Brittle Bondage

‘Not immediately, no.’

Ben looked at Rachel now, and she felt her face turning red. It was typical of him to arrive when he knew Daisy would be there to defend his actions, she thought angrily. If she turned him away now, she’d be a pariah in her daughter’s eyes as well.

As well?

‘I’m sure your father hasn’t come all this way just to see us, darling,’ she declared, taking the coward’s way out. ‘You forget, he used to live here, too. Daddy has friends in the neighbourhood. He’s probably planning to visit them.’

‘Friends who chose to believe you rather than me,’ he countered in a low tone, leaving Daisy to walk past Rachel on his way to the kitchen. He glanced back at her shocked face, his smile at once accusing and mocking. ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink of water, do you? I am rather thirsty. It’s been quite a while since lunch.’

Rachel’s breath eased out slowly, but, meeting her daughter’s troubled gaze, she knew she’d met her match. She had no earthly reason for denying Ben either a drink of water, or a bed for the night, if that was what he wanted. This was still his house, and her over-reaction to his appearance was hardly beneficial to her cause.

But the trouble was, she thought as she forced a brittle smile for Daisy’s benefit and followed him into the kitchen, she didn’t want him here. In the past few months, she had succeeded in banishing all memory of her husband from these rooms, and when she was cooking a meal in the kitchen or reading in the cosy snug she no longer saw Ben’s image, superimposed across the room. She used to. For weeks, months, maybe even a year or more, she had seen nothing else. She’d never felt relaxed, never felt free of his prevailing presence. But now she did—and he was going to spoil it all again.

But not for long, she reminded herself firmly. Once she and Daisy moved out of this house, there would be nothing to remind them of her ex-husband. Nothing at all.

It was dark now, and although Ben had his back to her as he ran the tap, she could see his reflection in the window above the sink. Was it just her imagination, or did he look a little weary, as he had said? In any event, he was just as arrogant as ever, she told herself fiercely. And just as unscrupulous, if he didn’t get his own way.

‘Are you hungry?’

It wasn’t what she had planned to say, but the words were out, and Daisy gave her a beaming smile. Evidently, she had said the right thing as far as the little girl was concerned. But then, Daisy was the ultimate optimist. She still thought her parents should be civil with one another.

Ben turned, the glass of water he had requested in his hand. ‘Is that an enquiry, or just wishful thinking?’ he asked drily. ‘Don’t tell me: I can have some dry bread with the water!’

‘The water was your choice,’ retorted Rachel shortly, and then, realising she was letting him rile her again, she forced herself to calm down. ‘Naturally, if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to anything we’ve got.’ She mentally catalogued the contents of the fridge, before adding, ‘There’s some ready-made lasagne, or I could make you a ham sandwich.’

Ben leaned back against the sink unit, regarding her with dark disturbing eyes. It was an intent look, intended to intimidate she was sure. And, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. What was he thinking? she wondered. Was he comparing her plain, homely appearance with the woman he had left behind him in London?

When he took a drink from his glass, and his attention was briefly diverted, Rachel felt as if a solid weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But her relief was short-lived when he set the glass on the drainer, folded his arms, and looked at her again.

‘I’m not hungry,’ he informed her flatly, casting a disparaging glance at the still-uncleared supper table. Her barely touched meal of fish fingers and chips looked greasy and unappetising, and she wished she’d had warning of his coming so that she could have at least disposed of the plate. ‘It doesn’t look as if you were hungry either,’ he observed. ‘Or was the wine more appealing? You ought to be careful, Rachel. Drinking alone can be dangerous.’

Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t generally drink alone!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly, and, as if sensing their conversation was not going as well as she had hoped, Daisy broke in again.

‘D’you want to come and see my room, Daddy?’ she asked, tugging on his hand. ‘I want to show you my computer. It’s not as big as yours, but it’s ever so good——’

‘Later, sweetheart.’ Ben allowed his daughter to hang on to his arm, but when she attempted to pull him away from the sink he resisted. ‘Right now, your mother and I have some things to say to one another. Why don’t you go upstairs and watch television? I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Goodbye!’ Daisy looked disappointed now. ‘You’re not really going, are you?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Ben evenly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His own hair was almost as long as Daisy’s, Rachel noticed scornfully. Ben had really got into the artist’s mould. She was surprised he wasn’t wearing an earring.

Daisy hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m not allowed to watch television,’ she said sulkily, and Ben looked to Rachel for an explanation.

‘I—yes, you can,’ she muttered quickly, not wanting to get into another discussion concerning Daisy’s discipline. ‘Do as your father says, darling. We’ll forget all about Mr Caldwell this time.’

‘Caldwell?’ Ben arched an interrogative brow as Daisy trudged reluctantly out of the room, and Rachel waited until she heard the little girl going upstairs, before she answered briefly.

‘A little upset at work, that’s all. It wasn’t important.

Now——’ She squared her shoulders. ‘What did you come here for? I told you the gist of what there was to tell this morning. The fact that I want a divorce shouldn’t really surprise you.’

