The Faithful Wife (7 page)

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Authors: Diana Hamilton

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BOOK: The Faithful Wife
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‘Yes, I remember,' she answered him, her voice flat. Over the past year anguish had been a constant companion. She'd thought she had learned to live with it, learned to cope. Clearly, she hadn't. ‘I'll go and pour us some of that coffee.'
It was suddenly an effort to speak. The pain of disappointment hit her. She had so hoped, expected—yes, actually and foolishly expected...
‘I'll do it. Stay here, get warm.' He was out of the room before she could argue. Not that she had the energy to argue about anything.
Slowly she moved to the fire and held her hands out to the warmth of the flames.
Reaction to this morning's hare-brained escapade was setting in. That was why she had been air-headed enough to imagine, for one single moment, that somehow they could work things out, that he did still care for her a little.
She didn't realise she'd been swaying on her feet until Jake thrust the tray he'd carried through down on a side table, put long-fingered hands on her shoulders and pressured her down onto the fireside chair.
Not that he needed to exert much pressure. Her legs felt as if they were made of water. He reached for the tray and placed it on her knees.
‘Eat. Drink. I don't want you collapsing on me. I've no way of summoning medical aid, don't forget.'
Barely focusing, her eyes registered a china beaker of steaming coffee and a plate of lavishly buttered hot toast. His cool command made sense. Always the practical one, always able to find reasons why he couldn't give her what she craved.
She drank the coffee and forced down some of the toast, and managed a dull little, ‘Thank you. I needed that.'
Jake removed the tray and said tersely, ‘Too right, you did. You've actually got some colour back in your face that hasn't come out of a pot.'
Her cheeks, smooth as a rose petal, had a touch of pink beneath the translucent surface, and her lips had lost that worrying bluish tinge—formerly apparent in the whiteness around the coral lipstick she had so carefully painted on. He took up an unknowingly dominant stance in front of the hearth, breathed deeply and tried to make himself relax.
They were stuck out here, and there was no way he was going to spend Christmas in an ill-tempered, explosive atmosphere.
‘I've a suggestion to make.' A stab of something fierce and hot knifed through him as her eyes winged up and locked with his. She had piled the silky mass of her black hair elegantly on the top of her head. The purity of the line from the crown of her head to the angle of her jaw, to the slender length of her neck, was sheer poetry. It made him ache.
He clenched his hands in the pockets of his jeans. And tried again. ‘I suggest we try to make the best of the situation.' Suddenly it was vitally important to him that she agree to a truce. He cleared his throat and continued with a careful lack of inflection. ‘We're stuck here. Whether we like it or not. In my opinion, it wouldn't make a whole heap of sense to spend Christmas glowering at each other from opposite ends of the room.'
The clear luminosity of her eyes cut to his soul. She looked as though she was hanging on every word, like a child who was waiting to hear the details of a long-awaited treat. Despite the veneer of elegant sophistication those expressive eyes made her look so trusting, so innocent.
Yet she was light years away from innocence, he reminded himself with a brutality he suddenly felt was very necessary.
‘So why don't we forget the past for a couple of days, call a truce and behave like rational adults?'
He knew he'd sounded harsher than he'd meant to, and instantly regretted it as he watched her head droop, those eyes not intent on him now, but on the long-fingered hands that lay clasped in her lap.
He held his breath, expecting the retaliation of total non-compliance or, at best, the silent withdrawal that had tainted the last year of their marriage. Though he, too, had been guilty in that respect, he recognised now.
‘Sounds like sense to me, too.' Bella did her best to sound like the rational adult he'd suggested she try to be. The spiky lump in her throat was her own fault. Stupid of her to have thought, at first, that he was trying to tell her that they should use this time to try to resurrect their marriage, work on their shattered relationship, talk things out.
But his harshly impatient suggestion that they forget the past, just for a day or so, had knocked that fantasy on the head.
He wanted to forget that they'd ever meant anything to each other. She had no option but to play it his way, and she knew that if she were to survive the next few days without making a shameful fool of herself she would have to convince her stupid heart that their separation was the first step in rectifying a bad mistake. Perhaps even steel herself to mention divorce.
She got to her feet, and challenged him. ‘I won't glower, if you won't. And, to make it easier, shall we dress the tree? There's one in the kitchen, in case you hadn't noticed.'
‘I could hardly have failed, since I almost poked my eye out on the darned thing a couple of times.'
