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And then she looked at him, and saw him watching her with something very familiar and deeply disturbing in his eyes, and she coloured and turned away quickly. ‘Oh look—there’s a ship coming in,’ she said, which was ridiculous because there had been lots, but she caught his smile out of the corner of her eye and the breath stuck in her throat.
He had no right doing that to her—bringing back so many memories with just one slow, lazy smile. They might not have walked on the beach, but they’d made love many, many times on their roof terrace overlooking the Thames, with the smell of the river drifting up to them and the salty tang in the air. And she could tell, just from that one glance, that he was remembering it as well.
‘I’ll just make sure the babies are all right,’ she said hastily, and, going round to the other side of the buggy, she tucked them up and then followed behind, staring at his shoulders as he towed the babies and strolled along with the air of a man who did it every day of the week.
Just like a real father, with a wife and two beautiful children, not a pressed man who’d been forced to submit to some bonding time with his newly discovered infants.
Oh, what a mess.
Would they ever get out of it?
‘Jules?’
She realised she’d stopped, and he’d stopped, too, and had turned to look at her, his eyes troubled.
He let go of the buggy and came round to her side. ‘What’s wrong?’
She shrugged, unable to speak, and with a little sigh he put his arms round her and eased her against his chest.
‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ he murmured, but she wasn’t so sure. It was less than two days, and he’d already broken the rules by stealing her phone and trying to find his. Goodness knows what else he’d do while her back was turned. He was up half the night—could he be using her phone?
Did she care? So long as he was there in the day and trying, did it matter if he cheated?
Yes!
Or—no, not really, so long as he learned the work-life balance lesson?
‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee. There’s a little café I noticed near the car. I’ve brought drinks for the girls, and maybe they can warm up their jars.’
‘Gloop?’ he said, looking wary, and she thought of his new jumper and smiled.
‘It’s OK, I’ll feed them, if you like,’ she promised. ‘I’ll just let you pay.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said with a sigh of relief, and, going back to the other side of the buggy, he towed it the rest of the way to the car without a murmur.
The babies were ready for bed early that night.
‘It must be the sea air,’ Jules said as she heated their supper—pots of home-made food this time, he noticed, and wondered if it was better for them.
‘Does that have all the right nutrients in it?’ he asked, and she stared at him as if he was mad.
‘It’s food—not a chemical formula. Roast chicken, broccoli, carrots, roast potatoes, gravy made with stock—of course it’s got all the right nutrients.’
‘And you cooked it?’
‘Well, of course I cooked it!’ she said with an exasperated sigh. ‘Who else?’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s just—I hardly ever saw you cook, and I don’t think you ever did a roast.’
‘No, of course not. We never had that long to do something so unimportant—’
‘Jules, stop it! I was just—’
‘What? Criticising the way I’m looking after my children?’
‘They’re my children, too!’
‘So learn how to cook for them,’ she said crossly, and threw a cookery book at him. ‘Here you go. There’s chicken breast, mince, salmon steaks, prawns and pork chops in the freezer. Take your pick. You can do supper for us while I get the girls in bed.’
And, stalking off with one of them in each arm, she left him sitting there staring blankly at the book.
Jeez. He could make coffee and toast and scrambled eggs, at a push. And he could unwrap stuff and shove it in the microwave, or pick up the phone and order.
But—cook? Real ingredients? Hell’s teeth, he hadn’t done that for years. Fifteen years? Not since…
He opened the book and flicked through the pages. What was it they’d had in the pub? Chicken breast stuffed with brie and wrapped in bacon, or something like that. She’d given him cheese last night—not brie, but cheddar. Would that do? Maybe. And how about bacon?
He stepped over the dog and investigated the fridge.
No bacon. No brie, either, come to that, and very little cheddar.
But there was pesto, and he thought he’d seen some pasta in the store cupboard in the kitchen when she’d been rummaging for biscuits.
So—pasta with chicken and pesto? A few toasted pine-nuts and a bag of salad…
No salad. Probably no pine nuts.
Peppers?
He hauled out a few things he’d seen served with similar dishes, set them all on the kitchen table and settled down with them to try and find a recipe that tied at least some of them in. Then, having found one, he had to work out how to use the microwave and, worse, how to use the Aga. Or even find the tools to reach that point.
Starting with a sharp knife, and a chopping board, and a deep, heavy pan. That was what the instructions said.
He found them, thawed and sliced the chicken, fried it in the pan with olive oil, onion and peppers, opened the pesto—and discovered mould.
Damn!
But there was rice, too, and prawns, so—how about paella? How the hell did you make paella?
He turned back to the book, wondering how long, exactly, Jules could remove herself from the kitchen. Long enough for him to ruin every single ingredient!
Simple. He’d order something in. Even she couldn’t object to him doing that on the house phone.
Except he was supposed to be doing this himself, and rising to a challenge wasn’t something that normally held him back. So—paella. How hard could it be?
‘Oh! Risotto?’ she said hesitantly, poking it and sniffing.
‘Paella,’ he corrected. ‘The pesto was off.’
‘Oh, it would be. There’s a new one in the cupboard.’
He rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Right. Well, I was adaptable,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself, and she sniffed again.
