Their Very Special Marriage

‘Miserable.’

‘If she’s got a temperature, you can give her some infant paracetamol or ibuprofen to bring it down.’

‘She hasn’t said she’s hot, just itchy. I keep telling her not to scratch, but she can’t help it. Mum says I should put calamine lotion on her.’

‘That’ll help to stop the itch—though there’s something out now that stops the itch for a bit longer and isn’t quite as messy.’ Rachel scribbled a note on her pad, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Megan. ‘You don’t need a prescription for this. If Ian at the pharmacy doesn’t have it, he can tell you who does stock it or what’s the next best thing. Putting a bit of bicarb soda in a tepid bath can help, too. If it’s affecting her sleep, bring her to see me and I can give her some antihistamines to stop the itch and help her sleep. She might have a sore throat, so give her plenty of cool drinks. Otherwise, I’d recommend keeping Jasmine’s nails really short and doing things with her that keep her hands occupied so she can’t scratch. Make sure you get enough rest, though.’ She smiled at Megan. ‘Do you want a glass of water before I do the scary needle thing?’

Megan shook her head, smiling back. ‘No, I’m OK. At least you don’t leave bruises. Lucy does.’

‘Poor Lucy. She’s paranoid that half my mums ask her to let me do the blood samples instead of her.’

‘So, has Sophie had chickenpox yet?’ Megan asked, looking away as Rachel deftly took the blood sample.

‘No. I saw the notice up at nursery this morning. I’ll be watching her for the next couple of weeks.’ Rachel put her hand flat on the desk. ‘Touch wood, we haven’t had the nits notice up for a while.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t talk that up!’ Megan groaned.

‘Nits scare me a lot more than they scare Soph. She refuses to let me put her hair in a ponytail. And she hates even a detangling comb in her hair—I dread to think what she’d be like with a nit comb,’ Rachel said ruefully. ‘OK, you can press on the cotton wool for a few seconds.’

‘You’re done already?’

‘I’m done. Not so bad, was it?’ Rachel wrote out the lab form. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get the results through. It probably won’t be until Monday, but don’t spend the weekend fretting about it. There’s a very, very strong chance that you’re immune—and if you’re not, we can protect you and the baby.’

‘Thanks, Rachel.’ Megan took a deep breath. ‘I feel a bit better now.’

‘Good. If you’re worried, talk to me or Lucy, OK? That’s what we’re here for.’ The calmer Megan stayed, the better her blood pressure would be—and the better it would be for the baby.

When Rachel had finished surgery, she checked with Rita that Oliver didn’t have a patient with him, then knocked on Oliver’s door. At his ‘Come in’ she put her head round the door.

‘Good or bad time?’ she asked.

He pulled a face. ‘Not brilliant.’

‘OK, then, I’ll keep it short. Chickenpox is doing the rounds again. The note’s up on the nursery door. If Soph gets it, we’re going to need locum cover for one of us where our shifts overlap.’ It would probably be her, but she’d give Oliver the option of nursing their daughter if he wanted to.

Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘That’s all I need. Good locums are—’

‘Like gold dust,’ Rachel finished. She’d heard him say it so often. ‘That’s why you’re getting advance warning. So you can be prepared. I’m not saying Soph’s definitely going to get it.’

‘But it’s one of the most infectious viruses, it spreads by droplets in the air, and ninety per cent of susceptible contacts get it.’ Oliver sighed. ‘I hope she doesn’t get it as badly as Rob did.’

‘Me, too.’ Rachel paused. ‘Um, it’s Sophie’s full day at nursery today. Want to meet me for lunch in the Red Lion for one of their bacon and Brie baguettes?’ If that didn’t tempt him, nothing would.

‘Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a pile of house calls, plus I’m seeing a drug rep, and I’ve already put him off four times.’

‘Right.’ So it was nothing, then. She shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d ask.’

‘Rach—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She wanted to get away before the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids got any worse. Stupid, feeling rejected by her own husband. He was busy. She knew that. But all the same she wished he’d just grab a little bit of time to spend with her. She forced a smile to her face. ‘See you at home.’

‘Don’t forget, it’s late surgery tonight for me,’ he reminded her.

As if she could forget. Oliver spent more time at the practice than he did at home nowadays. ‘Sure,’ she said, hoping that he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice, and left his consulting room.

* * *

When Oliver came home after evening surgery, he handed Rachel a box wrapped in gold paper and a matching ribbon. ‘For you,’ he said with a smile.

Belgian chocolates. Her absolute favourites. She knew she ought to throw her arms around him and say thank you, but something stopped her. Why was he buying her chocolates? It wasn’t the sort of thing that Oliver did.

