Brittle Bondage

She was so engrossed with her thoughts that she almost drove past the small antiques shop where she worked. Mr Caldwell’s establishment was an attractive double-fronted dwelling that sat squarely in the High Street, with a post office and general dealers on one side of him, and the doctor’s surgery on the other. With its bow windows and leaded panes, it invited inspection, and Mr Caldwell always made sure they had some unusual item in the window to encourage would-be customers to come inside. At present, an eighteenth-century tripod table had pride of place, with a Chinese ormolu clock set squarely on its mahogany surface. Mr Caldwell liked to create a gathering of matching pieces together, which was why there was a pair of Queen Anne chairs standing at either side of the table, though it was obvious to an experienced eye that the chairs were not in the same class as the table. Rachel had learned that an experienced eye was worth more than a dozen reference books, and it was her aptitude for seeking out a bargain that had persuaded Mr Caldwell to take her on in the first place.

Now, Rachel parked her Volkswagen at the back of the shop, and, after making sure it was locked, she crossed the yard to the rear entrance. Mr O’Shea, who restored many of the scratched and damaged items of furniture Mr Caldwell bought to a convincing originality, was already at work in the warehouse that adjoined the shop. A cheery individual, he always had a smile and a friendly word for Rachel, and today was no exception.

‘Spring is on its way,’ he announced, with sturdy conviction. ‘So why are you looking so troubled, lassie? That old besom hasn’t been complaining again, has he?’

‘Oh, no.’ Rachel cast a guilty glance towards the front of the building, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. ‘And you shouldn’t say such things, Mr O’Shea. Do you want to get me into trouble?’

‘Away with ye, lassie. He’ll not be parting with you in a hurry. You’re too valuable to him, Rachel, and that’s a fact. You’ve got a good eye. Aren’t I always telling you so?’

‘You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ retorted Rachel drily, admiring the finish he was putting to a figured walnut chest. ‘Is this that Queen Anne chest that Cyril found in Worcester? It’s beautiful. You’ve done a lovely job on it.’

‘Ah, so there you are at last, Rachel.’

Her employer’s voice put an end to her conversation with Mr O’Shea, and, following Mr Caldwell into the cramped passageway that led through to the front of the shop, Rachel reflected, not for the first time, that any fire inspector who examined this place would probably close it down as a fire hazard. Every spare inch of space was covered with crates and boxes of china, while framed portraits and uncut canvases were a constant threat to her legs and ankles.

But, for all that, Rachel loved her job. She loved the smell and the touch of old things, and, it was true, she felt she did have a certain aptitude for the work. The arts degree she had left college with might have seemed important at the time, but it was the innate ability she possessed to recognise shape and colour, and a memory for detail, that had impressed her present employer. In the five years she had worked for Cyril Caldwell, she had proved her worth again and again, which was why she knew he wouldn’t be pleased to hear she was planning to get married again. Cyril liked to feel he had her whole and undivided attention.

Rachel was wondering whether she ought to break the news to him now, before it filtered down through the grapevine that operated so efficiently between the villages, when Mr Caldwell spoke.

‘I have to go out,’ he said, leading the way into the showroom. ‘I’ve just heard that there’s a group of Meissen figurines among all that junk they’re selling out at Romanby, and I want to get there and take a look at them before Hector Grant gets his hands on them all. You can manage here, can’t you? I thought you might unpack that box of glassware, if you have the time. And there’s some discrepancy in those figures Parkers sent us. You might have a look at those, too.’

Rachel hesitated. ‘Well——’ This might not be the most appropriate time, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier on her to give Cyril her news when he didn’t have the time to argue. ‘I did want to have a word with you——’

‘Later, Rachel, hmm?’ But it wasn’t really a question. He was already consulting the watch he kept in his waistcoat pocket, mentally calculating the time it would take him to get to Romanby Court, and checking that he had his cheque-book and catalogue in a safe place.

‘OK.’

Rachel decided not to push it. There was no guarantee that her news wouldn’t delay him anyway, and she had no wish to be the excuse he would give if he didn’t happen to acquire any of the Meissen figures.

‘Good, good.’

