Delivered: One Family

And then the health visitor came, as if by magic, and was wonderful, giving her all sorts of sane advice which she desperately needed, because she’d bottle-fed Missy at Oscar’s insistence and wasn’t really confident in her ability to feed Kit.

‘You’ll be fine,’ the woman assured her cheerfully. ‘Drink lots, plug him in whenever he seems hungry, top him up with the bottle only if it’s absolutely necessary so you can get some sleep, and you’ll soon find you’ve got more milk than you know what to do with. And now I need a quick cuddle with him before I have to go.’

She took Kit from Liv, and made all sorts of admiring noises that Kit found fascinating while Liv sat there and wondered how long they could go on imposing on Ben and relying on his good nature. Missy was curled up next to her on the big wide chair, watching the health visitor and sucking her thumb, and every now and then her eyelids drooped.

Good. If she needed a nap, and the baby would go down for a while, she could have a serious talk with Ben about this housekeeping job. Not that she knew the first thing about housekeeping! She’d left home at nineteen, lived in a dreadful shared house on yoghurt and tomatoes until she’d met Oscar, and then moved in with him into a serviced flat where the most she’d had to do was rustle up the odd meal at the weekend, if they weren’t out and felt too pinched to order in.

Apart from that all she could manage were salads—models didn’t tend to concentrate very much on food. It was a bit like a eunuch planning a seductive evening with a beautiful woman, she supposed—too frustrating to consider.

So, not the best training ground, but she’d manage. She’d learn.

She’d have to.

Ben leant back in the chair in his study and listened to Liv singing softly to the children overhead. It was a curiously comforting sound, something sweet and gentle that touched some fundamental part of him and made him feel the world was a better place.

Then the singing stopped, drifting away, and was replaced by soft footfalls coming down the stairs. They hesitated outside his study, and he stood up and went to the door, pulling it open.

Liv was standing there, hand raised to knock, and he smiled at her, still warmed by her lullaby.

‘Hi. Fancy a cup of tea?’ he asked.

‘I wanted to talk to you.’

He nodded. ‘Can we do it over tea? I was just going to make a cup.’

‘I’ll make it.’

She turned on her heel and strode briskly down to the kitchen, filled the kettle and put it on, her actions busy and purposeful. Ben waited, settling himself in the comfy chair by the French window, looking out over the back garden. She’d get round to it when she was ready. You couldn’t hurry Liv. She did things her way, he’d learned that over the years.

While he waited he looked at the garden, tidied up for the winter, a few odd leaves blowing defiantly across the lawn. He loved the kitchen, facing both ways as it did and spanning the house. It was the only room apart from his bedroom that did that, and it was his favourite room in the house. In the summer he could sit here with the doors open, or take his coffee outside to enjoy the sound of birds and the distant bustle of traffic. In the winter, it was warm and snug and cosy.

In truth he hardly used the other rooms unless he was entertaining, and recently he’d done less and less of that. He was sick of the soulless merry-go-round of social chit-chat and gossip-mongering, and now he entertained for business reasons alone, and then usually in a hotel or restaurant, in the absence of a decent cook.

Anything rather than have his private space invaded by strangers.

‘About the job.’

He looked up with a start, and frowned at Liv. ‘Job?’

‘The housekeeper’s job—you rang me a couple of weeks ago to congratulate me on having Kit, and mentioned that you were looking for someone.’

He thought of Mrs Greer who had been with him for years. For all her sterling qualities she couldn’t cook, and he’d wanted to find someone to fill that slot without losing her as his cleaning lady. Still, with Liv and the babies there, she’d be much more stretched on the cleaning front, and if Liv needed the ‘job’ as a sop to her pride, so be it.

She’d have to cook for herself and the children, anyway, so cooking for him as well wouldn’t add a great deal to the burden and would make her feel useful. Besides, it would make sure she stayed for a while, so he could keep an eye on her and look after her and the children so they didn’t all end up in a worse mess.

And he’d have company.

He settled back against the chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Tell me about your qualifications,’ he said deadpan, and to his amazement she took him seriously. She coloured and straightened up, her mouth a determined line, and her eyes locked with his, the resolve in them terrifying.

‘I don’t have any,’ she told him bluntly. ‘But I’ll learn. I’ll read books and practise and try new things, and I won’t kill you with salmonella or anything like that. I won’t let you down, Ben.’