Unbidden, the words from the magazine article floated back into her mind. Your partner buys you lots of gifts because he feels guilty about betraying you and showering you with presents makes him feel better. Before she could stop herself, the words were out. ‘Flowers on Tuesday, chocolates tonight... Is there something I should be worried about?’

Oliver bridled. ‘Look, I just felt guilty that I couldn’t have lunch with you when you asked me. For God’s sake, I thought you’d like them. But I can’t do anything right where you’re concerned.’ He scowled. ‘Maybe you ought to start taking evening primrose oil.’

‘What?’ She stared at him. What was he driving at?

‘It’s meant to help mood swings.’

He thought she was having PMT? Or, even worse, early menopause? For goodness’ sake, she was only thirty-four! She shook her head. ‘Oliver, I’m not having mood swings.’

‘Look, I understand about PMT. I’m a modern man, not a dinosaur.’

‘Yeah, right.’

He frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just leave it. I’m going to have a bath. There’s ham and salad in the fridge, and French bread in the bread bin. If you want dinner, you can get it yourself.’

‘Rach—’

‘Leave it,’ she said again, and walked quickly away. Oh, God. This was unbearable. If Oliver really was having an affair... She shivered. And if he wasn’t, and she accused him of having an affair, it would deepen the gulf between them.

How was she going to bridge that gulf? Because if she didn’t, there was a good chance her marriage would be over by the end of the summer. They couldn’t go on like this.

Oliver didn’t come in to talk to her while she was in the bath, and she didn’t bother taking a mug of coffee into his office—what was the point, when he’d only snap at her for interrupting? She tried and failed to read the latest thriller from a writer who usually gripped her. All she could think about was Oliver, and how her marriage was crumbling before her eyes and she didn’t know how to stop it.

When she heard Oliver coming upstairs, she considered talking to him—but panicked and pretended to be asleep. She noted with an inward sigh that he didn’t cuddle into her, turning his back on her instead. Worse, judging by his deep and regular breathing, he fell asleep quickly, whereas she stayed awake until the small hours, trying to work out whether she was just being silly or whether she really did have something to worry about.

* * *

When Rachel woke the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her head felt as if someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. A cool shower and a hairwash helped, and a couple of paracetamol helped even more.

Robin was already getting himself dressed, so Rachel went to wake Sophie. And stopped dead. There were half a dozen spots on the little girl’s face. Gently, Rachel pulled the duvet back, lifted Sophie’s pyjama top, and saw that Sophie’s torso was covered in spots.

Very recognisable spots, red with a blister in the centre. Chickenpox.

She sighed. ‘No nursery for you this morning,’ she said softly to the sleeping child. ‘I’d better ring them and tell them you won’t be in until all the spots have crusted over. Which probably won’t be for another week.’ She stroked her daughter’s hair. Best to let her sleep while she could—as soon as Sophie was awake, she’d start to itch and scratch her spots.

Rachel walked back to her bedroom. Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes, then stretched. ‘Is it morning already?’

Oliver never wore a pyjama top. The sight of her husband’s muscular shoulders and bare chest sent a shiver of desire through Rachel. But now wasn’t the time. ‘Bad news. Soph’s covered in spots. I’ll ask Ginny if she’ll take Rob to school with Jack, and I’m afraid you’ll have to get a locum in for me or share my list around today.’

Oliver groaned. ‘You talked it up yesterday.’

‘No. I just warned you it was on the cards. And that meant any time in the next twenty-one days. She can’t go back to nursery until the last spots have crusted over, so I won’t be working for the next week—unless you’d rather stay home with Sophie?’

Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself. And Oliver would learn all about Pwintheth Mouse—maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call he needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family.

Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.

‘No, she needs her mum with her.’

Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn’t feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she said coolly.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort things out at the practice.’ Almost as a second thought, he added, ‘Do you need me to bring anything home for Sophie?’

‘Antipruritic lotion. The itching’s going to drive her crackers, and I can’t make her sit in the bath all day. I don’t really want to take her out until her spots have crusted over, though.’

‘Sure.’ Oliver climbed out of bed and headed for their shower room.

Hell. Why did he have to look so sexy when she didn’t have time to do anything about it? Since they’d had the children, they didn’t spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it, the warmth of her husband’s body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.

Then she remembered last night. The guilt-gift—chocolates that she hadn’t been able to face eating, because she knew why he’d bought them and they would have stuck in her throat.

Ha. What was the point of lusting after a man who’d not only fallen out of lust with you, but had fallen in lust with someone else?

She shook herself, and went to make a start on the calls to rearrange the children’s usual routine.