He made his way to the shop door, a slightly shabby figure in his tweed suit and battered felt hat. But one of the first things he had taught her was that it was unwise to go to an auction looking too affluent. Dealers were a canny breed, and the less successful you looked, the more successful you were likely to be. He had also told her that you had to stay close to the competition. Many articles were sold, not because they were intrinsically valuable, but because someone liked the look of them. Antique dealing was a buyer’s market. The secret was to create a demand for something, and then sell it at the highest price you could get.

The doorbell chimed as he went out, and Rachel expelled her breath on a rueful sigh as she went to watch him get into his car. Like the man himself, it was shabby, too, an old Peugeot estate car of doubtful vintage. Cyril had had the car as long as Rachel could remember, and she felt a twinge of affection as he pulled away from the kerb. He might be old and cantankerous at times, but he had supported her when she’d needed it most. Which was an unwelcome reminder of that call she had to make, and, after watching Cyril disappear out of sight, she went back to her desk.

CHAPTER TWO

IT FELT odd to be punching in the buttons that made up Ben’s London phone number. Irritating, too, that she didn’t even need to consult her address book to remind herself what they were. She assumed it was because she had used the number fairly often in the early days of their separation. After she’d been convinced by Ben’s attitude that he wouldn’t deal with her solicitors.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier to make the call, and she was annoyed to find her hands were trembling. Dear God, she thought, what did she expect him to do, for heaven’s sake? Appear like a wrathful genie out of the mouthpiece? She was only asking to terminate something that had been terminated in everything but name for the past two years. She knew nothing about Ben’s life any more, and he knew nothing about hers. It was time they had a formal severance of their marriage. Daisy might not like it, but Rachel had a life of her own to lead.

The phone seemed to ring an inordinately long period of time before it was picked up, and Rachel was just beginning to think he must be away when it was answered.

‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice, and Rachel’s nerves tightened. ‘This is Knightsbridge …’ She gave the number. ‘Who is this, please?’

Rachel wanted to hang up. She wanted to make some obscene comment, and slam down the phone. But she didn’t. What did it matter to her who answered Ben’s phone? she chided herself grimly. It wasn’t as if she wanted a reconciliation. Actually she wanted anything but.

All the same, she resented the offhand tone in the woman’s voice. As if her call had interrupted something crucial, and the woman had been told to get rid of her as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even said anything, and she was already being made to feel a nuisance.

She sighed. This was silly. She was getting paranoid over the call. The woman didn’t know who she was yet. She could be the Prime Minister’s secretary, or even the Prime Minister himself. Until she indentified herself, how could they know?

‘Um—who am I speaking to?’ she asked, realising she was still on the defensive when it was too late to do anything about it. But she was loath to give her name to one of Ben’s bimbos. If he wanted to know who it was, he should have answered the phone himself.

‘I’m—Karen Simpson, Mr Leeming’s secretary,’ responded the woman, after only a momentary hesitation. ‘Do you wish to speak to Mr Leeming? If you’ll give me your name, I’ll see if he’s available.’

His secretary! Rachel’s lips twisted. Well, she’d heard it called worse names. Ben had never had a secretary; not to her knowledge. And she was sure Daisy would have mentioned it, if there had been another woman around.

‘I think you’ll find he’ll speak to me,’ she said, aware that she wasn’t being very polite, but incapable of reacting any differently. ‘I’m Mrs Leeming. Mr Leeming’s wife!’ She emphasised the relationship with childish defiance. ‘Perhaps if he has a minute you could ask him to come to the phone.’

‘Mr Leeming’s wife!’ Clearly, the woman was impressed. Or was she simply surprised? Rachel wondered ruefully. She wasn’t handling this in a very mature way, and she wished she could ring off and start all over again.

‘Yes, Mr Leeming’s wife,’ she repeated now, with less emphasis. ‘Is Mr Leeming there? It is rather important.’

‘Just a minute, Mrs Leeming.’

The phone went dead. Though not quite dead, Rachel amended, winding the cord nervously round her finger. Evidently Ben had one of those phones with a cut-out button, ideal for monitoring unwanted callers. Rachel wondered if he had one in his bedroom, and then despised herself for the thought. His private arrangements were nothing to do with her any more.

‘Rachel?’

The voice in her ear was suddenly uncomfortably familiar. It might have been months, years even, since they had had a conversation, but that dark, mellow tone was unmistakable.

