Brittle Bondage

‘Well, my hearing is fairly acute, despite my advanced years,’ remarked Simon evenly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d rung you, Rachel? I thought we didn’t have any secrets from one another.’

‘We don’t. And he didn’t.’ Rachel felt terrible now. ‘I rang him. I just—didn’t want to involve you, when it wasn’t necessary.’

‘Everything you do is necessary to me,’ retorted Simon, gazing at her with pale possessive eyes. ‘But I’ll respect your wish to deal with your husband on your own terms. However, if there should be any problem over the divorce——’

‘There won’t be.’ But Rachel crossed her fingers as she said it.

‘I hope not.’ Simon balled one fist and pressed it into the palm of his other hand. ‘It’s not as if you want anything from him. You’re only finalising something that should have been finalised long ago.’

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS after six when Rachel and Daisy got home.

Mr Caldwell didn’t get back from Romanby until nearly five, and then he insisted on being brought up to date with everything that had happened in his absence. It didn’t help that he had imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality tent at the sale, and consequently needed Rachel to repeat everything several times before he grasped what she was saying.

Daisy noticed, of course.

On those occasions when Rachel had to work late, the bus dropped her daughter off at the shop, and Daisy spent the time between her arrival and their leaving either reading, or doing her homework, or chatting with Mr O’Shea. She was a great favourite with the garrulous restorer, and Rachel was immensely grateful to him for making her feel so welcome.

But, as was to be expected, this evening Daisy chose to be a little too forthright in her opinion of Mr Caldwell’s behaviour. ‘Is he drunk?’ she hissed, in the kind of stage-whisper guaranteed to carry to the back of an auditorium, and the elderly antiquarian regarded her with unconcealed dislike.

‘If you can’t teach that child any better manners than that, then perhaps you ought to find somewhere else for her to stay until you get home from work,’ he declared contentiously, and Rachel thought how strange it was that some days just lent themselves to discord. Perhaps this wasn’t a good night to ring Ben after all. In the present climate, he was likely to oppose her every suggestion.

‘I think you should apologise to Mr Caldwell at once, Daisy,’ she said now, putting the question of how she was going to deal with Ben aside for the moment. She wanted no complications with her job to add to her other problems, and although Daisy stared at her with accusing eyes, she recognised an order when she heard one.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered mutinously, and although Mr Caldwell looked as if he would have liked to pursue the vendetta the shrill peal of the phone diverted his attention. And, by the time the call was over, he had forgotten all about chastising Daisy. A situation Rachel had assisted by making sure her daughter kept out of his sight until it was time for them to leave.

Consequently, she was in no mood to contemplate ringing Ben, after she had just watched Daisy demolish a plate of fish fingers and chips. Her own plate was barely touched, and, deciding she deserved some compensation for the day she had had, Rachel rescued a chilled bottle of hock from the fridge. She had put the wine to cool in anticipation of Simon’s joining her for supper that evening, but as he wasn’t coming now she had no reason to wait before opening it.

Pouring herself a glass, she carried it into the family room, standing in the middle of the floor, surveying these so familiar surroundings. It was the one aspect of her relationship with Simon that didn’t fill her with enthusiasm. She would miss this house; she would miss living here. For all its less favourable associations, she had been happy here. It was her home. It had been her home for the past seven years. She couldn’t cast it off without some feelings of remorse. And lamenting what might have been if Ben hadn’t torn their lives apart …

‘Can I watch television, Mummy?’

Rachel turned to find her daughter regarding her from the open doorway, and although her melancholy mood inclined her to be generous, she didn’t immediately grant her request.

‘Do you remember what happened this afternoon?’ she reminded Daisy severely. ‘You were rude to Mr Caldwell, and I said there’d be no television for the next two days.’

‘I remember.’ Daisy wedged her shoulder against the door.

‘Well, then?’

‘But it’s not fair.’

‘It is fair.’ Rachel steeled herself against her daughter’s mournful expression. ‘You know perfectly well you don’t make personal comments about anyone. I’ve already had to speak to you once today about your attitude towards Simon.’

‘This is different,’ argued Daisy hotly.

‘How is it different?’

