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‘Coffee and a chat, I think.’
He had such a warm brown, tender voice, as if he knew something of the trauma she contained so silently. He would make a willing listener, and she liked him enormously.
They cooked together in the bakery, shared the deliveries to swanky parties in Knightsbridge where the shop outlet was based and worked behind the counter as a happy and friendly team.
But she didn’t want to tell anyone. If she did, she might break up. That was the last thing she wanted, with Max on his way. She knew Luke would want some kind of explanation, though.
He shut the door which led into the office. There was the delicious smell of baking from the ovens beyond. He moved her bakery sneakers aside and pushed her into an armchair with the obvious intention of settling her down for a confidential heart-to-heart.
‘I know something’s wrong. You’re terrific with customers. You care. People respond to you. But kids are another matter. You clam up. So...what do you have against them?’
‘Nothing.’ She adored them. That was the trouble.
Her face crumpled and the first sob rushed up from her chest. Then Luke was kneeling beside her, holding her, patting her back, murmuring soothingly into her thick bob of black hair.
‘Oh, curses!’ She’d wanted to look wonderful when Max turned up. A kind of ‘look what you turned down’ defiance. To appear independent, successful, content and strong. Instead, she’d be bag-eyed and ready to cry at his first scathing remark. He’d be bound to condemn her and Fay for being push-overs. She’d be pathetic—too feeble to stand up to him.
‘Hush, hush,’ Luke said, consolingly.
It was a long time later before the unstoppable flood of tears dried up. Luke made her a strong, sweet coffee and then she plucked up courage and gave him a shortened version of her story.
‘I—I can’t have children, Luke—’ There was a considerable pause while she drank long and deep, forcing the coffee past the mass of whatever was trying to block her throat. ‘I adore them,’ she said in a small, unhappy voice. ‘It’s as simple as that. And my ex-boyfriend’s coming here lunchtime with some dreadful news about my sister.’
She found that she’d been squeezing Luke’s hand tightly, and eased her grip, leaving a red mark and the impression of her short nails in his palm.
So much passion in her! Who would ever guess? Laura Tremaine, dull and plain! Pint-sized, snub-nosed, with a skewed, enormous mouth. Overlooked because of her bubbly, beautiful and sexy sister but with a cauldron of emotion simmering beneath an apparently docile surface.
‘I think there’s much more to that story, but I won’t pry,’ Luke said shrewdly. ‘Go upstairs. Gather yourself together. When Max comes, I’ll send him up. I’ll be glued to the intercom in case you need me. Go on!’ he urged, when she hesitated.
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Selfish,’ he corrected. ‘You’re a damn good cook, Laura. I don’t want to lose you. We’ll come to some arrangement about the baby side of things—’
‘No. It won’t be a problem.’ She stood up, feeling a little better for her outburst. ‘I’m OK now. Honestly. And...thanks again. You’ve been very understanding.’
Luke opened the door to the shop and then paused. ‘Not surprising. I knew the signs. My wife can’t have kids either, you see.’
Laura went quite cold. Slowly her gaze swivelled to meet his and she recognised his sense of loss with immediate empathy. Only people who were denied children could ever know that desperate, almost frantic feeling of need. It was so fierce and uncontrollable that it could ruin the whole of your life and every relationship that ever came your way.
Max had changed her life totally. She was different—who she was, what she did, her friends, everything. Boyfriends had complained she didn’t give of herself. True. How could she, when she’d nothing to give ultimately?
She felt that her status as a woman had become flawed and inferior, like faulty goods. A hopeless sensation of inadequacy had grown inside her, swelling up and occupying every thought and action as if she had a phantom pregnancy. She knew she’d never get over it, however deep she tried to bury it. The sadness would stay with her for the rest of her life.
Thanks, Max.
And here was Luke, telling her his most personal secret. She held out her arms in silent sympathy, and Luke walked into them. There was nothing sexual about the gesture for either of them. Just two unhappy people linked by a poignant tragedy.
‘Glad I told you,’ she said, Luke’s soft jacket muffling her words.
‘Yup.’ He hugged her harder.
At some stage, someone began to bang on the street door. Although Luke’s bulk obscured her vision of the impatient customer, Laura realised they must be in full view.
‘Bang goes your reputation,’ she said, stepping back and producing a wry smile.
It wasn’t funny, but Luke laughed, releasing some of the emotional tension between them.
‘Sounds like Jasper’s come for his BMW! Upstairs now,’ he urged. ‘Put the slap on. Don’t let Max get under your skin. Stick it out. Some time...you might like to meet my wife. You’ll like her.’
He gave a sentimental, dreamy smile and Laura wondered if she would ever find a man who loved her unconditionally.
‘Thanks.’
Laura touched his chest in an affectionate gesture, and ran up the narrow stairs to her bedsit, wishing her legs weren’t shaking so much. She was dreading this meeting.
Her arrival was greeted noisily by Fred. Her face softened and she went over to the free-standing perch by the window.
‘Hi, Fred, darling!’ she murmured, affectionately tickling his stubbly head. He nuzzled up and made ecstatic clicks with his beak. ‘Got to dash,’ she told him reluctantly, and glanced at her watch.