He sat up and leant towards her, a smile teasing at his lips. ‘I’m convinced. You can start now. Where’s that tea?’

She looked down into the pot that she’d been mashing vigorously for the past few minutes, and coloured again. ‘Um—I’ll make fresh. I seem to have mangled the tea bags.’

Ben stifled the laugh, closed his eyes and prayed that it wasn’t an omen for his gastronomic future.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHAT about your things?’ Ben asked, sipping his tea warily.

‘Things?’

‘You know—all the stuff you left at the flat. Your clothes, the children’s clothes and equipment, your personal bits and pieces. When do you want to go and pick them up?’

‘I can’t,’ she told him flatly. ‘Oscar won’t let me have them; he said so.’

Ben’s mouth tightened and he dragged an impatient hand through his close-cropped hair, ruffling it yet again. ‘You need your nursery equipment. The children need continuity—not Kit, particularly, but Missy. She needs her familiar toys and clothes around her. You need your clothes—you can’t wear that pair of trousers for ever. And what about all the personal stuff? You must want that.’

Liv shrugged and buttered another piece of toast. Want them or not, it was beyond her to go back to the flat and demand that Oscar give her the things. ‘Could you give me an advance on my salary? I can go and buy something second hand—’

‘While Oscar sits on all your things? What’s the point? What does he need them for?’

‘Spite? A weapon? A lever, in case he decides he wants me back?’ She bit into the toast, a late lunch because she hadn’t got round to dealing with it after her rather strange morning, and glanced up at Ben.

He was looking thoughtful and rather serious. ‘Would you go?’ he asked. ‘Back to Oscar—would you go? Do you want to?’

‘No way,’ she said firmly. ‘Absolutely not. There is nothing Oscar can do that would entice me back, and anyway, he doesn’t want us. He only wanted me while everyone could remember my name and I was a cover girl on the glossies. He doesn’t give a damn now. I told you that.’

‘Yes, you did,’ he said softly, and drained his tea.

‘I have to go out,’ he went on. ‘Will you be OK? I can let you have a car—I’ve got a little runabout I use if I have to park at an airport or the station—less nickable than the Mercedes. You’re welcome to use it, and there’s a remote control unit in it for the garage door and the gate. The keys are hanging up there on the board.’

She followed his finger and nodded. ‘Thank you. I could go to the shops and buy food for supper—oh. I haven’t got the baby seats.’

‘We’ll sort that out soon. If you need to go out ring my cleaning lady. She’s very obliging and she babysits for my sisters. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Mrs Greer—her number’s on the board. Now, money,’ he went on. ‘I’d better give you a cashpoint card for my account—are you sure I can trust you with it?’ he teased, but it hurt. Oscar vetted her credit card bills, queried her bank account and dished out housekeeping as if he were pulling his own teeth. He was only ever extravagant if it was her money, but that was long gone.

‘Liv, I was joking,’ he said softly, and his large, firm hand came out and enveloped hers, giving her a comforting squeeze. ‘Buy whatever you need—if there’s something you have to have today, get it. We can shop for all the stuff the children need tomorrow, so long as you’ve got enough to get by till then.’

‘Don’t you have to be at work?’ she asked worriedly. ‘I’ve messed up your night, now I’m messing up your day.’

‘I work from home a lot—I’ve got computer links to the office via the fax and email, and anyway, I employ good staff. If I want to take a day off, I can.’ He stood up. ‘Take care. I’ll be in touch. I’ll have my mobile with me—ring if you need me.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked before she could stop herself, and then hated herself for sounding so clingy and wet.

‘London—last-minute business meeting. I won’t be late. Don’t worry about cooking; we’ll pick something up when I get back. Just feed Missy. If you raid the kitchen, I’m sure you’ll find something for her.’

He bent over and dropped a kiss on her cheek, just as she turned her head, and his lips brushed hers.

It was the lightest touch, the merest whisper of a kiss, but something happened inside her that had her staring at the door long after he’d gone through it to the garage and disappeared through the gates and up the quiet, tree-lined road.

She lifted her hand and laid her fingers flat against her lips, feeling them thoughtfully. She could still feel the imprint—could feel the warmth, the texture of his lips, firm yet soft, supple, tantalising. How strange, that a kiss from Ben could make her feel so—

What? Alive? Aware?