‘Well …’ Daisy sniffed. ‘You said people who drink shouldn’t drive,’ she declared, and Rachel sighed.

‘So?’ But she knew what was coming.

‘Well, Mr Caldwell had driven, hadn’t he? All the way from Romanby. What if he’d had an accident? What if someone—some child—had been killed?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Nothing happened.’

Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘But what if it had?’

‘That still doesn’t excuse your behaviour.’

Daisy expelled her breath on a noisy sigh. ‘But he wasn’t supposed to hear!’ she protested fiercely, and Rachel had to suppress an unforgivable desire to laugh. Daisy looked so indignant; so frustrated. And, while there had been no excuse for what she’d said, she was only a child. Things seemed so black and white when you were only nearly nine. It wasn’t until you were older that you saw the shades between.

All the same …

Rachel was still undecided what she should do, when Daisy pushed herself away from the door, and dragged her feet across the carpet to the window. The curtains were still undrawn, and the bowls of spring bulbs Rachel had planted the previous autumn were reflected in the glass. She watched Daisy as she plucked broodingly at the delicate shoots, thinking how much more like her father she became with each succeeding year. Not just in her looks, though she was going to be tall, like him, and her mop of unruly curls was every bit as dark; but also in temperament: Daisy could be just as moody as her father, if things didn’t happen to go her way.

Beyond the windows, it was getting dark, though not as black as it had been in the depths of winter. Already there were signs that the evenings were getting longer, and in another month or two, they’d be able to sit outside after supper. Though not here, Rachel reminded herself yet again. If Simon had his way, they’d be moving to Kingsmead, when Daisy’s school broke up for the Easter holidays.

And it was the thought of this, as much as anything, that persuaded Rachel to give in. However much she might tell herself that Daisy had as much to gain from the move as she did, to begin with it wasn’t going to be easy for her. For either of them, admitted Rachel honestly. Much as she cared for Simon, living in a cottage at Kingsmead was going to make a big change in all their lives.

‘Oh, all right,’ she was beginning, ‘we’ll say no more about it——’ but she never got to finish. As she moved towards her daughter, intent on healing the breach that had opened between them, searching headlights swept across the lamplit room. The cutting of a powerful engine left an uneasy silence in its wake, and even before Daisy let out a crow of excitement Rachel sensed instinctively that it wasn’t Simon’s car.

‘It’s Daddy! It’s Daddy!’ cried Daisy, dancing up and down in undisguised delight. She glanced round at her mother, all her previous ills forgotten, and grinned expectantly. ‘Did you hear what I said? It’s Daddy! Did you know he was coming? Oh—do you think he’s going to stay?’

Not if I have anything to do with it, thought Rachel grimly, as her daughter flew past her on her way to open the door. Dear lord, this was all she needed. She should have known better than to think she could dispose of Ben with just a phone call.

Tom between the need to gather her scattered defences and the equally potent need to greet Ben as if his arrival hadn’t just plunged her into a state of blind panic, Rachel emptied the remaining wine in her glass in one convulsive gulp. She wished now she had chosen brandy instead of the pale white juice of the grape. She could have done with something stronger before she saw her husband again.

And, foolishly, her hand went to her hair, the tawny brown hair that Ben had always liked her to wear long. As if it mattered what she looked like, she thought, reassured that the French plait was still in place none the less. Not that she could compete with the glamorous women she had seen him escorting around town in the articles she collected so assiduously. Nor would she want to, she assured herself impatiently. But at least she hadn’t put on too much weight or gained a lot of grey hairs.

And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him since that awful morning when she had found him and Elena together. In the early days of the separation, he had come back to the house on several occasions to collect books and papers he had left behind. He’d always warned her he was coming, of course, and most times she had made a point of being out. He had had a key that fitted their locks in those days. It wasn’t until later that she’d had them changed.

But that was over a year ago now. Recently, their only contact had been through Daisy. As she remembered this, she heard his voice in the hall outside and her mouth went dry. Whatever he had come for, Daisy had invited him in.

She realised that if she waited any longer he would find her there, frozen in the middle of the living-room carpet, clutching her empty wine glass, like a talisman. So, putting the glass down, she took the necessary steps to bring her to the door. He was not going to disconcert her, she told herself fiercely. But her hands were cold and shaking, and there was a feeling of raw apprehension pooling in her stomach.

