‘She was never technically unfaithful but she had no intention of giving up her numerous men-friends, not even after Nicola was born—or should I say especially after Nicola was born? It’s ironic that I should have married a woman so much like my mother…’
Harriet blinked at this insult. ‘I thought your mother was a saint?’ she blurted out, remembering what he had told her the other night.
‘I’m talking about my natural mother. My father got a young woman pregnant just before he married Mum. By all accounts she was as irresponsible as they come— beautiful but dumb, except where men were concerned. When she fronted up to Mum after the wedding, asking for money, Mum persuaded her not to have an abortion. When I was born it was Mum who took me home from the hospital…my birth-mother just wanted to forget I existed.
‘I can forgive her lack of intelligence and even her lack of maternal feelings, but I can’t forgive her for flitting in and out of my childhood whenever she was bored or broke, fawning over me and claiming she’d never wanted to give me up, refusing to allow Mum the status of being my legal mother. I was only about six when they told me she’d been killed in an accident but I remember feeling glad that she was never coming back.’
‘I don’t suppose she was a bleached blonde too, by any chance?’ said Harriet flippantly, to hide how appalled she was by his matter-of-fact account of what must have been an emotional turmoil. Having grown up in a deeply loving, traditional family, she couldn’t comprehend the idea of not wanting your own child.
She felt mortified when he confirmed cynically, ‘How perceptive of you to guess, Dr Smith. I have photographs from her abortive modelling career that show her as the archetypal bimbo—all pouting lips and breasts and a mass of teased hair. And that was in the days when bleaching your hair instantly identified a woman as either a cheap floozy or an expensive tart.’
Harriet’s hand rose automatically to her hair. ‘So that’s why you have a thing about blondes,’ she murmured, tucking a curl nervously behind her ear, her heart aching for the boy who had despised the woman who had borne him. ‘Because of your unresolved feelings about your mother—’
‘Don’t tell me you’re taking night classes in psychoanalysis too,’ he said with a distinct edge. ‘I suppose you’re going to try and hang an Oedipus complex on me next, or tell me I was trying to return to the security of the womb when I married Serena.’
Since that was precisely the kind of psychobabble that had been passing through her mind, Harriet flushed. ‘If you’re still that touchy about it, maybe you should consider therapy,’ she said, reminding herself that he was now a fully grown man in total control of his life, and in no need of her misplaced sympathy.
‘Why? A human being’s most valuable asset is the ability to learn from experience and thus not be condemned to endlessly repeating his mistakes.’
‘Two blondes amongst millions of women who artificially lighten their hair don’t actually amount to much experience,’ she pointed out scathingly.
‘Oh, there were a few others along the way who contributed to my disillusionment…women who thought my fatal weakness for their synthetic golden looks would forgive them anything. I’ve since realised that a truly sensual woman doesn’t have to flaunt her sexuality; her appeal is much more subtle…and enduring. Unfortunately such women appear to be a rarity in these strident times…’
Was that a dig at her? How many treacherous blondes had it taken to disillusion him, for goodness’ sake? For an intelligent man he must be a slow learner. Harriet felt an ugly emotion boiling up inside her that she knew, with a touch of panic, was jealousy. Fortunately, before it could spill over and scald them both, Marcus said smoothly, ‘So…have you made arrangements to see the boring Mr Pollard again?’
The sudden switch back to his original subject caught Harriet completely off guard and she hesitated a moment too long.
Marcus’s face was harsh with satisfaction as he nodded. ‘I guess not. What’s wrong, Harriet? Didn’t he conform to your computerised specifications? What exactly did you ask for on that ridiculous form you filled in?’
‘A stud!’ she told him, still angry with him for making her feel things that he had no right to make her feel.
‘You want to get pregnant?’ he murmured, eyes dropping to her flat belly.
She gasped, taking a step backwards. ‘No, of course not! I
mean a stud in the slang sense!’
‘Slang sense?’
Her chest heaved with outrage under the white T-shirt but she answered him anyway, since it was just possible that a stuffy conservative really wouldn’t know the modern slang. ‘As in a man who’s young, handsome and virile and exciting!’ Seeing his jaw jut dangerously, she warmed to her theme. ‘Someone who doesn’t have any emotional attachments and won’t make a nuisance of himself afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’
She managed not to blush. ‘The next morning!’ she flung at him defiantly.
His gaze wandered slowly up from her waist, his thick, dark lashes screening his expression. ‘So what’s next on the agenda? Or should I say who? Has the computer lined you up with another white-hot prospect for tonight?’
She was frustrated by his lack of reaction. ‘Tomorrow night, actually. Tonight I have a class.’
‘I thought that was Monday.’
‘Monday is French. Wednesday is car maintenance.’
He looked alarmed. ‘You’re not going to try to service the Porsche yourself?’
She almost laughed at his expression. ‘Your chauvinism is showing; but no, this is just a hobby…a way to meet people.’
‘You mean men,’ he said bluntly, his eyes narrowing. ‘All these classes you’re taking aren’t just about expanding your interests, are they, Harriet? They’re a way for you to meet a few more wham-bam-thank-you-Sams!’