Читать книгу For Better For Worse - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 10

ZOE woke up slowly and reluctantly, subconsciously aware of something unpleasant waiting for her, something she didn’t really want to recognise. It hovered threateningly, oppressing her, making her want to resort to the childhood tactic of squeezing her eyes closed and refusing to acknowledge that she was actually awake.

She rolled over in the bed, instinctively seeking the empty space which had held Ben’s body.

The bed felt cold and empty. It was gone ten o’clock. Ben would have been up at four to get to the markets early.

His original training had encompassed not only the preparation and cooking of food, but also the importance of its purchase; of knowing the difference between good fresh food and that which was sub-standard.

Her shift didn’t start until two, and after their late night the previous evening she would have been grateful to Ben for not disturbing her had it not been for the row they had had last night.

Or, rather, the row she had tried to have.

She had known that he was still awake when she got into bed—his body had been too rigid, too tense for sleep—but he had kept his back to her, refusing to turn round, refusing even to acknowledge that she was justified in her anger against him.

It wasn’t so much his attitude towards his sister’s pregnancy, although that had shocked her. What had hurt her most of all had been his emotional rejection of her, his refusal to acknowledge that she might possibly be able to understand how he was feeling; his use against her of the barrier of ‘class’, which they had always promised one another they would never allow to come between them.

It had almost been as though he had wanted to reject her, to shock and even disgust her by what he was saying.

And yet at the same time she had been aware of his pain and despair; of his love for his family, and for his sister, even though he had tried desperately hard to conceal it.

But why should she, just because she was female, a woman, be the one to make allowances… to understand… to forgive?

Why should he, just because he was male, a man, be allowed to offload the pain of what he was experiencing on her by attacking her?

His sister’s pregnancy and his reaction to it was something they should have been able to share, to talk about. Ben should have been able to accept that, even though she lacked his experience, his perception of what that pregnancy could mean, she was nevertheless capable of listening, comprehending… that she might even have a viable viewpoint to put, and one which, although different from his, was still worthy of being heard and discussed.

His final comment to her last night before he had flung away from her had been an acid, ‘You don’t really understand even now, do you? You just don’t have a clue. Outwardly you’re sympathetic, sorry; but inwardly you’re recoiling from what I’ve just told you, just like a healthy man recoiling from a leper!

‘Nothing’s really changed in two thousand or more years of civilisation, has it, Zoe? You in your nice, clean, sanitised, privileged world—and it is a privileged world no matter how much you might want to deny it—you just don’t have any conception of what life’s really like for people like my sister.’

Hurt, and close to tears, she had tried to defend herself, and it was then that she had made her worst mistake of all.

‘She could come here and stay with us,’ she had

suggested eagerly. ‘I could find her a job. The hotel is always looking for—–’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Ben had interrupted her in disgust. ‘Have her here? She’s damn near seven months pregnant, Zoe, and all she wants to do is sit watching television all day long. She doesn’t want a job. She doesn’t want anything other than this damned baby which she thinks is going to miraculously transform her life.

‘And so it bloody well will, but not in the way she imagines, the little fool.

‘Are all you women the same, so blindly prejudiced that you can’t see what having a baby really means?’

She had tried hard to stand her ground, inviting him shakily, ‘What does it mean, Ben? Tell me.’

He had given her a bitter, cynical look.

‘It means an extra mouth to feed, and less money coming in; it means endless nights without any sleep, and the stink of sour milk and worse pervading everything. It means the total destruction of the relationship you thought you had with one another; that’s if you’re still together when the child arrives.

‘It means… Oh, God, what the hell is the point in trying to explain to you, Zoe? Children, pregnancy… to you they mean giving birth in some fashionable private ward of a hospital and then going home with a clean cooing bundle wrapped in something expensive and impractical bought by Mummy. It means agonising endlessly over finding a nanny, and then agonising even more over finding the right school. You don’t have any real idea.’

She had wanted to tell him that he was wrong, totally and utterly wrong, but instead she had asked him quietly, ‘And what does parenthood, fatherhood mean to you, Ben?’ But as she waited for his answer, she suspected she already knew.

Even so, his reply had shocked her.

