is six.’
‘Then he is definitely not Gareth’s child,’ she said, ‘because he had a vasectomy eight years ago when I became pregnant with my fourth child.’
Chapter 20
Catrin Montgomery left soon after. I was quite sorry to see her go because if the past hadn’t got in the way. I felt sure we might have enjoyed a really good friendship.
I went back to my work room the minute she was gone, intent on keeping my hands busy as I sorted out my thoughts. I certainly had an awful lot to think about – not least that my precious son no longer had that dark cloud of uncertainty surrounding his paternity hanging over him. However, without a DNA test or an awful lot of very uncomfortable explaining, I didn’t know how convinced Jon was going to be.
The first thing I saw when I walked into the room was the cake Catrin Montgomery had ordered for her husband’s birthday this coming weekend. She’d obviously forgotten all about it, and who could blame her under the circumstances. I was perfectly sure that if I was married to him he would find himself wearing it rather than eating it.
I went over and stood in front of it, pushing back the other cakes that surrounded it until it stood alone on the work-top. It was quite a work of art even if I said it myself, with the icing covering the cake in the bright green of a rugby pitch. The white lines were all picked out and, to the fore, a slim run-out made of icing depicted a player bearing a remarkable resemblance to the man himself, wearing the team colours that Catrin had described in detail to me when she had placed the order.
I had no compunction about consigning the whole thing to the bin. I was quite certain she would have no interest in it now and I wanted no reminders of something and someone I would rather forget. I could have used the cake itself again but what were a few wasted ingredients compared to peace of mind? The whole thing landed in the bottom of the bin with a satisfying thud, and I swept my hands together in a dismissive gesture.
It wasn’t anywhere near enough, I soon discovered, to merely have it out of sight. After a few minutes of trying to focus on the next order, I returned to the bin, lifted the bin-bag and its contents out and carried the whole thing through the kitchen, out through the back door, and then threw everything with some force into the black wheelie bin.
It was done, the whole sorry episode was behind me, and with any luck I would never set eyes on Gareth – bloody – Montgomery ever again. His wife was more than welcome to him because, if as she thought, he really had turned over a new leaf what the hell had that earlier awful episode in my hallway been all about? That man had a nasty streak a mile wide running right through him and she deserved a medal for putting up with him.
Back indoors I picked up the phone – and then I put it back down. Where on earth was Jon? Was he really on a train to London and why hadn’t he been in touch? I should ring him and just plead with him to come home so that we could talk. Avoiding what was bound to be a difficult conversation wasn’t helping and heading towards the Christmas festivities with our family fractured beyond repair really didn’t bear thinking about.
Somehow, I had to convince Jon that I deserved a second chance, and not just because I was expecting his child. I had no intention of sharing that particular piece of news with him yet because, if he wasn’t prepared to try again for William and me, then another baby would make little difference because there was no hope for us.
I was going to ring him, right now. My mind made up, I picked up the phone again, and just at that minute it began to ring in my hand – and Jon’s name came up on the screen.
‘Jon, oh, Jon, where are you?’
He sounded faint and he sounded sad as he said, ‘I had to get away, to give myself time to think.’
‘I can understand that,’ I began, but he interrupted me.
‘I’ve come to a decision,’ he said, and his tone sounded firmer, as if he was resolved in what he was about to say.
‘Oh,’ I managed, and something was telling me that I wasn’t going to like whatever it was.
‘I’m opting out of this marriage.’
I knew at that moment exactly what it felt like to have your heart broken in two and the pain was truly like nothing I had ever known. It took me a moment or two to take in the rest of what Jon was saying.
‘I’ve decided,’ he continued, ‘that I’m not being fair to you, because it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I can never give you the family you want and deserve, though I thank you for your recent kindness and patience in trying to convince me otherwise. I do thank you, with all my heart for the gift of William – how he was conceived isn’t important and it really never was. I accepted him as my child gladly and, with your permission, I will continue to do so and see him whenever I can. I will love him as my son until the day I die.’
‘But, Jon, Jon...’
He was gone and I was pleading with thin air. I tried ringing him back again and again, determined to tell him immediately about the pregnancy and plead with him to come home, but I was clicked straight through to voice mail each time. Feeling it wasn’t the sort of news I could share through an electronic device, I just left a plea.
‘Come home, Jon. Please come home. I love you and I know you love me in spite of what I did. We can sort this out, I promise you.’
I worked right through the night because trying to sleep just wasn’t an option for me. I had to pin all of my hopes on Jon returning home – if not to stay, then at least to collect his things. He didn’t appear to have taken as much as a toothbrush with him.
As the light of a new day filtered through the window, and I put the finishing touches to the last order, I finally had to accept that Jon wasn’t coming – not now and quite possibly not ever.
Part of me was angry with him for deciding that he knew what was best for me, but then I brought myself up short by reminding myself that I had done exactly the same thing, but on a far larger scale. For hadn’t I decided, all those years ago, that it was best for him not to know that I had been unfaithful to him? Then I had blithely continued the deceit by deciding it was also best for him not to know that the baby I was expecting might not be his.
Had I been totally honest with him right from the start none of this would have happened. First of all I’d have known immediately whether my actions had put my marriage under threat and, if Jon was not able to forgive my indiscretion then I’d have started life as a single mother with a baby who would know nothing else. That would surely have been far easier than depriving a six year old boy of the Daddy h
e had lived with and loved all of his life.
Had I been honest from the start, the reappearance of the Adonis would not have caused me to over-react the way I had done. Instead I had freaked out and blown what had turned out to be merely a coincidental meeting out of all proportion, and allowed my paranoia to guide my behaviour into becoming more and more bizarre as I struggled to keep a secret that I now accepted had never been in any danger of exposure.
‘What a mess I’ve made of things,’ I said aloud, ‘what an absolute bloody mess.’
Trying to maintain a semblance of normality for William’s sake, I returned to London, enjoying the preferred sights that still remained on our list with him until Sunday arrived. We caught the train home after an early lunch.
‘Have you had a lovely time?’ I asked, ruffling Will’s hair as he settled in a window seat with a table.
‘It was brilliant,’ he smiled up at me. ‘Thank you for taking me to all the places I really wanted to go. I can write about it in my school diary tomorrow. Will Daddy be there when we get home?’
I wasn’t expecting the question, and yet I knew that I should have been and could have kicked myself for not being prepared.
‘Erm,’ I played for time, and then admitted, ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘Why..?’ he began, and just then, to my relief, an elderly couple came and asked if we minded them taking the seats on the other side of the centre table. As there were plenty of other table-less seats I guessed that William was the attraction. I was proved right and in no time they had engaged Will in a conversation about where he had been and everything he had seen. It took up most of their journey home.
‘They were like a grandma and granddad weren’t they?’ he asked, when they left the train at Southampton Central, and I agreed that they were. ‘Why don’t I have any grannies or granddads?’
This time the question was one that I was more prepared for, having lived for most of my adult life without my Mum and Dad. ‘I’m sure I’ve told you before,’ I said gently, ‘that my parents and your dad’s died in the same coach crash when they were on holiday in Scotland. Your Dad and I met when we went up there to find out what happened.’ I didn’t add that we went up there to identify their bodies, feeling that was a bit too much information for a six year old boy. ‘But remember I told you that accidents like that hardly ever happen, so it’s not something you have to worry about.’
