A Little Crushed (24 page)

“You don’t get it, do you? You’ve turned this into some sordid soap opera episode, a tabloid headline:
Teacher and Pupil in Love Scandal
. It’s insulting. I am not a child, Mrs. Black. I will do what I think best for Max, no one else. There, does that answer your question? You can go home and sleep easy. Lucky you. I doubt I will. See yourself out.” Calling for Wally, she left the kitchen.

Upstairs in her room, she crawled into bed and under the quilt, waiting until she heard the front door slam before she shattered the glass box in which she’d held her feelings prisoner for the past hour. How could she live with so much hurt and survive? Heartache was such a misused term, but the void his desertion left in her was a solid, physical pain, as if someone had put their hand in and ripped her heart from her chest.

Her head pounded as she struggled to make sense of it all. She couldn’t, and the agony of it made her want to cry out. Pulling the duvet over her head, she curled into a ball. Six months? She would never survive it.

“Becky what is it?” Her mother opened the door. “Whatever is wrong? Are you sick? I just met Mrs. Black in the drive. She told me she had to bring you home.”

“Mum, please, don’t turn on the light.”

But of course, her mother did just that. “Oh dear. Maybe I’d better call Dr. Reynolds. You look terrible.”

“No doctors. It will pass. Please, I want to be alone. Just go, Mum. I’ll be fine.”

Turning onto her side, she bit down on the quilt in an attempt to muffle her sobs, praying that, for once, her mum would respect her wishes. She could almost hear the maternal cogs and wheels spin in her mum’s head, knowing she wanted nothing more than to worm the truth out of her. Her mother’s pained sigh swirled around her head, but she heard her leave the room and close the door.

Waiting until she heard her footsteps on the stairs, Rebecca eased herself off the bed. Her head felt ready to explode, her stomach was raw from retching and lack of food. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to eat again. Her body craved sleep, but she was too scared to go there. She would dream of him, for sure. She didn’t want that. She’d trusted him with all her heart and soul. Okay, so he hadn’t exactly let her down, but what if he hadn’t had that call? What would he have decided?

For a moment, she stood facing the image in the long mirror. Who was that girl staring back at her, eyes so wild, face white and scared? Why did she ask? She’d been staring at that image for two years now. She was so tired of it mocking her. Why couldn’t it leave her alone? Peace. All she craved was peace. Pulse racing, she eased open the bedroom door and tiptoed into the bathroom. Clicking open the cabinet that could hold the key to such peace, her fingers pushed through the bottles and boxes her mother kept for emergencies. Well this was such an emergency, the biggest crisis of her life. A silent laugh dragged at her throat. How ironic. After all she’d suffered, all she’d triumphed over, and here she was, destroyed by a broken heart. Her hand closed around her father’s sleeping pills.

She stared at the bottle, tempted to take them all. Her hands shook as she tipped two of the white tablets into her hand. It would be so easy, but somewhere deep inside herself, she found the strength of character to resist. She recapped the bottle. Two were plenty enough for her purpose. Swallowing them without water, she crept back to her room and locked out the world. She prayed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

Max sat with his mother, watching his father’s chest rise and fall with each tortured breath. A myriad of tubes and wires worked at keeping him alive.

“Funny, isn’t it?” His mother read his mind. “Approaching death is so humbling. It’s ironic, you know. The times I have wished him dead, and now here he is…so close, and I feel nothing.”

“He’s not going to die.” Max squeezed her hand. “The Robert Jacksons of this world never die. God wouldn’t dare.”

“Stop trying to be strong for me, Maxy.” His mother squeezed back. “I don’t care if he does die.”

“You really feel nothing?”

To his surprise, her mouth curved into a wry smile. There was no bitterness in her expression, just a simple acceptance that the vulnerable man lying there, her husband, the father of her only child, and her oppressor, now hung on to life by a tenuous thread.

“Your father died for me a long time ago, Max. I wasted twenty years of my life crying for him, and now I have no tears left. So, yes, I honestly feel nothing. He made his choices, and now he’s paying for them. What can I say? He was never there when we needed him. He didn’t need us then, and I’m sure he doesn’t now.”