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he had told her harshly. ‘Because I don’t intend to ever be a father.’

And with that he had got into bed, put out the light and pointedly turned away from her.

Later, lying silently in bed beside him, she had waited for him to relent and turn to her; to take her in his arms and hold her.

Only he hadn’t done, and now this morning she was alone in their flat with anger as well as misery, a cold, hard lump of indigestible solidity wedged firmly inside her.

She got out of bed reluctantly and headed for the bathroom.

She pushed open the door and then stopped, staring at the paper images pinned, taped to almost every surface.

Eyes widening, she went into the living-room. It was full of them as well, huge hearts cut from newspapers and magazines, with the words ‘I love you’ scrawled across them in red felt-tip pen, tiny smaller ones cut from silver kitchen foil and strung together like the tail of a kite, and hung from the doorframes so that they danced in the draught, big fat pigs with drawn-in tiny mean little eyes and droopy would-be-curly tails made from wrapping ribbons that made her laugh as the tears filled her eyes.

He must have spent hours doing this, hours when he should have been asleep. Hours when she had been asleep.

Across the largest pig of all, propped up against the kitchen taps, he had written the words, ‘I’m sorry’.

Oh, Ben!

As she carefully collected every single heart, and every single pig, smoothing out the paper before gently folding it and then searching for a large envelope to put them in, she was still crying, her heart aching, not for herself but for him.

She knew how much his family meant to him, how fiercely protective of them he was. And she knew as well how much Sharon’s pregnancy and all that it would mean to her life must hurt him. She had been a clever girl, he had told her, and in those words she had heard all his frustration and disappointment.

‘It will be another mouth to feed,’ he had told her and no doubt he had been thinking that he would be the one who would have to help to feed it.

Neither of them ever discussed the financial help he gave his mother. They didn’t need to. Zoe felt no resentment of his loyalty towards his family.

‘That’s because you’ve never needed to worry about money,’ he had told her cynically, and then she had smiled sunnily, refusing to allow him to aggravate her.

It wasn’t until she had finished tidying away all the scraps of paper that she noticed the envelope on the table.

She had forgotten to mention it to Ben last night, and he obviously had not noticed it when he got up.

She picked it up, scanning it uncertainly. When she had seen it yesterday she had been so excited; now, like an opened forgotten bottle of champagne, her excitement had gone flat, superseded by other emotions.

For the first time she felt, if not resentment, then certainly a sudden awareness of irritation with Ben’s family. She wriggled uncomfortably, frowning as she refocused on the envelope.

This was their future here in front of her. Hers and Ben’s… The exciting, enticing, challenging future they had worked so hard together for. It belonged to them. They had worked for it… planned for it, and Ben… Ben deserved it; and yet now, because of his family, because of last night, somehow its promise was shadowed, her excitement doused, their right to share and anticipate the pleasure of taking their first major step into the future and success dulled by the sharp contrast between their future and that of Ben’s sister and her child.

And if she was so aware of the discrepancies in those futures, then how much more so must Ben be?

She gave a small shiver of distress and guilt. Was she really so selfish, so shallow that she resented Sharon for inadvertently casting a shadow over their lives? By rights what she ought to be feeling was sympathy and concern, not wishing that Ben’s sister had not spoiled this special moment in their lives by inflicting her problems on her brother.

She picked up the envelope and then put it down again.

She was not normally given to self-analysis or questioning her feelings—her life was too busy, her responses too immediate and instinctive. It was Ben who measured his reactions, who monitored everything he said and felt, measuring them against some personal and, to her, bewildering measuring stick of personal standards.

But now, forced to deal with her own shock at what she was feeling, she had to question whether Ben might be right when he accused her of not being able to really comprehend or understand, of not wanting to accept the reality of his family’s lives.

How would she feel if she were in Sharon’s shoes, for instance?

She gave a small cold shiver. It could never have happened to her, of course.

There had been girls at school who had disappeared for a brief period of time and who it was rumoured had been discreetly hustled off by their parents to some expensive private clinic to remove the evidence of their unplanned and unwanted conception long before their bodies showed any signs of it, and rumours were all there had been.