When she reached the doorway, she paused, steeling herself to face the man who had once been her only reason for living. God, how naive she had been in those days, she reflected bitterly. However much she loved Simon, he would never have that kind of power over her. No man would. Ever again.

‘Hello, Rachel.’

Despite her determination to take control of the situation, Ben beat her to the punch. Even though he had been laughing with Daisy, and fending off her efforts to climb all over him, he still seemed to sense the exact moment when his wife appeared in the doorway. Straightening, he adjured Daisy to behave herself, and swept back his hair with a lazy hand. And, as she met those night-dark eyes, and saw the veiled hostility lurking between the thick fringe of his lashes, Rachel knew in that instant that this was not a conciliatory visit.

‘Hello,’ she responded, resisting the effort to check that her skirt was straight, and that the hem of her blouse hadn’t escaped from her waistband. The skirt was dusty, she knew, after unpacking the china Mr Caldwell had left her with that morning. There might even be a ladder in her tights. If only she’d thought to look.

‘How are you?’

His question was perfunctory, and she thought how typical it was that once again Ben should have taken her unawares. He stood there, cool and assured, in a black cashmere sweater and black trousers, totally in control of himself and this conversation. And she was letting him do it. This was her house, dammit, until she moved out anyway. He had no right to come here and treat her like a visitor in her own home.

‘I’m fine,’ she said now, icily. ‘You?’

‘Tired,’ he admitted carelessly, though there didn’t appear to be a tired bone in his lean-muscled body. On the contrary, he looked fit and aggressively masculine, his superior height reminding her what it was like to look up at a man again.

At five feet nine, taller in heels, Rachel was generally on eye-level terms with the men of her acquaintance. Not least Simon, who was inclined to be self-conscious about his lack of height, and encouraged her to wear flat heeled boots and shoes when they went out together.

‘Really?’ she remarked now, refusing to feel any sympathy for Ben. ‘Then I can’t imagine why you’ve driven all this way. I did say I’d ring you later. There was no need for you to make a personal call.’

‘Wasn’t there?’ Ben’s mouth had a faintly ironic curve to it. ‘Well, I beg to disagree.’ He glanced down at Daisy, doing her best to attract his attention. ‘Where my daughter’s concerned, nothing is too much trouble.’

‘She’s my daughter, too,’ retorted Rachel, and then wished she hadn’t allowed him to force her into such a revealing remark. She’d get nowhere here if she let her temper get the better of her. That was obviously why he’d come. Because he knew it would put her on the defensive.

‘Aren’t you going to offer Daddy a drink?’ Daisy protested now, clearly not unaware of the tension between her parents and doing her best to neutralise it. ‘Mummy’s just opened a bottle of wine,’ she told her father innocently. ‘I’ll get you a glass, shall I? While you and Mummy go and sit down.’

‘I don’t think——’

‘Your father can’t drink and drive——’

Rachel and Ben spoke simultaneously, and Daisy looked from one to the other of them with anxious eyes. ‘Daddy won’t be driving any more tonight, will he?’ she asked her mother frowningly. Then, turning to her father, ‘You’re not driving straight back to London, are you?’

‘Not immediately, no.’

Ben looked at Rachel now, and she felt her face turning red. It was typical of him to arrive when he knew Daisy would be there to defend his actions, she thought angrily. If she turned him away now, she’d be a pariah in her daughter’s eyes as well.

As well?

‘I’m sure your father hasn’t come all this way just to see us, darling,’ she declared, taking the coward’s way out. ‘You forget, he used to live here, too. Daddy has friends in the neighbourhood. He’s probably planning to visit them.’

‘Friends who chose to believe you rather than me,’ he countered in a low tone, leaving Daisy to walk past Rachel on his way to the kitchen. He glanced back at her shocked face, his smile at once accusing and mocking. ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink of water, do you? I am rather thirsty. It’s been quite a while since lunch.’

Rachel’s breath eased out slowly, but, meeting her daughter’s troubled gaze, she knew she’d met her match. She had no earthly reason for denying Ben either a drink of water, or a bed for the night, if that was what he wanted. This was still his house, and her over-reaction to his appearance was hardly beneficial to her cause.