‘How much garlic did you use?’
‘I don’t know. It said two cloves. It seemed a lot, so I only used one.’
‘Clove, or bulb?’
He frowned in confusion. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Um—the bulb is the whole thing, a silvery-white papery thing with bumps and a stalk in the middle. A clove is one of the little bits inside.’
He scowled and turned away. ‘Well, you should have been here if you’re going to complain.’
‘Hey, I haven’t complained.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’
‘Well, so it might be a bit garlicky. So what? I’m not going to kiss anyone, am I?’ she said, and then wished furiously that she could repossess her words, because he turned slowly and studied her.
‘It could be arranged,’ he murmured, his eyes dragging slowly over her as if he was trying to peel away her clothes.
‘In your dreams,’ she muttered, and took out two bowls. ‘Here—dish up. I’ll get us a drink. Do you want some of that wine?’
‘I wouldn’t mind the white. The red could be a bit heavy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said wickedly. ‘It might balance the garlic.’
Foolish girl. He threw the spoon back into the pan and stalked off into the hall, disappearing out of the front door and slamming it behind him, shrugging on his jacket as he went.
Oops. That had been mean of her to tease him. She knew he couldn’t cook, and he’d done his best. And, apart from the garlic and the fact that it was a bit over-cooked, it looked fine.
His car—the sports car, the silly, fast, dangerous one—shot off the drive in a spray of gravel, and she sighed and covered the pan, pulled it to the side and sat down to wait. Either he’d come back, she thought, in which case she’d apologise, or he wouldn’t, in which case—
What? She’d lost the girls their father, and herself the only man she’d ever loved, just for the sake of keeping her sassy mouth shut?
Oh, damn. And she couldn’t even phone him to apologise.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_00a0f539-08d5-575b-bbd1-0a7fbd6b842b)
HE HIT the M25 before he saw sense, and he came off at the first junction, pulled up in the tatty, run-down service area, cut the engine and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.
What the hell was he doing? She’d been teasing him! That was all. Nothing drastic. She’d always teased him, but he’d forgotten. Forgotten all sorts of things. What it felt like to hold her, what it felt like to touch her, to bury himself inside her—
He swallowed hard. No. He couldn’t let himself think about that. It was too soon; he was way off being allowed that close to her. But he wanted her, wanted to touch her, to hold her, to feel her warmth.
God, he was lonely. So damned lonely without her.
So he couldn’t do this, couldn’t throw in the towel, give up on his beautiful little girls and run away, because she’d teased him about the bloody garlic!
With a shaky sigh, he started the engine, pulled out of the car park, shot back down the slip road onto the A12 and went back to his wife.
He wasn’t coming back.
She’d sat in the window, huddled by the glass with a fleece wrapped round her shoulders and waited until the pub was shut, but there was still no sign of him.
What if he’d broken down? What if he’d gone off the road in a fit of temper? He seemed so angry these days, angrier than she’d ever seen him. Was that her fault? It must be. What else could it be?
And now he was who knew where, maybe lying upside down in a ditch full of water.
Lights sliced across the garden, blinding her with the glare of his headlamps as he turned in and cut the engine. The security lights came on as he got out of the car, and then she heard the car door slam and his feet crunch across the gravel as he approached the front door.
He paused and looked at her through the window, his face sombre, and then, with a slight shake of his head, he walked to the door, and she heard it open and close. Then he was there, filling the hall doorway with his brooding, silent presence.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, getting up and walking towards him, her foot a little stiff from sitting with it tucked under her for so long while she watched for him. ‘I shouldn’t have been so mean to you.’
‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault,’ he said gruffly. ‘I overreacted.’
‘No, you didn’t. You were doing your best. I know you can’t cook, and I should have given you more help, not just flung you in at the deep end and expected you to cope because you criticised me.’
‘I didn’t. Or, at least, I didn’t mean to. I was just asking. I’m sorry if it came over as criticism.’
So many sorries. From Max? She shook her head slowly and went over to the Aga. ‘Forget it. Have you eaten?’
‘No. I was going home. I’d got to the M25 before I came to my senses.’
She frowned. ‘That’s fifty miles!’
‘I know. I was—Well, let’s just say it took a while for me to calm down. Which is ridiculous. So, in answer to your question, no, I haven’t eaten, and yes, please, if it isn’t ruined. Not that I think you could ruin it. I’d already done a fair job.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ she told him, determined to eat it if it choked her. ‘So, I believe I was going to pour you a glass of wine?’
He gave a choked laugh. ‘That sounds good.’
‘Red or white?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll finish the red. It’ll balance the garlic,’ he said with irony, and she smiled back and handed him the bottle and a glass. She turned back to the paella, taking the lid off and blinking at the smell, but she dished up without a word, and they sat down at the table and ate it in a slightly strained and civilised silence, until finally Max pushed it away and met her eyes.
‘Bit heavy on the seasoning for me,’ he said wryly, and she put her fork down and smiled with him.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ she lied. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘No. I’m fine with the wine, but I could do with some toast or something.’
‘Cheese and biscuits? Or I might be able to find an apple pie in the freezer I could put in the oven?’
