Dangerous Passions

CHAPTER FIVE

THE rest of the week was an anti-climax. Jaime went to work every morning anticipating the worst, and came home every evening fully expecting Ben to have contacted Tom in her absence. But he didn’t. Tuesday seeped into Wednesday, and Thursday into Friday, and there was no further communication from him. Indeed, it got to such a point that Jaime actually found herself wondering if he was ill, and although she told herself that that prospect gave her no concern it gave her no satisfaction either. Tom, she knew, was disappointed that his uncle hadn’t been in touch. In spite of his brave statement of indifference, he had expected Ben to try to see him again. Of course, he knew nothing about his mother’s encounter at the beginning of the week. Jaime had had no choice but to keep that to herself. She only hoped that if Ben did see Tom again he would do the same. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her son, but it was too late now to do anything about it.

‘Are you going to the disco tonight?’ she asked on Friday evening, finding even the prospect of her son’s continuing association with Angie Santini preferable to the alternative at the moment, but Tom shook his head.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘I don’t feel like it. I think I’ll clear out my room instead.’

‘Clear out your room?’ Jaime turned from straining vegetables at the sink to stare at her son. ‘Since when did you clear out your room without being asked?’

‘Since now,’ exclaimed Tom defensively. ‘Well—there’s not much else to do, is there?’

Jaime hesitated. ‘Well, it’s a lovely evening. You could take—Angie—for a walk.’

‘Nah.’ Tom shook his head again. ‘Angie’s going to the disco.’

‘And you’re not?’ Jaime couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.

‘I’m not in the mood,’ declared her son, flinging himself into a chair at the table. ‘Not tonight, anyway.’

Jaime shook her head now, not quite knowing how to take this unexpected turn of events. She couldn’t help thinking that Tom hadn’t had these reservations last weekend, and the connection between Ben’s visit and her son’s sudden aversion to going out was impossible to ignore.

‘You’ve not fallen out with Angie, have you?’ she ventured, needing to clarify the situation in her own mind, and Tom looked up at her with guarded eyes.

‘No,’ he said, toying with the cutlery Jaime had laid on the table. ‘Why? Do you want me to go out or something?’

‘Of course not.’ Jaime was thrown on the defensive now, although another thought had occurred to her. ‘It’s just not usual for you to spend Friday night at home, that’s all. You’re not—expecting anyone, are you?’

‘Are you?’

‘Me?’ Jaime was lifting a casserole out of the oven as she spoke, and the word degenerated into a squeak of pain as the dish slipped against her palm. ‘Damn,’ she added, shoving the offending container on to the hob and pressing her two palms together. ‘Who would I be expecting?’

Then, as she was staring somewhat resentfully at her son, the doorbell rang. Like a blatant reaction to her plea of innocence, the sound echoed resonantly around the small kitchen, and Tom was out of his chair and on his way to answer it almost before the chimes died away. But it was the expression he flung at his mother as he did so that caused Jaime’s heart to lurch in silent protest. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he believed she knew who it was, and his interpretation was obvious.

Jaime froze as he bounded up the hall, the casserole forgotten on the hob beside her. It had to be Ben, she thought sickly, guessing he had chosen this way to do things to avoid any repetition of the confrontation they had had on Monday. By coming to the house, he was forcing her to accept him. And Tom was simply playing into his hands.

The door opened, but the voice that greeted her son wasn’t Ben’s. It was female, and as the numbness that had gripped her began to ease Jaime recognised her mother’s voice. Her mother’s voice! A wave of hysteria swept over her, and she had to physically suppress the urge to laugh out loud. It wasn’t Ben, it was her mother. Dear God, was she going mad?

‘It’s Nan,’ announced Tom offhandedly, preceding his grandmother into the room, and resuming his seat at the table. He didn’t look at his mother, and, conscious of her own weakness, Jaime guessed her son was suffering the same reaction. He had expected it to be Ben, of course, and the sulky twist to his lips was an indication of his disappointment.

‘Hi, Mum!’

Jaime greeted her mother warmly, but Mrs Fenner surveyed the pair of them rather wryly. ‘Did I interrupt an argument or what?’ she asked, setting her handbag down on the floor and unbuttoning her jacket. ‘If I’m in the way, I can easily go back home.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mum.’ Jaime flashed her son a reproving look, and went to help her mother off with her coat. ‘You’re not interrupting anything. We were just going to eat, actually. Why don’t you join us?’

‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Fenner shook her blonde head. Like her daughter—and her grandson—her hair had once been silvery pale, and although its colour now owed more to the skills of her hairdresser than to nature she was still a very attractive woman. ‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea, if that’s all right with you. It’s so hot! It’s years since we’ve had a summer like this.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have something to eat?’ Jaime moved the casserole on to the table, and took off the lid. ‘It’s your favourite—chicken.’

‘Honestly.’ Her mother fanned herself with a languid hand. ‘Besides, I had a sandwich before I came out. And I mustn’t stay long. I promised your father I’d be back before the place got busy.’

‘All right.’ Jaime looked at her son again. ‘Why don’t you fill the kettle, Tom?’

‘Oh, sure—–’

Tom would have got up from the table there and then, but his grandmother’s hand kept him in his chair. ‘Stay where you are!’ she exclaimed, patting his shoulder. ‘When the day comes that I can’t fill a kettle for myself, I’ll let you know.’

Jaime sighed but, setting the plates on the table, she took her seat. She noticed that Tom avoided her eyes as she ladled some of the delicious-smelling casserole on to his plate, and she guessed he was having a hard time hiding his feelings. She couldn’t help wondering what she would have done if it had been Ben at the door. From now on, that would always be a possibility, and it wasn’t easy to come to terms with.

‘So, to what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ she asked now, making a determined effort to act naturally. ‘Dad’s OK, isn’t he? There’s nothing wrong?’

‘Heavens, no!’

But her mother’s response was almost too prompt, and Jaime was disturbed. It was rare that her mother came here unannounced, and never at this time of day. There had to be a reason. But what?

‘I—er—I’ve been to the Cash and Carry,’ Mrs Fenner said quickly, putting two tea-bags into the pot. ‘I just thought I’d call in—as you didn’t come over last weekend.’

‘Oh.’ That sounded reasonable, but after handing Tom his plate Jaime made no attempt to fill her own. ‘Well—as you know, it was the Haines’s party on Saturday night, and we just had a lazy day on Sunday.’

‘Late night, huh?’ suggested her mother mildly, and Jaime wondered what all this was really about.

‘Not really—–’ she was beginning slowly, when Tom broke in.

‘Uncle Ben came here last Saturday night,’ he interjected, ignoring his mother’s sudden intake of breath. ‘He came while Mum was out. But he stayed until she got home.’

‘Did he?’ Now it was Mrs Fenner’s turn to look disturbed, and she turned half anxious, half accusing eyes in her daughter’s direction. ‘You never said.’

‘Well—I haven’t had the chance, have I?’ Jaime knew she had no need to feel guilty, but she did. ‘I—would have—–’

‘So, he spent the evening with Tom,’ Mrs Fenner murmured faintly, and her grandson nodded.

‘Yes. And he was really nice,’ he declared, through a mouthful of chicken and vegetables. ‘He told me all about working for the BBC, and what it was like living in South Africa. His wife died out there, you know. Auntie Maura, that is. Apparently, she’d been ill for years.’ He paused, and looked defensively at his mother. ‘Did you know that, Mum?’

Jaime got up from the table. ‘I’ve told you, Tom, I’ve got no interest in anything Ben Russell says or does. Now—can we change the subject? Mum—–’ she looked to her mother for assistance ‘—why don’t you go and sit outside? I’ll bring a tray out to you.’

‘Oh—very well.’

Mrs Fenner looked as if she would have liked to argue, but discretion, and her daughter’s tense face, persuaded her otherwise. With a rueful smile at Tom, she opened the back door and stepped out on to the sunny patio.

‘I suppose you think I shouldn’t have told Nan,’ Tom muttered in a low voice as soon as his grandmother was out of earshot, but Jaime only shook her head.

‘It doesn’t matter to me who you tell,’ she retorted, though the cups and saucers clattered a bit as she set them on the tray. ‘Finish your meal. There’s seconds if you want them.’

It was a relief to step outside. At this hour of the afternoon the sun’s rays were muted by the fronds of the willow tree that trailed in a corner of the garden. There were stripes of sun and shadow across the wrought-iron table, where Jaime set the tray, and the warm air was scented with the perfume of the flowers.

Jaime pushed the tray towards her mother, and then flopped into the chair opposite. But if she had hoped that by escaping from the house she had escaped thinking about Ben Russell she was mistaken.

‘Does he know?’

The question was oblique, but Jaime knew exactly what it meant. ‘He thinks he does.’

‘What does that mean?’ Mrs Fenner stared at her daughter with wide eyes. ‘Did you tell him?’

‘I didn’t have to,’ replied Jaime wearily. ‘He’d seen Tom. He guessed.’

