A Husband's Vendetta

Luc, of course, would never understand this. He’d probably forbid her from ever seeing Gemma again. Thank God he never came within five miles of her! Giving a heartfelt grunt, she banished stray breadcrumbs from her stomach. Luc always sent his devoted PA to deliver and collect Gemma on the regulation four times a year she came to visit.

Ellen’s skin tightened like wafer-thin paper over her slanting Garbo cheekbones, her mood sobering despite her resolution. Luc shunned her because he couldn’t bear to set eyes on her, as if she were some vile kind of Gorgon. But then she’d committed the ultimate sin of walking out on him, their marriage and their six-month-old baby. No one did that to an Italian male and came off lightly.

‘Oh, hell!’ she muttered in exasperation.

For, despite all her high-flown intentions, she was reliving it all now and quivering like a leaf, desperately fighting down the nausea which always came with the unendurable memories.

Ellen stared blindly into space, wondering if she would ever get over what had happened, if one day the pain would become just a dull ache and then vanish completely. As much as she tried to forget, and to look to the future, some days she thought that she couldn’t stand the situation any longer. There were times when she felt it would be better never to see Gemma at all.

Ellen let out a long, unhappy sigh. Sometimes it was as if she were living on a perpetual white-knuckle ride. Every time she got her life back together again and stopped crying into her pillow, Gemma’s next visit hove into sight. And she, Ellen, had to go through the mill all over again.

Well, a short while ago she’d decided that she’d had enough. Living in the past was getting her nowhere. Grab happiness where she could, enjoy each moment—that was to be her rule. She had to protect herself from negative thoughts.

She pulled the cushion from behind her back and cuddled it. No wonder absent fathers sometimes chose not to retain their visiting rights, she thought sadly. Part-time parenting was a desperately painful thing to do. Her heart was in shreds every time Gemma left.

And everything became magnified out of all proportion. How could you act naturally when you desperately wanted everything to be perfect? Who could shrug off small organisational hiccups like stair-rod rain on the day you’d planned a picnic? Or when your child looked with contempt at a toy you’d spent hours searching for and couldn’t even afford?

Feeling aggrieved, she drew her knees up to her chest, hating Luc with all her heart, angry with him for not supporting her when she’d needed him so badly after Gemma’s birth. He’d thought the worst of her. And so she’d lost her child.

For the millionth time, Ellen tried to persuade herself to do the sensible thing: to call Luc and suggest Gemma stopped visiting at all. The kiddie hated coming to England. She hated the language, the weather, the food, and the insularity of everyone…

Nothing Ellen ever did could shift the boredom and resentment which showed in every line of Gemma’s small body. Oh, yes. She knew what she ought to do. But she couldn’t bring herself to make that final break because she loved her daughter desperately.

Tears sneaked up on her unawares and began to trickle into her hair, tracking their way over her temples in hot, sticky rivulets. It was natural that Gemma would find separation from her father hard to bear. Natural that she should be scared in a strange country and would reject everything connected with it.

And so Ellen had built a wall of protection around herself. It was the only way she’d coped with the heartbreaking goodbyes. The result was that the two of them remained politely suffering strangers.

There were no hugs, no spontaneous laughter and no kisses. She’d seen other women with their children and had ached to be loved so. But the bond had never been made between them.

Sitting up, she gazed in blurred sentimentality at the most recent photo of Gemma. And lovingly, unable to caress her child, she stroked its shiny surface instead. Then she picked up the photo from the table beside the sofa and held it to the softness of her breast.

This was what she was reduced to. Nursing a bit of glossy paper. Pathetic. Oh, Luc, she reflected, her eyes full of sorrow, if only we’d met now, and not seven years ago!

‘Telephone!’

She groaned at her landlord’s yell. Impatiently he began to pound on her door. ‘Who is it?’ she called irritably, expecting any minute to see his big hairy hand punching a hole in the thin plywood.

‘Some bloke for you!’ bellowed Cyril.

She heaved a sigh. It often was. Men seemed to be fascinated by her indifference to them and would never take ‘no’ for an answer until they’d heard it several times. But there had been no man in her life since Luc. She’d been hurt too badly. And, despite her new confidence, she wasn’t ready to risk a new relationship. Some time in the future, perhaps. Not now.