* * *

Distracting a small child from scratching the itchy spots was, well, almost impossible, Rachel thought. She’d tried reading the little girl’s favourite stories, letting Sophie loose with the CD-ROMs on Oliver’s old computer which they kept under the stairs for the kids to use, drawing pictures with her, reading more stories, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading more stories... And now Rachel was more shattered than if she’d gone in to the surgery. The house was a mess—she hadn’t even had time to hang the washing out, let alone tidy up—and Sophie was decidedly grumpy.

‘Daddy’s home!’ Sophie yelled.

Since when was delirium a symptom of chickenpox? Rachel wondered. The usual complications were bacterial infection of the spots if they were scratched, ear infections, conjunctivitis and rarely meningitis or encephalitis—inflammation of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

‘How’s my best girl?’ Oliver’s deep voice asked.

Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver never came home at lunchtime. Ever.

He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.

Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she’d learn something she really, really didn’t want to know—she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘I can’t stay long—but I thought you’d be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?’

Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,’ she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?’

‘No need.’ Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.’ He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.

‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!’ Sophie squeaked.

‘And for Robin.’ He put a puzzle magazine on the table, and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had noticed that Rob liked doing puzzles?

‘And...’ He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.’

For us? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.

Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph’s going to be absolutely fine. Don’t worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I’ve got a locum to cover you from Monday. I’ve known Caroline Prentiss for years.’

‘Caroline Prentiss?’ The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn’t think why.

‘She’s just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that’s all sorted. And I’ve asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan’s serum results.’

Which meant they’d get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,’ Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just being...’ Her voice tailed off.

‘You’ve been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don’t pull my weight in the house. It’s no wonder you’re feeling tired and tearful.’

And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.

‘Why’s Mummy crying?’ Sophie wanted to know.

‘Because she’s feeling a bit out of sorts, too,’ Oliver said. He kissed the top of Rachel’s head, then stepped back. ‘Right, you. Go and get some fresh air for five minutes. I’ll make us a coffee, then we’ll have lunch together. Just like we should have done yesterday.’

When he’d been too busy. And he was even busier today, covering for her as well as doing his own list. Guilt flooded through her. ‘You had to cancel things, didn’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘They can wait.’ He smiled. ‘Five minutes. Or I’ll eat your baguette as well as my own!’

She knew that look. Teasing, loving... Her husband was back. And he wasn’t—absolutely wasn’t—having an affair. He loved her, she loved him, and all was right with her world again.

So why was there still that little niggle in the back of her mind?

CHAPTER FOUR

OLIVER worked that evening, just as Rachel knew he would. But when she was reading a story to Sophie, he came upstairs to kiss the children goodnight. Then he took her hand and led her downstairs into the living room. It wasn’t dark outside but he’d already pulled the curtains.

‘Just you and me now,’ he whispered. ‘You, me, a film and a bottle of wine.’

He’d uncorked the Merlot to let it breathe; he poured two glasses and handed one to her. ‘It’s been too long since we did this, Rach.’

And whose fault is that? she wanted to ask. Who is it who spends every minute in his wretched office in the evenings? But she took a sip of wine instead, savouring the taste.

He took the glass from her hand, set it down beside his own, then sprawled on the sofa and patted the space next to him. ‘Come here.’

She lay with her back to him, spoon-style, and his arm curved round her, pulling her back against him. It was how they’d often spent Friday nights when Robin had been tiny, watching a good film together and sharing a bottle of wine. They’d have the baby listener turned down low—the flashing lights would tell them if Robin was crying—and often they’d only catch the first half of the film, because then Oliver would start to kiss the back of her neck and slide his hand under the hem of her top, and they’d be so lost in exploring each other that the film would be forgotten.

Did he remember those nights, too? Maybe, because the arm around her waist tightened. Rachel relaxed against him. It felt so good to be in Oliver’s arms again, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

‘Rach,’ he whispered, nuzzling her shoulder and she arched back against him. He kissed along the line of her neck. ‘I love the way you smell,’ he murmured. ‘The way you taste.’ His hand slipped under the hem of her top and he cupped her breast. ‘The way you feel.’

Which was exactly the way she felt about him. She twisted round so she was facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and kissed him.

‘I want you so much,’ he told her when he broke the kiss. His pupils were huge, edged with a narrow rim of blue, so his eyes looked almost black with passion.

Everything was going to be all right. They were going to make love, and everything was going to be all right.

Slowly, he undid the button of her jeans and slid the zip down. He teased her, his fingers drifting over her midriff; Rachel made a small sound of impatience and tilted her hips.

‘Something you wanted, Dr Bedingfield?’ he asked, his voice low and husky.

‘You,’ she replied, her voice equally husky.