‘Hello, Ben.’ Rachel wished she had something to lubricate her dry throat. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

Now why had she said that? she wondered impatiently. The accusation behind her words was clearly audible. Why couldn’t she have just launched into the reason why she was calling, instead of giving him a chance to make some clever retort?

‘I can stand the break,’ he responded shortly, and if that was a double entendre she didn’t have time to acknowledge it. ‘What is it? Has something happened to Daisy?’

She supposed she should have realised that Ben was bound to associate her reasons for calling with his daughter, but just for a moment she felt a spurt of resentment that this should be so. She had a life, too, she wanted to exclaim loudly. Not everything in her world had to revolve around Daisy.

But once again, common sense won out over her reckless inclinations. And she wondered suddenly why she was making this call. She could have written to Ben just as well. But he was on the line now, and she was committed. If she didn’t tell him the truth, she’d be a coward as well as a fool.

‘Daisy’s fine,’ she replied quickly, mentally rummaging through her recent altercations with her daughter for something positive to relate. ‘She seems to be enjoying school, and she’s made a lot of friends, as I’m sure she’s told you. Oh, and I’ve been asked to help out at the jumble sale again. It’s a week on Saturday. Last year, I ran one of the stalls.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘What?’ For a moment, Rachel was too shocked by his response to remember exactly why she had chosen to tell him about the jumble sale. Then, ‘Oh—oh, no. That’s not why I was ringing. Um—we don’t visit the school together, do we? We agreed that we wouldn’t encroach on one another’s——’

‘All right.’ Ben’s voice held a note of censure now. ‘I should have known better than to think you wanted us to appear as a family again. So—if you’re not ringing about Daisy, what are you ringing about, Rachel? I don’t know if Karen told you, but I am rather busy.’

Karen! Rachel controlled her anger with an effort. ‘Your secretary,’ she said sweetly, though she feared he would hear the acid in her tone. ‘I didn’t know you had a secretary, Ben. Daisy never mentioned her. Is she new?’

‘What’s it to you?’ Ben could be obstructive, too, and she felt her nails dig into her palms. ‘Come on, Rachel, I’m sure you’re not ringing to check on my staff appointments. Did you decide to accept my offer of an increase in your allowance? I can backdate it, if you like. I dare say a lump sum would come in handy.’

‘You don’t make me an allowance,’ retorted Rachel hotly, furious that he should immediately think she was short of money. The fact that she usually was was immaterial. She refused to take anything from him that was not specifically targeted for Daisy.

‘As you like.’ Ben sounded bored now. ‘But if you’re not ringing about Daisy and you’re not ringing about money, what do you want? The last time I tried to have a conversation with you, you informed me we had nothing to say to one another.’

Rachel sighed. ‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound as reasonable as her intentions had been before she picked up the receiver, ‘I didn’t call you to have an argument. I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time, but I wasn’t sure I’d find you in this evening. Um—as a matter of fact, I probably should have written to you. Solicitors prefer these things down on paper, don’t they? Just so there’s no mistakes. Only you wouldn’t deal with Mr Cockcroft before, and before contacting him, I thought I should warn you. I mean, I’m sure we can be adult about this. I surely didn’t intend for us to get cross with one another. I know you won’t believe this, but I was only trying to be polite——’

‘Hold it! Hold it right there!’ Ben broke into her breathless monologue in harsh tones. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, what the—hell—are you talking about?’

The hesitation before the word ‘hell’ warned her of his dwindling patience. And she was fairly sure that if Miss Simpson hadn’t been on hand he wouldn’t have been so scrupulous. She was familiar with Ben’s sometimes colourful use of the language, and the mildness of the epithet in no way detracted from its force.

‘Divorce,’ she blurted hurriedly, before his arrogance and her timidity defeated her again. ‘I want a divorce, Ben. I—I’ve met someone else, and we want to get married.’

There was total silence after her announcement. If it wasn’t for the fact that Rachel already knew that the phone had a cut-out, she’d have been quite prepared to believe he had hung up on her. But that wasn’t Ben’s way. For all his faults, he had never been one to back off from a challenge. And this was a challenge, she realised belatedly. To his authority, if nothing else.

The silence stretched, and then, just when her nerves had reached screaming point, he said calmly, ‘I think we need to talk.’

Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, I agree,’ she said, swallowing the sudden flood of saliva that had filled her mouth at his words. ‘That’s why I’m ringing. I thought if we could arrange the details now, and you could make an appointment to see your solicitor——’

‘No.’

The denial after she had felt such an overwhelming sense of relief was shattering. ‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean you’ve misunderstood me.’

Rachel blinked, totally confused now. ‘You’re saying I can’t have a divorce?’

‘No——’

‘Then what?’ She recovered a little of her composure and struggled to sound reasonable. ‘I think you should say what you mean, Ben. Like you, I have work to do, too.’

And as if to endorse the point, the door of the shop opened at that moment, its bell chiming delicately round the elegantly furnished showroom. A man had come into the shop, a man of middle height, with square, sturdy shoulders, and a well-muscled, solid build. He was wearing tweeds, and a pair of green boots, his thinning fair hair hidden beneath a buttoned corduroy cap.

It was Simon Barrass, and Rachel, who would have normally been delighted to see him, viewed his presence now with a nervous eye. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him here, she told herself, shifting the receiver from one ear to the other. She just didn’t want him to interpret her tolerance of Ben’s attitude as intimidation. Having heard the story of what had happened from Rachel, Simon was, naturally enough, resentful of the pain Ben had put her through. He had already threatened to deal with him personally, if her soon-to-be-ex-husband made things difficult for her. And, although she wasn’t entirely convinced that Simon, burly though he was, could threaten Ben, she didn’t want their marriage to begin in such a way. Apart from anything else, Daisy would never forgive Simon if he hurt her father. And as for accepting him …

‘Look, we can’t talk now,’ she declared hurriedly, as the urge to avoid Simon’s learning who she was talking to overcame her desire to get things settled with Ben. Catching Simon’s eye, she gave him what she hoped was a welcoming smile. ‘Um—can I ring you later? I’m afraid I’ve got a customer.’

‘Have you?’

Ben’s response was heavily ironic, and she wished she had the freedom to tell him exactly what she thought of him. But until the divorce was finalised it was unwise to antagonise him. And she had delivered quite a broadside. Perhaps it was as well to give him time to absorb the news.

‘Yes,’ she said now, submitting to the rather wet kiss Simon was bestowing on her ear with some misgivings. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ she assured him softly, covering the mouthpiece as she did so. Then, ‘Will that be convenient?’ she enquired in a businesslike tone, as her fiancé chose to wedge his hips on the desk beside her.

‘OK, Rachel.’ To her relief, Ben seemed to accept her explanation. ‘Oh, give my love to Daisy, won’t you? Tell her Daddy says he’ll see her soon.’

‘I will.’

Taking no more chances, Rachel put down the receiver, only realising as she looked up into Simon’s curious face that she hadn’t even said goodbye. Oh, lord, she wondered, had he been able to hear Ben’s last few words?

‘Awkward customer?’ he asked, arching brows only a couple of shades darker than his hair, and Rachel gazed at him uncertainly, not sure how to answer him.

‘Not—not really,’ she offered, casting her eyes down and pretending to rummage in the drawer for some papers. She was sure her face must be scarlet. She wasn’t a practised liar. And she wasn’t entirely sure why she was prevaricating anyway. It wasn’t as if Ben had refused to discuss a divorce. She pulled out what she had supposedly been looking for, and assumed a bland expression. ‘You’re an unexpected visitor.’

‘But not an unwelcome one, I trust?’ suggested Simon, smiling, and she breathed a treacherous sigh of relief.

‘Not at all,’ she said, not altogether truthfully, allowing him to grasp her hand and squeeze it tightly between both of his. ‘I just thought you’d be busy, that’s all. With all the spring planting and everything.’

‘We’d be in a poor state if I was only now beginning the spring planting,’ declared Simon reprovingly, massaging her wrist between his palms. ‘You’ve a lot to learn, Rachel, and it’s going to be my pleasure to teach you. Now, where is that old codger you work for? I want to ask him a favour.’

‘Mr Caldwell?’ Rachel was surprised. She wouldn’t have thought Simon and Cyril had anything in common.