She hadn't left out a single thing when she'd made her minute arrangements for the ‘surprise' reunion! Jake stamped on the thought. No past, no recriminations, simply a polite coexistence—on the surface, anyway. He was working on it. He had to. It had been his idea, hadn't it? He'd do anything to make the next few days as amicable as they could be. Polite formality was definitely the only safe atmosphere to aim for.
He would do anything to avoid any attempts on her part to affect a reconciliation. That had to be why she'd set this up. And she had enough witchery at her command to make him follow his heart, ignore the sullied past and resume their marriage.
He would fight to the last breath to avoid putting himself through that kind of hell again.
‘I'll carry it through; you decide where you think it would look best.'
In the end they both agreed the tree would look perfect in the alcove at the side of the inglenook.
‘Out of the way of any flying sparks,' Jake approved. ‘Shall you hang the bits and bobs, or shall I?'
‘Why don't we do it together?' Immediately the question was out she regretted it. It sounded pushy. Togetherness was something that had been missing from their relationship for a long time now. No chance of finding it again either. He didn't want to find it so they wouldn't. What Jake wanted, Jake got.
‘One of us has to fix lunch,' he told her, smoothly glossing over her mistake. ‘Breakfast, for me, was a non-event, and yours—two bites of toast just now—doesn't count. I'll forage in the kitchen while you deck the tree.'
It wasn't cowardice, he told himself grimly as he jerked the fridge door open and glared at the brimming contents. He needed to keep things cool, polite—if only superficially. It was the only way he could get through this without his emotions ending up in chaos.
He pulled a slab of cold roasted beef from the well-stocked shelves and began to slice at it for sandwiches. He had nothing to fear, he reminded himself. Not a damn thing. He had the protection of her past infidelities, hadn't he? Not to mention the reinforcement of her latest devious behaviour—the setting up of this farce.
Jake eyed the mound of meat he'd hacked with grim hostility. The slices were distinctly uneven, ragged, as if someone had set about the cold roast with an axe. And he wondered why he had to keep reminding himself of the reasons for keeping her at arm's length.
After what she'd done to him, to their marriage, he would have thought his heart would have grown a protective shell a mile thick, the reasons for keeping her at a firm distance permanently engraved on his brain.
He shouldn't have to work on it.
It shouldn't have to be so hard!
If he allowed her back into his life he would deserve all he got. Heartbreak. Forever wondering if she was sneaking off to be with Maclaine whenever his back was turned. He couldn't face the pain of that again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A
T FIRST Bella had been all fumbling thumbs and deep and nervy embarrassment at having left herself wide open to that rebuff. Play the game—for a game it surely was—as if they were mere acquaintances, politely resigned to spending time together; that was the way Jake wanted it. So that was the way he'd get it, she'd told herself firmly. She would demonstrate that she could play the game as well as he. Better, even!
But soon the glittering festive baubles had entranced her: gold, silver and scarlet, glimmering and twinkling amongst the dark evergreen branches, swags of shiny red beads roping in and out of the pine-fragrant foliage. It all made her forget, for a few precious minutes, the hurting hatefulness of her situation.
She was standing back, her head tipped to one side, wondering if the effect she'd achieved looked as good as she thought it did, when Jake walked back in from the kitchen, carrying a loaded tray.
‘How does it look? OK?' She didn't turn after that initial over-the-shoulder glance. Still caught up in almost child-like excitement, she took Jake's long moment of intense silence for consideration of her artistic efforts. The result had to be a bit odd or he wouldn't be taking so long to offer an opinion. ‘Did I put too much on? Is it over the top? I've never dressed a tree before.'
Jake put the tray down on the table, his mouth curving cynically. For a few moments back there she'd had him entranced. Standing there, a great and glittering gold star clutched in her hands, her lovely face radiating pleasure, there'd been no sign of the sleek ‘top model' sophistication he'd always associated with Bella. The breathy, whispery excitement in her voice had almost fooled him, too.
He clattered plates. ‘Never dressed a tree? Pull the other one! Then come and eat.'
So she wasn't even to be allowed the fleeting distraction of doing something pleasurable for the very first time. And why did he have to believe that every time she opened her mouth a lie came out?
She swung round on her heels. It was time he got a few things straight. She didn't lie, for one.
Tossing the glittery star on the tabletop, she told him levelly, ‘It happens to be the truth. If you can't believe it, then that's your tough luck. Not mine.'
Still unloading the tray, he gave her a penetrating look. Maybe he was taking distrust too far. Distrust had been stamped on his soul when his father had taken his life. Of his parents, his father had been his rock, a larger than life figure he had respected as well as loved. The loss of financial security and the huge debts his father had left behind had been as nothing compared with that final betrayal.
