What, Rachel wasn’t sure. She pulled her weight at the surgery, as did the other doctors and the practice nurse. Maybe she should persuade Oliver to get a practice manager to take the admin burden off him. But it had been the Bedingfield practice for so long...she had a feeling he’d resist. If he didn’t, his family would. The Bedingfields were a sensitive lot and it would be all too easy to start a full-scale family feud. She really didn’t need to give them an extra excuse to dislike her. Being forthright and Northern was more than enough for them. She had to go carefully.
As usual, bathtime meant there was more water on the floor than in the bath. Rachel dried the children and mopped up. ‘Teeth, story, bed,’ she said.
‘But it’s my birthday,’ Robin protested.
‘You know the routine. Teeth, story, bed.’
‘A princess story?’ Sophie asked, beaming.
Rachel hid a smile. Sophie and her ‘pwintheth thtorieth’. Not that Oliver would have got the joke. He didn’t do bedtime routines. Didn’t have time. Just the same as it was always Rachel who helped Rob do his homework and make birthday cards, Rachel who’d taught both children their letters and colours and numbers, Rachel who listened to Robin’s reading, Rachel who did all the liaison with the school, Rachel who did the laundry and the packed lunches. ‘OK, you can choose a princess story. Rob, you can read whatever story you like, but no more than twenty minutes, OK?’
‘I’ll kiss Daddy goodnight.’ Before Rachel could stop her, Sophie had rushed down the stairs and flung open the door to Oliver’s office. ‘Daddy!’
‘Come on, Rob. Come and have a birthday kiss, too,’ Rachel said.
Oliver definitely wasn’t pleased at the interruption. He was trying to hide it in front of the children, but she recognised the little furrow between his eyebrows. A furrow that was actually starting to leave a line, it appeared so frequently nowadays.
‘Daddy, Daddy.’ Sophie climbed onto her father’s lap and hugged him. ‘Love you.’ Then she leaned backwards and put one hand out to steady herself. It landed on the keyboard of Oliver’s computer.
There was a loud beep and Oliver’s mouth tightened. ‘You’ve deleted the file,’ he said between clenched teeth.
Rachel hastily scooped Sophie out of Oliver’s arms. ‘It was an accident. She’s three, Oliver,’ she reminded him. ‘And you can always restore the file.’
‘No, because I hadn’t saved it. I’ve lost the last half-hour’s work.’
‘The system’s got an autosave function,’ she reminded him, her eyes narrowing.
Robin was hanging back by the doorway, looking worried. Rachel sighed inwardly. ‘Are you going to give the birthday boy a bedtime kiss?’ she asked Oliver quietly.
‘Of course.’ Oliver opened his arms stiffly. ‘’Night, Robin. And happy birthday.’
Not as happy as it had been. Not as happy as it could have been. Sometimes, Rachel thought, she could murder her husband. Why couldn’t he put himself in the kids’ shoes just occasionally?
She shepherded the children to bed, read Sophie three stories about Princess Mouse, let Robin finish the chapter of his book about the robot dog, then kissed them both goodnight and turned off the lights.
Now for Oliver.
‘Don’t make it into a confrontation,’ she reminded herself quietly as she walked downstairs. ‘You’ll just set his back up and get nowhere. If you want him to listen and do something positive, take it softly.’ She rapped on the door of his office and put her head round the door. ‘Oliver?’
He glanced up.
‘Did you get your file sorted?’
‘No, thanks to Sophie. Rachel, you know I don’t like the children coming in here.’
They wouldn’t have to go in if he’d come out to them! She bit back her irritation. ‘Oliver, your memory’s fantastic—it won’t take you that long to put it back together.’ She paused. ‘Saltimbocca OK for dinner?’ His favourite. That would put him in a good mood, surely?
He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do—as well as making up on that half-hour’s work I lost.’
Which had been an accident. And it was only a computer file, hardly a life-or-death situation. She took a deep breath. If she pushed it now, they’d have a row. ‘I’ll make you a sandwich. But, Oliver...I think we need to talk.’
‘About what?’
Did he really not know? Did he think this was a normal marriage? Then again, it might well be, in his terms. He was probably following his father’s pattern. ‘About us.’
‘We’re all right.’
He sounded so sure. Maybe he was right. Maybe the problem was all in her head. Rachel didn’t have the energy for a row. She gave up. ‘Do you want a glass of wine with your sandwich?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
She made a sandwich and quietly took it through to his office. He mumbled a thank you, but she knew he hardly saw her. Her own sandwich tasted like ashes and most of it ended up in the bin. When was the last time they’d eaten as a family? Or was she simply expecting too much?
When she checked on the children, Robin was clutching his favourite teddy in one hand and the string to a rocket-shaped helium balloon—the one her mother had sent by special delivery that morning—in the other. Gently, she disentangled the string and put it safely at the side of the room. He murmured in his sleep; she stroked his hair. ‘Goodnight, Rob. Sweet dreams. I love you,’ she whispered.
Sophie was lying like a small baby with her forearms flopped back, her hands by her ears. Her duvet was half over her face. Rachel straightened it and stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘Goodnight, Soph. Sweet dreams. I love you,’ she said softly.
Her beautiful children. Both with Oliver’s straight dark hair and china-blue eyes. Rob had Oliver’s half-shy smile and tended to keep on the edge of things; Sophie was confident and was usually in the middle. Usually in charge, Rachel thought with a smile. She’d have to teach Sophie to curb her bossy tendencies.
Her smile faded. Oliver wouldn’t. He probably hadn’t even noticed.
She shook herself. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, Rachel Bedingfield, she told herself harshly. You’ve got a good marriage, a good man and two fabulous children. You’ve got a job you love, a nice house and no financial worries. What have you got to be miserable about? Pull yourself together!
Maybe a bath would help. Preferably shared with Oliver—they just about fitted into the bath together—but she knew that was asking for too much. The mood he was in, he’d snap at her if she suggested it.
She used the expensive bath foam he’d bought her for Christmas, and settled back with a magazine.
Is your husband cheating on you? Check our ten typical signs.
She rolled her eyes. Oliver wasn’t a cheat. He didn’t have time to do anything but work. All the same, she couldn’t help reading it and answering the questions in her head.
His looks.
Ha. He hadn’t changed there. Not the way he dressed, the toiletries he used. Definitely not.
His work...an excuse to account for time spent away.
The back of Rachel’s neck prickled. She shook herself. Of course not. Oliver was just a workaholic. He always had been, even as a student.
Personality or behavioural changes.