But the trouble was, she thought as she forced a brittle smile for Daisy’s benefit and followed him into the kitchen, she didn’t want him here. In the past few months, she had succeeded in banishing all memory of her husband from these rooms, and when she was cooking a meal in the kitchen or reading in the cosy snug she no longer saw Ben’s image, superimposed across the room. She used to. For weeks, months, maybe even a year or more, she had seen nothing else. She’d never felt relaxed, never felt free of his prevailing presence. But now she did—and he was going to spoil it all again.

But not for long, she reminded herself firmly. Once she and Daisy moved out of this house, there would be nothing to remind them of her ex-husband. Nothing at all.

It was dark now, and although Ben had his back to her as he ran the tap, she could see his reflection in the window above the sink. Was it just her imagination, or did he look a little weary, as he had said? In any event, he was just as arrogant as ever, she told herself fiercely. And just as unscrupulous, if he didn’t get his own way.

‘Are you hungry?’

It wasn’t what she had planned to say, but the words were out, and Daisy gave her a beaming smile. Evidently, she had said the right thing as far as the little girl was concerned. But then, Daisy was the ultimate optimist. She still thought her parents should be civil with one another.

Ben turned, the glass of water he had requested in his hand. ‘Is that an enquiry, or just wishful thinking?’ he asked drily. ‘Don’t tell me: I can have some dry bread with the water!’

‘The water was your choice,’ retorted Rachel shortly, and then, realising she was letting him rile her again, she forced herself to calm down. ‘Naturally, if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to anything we’ve got.’ She mentally catalogued the contents of the fridge, before adding, ‘There’s some ready-made lasagne, or I could make you a ham sandwich.’

Ben leaned back against the sink unit, regarding her with dark disturbing eyes. It was an intent look, intended to intimidate she was sure. And, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. What was he thinking? she wondered. Was he comparing her plain, homely appearance with the woman he had left behind him in London?

When he took a drink from his glass, and his attention was briefly diverted, Rachel felt as if a solid weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But her relief was short-lived when he set the glass on the drainer, folded his arms, and looked at her again.

‘I’m not hungry,’ he informed her flatly, casting a disparaging glance at the still-uncleared supper table. Her barely touched meal of fish fingers and chips looked greasy and unappetising, and she wished she’d had warning of his coming so that she could have at least disposed of the plate. ‘It doesn’t look as if you were hungry either,’ he observed. ‘Or was the wine more appealing? You ought to be careful, Rachel. Drinking alone can be dangerous.’

Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t generally drink alone!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly, and, as if sensing their conversation was not going as well as she had hoped, Daisy broke in again.

‘D’you want to come and see my room, Daddy?’ she asked, tugging on his hand. ‘I want to show you my computer. It’s not as big as yours, but it’s ever so good——’

‘Later, sweetheart.’ Ben allowed his daughter to hang on to his arm, but when she attempted to pull him away from the sink he resisted. ‘Right now, your mother and I have some things to say to one another. Why don’t you go upstairs and watch television? I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Goodbye!’ Daisy looked disappointed now. ‘You’re not really going, are you?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Ben evenly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His own hair was almost as long as Daisy’s, Rachel noticed scornfully. Ben had really got into the artist’s mould. She was surprised he wasn’t wearing an earring.

Daisy hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m not allowed to watch television,’ she said sulkily, and Ben looked to Rachel for an explanation.

‘I—yes, you can,’ she muttered quickly, not wanting to get into another discussion concerning Daisy’s discipline. ‘Do as your father says, darling. We’ll forget all about Mr Caldwell this time.’

‘Caldwell?’ Ben arched an interrogative brow as Daisy trudged reluctantly out of the room, and Rachel waited until she heard the little girl going upstairs, before she answered briefly.

‘A little upset at work, that’s all. It wasn’t important.

Now——’ She squared her shoulders. ‘What did you come here for? I told you the gist of what there was to tell this morning. The fact that I want a divorce shouldn’t really surprise you.’