Cherished…?

Ben pulled into the underground car park, spoke to the security guard, slipped him a couple of notes and glided into the visitor’s spot the man pointed to.

The lift was waiting, and he went up the three floors and emerged into a carpeted foyer. A leggy blonde beamed at him and unravelled her limbs, tugging her skirt seductively. ‘Can I help you?’ she purred.

‘I’d like to see Oscar Harding, please.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

Ben dug out his most manipulative smile and shared it with the ditzy woman. ‘I’m sure he’ll be willing to see me—could you be a darling and tell him I’m here? It’s Ben Warriner.’

She picked up the phone, and Ben scanned the doors around the foyer. None of them had Oscar’s name on, but he would stake his life that the right door would have a plate on it announcing his importance. Oscar would never let it go unremarked, so it must be further away, along the corridor perhaps.

He turned his attention back to the one-sided conversation. ‘A Mr Warriner’s here to see you, Mr Harding—Ben Warriner? He said you’d want to see him—oh. Right. I’ll tell him that.’

She cradled the phone and looked up with an awkward smile. He would hazard a guess Oscar had said something unprintable, and she was obviously unskilled in this form of diplomatic brush-off. ‘I’m afraid he’s tied up for the rest of the day,’ she lied, her eyes not quite meeting his. ‘He said to make an appointment, if you don’t mind.’

‘Unfortunately I do,’ Ben said smoothly. ‘I’ve come a long way, I’ll see him now. Which room is he in?’

Her eyes flicked involuntarily towards the corridor, and she looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Oh—no, you can’t. I’m sorry, he won’t see you, Mr Warriner, not without an appointment. He doesn’t see anyone—’

‘I think you’ll find he will.’ He strode down the corridor, leaving the girl calling after him and frantically reaching for the phone. A pair of double doors blocked the corridor, and he palmed them out of the way and scanned the doors.

Bingo. Bold as brass and writ large, as he’d expected— ‘OSCAR HARDING, MANAGING DIRECTOR’.

He turned the handle and thrust the door open, just as Oscar rose from behind his desk.

‘Throwing your weight around, Warriner, and upsetting my staff?’

Ben smiled grimly, scanning the desk and noting the photographs of Liv and the children strategically placed to reflect well on him. ‘My apologies. I wanted a word,’ he told him. ‘You’ve been refusing my calls, Oscar, making things difficult. I’ve been trying to get you all day.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Aren’t we all? I’ve had a few distractions in the last twenty-four hours, though—three, to be exact. It’s made it a little difficult to concentrate.’

‘I had a feeling she’d come to you,’ Oscar said lazily. ‘She always did run to Uncle Ben when things got hot.’

‘Hot? I would say things got stone-cold, Oscar—not hot. So, are you going to have me thrown out?’

Oscar laughed and sat down again, waving at the chair opposite. ‘Good heavens, no. We’re both civilised men. Have a seat, Ben. What can I do for you? Has she sent you to negotiate her grovelling return, like the prodigal wife?’

Ben stifled the retort, thrust his hands in his pockets and crossed to the window. He preferred to stand—it gave him more authority over this snake in the grass. Anyway, it wouldn’t take long…

She was asleep when he got back, curled up in his favourite chair at the end of the kitchen, her lashes like black crescents against her pale cheeks. She looked as young as Missy, and his heart went out to her.

He crouched down and laid a gentle hand on her knee.

‘Liv?’

Her lashes fluttered and lifted, and he reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. ‘Hi.’

She struggled upright. ‘Hi. You’re later than I thought you were going to be.’

‘I got held up. I’ve been to see Oscar. We’re going to collect your things in the morning.’

Her jaw dropped, and she collected herself and shook her head. ‘Wha—how?’

He smiled slightly. ‘Let’s just say there are one or two things I know about that he’d like kept secret.’

Her jaw snapped shut, and she stood up, hugging her arms around her waist. ‘So—what are we going to take? Doesn’t he mind?’

‘I didn’t ask. As for what we’re taking, everything that’s yours or the children’s that you want. I’ve ordered a van and two packers, and it’ll be there at eleven tomorrow so you can go through the flat yourself and pick up anything you want to bring. You can decide what to do with everything once it’s here—throw it out, if you like.’