‘OK. Coming!’

Reluctantly she replaced the school photo. Her daughter was growing up fast—without her. Ellen drew in a ragged breath and scrubbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Tough. That was her lot. Some people had worse burdens.

Fiercely counting her blessings, she stood up, rearranged her face into an expression of polite enquiry and yanked her skirt snugly into place as her fluid stride took her quickly across the poky little room and she began her struggle with the door.

‘Push!’ she yelled.

Cyril leant his considerable body-weight against the door, and after a while they managed to drag it open. ‘Sounded urgent,’ he wheezed, in his sleazy manner.

As always, he did his best to remove her clothes by will-power alone, leering eagerly at her bra-less top and her bare legs and feet. Ellen gave him a cool and level stare.

‘Then I suggest you move out of my way so I can get to the phone quickly,’ she said briskly, determined not to squeeze past his sweating bulk on the narrow landing.

He smirked, clearly wanting her to do just that. Ellen hardened her eyes till they gleamed like flint, folded her arms and took a purposeful step forward. ‘Move,’ she said, sweetness laced with steel. ‘Or delicate parts of your person and my knee will become painfully acquainted.’

He stepped aside faster than she would have thought possible. With her body jarring on every angry thump of her bare heels, she stalked to the phone.

Girl power 1, vile old man 0! She blessed the girls in the supermarket where she worked during the day. It was they who’d taught her how to deal with male harassment and had coaxed her back into the real world again.

‘Italian bloke. Loo-charno,’ offered Cyril grumpily.

Luciano! Her stomach and heart did a few high jumps. Incredulously, she saw that her hands had begun to shake at the prospect of talking to him. Since their parting they’d only spoken through intermediaries.

Suddenly, into her head came the unforgettable sound of his liquid, seductive voice which made everything he said sound lyrical and sensual—even the reading of a shopping list. She’d adored listening to him. Often she’d coaxed him to talk about his life in Naples purely to hear him speak.

Her bones seemed to flow like warm treacle in anticipation. ‘OK. Thanks,’ she said, trying to get them back to their normal state. What a stupid reaction!

And then it dawned on her why he must be calling. Gemma! Something must be wrong! Petrified, she froze, staring at the dangling receiver and listening in dismay to the violent bumping of her heart.

Cyril’s hot breath drifted moistly over the long sweep of her exposed neck, sending shivers down her back. ‘Men are always calling you!’ he complained loudly. ‘I’m fed up with answering the phone and taking messages.’

‘You’re exaggerating! This,’ she snapped, grabbing the receiver from him and covering the mouthpiece as a precaution, ‘is probably my husband.’ Wisely she omitted the word ‘estranged’. ‘A bad-tempered and possessive man, topping six foot and with the biceps of an ox,’ she invented in a rush, desperate to get rid of her landlord.

To her relief, Cyril took the heavy hint. In the ensuing silence, she could hear Luc impatiently calling her name. Her breathing quickened. She knew he wouldn’t have rung unless it was a real emergency. Blocking her mind to several nightmare scenarios, she made herself speak.

‘I’m here,’ she said, fear making her voice catch breathily in her throat. ‘Is it Gemma? Is she all right? What—?’

‘She’s fine,’ he broke in.

‘Thank goodness!’

Ellen subsided in relief and then registered that he didn’t sound liquid or seductive at all. In fact he seemed positively furious, his voice harsh and rasping.

‘Who was that man I spoke to?’ he demanded.

Ellen blinked, her anxiety forgotten. ‘Nobody you need to know about!’ she replied in stunned surprise.

‘I do. So stop stalling and tell me!’ Luc ordered.

‘What on earth for?’ she countered, bristling at his arrogant manner.

‘Because,’ he said tightly, ‘he was panting.’

In exasperation she racked her brains to understand why that should annoy him so much, but couldn’t think of any explanation. ‘Probably. He often does,’ she agreed, like a mother humouring a child.

Luc inhaled deeply, as if she’d said something inflammatory. ‘Because he suffers from asthma,’ he queried cut-tingly, ‘or because I interrupted something intimate?’