‘But—Tom doesn’t look like the Russells.’

‘Apparently, he does. Ben’s father, anyway. Besides, when you see them together, the likeness is unmistakable. It’s not so much in appearance. It’s more to do with their personality, their character.’

‘Well, I hope Tom doesn’t have his father’s weaknesses!’ exclaimed Mrs Fenner shortly. ‘Honestly, Jaime, I thought all that was behind us!’

‘Do you think I didn’t?’

There was a suspicious brightness to Jaime’s eyes as she looked at her mother, and Mrs Fenner clicked her tongue in sympathy. ‘You should have rung and told us. I wondered why I hadn’t heard from you.’

Jaime sniffed, and determinedly straightened her spine. ‘Is that why you came?’

‘No.’ Mrs Fenner pulled a rueful face as she poured two cups of tea, and passed one over to her daughter. ‘Actually—–’ She glanced towards the house to assure herself that Tom wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, and then continued, ‘Actually, I came to warn you, that—that he’d moved into the Priory.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jaime heaved a sigh, and took a determined mouthful of her tea. ‘And Tom stole your thunder.’

‘Well, it wasn’t quite like that,’ retorted her mother drily. ‘Although, I must admit, I’m disappointed that you didn’t feel we had a right to know what was happening. For heaven’s sake, Jaime, this could cause all sorts of complications.’

‘I know.’

‘I gather he didn’t tell Tom.’

Jaime put down her cup. ‘No.’

‘And you haven’t?’

Jaime made a sound of impatience. ‘Is that likely?’

Mrs Fenner bit her lip. ‘Well, what’s he going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jaime felt desperate, and sounded it. ‘He—he suggests we just—play it by ear.’

Mrs Fenner blinked. ‘Well, I must say he’s taking it rather coolly, isn’t he? I don’t know that I’d have his presence of mind.’

Jaime shrugged. ‘The Russells aren’t like us, are they?’

‘Even so…’ Her mother frowned. ‘I gather you managed to speak to him alone.’

‘Well—yes.’ Jaime shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘I—I had lunch with him on Monday.’

‘You’ve been out with him!’

Her mother sounded quite scandalised now, and Jaime hurried to reassure her. ‘It wasn’t my idea. He came to the office. On Monday lunchtime,’ she explained. ‘Obviously, he couldn’t say anything while—while Tom was around, and—well, I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.’

‘It didn’t occur to him that Tom might be Philip’s son, not his?’ her mother queried doubtfully, and Jaime uttered a tired sigh.

‘Yes,’ she said, resting her elbows on the table, closing her eyes and sliding slim fingers into the damp hair at her temples. ‘Of course, that was what he thought at first.’

‘But you disabused him?’

‘No, Mum. He guessed. I told you.’ Jaime’s head was beginning to throb, and she felt that if she heard one more word about Ben Russell she’d scream. She opened her eyes again, and looked hollowly at her mother. ‘Now, can we talk about something else?’

Mrs Fenner frowned. ‘You can’t expect me not to be curious, Jaime. For heaven’s sake, the man comes back to Kingsmere, after all these years, and the first person he comes to see is you!’ She paused. ‘You must admit, it was a coincidence.’

‘It’s not a coincidence at all.’ Jaime looked away towards the roses, which were espaliered against the wall that divided her garden from the one next door. ‘He’d heard I was living here. I suppose he thought it was only polite to make contact.’

‘Rubbish!’ Mrs Fenner spoke disparagingly. ‘If your relationship with that man had been a normal one, I might have believed you. But after what he did to you—–’

‘Oh, Mum, shut up, will you?’ Jaime didn’t think she could take any more, and she cast an anxious glance at the open kitchen door. ‘Don’t you think I have enough to worry about?’ she exclaimed, her eyes darting pointedly towards the house. ‘I don’t need you to tell me what I already know.’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Her mother shrugged somewhat huffily. ‘But I worry about you, Jaime. And I wonder what he’ll do, that’s all. I mean, he’s not well, is he?’

Jaime’s drifting attention focused on her mother’s face. ‘Not well?’

‘No. That’s why he came back to England, isn’t it? For treatment. Didn’t you know?’

Jaime tried to remember what Tom had told her. He had said that Ben had been ill, and that that was why he had come back to England. But she hadn’t paid much attention to Tom’s explanations, deciding they had been offered as a sop to Tom’s pride rather than a true representation of the facts. Oh, she had seen for herself how Ben had changed, and she was quite prepared to accept that living in a war zone must be tough, but she had not allowed herself to feel any sympathy for him. Now, however…

‘You didn’t know?’ Mrs Fenner sounded surprised. ‘Well, it seems my journey hasn’t been entirely wasted. Yes, according to what I’ve heard he has some kind of liver problem.’