‘Or sell it. Loads of my clothes don’t fit any more. I could sell them in a second-hand shop. The money might come in handy.’

‘What about all the money you earned modelling?’ Ben asked, puzzled. ‘There must have been—well, I hate to think how much.’

She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Didn’t you notice the flash cars and the furniture in the flat?’

‘I haven’t seen the flat. I went to the office.’

‘That’s even worse. He spent a fortune there “creating the right image”. Don’t worry, Ben, there’s nothing left of my modelling money. Oscar’s seen to that over the last four years.’

‘You gave it to him?’

She snorted wryly. ‘Not exactly gave. What do you think we lived on until it ran out? His business? I don’t think so. It’s been screeching and bumping along on the bottom for more years than I care to think about, but God forbid anyone should guess. I only found out by accident. We still had to project the right image, though. Some of my clothes were hideously expensive, but he thought it was justified—he saw me as the ultimate fashion accessory. I should be able to get quite a good price for them.’

But not enough to live on, Ben thought. Not by a country mile. Not ever. He found himself hating Oscar even more, and that galled him because it was such a waste of energy. He made himself concentrate on what mattered.

‘How about supper? Are you hungry?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Starving—I had more toast when I fed Missy, but I think it’s all I’ve had in the last twenty four hours.’

‘I’ll order something—Chinese? Indian?’

‘Can we have fish and chips?’ she asked wistfully. ‘I haven’t had fish and chips out of the wrapper for years.’

‘We’ll have to do something about that, then,’ he said with a smile. ‘We’ll get them locally tonight, and one day I’ll take you up the coast to Aldeburgh and we’ll get the best fish and chips you’ve ever tasted and eat them sitting on the sea wall.’

He went back out, drove to the nearest decent chippy and went home to enjoy the satisfying sight of Liv, cross-legged in one of the chairs, tucking into the impromptu meal with great concentration. Ben was fascinated. He’d never seen anyone before eat with such dedicated single-mindedness. She didn’t even pause for breath.

Then she screwed up the paper, licked her fingers one by one and grinned. ‘Wow. That was the best.’

He chuckled and relieved her of the wrapper, putting it with his into the bin. ‘I thought you models only ate raw tomatoes and lettuce leaves.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I know. Millions of calories, but I don’t care. I was so hungry. I can diet tomorrow.’

‘You don’t need to diet.’

‘Oh, I do,’ she corrected. ‘I’m much fatter than I used to be.’

She was. Personally, Ben thought it was a huge improvement. He didn’t like skinny, anorexic-looking women. He liked smooth curves and soft hollows and firm, substantial limbs. He liked a woman that didn’t feel as if she would break if he touched her.

He looked at Liv, pottering at the sink now, washing her hands and filling the kettle, and frowned thoughtfully. Had Oscar made her feel unhappy about her body? He thought it quite likely, from the odd remarks she’d made about breastfeeding.

He shook his head slowly. He’d had to restrain himself hard today to keep from punching the guy’s lights out. The last thing he needed was any more reasons to go back to London and satisfy that urge. Thankfully Oscar was going to be out of the way tomorrow—that was one of the conditions.

Ben thought he’d put the frighteners on him sufficiently that he wouldn’t be a problem. If not, he had a few other tricks up his sleeve. He’d been watching the sleaze ball for the last four years, ever since he’d latched on to Liv, and he’d acquired quite a body of information. The man had a respectable veneer about a millimetre thick, and under that he was all slime. Ben just hoped Liv never had to find out quite how bad he really was.

It was odd going back. They’d left the children in the care of Ben’s cleaning lady, a sweet and motherly sort whom Liv had trusted instantly. The journey to London had been uneventful in Ben’s Mercedes, and she’d had nothing to take her mind off Oscar and what he would say.

‘Are you sure he’s not going to be there?’ she asked for the hundredth time as they turned into the underground car park, and Ben shot her a patient and understanding smile.

‘Quite sure. Stop worrying, Liv, it’ll be all right.’

It was. There was no sign of Oscar, just an empty flat that echoed with memories, most of them unpleasant. The packers were quick and efficient, and within half an hour all trace of her life there had been removed. She had the baby photos, all her modelling memorabilia and the childhood bits and pieces that she’d brought from her parents’ house, and all the children’s things.