His mother’s chilly words should have shocked him, but they didn’t. He, more than anyone, understood the pain, rejection, and humiliation she’d been forced to endure at the hands of the ‘Great and Powerful’ Robert Jackson. How could he blame her if she seemed so cold and unsympathetic?

“You should go home.” In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, she reached over and kissed his cheek. “You look awful. You shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why Peggy called you. The old bugger could hang on for weeks yet. He probably will, just to spite us, but then Peg was always more loyal than I. Go and get some sleep, Max.”

“You’re right.” Max ran his hands over his two-day-old stubble. “I didn’t sleep much on the plane.”

“Commercial flight will do that to you.” His mother looked aghast at the thought. The company jet was the one vestige of her former life she clung to, purely, she maintained, because it accommodated her dogs.

Max smiled at the frayed shirt and faded khaki trousers. Her hands were tanned as brown as the earth she loved to work, nails ragged and short from hours spent in her beloved garden. It was hard to imagine she’d been born into a life of luxury. People, Max knew, considered her eccentric for choosing to hide herself away, thumbing her nose at all the luxuries Robert’s billions could buy, but his mother had grown up with money. It didn’t hold the same fascination for her as it did for her estranged husband. The Jackson fortune and the making of it had only brought her heartache.

“Go on, Max. I am sure the lovely Kate is dying to see you.”

He was too tired to rise to the bait. She and Kate did not make good stable mates.

“I mean it, son. Go home. There really is no point in us both sitting here. Besides, you need some rest. You are going to have so much to deal with now. Even if your father does pull through, he won’t be fit to take control again, not for a while, at least.”

“I don’t even want to think about that.” Max buried his head in his hands, the enormity of the changes he was going to have to make too overwhelming to contemplate.

“You may have no choice. Sooner or later, you will have to decide if it’s what you want, but let it be your choice, not Kate’s.”

* * * *

Max let himself into the fashionable loft conversion and grimaced, wishing he could escape the hell that was about to become his life. The minimalist interior which he had once found so soothing now left him numb and lonely. Staring at the pale-lemon leather chairs and blond wood floors, he felt bile rise into his mouth. His own home felt so alien to him. It was all about Kate, and he didn’t want to be there.

He closed the front door behind him and threw his keys on the coffee table, wincing as he heard them slide across the glass. “Oh God,” he muttered. “Please don’t let there be a scratch.”

Surveying the clinically clean living space, he had to smile. The air hung heavy with the scent of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers. Clearly Kate had been on the phone to the cleaning service in preparation for his return. A gesture from the heart, he knew, but sometimes her incessant attention to detail irritated him. Of course, a bigger gesture would have been if she’d met him at the hospital, but he guessed she was at the museum. Not much came between Kate and her work.

He crossed to the white Georgian mantelpiece and picked up the framed photograph. It had been taken two years before at a charity function. He’d been so uncomfortable in the tux and stiff suit, he recalled. Kate had pinched him and told him off for scowling. She, on the other hand, had been dazzling, the epitome of grace, style, and charm. He’d been the envy of every man in the room.

Distractedly, he stroked the angled planes of Kate’s delicate face. He wondered if he would ever be able to rekindle his love for her.

“Max?”

He turned to see his fiancée push through the front door, arms laden with supermarket bags. Dropping them onto the sofa, she ran to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, smothering him in a cloud of her wildly expensive perfume. He closed his mind against the memory of the clean scent of Rebecca’s shampoo.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you. Why didn’t you tell me what time your flight got in? I would have come to pick you up. Never mind—oh, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.”

Max smiled. Her selective memory worked overtime. There was no point in reminding her he had, in fact, texted his arrival details. Kate was a master at turning the tables. Pulling free from his arms, she homed in on the coffee table.

“Damn that stupid cleaning woman.” She clicked in exasperation, tracing the scratch with one oyster buffed talon. “Just look, Max. It’s huge. I’ m going to complain. We pay—”

“Oh, leave it, will you!”

She turned to him, surprise furrowing an otherwise unlined forehead.

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed at his nose, a habit he knew she hated. “I didn’t mean to snap, but I didn’t get much sleep on the plane, and then I went straight to the hospital. In fact, I’ve just come back to shower and change, and then I’m heading back over there.”