‘Did I say it did?’ Ben straightened away from the sink. ‘But I don’t think this is the place to be having this discussion,’ he went on neutrally. ‘Why don’t we go into the other room?’ His brow arched. ‘Unless it’s already occupied, of course.’

‘Already occupied?’ Rachel looked at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. ‘Oh—no. Simon’s not here right now,’ she assured him coolly. ‘We can go in there if you like. Though I can’t imagine what we have to talk about.’

‘Can’t you?’ Ben shrugged. Then, ‘Simon,’ he remarked experimentally. ‘Simon what?’

‘Does it matter?’ Rachel endeavoured not to sound as resentful as she felt as she led the way into the family-room. She saw her empty wine glass on the mantelpiece and wished she’d carried it into the kitchen with her. ‘Who he is needn’t concern you.’

‘Like hell!’ For the first time, Ben exhibited some emotion other than the guarded hostility he had revealed so briefly on his arrival, and Rachel felt an unexpected twinge of fear. ‘Do you honestly think you can just tell me you want to marry someone else, without any reaction from me?’

Rachel swallowed. She had been going to sit down in one of the velvet armchairs beside the fire, but his vehemence—his violence—kept her nervously on her feet. ‘I didn’t think you’d care,’ she replied carefully, linking her fingers together at her waist. ‘Um—why don’t you sit down?’

Ben had halted just inside the door of the room, and was presently looking about him, evidently registering the changes that had been made since he was last here. There was no particular expression on his dark face as his brooding gaze slid over the silk-printed curtains at the windows and alighted on the set of ceramic tiles that had taken the place of the original water-colour that used to hang above the fireplace. But she knew he was remembering how they had chosen the furnishings for this room together. It was their first attempt at interior designing, and she recalled how proud they had been of their efforts. Which was why she had torn down the curtains and stowed the picture away in the loft when he left, she remembered tensely. She hadn’t been able to afford to totally redecorate the house, but in her own small way she had effected a modest transformation.

Now, Ben moved further into the room, and, desperate for something to do, Rachel went to draw the curtains. How many times in the past couple of years had she drawn these curtains, she reflected, wondering where Ben was and who he was with? Well, tonight she knew, but, conversely, it gave her no relief.

‘I will have a drink,’ Ben remarked, behind her, and she swung round, half guiltily, to find him opening the doors of the bureau. In the old days they had always kept a supply of wines and spirits in the cupboard below the bookcase, but no longer. He straightened, frowning. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’ asked Rachel innocently, and had the satisfaction of seeing his frustration for a change.

‘The Scotch,’ he replied sardonically. ‘Don’t tell me: you keep it in the sitting-room these days. Another attempt to alter the old order, Rachel? I noticed you’d moved the picture. Where is it? Under your bed, with pins stuck in it?’

‘Why would I do that?’ Rachel was proud of her control. ‘It wasn’t a picture of you.’

His smile was sardonic. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded drily. ‘Now—where the hell is that Scotch? You may not need one, but I surely do.’

Rachel pressed her lips together for a moment, and then gave in. ‘If you must know, it’s in the kitchen,’ she told him resignedly. ‘In the cupboard above the fridge. I don’t keep much alcohol in the house, as it happens. I don’t like spirits, and in any case it’s too expensive.’

Ben let that go without comment, leaving the room briefly to get the whisky, before coming back again, bottle and glass in hand. He poured himself a generous measure, then, raising the glass to his lips, he offered her a silent toast, savouring the single malt with evident appreciation.

Rachel watched him half apprehensively. She was fighting the urge to demand that he state what he’d come for and go, and only the fact that she might inadvertently reveal how nervous he made her was keeping her silent.

Besides, she chided herself again, what was she worried about? It wasn’t as if she was afraid of him. At no time had Ben ever threatened her or her custody of Daisy.

‘So——’ Ben’s eyes flickered over her stiff erect figure, ‘you’re looking well.’

‘Thank you.’ Rachel refrained from returning the compliment, even if it was true. Ben did look well; a little leaner than she remembered, but disgustingly healthy none the less. He evidently didn’t spend all his time labouring over a hot typewriter or a word processor or whatever it was he used to write his books these days. His body was taut, not to say hard, and she guessed he must still work out once or twice a week. Unless his romantic exploits constituted a viable alternative …

‘You’ve put on some weight,’ he added, lowering his glass and surveying her rounded hips with a critical eye. ‘But it suits you,’ he added. ‘I always did think you were too thin.’

‘And your opinion is the only one that matters, I suppose?’ flashed Rachel angrily, immediately feeling as fat as a couch potato. ‘Honestly, Ben, your arrogance is amazing! Believe it or not, but I don’t give a—a——’

‘Damn?’ he supplied pleasantly, but she ignored him. ‘A monkey’s,’ she asserted, with some relish, hoping he got the hidden message, ‘what you think I look like.’

‘You used to,’ he reminded her, the expression in those dark eyes hidden by the narrowing of his lashes. ‘So, why don’t you tell me about this new man in your life? I imagine you care what he thinks.’