Parenthood out of wedlock and children born to middle-aged fathers with almost grown-up families and second wives, often as young as their own daughters, were a familiar pattern of life to her, of course, but her friends’ unmarried parenthood was nothing like that so graphically described by Ben.

Her friends’ babies were always ‘desperately wanted’ or ‘an accident really, darling, but now both of us are thrilled and Mummy is simply over the moon’, or the product of serious committed relationships between couples who shuddered in distaste at the thought of their commitment to one another needing anything so proletarian as a marriage ceremony to cement it.

No, there were no Sharons in her world, or, if there were, no one talked about them.

Ben was her friend and her lover; the differences in their upbringing gave her no qualms at all. She was proud of him, fiercely proud… of the person he was and the things he had achieved. She felt no sense of being his superior, nor of being his inferior; they were equals, true partners.

And normally she did not allow herself to brood on the fact that there was a part of Ben’s life from which he seemed to want to exclude her.

Now she was angry with herself for the small-mindedness of her feelings, for her selfishness in her irritation at the way Sharon’s problems had overshadowed their own happiness. And angry with Ben for letting them?

What would she have preferred him to do—come back from Manchester pretending that everything was all right, keep the truth from her so that it need not spoil her pleasure, shield her from his own pain?

No, of course not. She loved him. She wanted to share his pain as well as his pleasure; the bad things as well as the good.

Before she left for work, Zoe propped the letter up against the kettle and scrawled a note, which she put beside it, saying, ‘I love you too,’ and then drew a heart which she filled with tiny kisses.

Poor Sharon. Did she lie awake in bed at night with her hands on her swollen belly, dreaming of a man who would love her—and her baby? She was so lucky, Zoe admitted. If she were in Sharon’s shoes…

Ben had made no secret of the fact that he felt that Sharon should have had her pregnancy terminated, and Zoe couldn’t help agreeing with him. It would surely have been the best solution for everyone. But Sharon had not taken that option and now it was too late.

Another mouth to feed, Ben had said bitterly, and Zoe had sensed his anger, his frustration, his refusal to see the coming baby as anything other than an extra financial burden he did not want to have to shoulder.

‘I don’t want children,’ he had told her, but then neither did she. Not at this stage in her life. Maybe later, much, much later, when she had done all the things she wanted to do.

Her shift started at two and finished officially at ten, but it was gone half-past eleven before she was finally able to leave the hotel and almost one before her battered but reliable Mini brought her back to the flat.

She had expected Ben to be in bed; after all, he had to be up at four. But as she searched for her key he surprised her by opening the door for her.

‘Ben!’ She smiled her happiness up at him.

‘I’m sorry… About last night,’ he told her gruffly as he opened his arms to her, kicking the door shut behind her.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered back. ‘You were upset. Did you see the letter?’

‘What letter?’ he murmured, lazily nuzzling the delicate vulnerable flesh just behind her ear, but his casual tone did not deceive Zoe. She knew him too well.

‘You know which one,’ she told him. ‘Have you opened it?’

His tongue was slowly exploring the shape of her ear, sending small frissons of sensation racing down her spine, making her want to move her body against his, to stretch languorously and sensually against him like a cat being stroked.

‘Of course I haven’t.’ Ben smiled at her as he released her. ‘You didn’t really think I’d open it without you, did you? Come on, let’s open it now…’

‘No,’ Zoe told him, watching him frown. ‘Let’s open it in bed instead,’ she suggested, her eyes narrowing with laughter and warmth as she added, ‘Then we can really celebrate if it’s good news.’

‘And if it’s not?’ Ben cautioned.

She smiled lovingly at him.

‘If it’s not, then we’ll be in the right place to commiserate with each other, won’t we? But it won’t be bad news,’ she told him firmly.

She insisted that he should be the one to open it and then closed her eyes, urging him to hurry because she couldn’t bear the suspense any longer, crossing her fingers behind her back as she listened to the sounds of him tearing open the envelope.

She could feel his tension and stillness as he read whatever was inside and then, unable to bear it any longer, she opened her eyes and begged.

‘What does it say?’

Silently Ben handed her the contents of the envelope. She scanned the letter quickly before dropping it on to the bed to scrutinise the thick glossy brochure which it had been attached to.

‘Oh, Ben! Look… it’s perfect!’