“Come on, Max.”

She slipped her arms back around his waist and kissed him; a slow kiss that should have revived his spirits but disturbingly, left him numb.

“You’re exhausted.” Kate broke for air and ran her fingers through his hair in the way that used to drive him crazy for her. God, there was that past tense again. It scared him.

“You’re no good to anyone in this state, and your father is in good hands. Let’s eat and have an early night. I’ve missed you so much.”

Too weary to argue, Max allowed himself to be swayed by her argument. She was right, of course, but it didn’t stop him from thinking he ought to do the dutiful son routine and go back and keep vigil by his father’s bedside. Not that his father would have been impressed. Mr. Jackson senior was more likely to tell him to fuck off and stop his whining.

“Could we skip the dinner part?” He rubbed his thumb along her delicate cheekbone. “I ate on the plane. Crap, I know, but it filled the spot.” He’d also attempted to drink the drinks trolley dry, but he didn’t share this information. He only hoped he was up for what Kate so blatantly wanted from him and what he should want to give her.

Misinterpreting his request as a seduction ploy, she took his hand and with a cat-smile, led him into the bedroom.

* * * *

He awoke to find Kate’s side of the bed empty. Groaning, he wished he could go back to sleep. He’d hurt her. Throwing back the sheet, he pulled on his boxers. Strange, but he wasn’t comfortable being naked in front of her anymore.

Sunlight streamed through the open French windows, bathing the living area in sunflower gold. Kate had been busy, not a speck of dust to be seen. “God help your children,” he muttered. And that, he supposed, ought to tell him a lot. He’d said
her
, not
our.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee tantalised his nostrils, and he followed the aroma out onto the roof garden. Kate sat at the rattan table, hair gleaming in the sunlight, lipstick already in place. She was, however, still in her dressing gown. Leaning over, he planted a perfunctory kiss on her temple.

“Morning, Max.” Her tone was as smooth as silk. He knew she was upset.

“Sit.” She beckoned him to a chair and poured the coffee. “Croissant?”

As she handed him a napkin, he noticed her hands shook. He reached over the table and gently removed the Jackie Onassis glasses. As he suspected, she’d been crying. “Hey, I’m sorry, babe. It isn’t you. I was tired, that’s all.”

Pushing his hand away, she stared out across the violet-blue bay, sipping at her latte. “Max—who is Rebecca?”

Talk about blind-sided. That he hadn’t expected. On the other hand, he wasn’t shocked. He guessed he’d been talking in his sleep. It was a bit of a joke between them, but now it didn’t seem so funny. He wasn’t surprised he’d called out Rebecca’s name. She occupied every minute of his waking thoughts, so it was only logical she turned up in his dream world.

“It’s not what you think.” Struggling to find words that would not cause Kate pain, he focused on the white sailboats far out on the horizon. His stomach tied up in a series of complicated knots—just like his life.

“Such a clichéd line, Max. So what is ‘it,’ exactly?” Her tone was clipped, hands now steady. Kate was back in control.

“I don’t know.” At least that was partially honest. What could he tell her? That he had fallen in love with an eighteen-year-old tomboy? A girl who’d cut his heart in two? How could he possibly tell Kate about the depth of emotion Rebecca had awoken in him? Wow! His internal revelation staggered him. What a time to realize the truth.

“I’m waiting, Max.”

“Rebecca is…was a pupil.” Aiming for matter of fact, he raised the delicate china cup to his lips. A brief image of his huge stoneware mugs of brandy laced cocoa jumped into his mind which didn’t exactly help.

Her sharp intake of breath battered his ear. She’d drawn the wrong conclusion.

“I told you…it isn’t what you think. To be honest, I am sick and tired of being judged, first by Tom and now by you”

“Oh, how cozy. Your
Little House on the Prairie
friends know about this?”

Oops. Not exactly his best counterattack. “You’re making too much of it.”

She rounded on him, face twisted into a disbelieving mask. “Sorry for questioning your integrity, but when a man moans a woman’s name in his sleep, it isn’t usually a cup of cocoa he wants.”

Max couldn’t help it. He smiled at her inadvertent reference.