To begin with, he'd believed he had learned to trust again with Bella. But infidelity made a mockery of marriage vows, turned them into lies. Infidelity was a sure-fire way of killing trust.
He pulled out a chair for her and took one for himself on the opposite side of the table. ‘So tell me about it. Didn't your parents let you help dress the tree when you were a kid?'
She took her chair, shrugged very slightly. ‘It's not important.'
‘Probably not.' He pushed a plate of sandwiches towards her. ‘But it would help pass the time. And, now I come to think of it, you've told me very little about your past.'
Pass the time. It stretched endlessly before her, arid, awkward and painful. She blinked rapidly. She would not cry. She took a sandwich of doorstep proportions, refused the soggy-looking salad garnish he'd prepared.
‘I thought, for the purposes of Christmas peace and goodwill, we had to ignore the past.' She threw his cool stricture back in his face. The little rebellion helped to smother the feeling of hurt. She calmly eyed the thing on her plate and wondered if she could open her mouth wide enough to take a bite.
‘The distant past doesn't count.' He found himself approving this new spark of defiance. And, watching her, he had to fight to stop himself from grinning like a clown. If he'd been asked to describe the marital meals she'd used to go to such endearingly endless trouble to prepare for him, he would have said elegant. And beautiful to look at. Ten out of ten for presentation, and two out of ten for hunger-quelling content.
Right now she was having difficulty hiding her dismay. He hadn't gone out of his way to produce such massive, untidy offerings. He couldn't have been concentrating on what he was doing.
‘OK.' She capitulated, and reached for a knife to cut the sandwich into smaller, more manageable pieces. ‘I suppose it wouldn't help the festive spirit much if we both sat here in gloomy silence. I'll go along with you, and try to avoid contentious subjects. But I warn you, I'm not going to pussy-foot around, double-checking everything before it trips off my tongue, like a reformed trollop at a vicar's tea party.'
He did grin then, but hid it behind the rim of his wineglass. An excellent vintage claret, he'd noted back in the kitchen, twisting the corkscrew with cynical ferocity. She'd spared no expense to get the party moving, to find the right mood!
He caught the thought, examined it. Was he being unfair? Was she in some kind of trouble? Had she engineered this time together because she needed his help? It was something to think about. Maybe if she relaxed enough she would tell him the truth. ‘So?' he prompted gently, watching her long, narrow hands as she cut into the thick, crusty bread and the filling of hacked meat. He wondered why she didn't push it fastidiously aside and float out to prepare a medallion of tenderloin on a bed of unidentifiable leaves. She was obviously trying hard to please.
‘So Dad thought Christmas was a waste of money, right? But Mum always did her best to make sure Evie and I had a package to open on Christmas morning. Granted, money was in short supply—but he didn't even make an effort, and wouldn't let us try, either.'
She chewed reflectively on a piece of her sandwich; the meat was wonderfully tender, spiced up with just the right amount of mustard. His sandwiches were no way as inedible as they looked.
‘I like to think he wasn't a Scrooge by nature, but acted like one because it upset him to think he couldn't give his family everything they wanted.'
She looked so earnest, Jake thought, watching her closely. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to say what was on his mind—that any father who didn't make the effort to find some way of making Christmas special for his kids didn't deserve to have any. Let her keep her manufactured delusions if they helped her.
‘Dad was mostly out of work, and we were always on the move,' she was telling him, long fingers idly stroking the stern of her wineglass now. ‘He always thought the grass would be greener in the next county or town. It never was, though. Things just seemed to go from bad to worse. Smaller flats in seedier areas. And moving meant Mum had to keep finding new jobs to make ends meet. Sometimes she couldn't. Things got really tough then.'
Her mother had never complained. Bella wondered if she'd inherited those doormat genes, making her willing to let Jake call all the shots during the time they'd lived together.
Unconsciously she shook her head. Now wasn't the time to delve into cause and effect.
Jake said, his voice surprisingly gentle, ‘I remember you telling me your parents were separated, and your mother settled in New Zealand with her widowed sister.'
‘Yes, but Mum going out to live with Auntie May came much later. She wouldn't have dreamed of leaving us until Evie and I were both on our feet. But Dad walked out on the lot of us when I was fourteen. We stayed put, then, and for a couple of years the three of us had our first settled home. A two-bedroom flat above a greengrocer's in a backstreet in Newcastle. Downmarket, but home.'