Jaime’s stomach heaved, and she got abruptly to her feet. A liver problem! she thought sickly. Oh, God! Liver problems could be terminal, couldn’t they? Surely that wasn’t why he had come back to England—to die?

‘Where are you going?’

Her mother’s voice reaching her from across the courtyard made Jaime realise she had started almost involuntarily towards the house, and she came to an uncertain stop. But her initial instincts had been to find out if it was true, by whatever means she had at her disposal.

‘Oh—I was just going to see if Tom had finished his meal,’ she offered lamely, but she could tell from her mother’s expression that she was not deceived.

‘You can’t still care about him,’ Mrs Fenner whispered disbelievingly, and although her words were barely audible Jaime couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard them.

‘No!’ she responded fiercely. ‘No, of course I don’t care about him. But—God! You can’t tell me something like that without producing some reaction.’ She ran a dazed hand over her forehead. ‘Who told you?’

Mrs Fenner sighed. ‘Oh—I don’t remember now. You know how these things get about. People will talk, and pubs are veritable hotbeds of gossip.’

‘Is it serious?’ Jaime had to know.

‘I don’t know.’ Her mother got to her feet now. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve already stayed longer than I intended, and your father has his Chamber of Trade meeting tonight.’

‘Of course.’ Jaime nodded. ‘Um—give Dad our love, won’t you?’

‘Will you be all right?’ Mrs Fenner stopped beside her daughter, and put a worried hand on Jaime’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’

‘It’s OK, Mum. Honestly.’

Somehow, Jaime managed to reassure her that she was fine, and Tom’s presence prevented any further confidences. Besides, what else was there to say? thought Jaime, as she waved her mother away. Just because Ben had apparently contracted some kind of tropical complaint did not mean he was dying. She was over-reacting. He’d said he’d picked up a bug in Africa, and that was a far cry from liver failure, which was what she had first thought of. No, he would survive. The problem was, would she?

CHAPTER SIX

THE weekend dragged by. Jaime refused to accept that both she and Tom were suffering the effects of Ben’s failure to get in touch, but the fact remained that they each, for their own reasons, had expected that he would.

For Jaime’s part, she blamed Tom for creating such an air of gloom and despondency about the place. He wouldn’t contact his friends; he wouldn’t go out. He just lounged in front of the television set, switching channels, and generally making a nuisance of himself.

Which wasn’t like him, she thought frustratedly. Until Ben Russell had come on the scene, Tom had been a fairly well-balanced teenager and, in retrospect, even his infatuation for Angie Santini seemed completely natural. And he and she had always got along so well together. In fact, she used to feel rather smug, when the other women at work had complained about their children. She had had no real problems with Tom. Until now.

Damn Ben Russell, she thought on Sunday evening, as she prepared for bed. It was typical of him to dangle the prospect of his exciting life under Tom’s nose, and then withdraw it again, untried. Was that how he was going to get his revenge against her? By hurting his own son?

Monday was a hectic day, and by mid-afternoon Jaime’s head was aching badly. It felt like the start of a migraine, and as Felix had appointments all afternoon she rang him and asked if he’d mind if she left early.

‘Would you like someone to drive you home?’ he asked, after giving her his blessing, and Jaime thought how considerate some men were compared to others.

‘No, I can manage,’ she demurred, wanting only to be on her own for a while. ‘But thanks, anyway. I’ll see you in the morning.’

The house was hot, after being shut up all day, and she opened all the windows, and the back door, before settling down with a cup of tea and two aspirins. It was only three o’clock. Tom wouldn’t be home for another hour yet. She could relax.

A fly came in the door and began buzzing at the window, and Jaime sighed. Flies were such stupid creatures, she thought irritably. No sooner did they get into the house than they were trying to get out again. And how was it they could find the doorway perfectly easily coming in, but completely lost direction afterwards?

The window was open, too, so all the thing had to do was circle to the right to get out. But, of course, it didn’t. It just kept on buzzing around in the middle of the pane, until the tension it was creating forced Jaime to get up again to dispose of it. And, as she was endeavouring to sweep it to freedom, the phone rang.

‘Oh, great!’ Jaime cast one last malevolent look at the insect, and then, throwing down the newspaper she had been using as a tool, she stalked into the hall, and snatched up the receiver. ‘Yes?’