‘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?
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?’
The voice was unmistakable. It had haunted her dreams for the last ten days and, although she had no desire to speak to him, she couldn’t help the involuntary response of her body.
‘Ben.’ She didn’t pretend not to recognise him. But her tone was distant—in direct contradiction to her emotions. ‘What do you want?’
‘I thought you might be interested to know that Tom’s here,’ declared Ben flatly. ‘Do you want to speak to him?’
Jaime wanted to sit down, but she didn’t. Instead, she hung on to the phone as if it might offer some remnant of support. ‘Tom’s—there!’
Ben expelled his breath. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh, God!’ Jaime caught her breath. ‘What have you done?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ retorted Ben smoothly. ‘As I say, I think you should speak