‘I said ‘‘need’’, not ‘‘want’’,’ he drawled sardonically.
‘It makes no difference. I’m not interested in seeing you.’ But she couldn’t stop her curiosity prompting her to add, ‘Why on earth should we need to meet?’
‘Things to talk about.’
‘Like…what?’ she asked guardedly, warning bells ringing in her head.
It could be about access. Or… She thought of the women in the photographs and the blonde one in particular, who’d been gazing adoringly at him as if he was the source of all life.
Perhaps he wanted a divorce. He wanted his freedom to remarry. Her heart swooped and dived as if she were inside an elevator.
‘I’m not discussing it on the phone,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘This is something we need to do face to face. What are you doing this evening?’
Her mouth dropped open in amazement. ‘This…! Oh, my God! You—you’re in England?’ she croaked, her throat as dry as dust.
No. She couldn’t see him. She was getting stage fright at the very thought. He’d talk about the woman he loved and his eyes would melt with love and she’d be dying inside.
‘Sudden business came up.’
‘Yes, well, I’m working, so put your comments in writing,’ she told him flatly.
‘Working…tonight?’
Stung by the wealth of suggestion in the way he’d said that, she primmed her mouth and then said with laboured patience, ‘Relax, Luc. I’m not patrolling the back alleys of Southwark in fishnet stockings and very little else!’
‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he bit, and she wondered what had happened to his wonderful sense of humour. ‘Did Daddy find you a lucrative job?’ he murmured insolently.
She sniffed. As if she needed help from anyone! ‘I found my own. Your sidekick Donatello must have told you I don’t live with my parents any more.’
‘Got thrown out for impossible behaviour?’
‘Got sick and tired of being pushed around by yet another bossy man!’ she retorted hotly.
Luc grunted. ‘What are you doing to earn your living, then?’
‘I stack shelves in the local supermarket during the day and…’ She chickened out. She couldn’t tell him about her evening job! Being economical with the truth, she said, ‘Three times a week I work at the community centre in the evenings. That’s where I’m going tonight.’
There was a long pause. A hectic colour flushed her neck and face and she was glad he couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t think much of her progress since she’d left him. He wasn’t to know she’d been fighting depression for more than five years.
He’d never enquired after her welfare. The break had been brutally clean. She’d refused his offer of money and he’d washed his hands of her. Out of sight, out of mind.
‘A…supermarket.’ His disapproval was plain to hear.
‘I love it,’ she told him honestly, springing to her own defence. It was the first step of her career. One day she’d manage the store. Then—who knows?
‘Stacking…shelves?’
She permitted herself a smile at his amazement. ‘Oh, you know me,’ she said sarcastically. ‘All fun and no responsibility.’
‘Sounds about right,’ he agreed sourly, not recognising that he was being teased.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and gave up on him. ‘I enjoy it there. It’s like being part of a big family. We have a great time.’
In the pause which followed, Ellen thought sadly of her own dysfunctional family. And of Luc’s doting widowed mother, who’d believed no one, absolutely no one, short of a canonised female saint, would have made a suitable wife for her beloved only son. His mother was dead now. Gemma must be his only blood relative, she mused.
‘I’m glad you’ve found work that matches your skills,’ Luc said rudely. ‘Now. Tonight. What time do you start work?’
‘Seven-thirty.’ Her hand shook, and she glared at it for being so stupid. ‘But I’m not seeing you—’
‘You must. We’ll meet beforehand.’ He stated this in the confident, macho tone which had once made her feel cherished and protected. Now it irritated her beyond belief. ‘Where? Your house?’
She frowned, hating to be pushed around. Inviting Luc to her flat was the last thing she wanted. She’d always met Gemma and Luc’s PA, Donatello, at a local café to protect her privacy. She’d been afraid that Luc would stop Gemma visiting her if he knew how unsuitable her flat was.
‘Why can’t you get it into your head that I don’t want to see you at all?’ she complained crossly. ‘You’re a part of my past I’d rather stick in a sack and bury ten feet under.’
‘That goes for me too. Do you think I want to see you? You’re not exactly my favourite pin-up. But it’s important,’ he retorted. Ellen grumpily recognised that there must be a team of wild horses dragging him kicking and screaming in her direction. ‘This is about Gemma. About you.’
She went cold. That sounded ominous. Her knees seemed to be giving out and she leaned heavily against the peeling wall. ‘But can’t we—?’
‘This must be settled. Choose somewhere public,’ he went on relentlessly, riding roughshod over her feeble objection. ‘I only want ten minutes of your time.’ His tone had become irascible. But then she wasn’t fitting into his plans, was she? ‘Surely you can grant me that, for the sake of my daughter’s well-being?’
His, not our, daughter. Yes, she thought, that was how it was—and he meant to divorce her and demand that she surrender her access rights. An overwhelming sense of defeat enveloped her. Clearly—and understandably, considering the last time Gemma had visited her—he wasn’t happy with even the limited access which the courts had granted her.
Crunch time. Well, she’d known it would come one day. She inhaled slowly, steadying her nerves. Before he broached the subject she would speak to him herself, tell him that she would relinquish what she’d fought so hard for. Seeing her own child grow up.
She drew in a long, shaky breath. She wanted to be the one who called things to a halt, not him. It was a matter of pride, of self-respect and of taking her own life in her hands.
Every fibre of her body shrank from what she must do. And yet, in her heart of hearts, she knew that Gemma didn’t deserve to be dragged away from the home and father she adored and dumped on a mother she didn’t love.
No, worse than that, a mother who frightened her. Ellen’s eyes became filmed with a misty silver. What did the child fear?
The last time Gemma had come, she’d clung to Donatello as if Ellen were a hungry witch on the lookout for a child to fling into her stewpot. The entire visit had been a disaster. Gemma’s silences, inexplicable terror and quiet, desperate sobbing at night had tortured Ellen so much that she’d phoned Donatello and begged him to rescue the little girl before three days had gone by.
Like it or not, she had to face facts. Once and for all, for the sake of her child, she had to forget her own needs. Gemma mustn’t suffer any more.
Oh, God! she thought bleakly. A second sacrifice!
But it would make Gemma happy. That was all she wanted. And, despite the heaviness of her heart, she felt a little comfort in that.
Quickly, in case in a moment of weakness she changed her mind, she said, ‘If I must, I must. There’s a café in Lancaster Street by the tube station. Be there at seven.’ And she cut the connection