A Cure For Love

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A final check of her make-up confirmed that the elegant and discreet toffees and peaches of her eyeshadow added just the right degree of emphasis to her eyes; her mouth as always caused her to pause and wince a little. Not even the most discreet and pale lipstick could disguise its fullness…its—

‘You really have the most wonderful mouth. Just made for kissing. Just made for this…’

She swallowed hard. Lewis had said those words to her the night he’d proposed, whispering the compliments in between light decorous kisses which had very quickly become less light and far from decorous. She shuddered deeply, only just managing to restrain herself from actually touching her mouth, the taste of him, the memory of him so very, very sharp and clear. She had been almost totally sexually inexperienced when she and Lewis had met.

He had been her first lover…her only lover, she reminded herself drily. The general mood of the sixties seemed to have passed her by. She had certainly never experienced the urge of those of her peers who had thrown themselves into sampling all the pleasures of the so-called sexual revolution, but then more recently in conversations with her women friends she had learned that the majority of them had also married their first lover, giving rise, in some cases, to the good-humoured complaint that there had been times—especially when their families were young and their husbands busy—when they had wondered if they had somehow missed out on life.

A different, more health-conscious approach to life had brought a different set of attitudes and values, and, as Jessica had already told her with the seriousness and confidence of extreme youth, when she eventually made love it would only be with someone whose sexual history allowed her to feel safe with him.

Jessica was one of a new breed of young women who considered a career and financial independence to be the main goals of their life: marriage and a family were things that could be put on hold until these goals were achieved. Certainly with the soaring divorce rate it seemed a sensible plan. But love…emotions—could these really be summoned at will when one had decided that the time was right to admit them into one’s life? Lacey was not so sure. Or was it simply that she lacked will-power…that there was something missing in her make-up that had made it impossible for her to ever really forget Lewis…to ever really forget the pain he had caused her?

It might have helped her had she been able to hate him, to direct the corrosive power of bitterness and hatred into destroying her love, but that weapon had been denied her and the terrible anguish of all her pain had been turned against herself rather than against him.

With time she had learned to tell herself that it was not her fault that he had ceased to love her; that it was not through some lack in her that he had turned to another woman; that these things happened; that they were an everyday occurrence and not something that marked her out as a pariah, a leper, a person who had failed at one of life’s most important relationships. So Lewis had stopped loving her and she had been hurt…very badly hurt. Life had to go on, and somehow she had made it go on, but the scars were still there. Her fault, not his, as she had told herself over and over again down the years. Perhaps it was because she had been so young, so alone, so idealistic, so dependent almost on his love and approval that she had suffered so desperately when they were removed. Had she had more self-worth, more sense of her own special individuality, more awareness and selfrespect, things might have been different, she might have been different. Looking back, she saw herself as weak and destructive as a clinging vine, looking to Lewis to provide every motivation within her life, slowly choking him with the intensity of her love. Was it really any wonder that he had turned away from her?

She had been determined not to swamp her daughter in the same way, scrupulously ensuring that Jessica grew up without the hindrance of a clinging, obsessive mother. No matter how much it had hurt her at times, she had always actively encouraged her daughter to be independent, to be her own person. She valued the love that existed between them, but she did not delude herself. Jessica was slowly growing away from her, slowly beginning to take her own place in the adult world.

Perhaps Jessica was right…perhaps it was time for her to think about her own future.

And to do what? To marry someone like Tony or Ian…a man she might like but whom she could never love, simply to avoid the loneliness of old age? Wasn’t that just as pathetic and selfish as her absorbed, intensive love for Lewis? No, she was better on her own. Safer.

She checked, uncomfortable with the word which had slipped so betrayingly into her mind. What need had she for safety these days? The pain of the past was a long time behind her now. She wasn’t that same girl any more. She was a woman now…a woman who was firmly in control of her own life, her own destiny. So what if Lewis had by some unfortunate coincidence appeared in her part of the world? He obviously hadn’t recognised her; there was very little chance of her running into him a second time.

Perhaps not, but she knew it was that brief, shocking sight of him which was responsible for today’s introspective mood, for the shadows that showed in her eyes and skin, for the pain that lurked within her, waiting for her to relax her guard.

She gave a tiny shiver as she let herself out of the house. She had things to do, a life to live, and she had promised little Michael that she would call round to see him later on this afternoon.

If she had one secret regret it was that she had not had more children. There was something so special, so magical and humbling about the knowledge that the physical expression of one’s love had led to the creation of a child…

She got into her car and started the engine. It was high time she put those kinds of thoughts very firmly behind her, and yet, as Jessica had reminded her, at thirty-eight she was still young enough to have another child.

Another child…Her hands gripped the steering-wheel. First she would have to find herself a lover…a lover, not a potential father for her unborn child. A lover—the very last thing she wanted or needed in her life. What on earth was the matter with her? Was it just her conversation with Jessica which was having such an unsettling effect on her, or was it something more than that…something to do with that disturbing sighting of Lewis…with her dreams…the emotions…the needs that continued to haunt her, no matter how much she tried to deny them?