‘You haven’t read it properly yet,’ he derided her, but he was smiling and she could tell, although he was struggling hard to conceal it, that he was almost as excited as she was herself.

‘Don’t start getting your hopes too high,’ Ben warned her later when the brochure had been read and re-read at least a dozen times. ‘As Clive points out in his letter, there’s a long way to go. We’ll need planning permission to convert the stable block for one thing, and then…’

‘But it’s so perfect,’ Zoe interrupted him excitedly. ‘All that land…’

‘Which will have to be maintained. Gardens are all very well, but they don’t look after themselves, you know.’

‘No. No, of course not, but that walled vegetable garden… You said yourself that with people becoming more aware of the importance of how their food is grown as well as prepared…’ she began impatiently, but Ben shook his head.

‘We’re a long way from growing our own produce, Zoe. That’s something that will be way, way ahead in the future.’

‘But with a house like this at least we’ll have the potential for that kind of future development, won’t we?’

‘We don’t know that Clive will be able to buy the place yet,’ Ben reminded her. ‘He only says in his letter that the property is suitable and that, because of its situation, it won’t be overpriced.’

‘No, but he says that the surrounding area is reasonably prosperous, and that he believes that there will be a demand for a first-class restaurant, and then there’ll be weddings and other functions. Oh, Ben… it’s perfect. We’ll be able to use the gardens for marquees, and it says here that there’s a large pond…’

‘Which we’ll probably have to fill in, if we don’t want to spend half our time fishing drunken wedding guests out of it,’ Ben supplied drily.

Zoe made a small moue and flung her pillow at him.

‘You don’t fool me,’ she told him. ‘I know that you’re just as excited about it all as I am. When shall we go and see it? Clive says he’ll make arrangements for us to view it with him, if we can give him a date. Ben… Ben, what are you doing?’ she protested as he took hold of her and started kissing her.

‘Didn’t you say something about us celebrating?’ he asked her, his voice muffled as he kissed the soft curve of her breast.

‘It’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve got to be up at four.’

‘Who needs to wait until four?’ he told her. ‘I’m “up” right now; come and feel for yourself.’

Zoe laughed, enjoying his unusual mock-macho display. It wasn’t like him to either talk or behave so playfully, and she felt her own spirits lift as she responded to his ebullience.

She repaid him for it later though, laughing as he protested at the delicate friction of her teeth against his skin.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded as she released him, craning his head over his shoulder suspiciously as he saw her face.

‘Nothing,’ she fibbed innocently, her eyes full of laughter as she surveyed the results of her handiwork, the small neat heart-shaped outline of lovebites she had drawn quite deliberately across his buttocks.

‘Will you be playing rugby on Sunday?’ she asked him sleepily as she curled up next to him.

Whenever he could, he played in a small team made up in the main of fellow chefs, and when she could Zoe went along with him to cheer him on. This Sunday, though, she would be working. Which was probably just as well, she reflected, smiling to herself as she visualised the results of her ardent handiwork.

‘Have you any days’ holiday left?’

Sleepily Zoe opened her eyes, lifting her head off the pillow to stare through the darkness at Ben. She had thought he was already asleep.

‘Yes, I think so. Why?’

‘I was just thinking. When we go down to see the house, it might be a good idea to take a few days off, have a good look round and weigh up the competition.’

‘A holiday?’ Zoe was sitting bolt upright now, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘Oh, Ben, could we?’

She knew how careful he was with his budget. Careful but not mean—never that. She earned more than he did, and she also had her parents to turn to should she need to do so. Because of that she was careful not to offend his pride by offering to pay for too many extra ‘treats’. She also knew how much he would be worrying about Sharon’s coming baby—the extra mouth he would insist on helping to feed, no matter how much he might rail now against the child’s conception.

‘I don’t see why not. We could always put it down to business expenses,’ he added drily. ‘Isn’t that the way it’s done? Mind you, why should I knock it? It will be all those executives with their hefty expense accounts that we’ll need to attract if we’re going to make this thing pay. Running a hotel isn’t like running a restaurant.’

Zoe caught the underlying note of tension in his voice and frowned. She was fully awake now and so obviously was he.