‘Did I say it did?’ Ben straightened away from the sink. ‘But I don’t think this is the place to be having this discussion,’ he went on neutrally. ‘Why don’t we go into the other room?’ His brow arched. ‘Unless it’s already occupied, of course.’

‘Already occupied?’ Rachel looked at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. ‘Oh—no. Simon’s not here right now,’ she assured him coolly. ‘We can go in there if you like. Though I can’t imagine what we have to talk about.’

‘Can’t you?’ Ben shrugged. Then, ‘Simon,’ he remarked experimentally. ‘Simon what?’

‘Does it matter?’ Rachel endeavoured not to sound as resentful as she felt as she led the way into the family-room. She saw her empty wine glass on the mantelpiece and wished she’d carried it into the kitchen with her. ‘Who he is needn’t concern you.’

‘Like hell!’ For the first time, Ben exhibited some emotion other than the guarded hostility he had revealed so briefly on his arrival, and Rachel felt an unexpected twinge of fear. ‘Do you honestly think you can just tell me you want to marry someone else, without any reaction from me?’

Rachel swallowed. She had been going to sit down in one of the velvet armchairs beside the fire, but his vehemence—his violence—kept her nervously on her feet. ‘I didn’t think you’d care,’ she replied carefully, linking her fingers together at her waist. ‘Um—why don’t you sit down?’

Ben had halted just inside the door of the room, and was presently looking about him, evidently registering the changes that had been made since he was last here. There was no particular expression on his dark face as his brooding gaze slid over the silk-printed curtains at the windows and alighted on the set of ceramic tiles that had taken the place of the original water-colour that used to hang above the fireplace. But she knew he was remembering how they had chosen the furnishings for this room together. It was their first attempt at interior designing, and she recalled how proud they had been of their efforts. Which was why she had torn down the curtains and stowed the picture away in the loft when he left, she remembered tensely. She hadn’t been able to afford to totally redecorate the house, but in her own small way she had effected a modest transformation.

Now, Ben moved further into the room, and, desperate for something to do, Rachel went to draw the curtains. How many times in the past couple of years had she drawn these curtains, she reflected, wondering where Ben was and who he was with? Well, tonight she knew, but, conversely, it gave her no relief.

‘I will have a drink,’ Ben remarked, behind her, and she swung round, half guiltily, to find him opening the doors of the bureau. In the old days they had always kept a supply of wines and spirits in the cupboard below the bookcase, but no longer. He straightened, frowning. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’ asked Rachel innocently, and had the satisfaction of seeing his frustration for a change.

‘The Scotch,’ he replied sardonically. ‘Don’t tell me: you keep it in the sitting-room these days. Another attempt to alter the old order, Rachel? I noticed you’d moved the picture. Where is it? Under your bed, with pins stuck in it?’

‘Why would I do that?’ Rachel was proud of her control. ‘It wasn’t a picture of you.’

His smile was sardonic. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded drily. ‘Now—where the hell is that Scotch? You may not need one, but I surely do.’

Rachel pressed her lips together for a moment, and then gave in. ‘If you must know, it’s in the kitchen,’ she told him resignedly. ‘In the cupboard above the fridge. I don’t keep much alcohol in the house, as it happens. I don’t like spirits, and in any case it’s too expensive.’

Ben let that go without comment, leaving the room briefly to get the whisky, before coming back again, bottle and glass in hand. He poured himself a generous measure, then, raising the glass to his lips, he offered her a silent toast, savouring the single malt with evident appreciation.

Rachel watched him half apprehensively. She was fighting the urge to demand that he state what he’d come for and go, and only the fact that she might inadvertently reveal how nervous he made her was keeping her silent.

Besides, she chided herself again, what was she worried about? It wasn’t as if she was afraid of him. At no time had Ben ever threatened her or her custody of Daisy.

‘So——’ Ben’s eyes flickered over her stiff erect figure, ‘you’re looking well.’

‘Thank you.’ Rachel refrained from returning the compliment, even if it was true. Ben did look well; a little leaner than she remembered, but disgustingly healthy none the less. He evidently didn’t spend all his time labouring over a hot typewriter or a word processor or whatever it was he used to write his books these days. His body was taut, not to say hard, and she guessed he must still work out once or twice a week. Unless his romantic exploits constituted a viable alternative …