She knew it was only because Lewis had been her only lover that those embarrassing and erotic dreams that sometimes tormented her sleep should always portray him as her partner, and that in all reality their lovemaking had probably never really been quite as intense, as passionate, as fulfilling as her dreams suggested, and yet she also knew that it was those same dreams that strengthened her unwillingness to allow another man into her life; that it was those dreams, those memories that prevented her from allowing herself to find a quieter, gentler, safer happiness with another man.

It was only when she reached the roundabout close to the hospital that she recognised with a guilty start that she had driven right across town so wrapped up in her thoughts that she wasn’t really aware of having done so.

It was exactly two o’clock as she walked into the hospital and told the smiling receptionist that she had an appointment with Dr Hanson.

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Robinson. I’ll just let him know that you’re here.’

Over the years Lacey had grown accustomed to people mistakenly addressing her as Mrs Robinson. Her reversion to her maiden name had been an instinctive gesture of revulsion against retaining anything given to her by Lewis, and, although at first she had been quick to correct people and tell them that it was Miss Robinson, these days she had ceased to bother. Correction tended to disconcert or confuse them more than their mistake concerned her.

She turned away while the girl used the intercom, and then turned back to the desk when she heard her saying, ‘If you’d just like to go down to Dr Hanson’s office…’

Having thanked her and confirmed that she knew the way, Lacey set off down the corridor.

She had to pass the maternity ward on the way to Ian’s office, and through the open doors she heard the mewling cry of the new born. Her insides clenched on that familiar, never forgotten mixture of anxiety and love. It didn’t seem possible that it was over nineteen years since Jessica’s birth. She remembered how thrilled she had been when they had told her that she had a daughter, how proud…how…how elated almost, and then later had come the panic, the depression, the tears, and the miserable desolation of knowing that she was alone in her joy, that for her there was no partner to share in the happiness of their child’s birth.

The nurses had been wonderful, and luckily she had overcome her depression.

She realised that she had stopped outside the ward. Sighing to herself, she shook her head and forced herself to continue down the corridor.

The door to Ian’s office was closed. She knocked briefly on it out of politeness and then opened it and walked in.

She had expected to find Ian on his own, but it wasn’t the shock of realisation that someone else was with him that stopped her in her tracks; it was the discovery that the other man in his office was none other than Lewis.

Lewis…here in Ian’s office. Her whole body felt heavy and cumbersome, unable to respond to the sluggish commands of her brain, and yet at the same time her stomach was churning, her metabolism racing so frantically out of control that she was afraid she might literally be sick where she stood.

Ian, apparently oblivious to her shocked distress, was smiling at her, coming over to stand beside her and put a friendly arm around her shoulders as he said warmly, ‘Lewis, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine: Lacey Robinson. Lacey has been the main motivator behind the appeal. She’s worked far harder than the rest of us put together.’

Ian gave her a fond smile.

‘Did Jessica get off all right this morning? A pity that she couldn’t stay on a bit longer. Still, it’s her first year and she won’t want to miss out on any of her tutorials. Jessica is Lacey’s daughter,’ Lacey heard him explaining to Lewis. ‘I must admit I still find it hart to believe that Lacey is the mother of a university student.’

Lacey could feel her face beginning to burn with a mixture of shock and anxiety. She couldn’t bring herself to look at her exhusband…couldn’t endure the contempt and disinterest she knew would be in his eyes. She knew that Ian was only meaning to flatter her, that he genuinely did believe she looked much younger than her thirty-eight years; that he genuinely did find it difficult to believe that she was Jessica’s mother; but that didn’t stop her from feeling hideously embarrassed as though she were one of those women who made a point of telling everyone within earshot that she had been a child bride, and that they and their daughters were more like sisters really. That kind of thing had always made her squirm and feel acutely sorry for the poor unfortunate daughters, who in some way were almost never allowed to grow up to maturity, who always seemed to be held back by their mothers’ determinedly clutching on to ‘youth’, who were never quite as pretty or as popular as their mothers had been at their age—and yet stubbornly she refused to open her mouth and make any disclaimer. After all, why should she feel any need to justify herself in any way to Lewis?

She could see him just within the periphery of her vision. He was standing in the shadows of the room, his head slightly averted, as though he didn’t want to look at her, to acknowledge her.

His hair, she realised, was still as dark as it had always been, untouched by grey and apparently as thick and vibrant as ever. She remembered how she had loved to touch it, to feel the soft springiness of its curl beneath her fingertips, envying him that natural characteristic which had been denied her. And yet he, it seemed, had been equally fascinated by the soft sleek fall of her own straight locks, praising their silkiness, saying her hair was fluid and warm like sun-stroked water. When they made love he had liked the sensation of her hair against his skin…against his body. He had coaxed her to rub herself against him like a small sleek cat, and the sound he had made in his throat when she did so had not been unlike the rusty purr of some jungle animal.