She was twisting the glass now. Jake expected the contents to spill out at any moment. There was a lot of tension there, waiting to be released.
‘It must have been about that time I knew what I wanted out of life.'
She wasn't looking at him; her expression told him she was in another world. But at least she was trying to share it with him. Funny how they'd never really talked, either of them, never delved deeply enough to find out what made each other tick.
Too busy making love, discovering each other physically to begin with. And then, after the initial honeymoon stage, he'd been too busy. Full-stop.
Not sure that he should want to, but feeling driven to know, Jake asked, ‘And what was that?'
Christmas every day of the year? Everything her deprived childhood had seemingly put out of reach? Designer clothes, jewels, fast cars and slow, sybaritic holidays in far-flung places?
Heaven knew, she'd earned enough in her own right to indulge every whim, and the Docklands home he'd provided on their marriage had been glamorous enough to negate the memories of any number of back-street flats.
Yet it hadn't been enough. His love hadn't been enough. Being his wife, in spite of all the financial advantages—like not having to work for her extremely comfortable living—had become a bore. So much so that she had sought forbidden excitement with her former lover.
Bella, glancing across at him between dark and tangled lashes, saw the ferocity darkening his face and made up her mind. Conscious, suddenly, that she was in danger of snapping the stern of her glass, she made herself loosen up, unknotting her fingers and lifting the brimming glass to her mouth.
They'd agreed not to raise any contentious spectres from the past—but it might dent his huge ego, and certainly wouldn't hurt him, to know that one of the things she had most wanted—not the most important, but important nevertheless—was something else he'd resolutely refused to give her. She had nothing to lose because she'd already lost everything that mattered to her.
‘I did tell you once, but I guess you didn't listen. You never listened to what I said if it wasn't what you wanted to hear. Eventually I stopped saying anything important.' She looked him straight in the eye and knew a moment's vindication when she watched his dark brows pull down as her shot hit home.
She gave a small shrug, slender shoulders lifting elegantly beneath the beautifully styled white jacket. ‘I wanted a proper home and a loving family to share it with,' she said with a touch of cool defiance.
She looked at her empty glass with a glimmer of surprise and put it down. Swallowing wine as if it were water wouldn't help. She sat rigidly upright in her chair, her hands knotted in her lap, and added, ‘Nothing grand, just a homey place with a garden, and fields and woods around for the children to play in.' And a husband who was home, sharing the ups and downs of family life, the two of them growing closer as the years went by, not further and further apart until they were like strangers.
She frowned unconsciously, and tacked on tartly, ‘No grimy backstreets, litter and graffiti everywhere—some place where it was safe to walk, with fresh air to breathe. A modest enough dream, but one I valued.'
She'd said enough. Perhaps too much. The silence from him was like a shock. But, oddly, she felt unburdened, lighter. She wasn't so self-centred that his refusal to even think about the occasional suggestions she'd made regarding a future move out of the City would have made her decide their marriage wasn't worth keeping.
But she wouldn't think about that; she couldn't afford to. Dwelling on what had gone so badly wrong wouldn't help her to get through the next few days, or keep up the pretence that they were mere acquaintances.
She swept to her feet and began to gather the lunch things together, and told him politely, very politely, ‘I'll clear away. Would you mind fixing the star to the top of the tree? I couldn't reach.'
With the kitchen door closed firmly behind her, Bella released a long, shuddery sigh. She wanted to kill Evie for putting her in this situation! Kitty, too, for her part in it! The only thing that gave her any consolation whatsoever was knowing that this place, fully and lavishly provisioned, would have cost them at least an arm and a couple of legs apiece!
Their intentions had been good, though; she had to give them that. But they were living in cloud-cuckooland if they thought that this enforced and probably prolonged contact would have the desired results.
Jake didn't even like her any more. He didn't trust her. He would sooner handcuff himself to a baboon for the rest of his life than take her back!
Tears rushed to her eyes. She blinked them away and sniffed ferociously, took the tray to the sink and did the dishes, then collected the clothes they'd worn earlier in the blizzard and pushed them into the washer-drier. Anything to keep busy, keep out of the way of the man she had loved and lost.
 
From behind the closed door Jake could hear the clink of china. At odds with his chaotic emotions, Bella was prosaically washing the dishes. The sheer unexpectedness of what she'd said had robbed him of speech.
Of course he'd listened when she'd dreamily told him of what she envisaged for their future. Late-night lover-talk, he'd thought it, with her hair splayed against the pillows like a black silk shawl.

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