Laura groaned. A thousand butterflies took off in her stomach and began a pitched battle. It was nearly her lunch hour already! Max would be here at one. He was brutally punctual. Where had the time gone?
She whirled and inspected herself in the dressing-table mirror. She looked awful. Rumpled and crumpled with red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face—and her hair flicking out in all directions and looking as if she’d spent the morning having it whipped up by the dough mixer.
As for her dress... It wasn’t flattering at all. Wondering exactly what was suitable for meeting an ex-lover with a confession to make, she quickly slipped the simple grey jersey down to the floor and stepped out of it, mentally running through the limited choice in her wardrobe.
Something smart. Severe. That would help to keep her nerves together. She was a firm believer that clothes could alter moods.
The shoes were fine. High, as she always liked them, giving her a feeling of authority and efficiency. And altitude. And they bolstered her confidence when dealing with the well-off, well-bred clientele.
Since Max was just on six feet and towered over her, she’d need both confidence and height or he’d be constantly looking down his nose at her. She’d keep them on.
Help! A quarter to one! She felt weak with apprehension. Better hurry. Get the face sorted. The more barriers, the better.
She sped into the bathroom as fast as her smart shoes would allow, feeling chilly in just her chainstore bra, briefs, suspender belt and stockings. Frantically she turned on the cold tap and gasped aloud with shock as she splashed water over her swollen face—and accidentally flung some at her chest, too.
Somewhere in the background, Fred squawked. Probably worried she was being attacked, she thought, absently applying soap to her face. He’d be brilliant if Max became aggressive. That squawk could break the sound barrier.
It must be ten to one now, she hazarded, though she couldn’t see because her eyes were tightly scrunched up against the smarting soap. Still bent double over the basin, with her stockinged legs apart and her three-inch heels dug firmly into the cheap lino, she reached out and flapped a hand in the air, searching for the towel.
It was put into her hand.
Everything froze except her brain. Max! She knew it!
Shivers went down her spine. The sinews in her legs became taut. She felt the clenching of the muscles in her buttocks. The stiffening of her naked back.
And then came the stomach-churning thought that Max was probably noticing the tell-tale changes of panic in her body with huge amusement. The women he knew would have given a little wiggle and invited his touch, while she was going pink with embarrassment and ruining any chance she’d had of presenting herself as a city-wise sophisticate.
‘Don’t get cold, now,’ he admonished with a chuckle.
Cold! She was consumed by hell fire in embarrassment!
It seemed safer to stay where she was than to straighten and offer him a full-frontal view. Her hand curled into a claw, snatching the towel away and flinging it over her near nudity.
Max’s well-remembered, elegant fingers straightened out the folds with a lingering precision which made her want to scream. He was recreating those days when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her and had devoted himself to cherishing her. Or so he’d pretended. Max was a master at giving women what they wanted. He found it the quickest route to their beds, so she’d been told.
His distressed parents had explained his tactics. He fitted his behaviour to whichever woman he wanted. For her, he’d been protective, thoughtful, dedicated. He had, apparently, found it perfectly possible to be in the same room as Fay and not be dazzled because he’d found, so he’d said, Laura’s button nose and higgledy-piggledy mouth absolutely adorable.
Liar.
Laura was struggling for words and sounded almost incoherent when a few managed to crawl out. ‘What the hell—?’
‘I did knock,’ came Max’s classy drawl, smooth with phoney innocence.
‘But didn’t wait!’ she accused, beside herself with anger at the invasion of her privacy.
‘I never do,’ he agreed cheerfully.
No. Not for anyone or anything. What Max wanted, he wanted now—or he walked away and found the next most pleasing substitute.
‘Well, you can this time. Go back and sit down and wait—or keep walking out of my flat door and don’t come back!’ she cried, rubbing her face hard in temper with a riskily released corner of the towel.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he drawled. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘Go and feed the parrot,’ she suggested maliciously, knowing Fred would bite off Max’s finger if he tried.
‘No, thanks.’ There was a lazy amusement in his voice. ‘It looks diseased.’
Laura pummelled her wet breasts with the towel as if she were kneading bread, furious on her pet’s behalf. Somewhere in the background she was aware of the sound of Max’s retreating steps.
‘By the way,’ he called back as an afterthought. ‘There’s a ladder exploring your left thigh.’
Laura clapped a hand to the back of her leg. He was right. Red-faced and breathing hard, she clutched the towel securely around her and turned in a violent movement to find that he’d vanished.
She loathed him. He made her want to lash out, to slap that arrogant, smoothie face. To knock him off-balance with a step-by-step explanation of what he’d done to her, with all the gory details.
It beggared belief that he was here to make a shameful admission—and yet was strolling around casually, quite unperturbed by the fact that he ought to be ashamed of his actions.
One day, Max Pendennis...one day! she promised vehemently. Then she felt exasperated with herself. In the back of her mind, she’d wanted to appear cool and collected, the epitome of a woman who couldn’t care less what he did. Yet already he’d got her stamping mad. Her eyes sparked angrily and she tried to haul down her temper from the stratosphere.