He had taught her so many things about both his sexuality and her own; not just in terms of the physical act of union, but also of the wide variety of small intimate pleasures that could arise from the lightest, most delicate, and sometimes often unexpected kind of touch. He had been both gentle and passionate, demanding and patient. He had been the best of lovers, and the worst of husbands.

She started to shiver suddenly as her body caved in under the pressure of her shock. Lewis still hadn’t looked at her properly nor she at him and yet she had recalled faultlessly and unwantedly the sensation of his hands against her skin, coaxing, stroking, loving…hands which she now saw were bunched into hard, tense fists.

He moved abruptly, flexing his fingers, a gesture unfamiliar to her and which, being unfamiliar, should have released her from her bondage to her unwanted memories; but instead it eroded her self-discipline, and anguish and desolation rose up inside her. She had changed and so of course must he, and it was foolish beyond all measure of her to mourn her own lack of knowledge of something so slight as an added mannerism.

He was tense; that involuntary flexing of his fingers proved that. He had been tense the night he’d told her he didn’t want her or their marriage any more, but tense in a different way: then he had used his tension as a barrier between them…a barrier which had told her, ‘Don’t come any nearer. Don’t even think about trying to touch me,’ and yet she had done so…foolishly, and his recoil from her had been instant and shocking, betraying his physical revulsion for her.

Alongside her, Ian was still talking.

‘Lacey almost single-handedly organised the appeal for Michael Sullivan; that was why I wanted the two of you to meet. Lacey, Lewis is—’

She couldn’t endure any more. The initial shock had faded now, but what was left in its place was even worse: a kind of sick anxiety, coupled with pain and something more…something she could not bear to analyse.

‘Ian, I’m sorry,’ she interrupted shakily. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay…’

As her dazed brain sought frantically for some excuse for her unscheduled departure, she saw out of the corner of her eye that Lewis had turned his head, and was looking at her.

Their glances met, meshed; blue eyes blazing into grey. Every never-ending in her body burst into painful life. It had been like that all those years ago. He had looked at her then with those amazing blue eyes, and then…

But then the look in his eyes had been one of admiration; or arousal and eagerness. Now it was one of…

Of what? she asked herself dizzily as she tried to look away. Absently she wondered why—when his body had so obviously matured from the slight thinness of his early twenties as though now he had finally grown into the height and breadth of the bone-structure nature had given him—his face seemed so much more sharply sculptured, so much harder, so much more shockingly masculine. He had never been good-looking in the almost too handsome fashion of a film star, but he had always had a potent, very unnerving almost—at least to her—aura of male sexuality which time seemed to have enhanced rather than lessened; and yet there was nothing overtly sexual about him. He was wearing a well-tailored plain navy suit, a crisp white shirt and a suitably discreet tie, his clothes very similar in fact to those worn by both Ian and Tony, and yet on him…

The slight movement of his body re-attracted her attention, her glance flicking helplessly towards it so that she was gut-wrenchingly conscious of the power of the muscles that lay beneath his skin, achingly aware of his body, his maleness, in a way she hadn’t been aware of a man’s physical masculinity in years.

‘I…I must go,’ she reiterated huskily. ‘I promised I’d go round and see Michael.’

‘But I thought we were going to finalise the formal winding down of the appeal,’ Ian protested. ‘I—’

‘I’m sorry, Ian. I…I can’t stay. Not now!’

She was almost gabbling now as she headed for the door, desperately conscious of the way Lewis was watching her, and desperately anxious to escape from the room before she panicked completely. She knew that her behaviour must, to Ian at least, seem totally out of character, totally immature and illogical, and that as such it must be completely bewildering him. Later she would have to apologise to him…to make some kind of amends for what she was doing, but if she stayed in this room with Lewis even one second longer…

She shuddered, acknowledging how, for one heartbeat, she had been horrendously tempted to close the gap between them; to walk up to him and be at his side as though it was her right to be there.

That had shocked and frightened her even more than her sexual awareness of him. He had hurt her so badly that she had believed that nothing would ever make her forget that pain, and yet in the space of a handful of heartbeats she had found herself recklessly, dangerously ignoring reality and allowing herself to pretend that they were still together…a couple…a pair…that they were still…still what? she asked herself sickly as she pulled open the door and walked through it. Still lovers?

The wave of heat that suffused her told its own betraying story.

Ian, who had followed her through the door and who was now reaching out to delay her, asked anxiously, ‘Is everything all right? You seem…different, somehow. I…’

‘I’m fine, Ian. It’s just that I feel so guilty about forgetting I had promised to see Michael today. I only remembered when I was halfway here, so it seemed simpler to explain in person.’

She had never known she possessed such a facility for fiction…for lying.

‘I’ll ring you tomorrow about the appeal. I…I am sorry.’

He was smiling at her, still quite obviously concerned, but, being the man he was, he made no attempt to restrain or question her, and it was only once she had reached the sanctuary of her car that she realised that she still had no idea what on earth Lewis was doing in town, nor, more importantly, how long he intended to stay.