‘I think that can be arranged.’ He gave her a smile that managed to be teasing yet smouldering at the same time, and a thrill of desire ran down her spine.

It didn’t take him long to remove her jeans—or her to remove his. Her top followed, then his T-shirt. And finally they were skin to skin. Rachel could still remember the first time they’d made love in her narrow single bed at university, the heady excitement of exploring each other’s body fully for the first time, learning where each other liked to be touched and stroked and kissed. That headiness had never quite gone away, for her. Even now, she thrilled at how good Oliver’s body felt against her own.

And right now he was all hers.

‘Rachel.’ He breathed her name as he kissed his way down her collar-bone, stroked the length of her spine, then finally took the hard peak of one nipple into his mouth.

Rachel couldn’t help closing her eyes, concentrating on the sensations evoked by his clever mouth. All she could feel was Oliver, all she could sense, all she could—

‘Mum-mee!’

They both stilled.

‘Maybe she’ll go back to sleep,’ Oliver mumbled against Rachel’s skin.

As if to contradict him, Sophie’s wail grew louder. ‘Mum-mee!’ she sobbed again.

If Rachel could have cloned herself at that moment, she’d have been happy. As it was, whatever she did she lost. Sophie was ill and needed her—Rachel couldn’t possibly desert her sick child. But Oliver... This was the first time in weeks they’d been close. Who knew when her husband would let her get this close again?

Damned if I stay, damned if I go, Rachel thought, her heart feeling as if it had been torn in half. She pulled away from Oliver regretfully, and slipped her jeans and T-shirt back on. ‘I’d better go to her. She’s not well. If we leave her, she’ll get into a state and it’ll take us for ever to calm her down again.’

‘Sure.’

‘Can you bring a drink up for her and the infant paracetamol?’ And maybe if Oliver stayed with her, maybe if they cared for their daughter together—then maybe when Sophie fell asleep again they could take up where they’d left off.

Though she knew she was kidding herself: he was already reaching for his own clothes. It didn’t take a genius to know what he’d be doing while she was settling Sophie again.

Oliver brought up a spill-proof beaker of water, so it wouldn’t matter if their daughter went to sleep still holding her cup—she wouldn’t get drenched and wake up again. He poured the infant paracetamol into a spoon for Sophie and encouraged her to take it. And then he uttered the words Rachel had been expecting and dreading in equal measure: ‘I’ll just do a bit of admin while you’re here with Sophie.’

If only you’d slept just a few minutes longer, Rachel thought, rocking her daughter to sleep in her arms. If your father and I had made love, everything would have been all right. Now, who knows? Work will come between us yet again.

When Sophie had drifted back to sleep, and Rachel padded barefoot into Oliver’s office holding a glass of Merlot, her husband didn’t even look up. ‘You go ahead and watch the film. I’ll be in with you in a minute.’

His definition of ‘in a minute’ definitely wasn’t the same as his wife’s, because he was still working when the film had finished. And Rachel’s mood had cooled to the point where she didn’t want to make love any more—what was the point, when she clearly came so far down Oliver’s list of priorities?

He didn’t reach for her in bed that night either. Which in some ways was just as well, because Sophie woke several times, each time feeling itchy and out of sorts and wanting comfort from her mother. Rachel felt like a zombie from lack of sleep the next morning, and her mood hadn’t improved by Saturday evening, when Oliver appeared, freshly showered, wearing smart black trousers and a casual silk shirt.

‘Aren’t you getting changed?’ Oliver asked.

She stared at him. Changed? ‘Why?’

‘My mother’s drinks party. We’re supposed to be going, remember?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I told you this morning, I rang her and explained that Sophie was ill and I can’t leave her.’ Surely he wasn’t going to suggest that they should still ask Ginny to babysit, when Sophie was ill and miserable and wanting her parents? She bit back her irritation. ‘You can still go, if you want.’ On his own. Leaving her to do all the nursing.

‘I promised her we’d be there.’ Oliver emphasised the ‘we’. ‘She called me to remind me this afternoon.’

Doing his usual power-play thing: making his son choose between his old family and his new one. Even after all these years Isabel hadn’t quite forgiven Rachel for Oliver doing something against his family’s wishes—as if Oliver wasn’t a grown man, perfectly able to make his own decisions. ‘Look, Sophie’s ill and she wants me with her. Your mother understands that a babysitter—even someone Sophie knows really well, like Ginny—just isn’t an option.’ Though Isabel had made it very clear she considered it a feeble excuse on Rachel’s part. No doubt that was why she’d phoned Oliver, expecting him to pressure Rachel into going. Stupid, really, when Rachel didn’t even fit in with the Bedingfields’ social set. She still had the wrong accent, even though her Geordie accent had softened over the years.

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