‘Yes, Cyril,’ said Simon forcefully, releasing her hand and getting up from the desk. ‘I’ve got to go to Bristol this morning, and I told Mother I was going to take you with me.’ He glanced round. ‘Now, if you’ll just point me in his direction——’

‘He’s not here.’ Tamping down the indignation she felt at not being asked whether she wanted to go to Bristol with him or not, Rachel got up too, rubbing her hands together. Then, realising it was just a nervous way of drying her sweating palms, she ran them swiftly down the seams of her linen skirt. ‘Mr Caldwell,’ she explained. ‘He’s gone to a sale at Romanby. I don’t know how long he’ll be. Probably several hours at the least.’

‘Oh, damn!’ Simon’s use of epithets was always conservative, but there was no doubting his irritation at this news. ‘And I suppose you can’t leave the shop, can you? What a nuisance! The sooner you’re not dependent on this place for a livelihood, the better!’

Rachel swallowed. So far, this had not been the best day she had ever had, and it was getting no better. ‘What do you mean, Simon?’ she asked. ‘I hope to work for Mr Caldwell for many years to come. I like it here. I like my job. I thought you understood that. I thought you realised how important it is to me.’

Simon blushed now, his fair, good-looking face flushing with unbecoming colour. It made him look both younger and less confident, and Rachel felt a twinge of conscience for reacting as sharply as she had. It was all Ben’s fault, she decided, resenting the fact that he was still occupying too large a place in her thoughts. She ought to feel flattered that Simon enjoyed her company so much. After all, he hadn’t left Wychwood until nearly midnight last night.

‘I do, of course.’ He spoke urgently now. ‘I didn’t mean that I wanted you to give up your job, Rachel. It’s just that we get so little time alone together. I’m very fond of Daisy, you know that. But she is inclined to hover over us whenever I’m—at your house.’

Rachel bit her lip. She wanted to defend her daughter, but the truth was Daisy was very possessive whenever Simon was around. It was her way of protecting what she saw as her father’s property, and not until she and Ben were divorced would Daisy really accept that their marriage was over.

‘It’s—difficult, I know,’ she conceded, and saw the colour in Simon’s face fade a little at her words. ‘But we do have time together after Daisy’s gone to bed.’

‘Mmm.’ Simon didn’t sound convinced. ‘So long as she doesn’t feel sick, or want a drink, or discover a spider in the bathroom.’

Rachel had to laugh then. ‘She does have a mine of excuses,’ she agreed. ‘But once Ben and I are divorced …’

‘It can’t be soon enough for me,’ declared Simon, nodding. ‘It should be easier then, as you say. Providing your ex-husband doesn’t try to maintain too much influence over her. You know, Rachel, it might be an idea to make an alteration to the custody order to the effect that you’ll take control of Daisy’s schooling. It’s obviously not going to be practical to keep her at Lady’s Mount after you’ve moved to Kingsmead. There’s a perfectly adequate school in Lower Morton, and when she’s eleven——’

‘I think we ought to talk about this at some other time, Simon,’ Rachel broke in hurriedly, realising that until she had discussed it with Ben there was no way she could make arbitrary judgements. Simon had no idea how her husband would react to any change in his daughter’s circumstances, and just because he hadn’t jumped down her throat when she broached the subject this morning was no reason to assume he was indifferent to her plans. She’d ring him again this evening, and try and get some definite decision from him. Perhaps after he’d had time to think it over, he’d see it was for the best.

‘I suppose you’re right.’ To her relief, Simon at least seemed prepared to accede to her wishes. Or perhaps he was simply relieved. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go. If you can’t come with me, you can’t. I’ll think of you when I’m sitting in Alberto’s, enjoying one of his peppered steaks.’

‘Do that.’

Rachel accompanied him to the door of the shop, and allowed him to give her a rather more intimate kiss before taking his leave of her.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said, replacing his cap as he stepped out into the cooler air. ‘About seven, hmm?’

‘Oh, I——’ Rachel struggled to find the words. ‘Would you mind if we didn’t see one another tonight? I—well, I’ve got to speak to Ben some time, and—and tonight seems as good a time as any.’

‘Without me listening in, do you mean?’ he asked drily. ‘I suppose that’s why you put him off just now.’ He paused, and then added pointedly, ‘Don’t forget to give Daisy his love.’

Rachel’s breath escaped with a rush. ‘You heard!’