And her clothes, wonderful clothes that would never fit her again, extravagant designer originals and exquisitely tailored suits and dresses. She looked down at her jeans and jumper that she’d changed into, and sighed.

Her life was going to be very different from now on, but she had no regrets. Leaving Oscar was the best and most sensible thing she’d done in the last four years.

‘Right, I’m done,’ she said to Ben, and he nodded.

‘Right, that’s it, lads, thank you. See you in Suffolk.’

They went out, and she took one last look round.

‘Sad?’ Ben asked her, and she shook her head.

‘Absolutely not. I feel nothing. It’s actually quite scary.’

He put his arm round her and hugged her up against his solid, dependable warmth. ‘Come on, let’s go home,’ he said, and she really felt as if that was what she was doing.

Going home.

Missy was thrilled to see her toys again. Her little face lit up, and Liv was glad she’d gone back with Ben and collected everything. There were so many treasures, as well—things like Missy’s first haircut, and the baby photos. She wouldn’t have been able to bear losing the baby photos, and she didn’t imagine Oscar would miss them. She’d send him copies, but it was probably pointless.

He’d got photos of them on his desk, in silver frames—if they were still there. It was all for show, of course—all part of his ‘trust me’ image. The perfect father of the perfect children.

They were being less than perfect at that moment, Missy crying because she couldn’t make a piece of her jigsaw fit the wrong way round, and Kit because he’d woken up and was suddenly, furiously hungry.

She helped Missy with the errant bit of jigsaw, picked the baby up out of his crib and settled down into the chair to feed him. He was impatient and screamed again, but as soon as she pulled her jumper out of the way, unclipped her bra and settled him at her breast, there was a blissful silence broken only by the occasional slurp as he suckled.

She closed her eyes, settled back against the comforting embrace of the big chair and felt her shoulders drop with the release of tension. She ought to be thinking about the evening meal—taking her housekeeping duties seriously—but she had to feed the baby and for now, what she needed was peace. Peace and—

‘Tea?’

She looked up to find Ben there, eyes carefully not on her breasts, not that there was a lot to see with her jumper drooping down and the baby’s head in the way, but it did seem to make him strangely uncomfortable. Still, he was there, rendering first aid as if he’d read her mind, and she loved him for it. He was a wonderful friend.

‘Please,’ she said, smiling. ‘He’s starving. Mrs Greer said he wouldn’t take his bottle very well this morning. Perhaps he’s getting used to me again.’

‘Hope so. It’s good for you both—just what you need. Oh, Missy, won’t it fit?’

He crouched down beside her daughter, and gently and patiently helped her complete the jigsaw. When it was done she picked up the wooden puzzle and waved it triumphantly, and all the pieces fell out. She giggled and picked them up, and she and Ben put them back again while Liv watched, entranced.

The kettle boiled, and he made some tea and sat in the other chair, bending forwards sometimes to help Missy, and at other times focusing on his mug of tea with undue concentration.

Still avoiding looking at her, she realised, and chewed her lip. It obviously worried him.

‘Would you be happier if I fed the baby upstairs, out of your way?’ she asked quietly. ‘I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you.’

He turned his head, meeting her eyes, and then lowered them, looking at the baby, at her breast, at the rosebud mouth suckling vigorously at her nipple. Then he raised his head and met her eyes again, and there was something unreadable and curiously sad in them.

‘You don’t embarrass me, Liv,’ he said, and his voice was gruff and tender. ‘You go ahead and feed him wherever you like.’

He looked away, returning his attention to his tea, and she gave a tiny shrug and eased the baby off, burping him and swapping sides. It was getting easier, she realised—more natural. Practice was obviously making perfect, or something closer to it, at least. And now Ben had assured her he wasn’t embarrassed, she relaxed again.

He must be right. If he was embarrassed, he’d take himself off to his study instead of actively seeking her out and having tea with her. Perhaps he’d just been avoiding looking at her because he didn’t want to embarrass her, rather than the other way round.

She gave up worrying and concentrated on the tiny, downy head snuggled in the crook of her arm. So soft, so fragile and vulnerable, and yet so very good at getting his own way. Nature, she decided with satisfaction, was immensely clever.