All she had to do was listen to him with a superior smile hovering on her face, make sure that he wasn’t going to ruin Fay’s marriage by telling Daniel what had happened, and then show him the door.
She decided not to tell him about her pregnancy. She had no intention of playing the sad victim. Her preference was to appear remote, dignified and unassailable...
And yet, she thought, her sense of humour briefly reasserting itself, she’d opened up the proceedings with a classic girlie-magazine pose, presenting her flimsily clad backside, suspenders and stocking-tops to him!
‘Three minutes, and counting.’
Laura sent a hot-poker glare at the only bit of him she could see, a pair of long, male legs in soft silver-grey suiting crossed at the ankles, and two glassily polished black shoes.
He was sitting in her favourite easy chair, facing the bed and wardrobe, like someone waiting for the next show to begin.
She stalked into the room just as he was reaching down from the chair to pick up the discarded grey jersey dress. Without a word she took it from him, suddenly conscious of the homely untidiness around her.
There were piles of half-read paperbacks near his feet and a stack of various friends’ letters stuffed into the chair beside him. Evidence of her studying lay scattered on every available surface—papers, files, pens, notepads. Max hated mess.
Avoiding contact with his eyes, she stepped over his outstretched legs, toed the daily paper under the small table to join the parrot’s tinkly bell and headed for the wardrobe.
All too late, she realised that she’d been clutching the towel around her so tightly that her figure must have been perfectly outlined for him. She eased her neurotic grip, giving him a few more folds to deal with.
Max inhaled audibly behind her as if exasperated.
‘If you want me to hurry up,’ she said haughtily over her shoulder, ‘then face the other way. I’m not dressing while you look on.’
‘It would save time if you stayed as you are.’ The words slid over her like smooth icing from a spoon. ‘It makes no difference to me what you’re wearing—’
‘Well, it does to me!’ she snapped, and regretted losing control. Again. Giving herself a mental kick for her stupidity, she waited haughtily for him to make a move.
The sigh of irritation was repeated, and then there was a scraping sound as the chair was pushed back. When she checked in the mirror, she saw that he was gazing out of the window and standing a disease-free distance from Fred, who was pacing up and down his perch and measuring his chances of a crafty nip.
Satisfied, she opened the wardrobe door, Max’s reflected image filling her head.
Tall. Hair still a gleaming raven-black like hers. But the thick waves had been tamed and cut to ruthless perfection, as if his barber had painstakingly worked with a ruler, measuring the requisite distance from that razoredged white collar.
Max had wider shoulders than she remembered, poured into a sharply tailored suit which had clearly been built on his hard, sinewy body, inch by perfect inch. His spare frame was not heavy with grossly inflexible muscle, but powerfully shaped nevertheless, like that of an athlete in his prime.
He looked breathtakingly handsome. But then he’d always been that—mooned over by her schoolfriends on the rare occasions he’d come home from his prep and then public schools. Son of the wealthy General William Pendennis. Bright future in the City. Every girl’s dream—hers included.
Except...he wasn’t her Max any more, and hadn’t been for a long time. He belonged in a different sphere. A world of privilege and class, peopled by well-bred, elite movers-and-shakers. A world at large which embraced big business, financial deals and where international flights were far more commonplace than number nine buses.
Perhaps aware that she hadn’t moved for a few moments, he began drumming his fingers on the high windowsill and tapping his foot Max hated being cooped up as much as he hated being kept waiting, she reflected, pushing hangers about aimlessly. He was the most restless and active man she’d ever known.
‘Will you step on it?’ he complained impatiently. ‘I’ve got a flight to catch—and you have one hell of a lot to organise.’
‘I have?’ That didn’t sound as if he was planning a confession about his relationship with Fay—and the consequences. Puzzled, Laura heaved the towel around her top half, grabbed her best suit from the wardrobe and slid the short, straight skirt up over her slender hips. Instantly she felt prim and efficient. ‘You’d better talk while I dress, then,’ she advised edgily.
His persistent drumming and tapping was driving her mad. She felt a dangerous shakiness creeping into her voice, and tried to calm down. Steeling herself, she flung down the gauntlet.
‘Tell me about you and Fay,’ she ordered.
‘Me and...?’
Jerking her head around, alerted by his astonishment, she found that he was facing her, meeting her startled gaze with a hard, uncomprehending stare. She recoiled, shaken. Partly, if she was honest, by the unexpected head-on impact of his stunning good looks.
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ she demanded, refusing to let him intimidate her. He was the one in the wrong! Was he now going to deny the whole affair? ‘Losing courage to speak? Don’t make me despise you more than I already do, Max,’ she muttered.
His dark eyes narrowed but she realised he hadn’t heard a word. For the first time he was scrutinising her still puffy eyes fringed with wet black lashes, her tousled hair and unevenly pink and white skin, fresh from its brutal assault at the basin.
She stared back at the pure lines of his sculpted jaw and tried not to feel crushed by his assessment, and horribly unattractive.
