The Yuletide Child

‘Suzy, where are you? Downstairs? Come on up. You know nobody must see you.’

‘No, no, I’m only just leaving. Alan hung around for ages before he went; I could have throttled him—but I’m on my way now, and I’ll see you at around three, okay? Leave the key of the room at the desk; it should be safe enough—everyone should be in this meeting of yours. Bye, love.’

‘Suzy, listen, I have a problem—’ Ross began, but the line had gone dead.

Damn! He replaced the phone with a growl of impatience. Oh, well, he would have to leave her a note, explaining why he wouldn’t be there tonight. He had to let her down. All he could do was hope she wouldn’t be too disappointed.

Lying back in the scented warmth of the bath, Dylan idly contemplated her naked pink toes at the far end and suddenly remembered Ross nibbling them one night when they’d shared a bath, each at opposite ends. While he softly licked and chewed her toes he had been caressing her intimately with his own, making her giggle and shiver with arousal.

‘I want you,’ Ross had said abruptly, in a voice deep with passion, and slithered like a snake up her body, pushing his hands under her weak, wet limbs to lift her, open her, so that he could slide inside, his face pillowed on her breasts as he made love to her.

They had made love everywhere in those early months of marriage. Now they never made love at all.

Was it Suzy? How long had this affair gone on? No, she wouldn’t think about it. It hurt too much.

Stifling a groan, Dylan climbed out, dripping, and put on the white towelling robe Ruth had given her, then sat down on the cork-topped bathroom stool to dry herself carefully. Her bruised ankle felt a little better, although the swelling was all the colours of the rainbow now.

Ruth had also lent her a Victorian-style white cotton nightdress, the bodice busy with lace and white silk ribbons, a blue velvet dressing gown which zipped up the front, and a pair of matching slippers. Dylan eyed them uncertainly. Would she be able to get into them?

To her relief, though, they were very loose and capacious and she had no problem.

As she came down the stairs the smell of food hit her and she realised with surprise that she was hungry. Earlier she had felt she never wanted to eat again—but it was hours since her last meal.

Odd how the body went on working even when you felt your heart was dead.

Ruth looked round, smiling. ‘How do you feel now?’

‘Warm and relaxed,’ Dylan admitted. ‘The spaghetti sauce smells good.’

‘It just occurred to me ... I put garlic in, can you eat it?’

‘Love it. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Thanks, but no need. Everything is ready. Sit down and pour us both a glass of wine. Unless you don’t drink at the moment? Can pregnant women drink wine?’

‘Just watch me,’ Dylan said, filling both the glasses on the table.

Ruth came towards her with a heaped dish of spaghetti, topped with the rich, red sauce. As she laid it in the centre of the table the doorbell rang loudly.

Dylan jumped, her eyes opening wide.

‘Who on earth can that be? Help yourself, Dylan, while I just go to the door.’ Ruth hurried off. Dylan heard her exclaim, heard a male voice reply.

Instantly she thought—Ross! She pushed back her chair, then knew she was crazy. It couldn’t be Ross. He had no idea where she was; he was in York with his lover. He wouldn’t even be thinking about her, let alone coming to find her. Images rose up in her head ... Ross with another woman, Ross making love to Suzy, his dark hair mingling with her blonde strands.

Jealousy and hatred choked her. How could she eat when she felt so sick?

The door into the hall opened and Ruth was back with a middle-aged man. Dylan looked at him, blue eyes dark with pain, and met a penetrating gaze.

‘This is Dr Trafford,’ Ruth told her. ‘By pure luck he happened to be called out to a farm near here and...’

‘I saw your car and your footprints going across the field,’ Henry Trafford told Dylan, undoing his thick tweed overcoat, which Ruth took from him.

‘He loves detective stories,’ said Ruth, laughing. ‘So he—’

‘Used my eyes and my brain,’ Henry interrupted, ‘and worked out that whoever had been in the crash was here, with Ruth. Doctors and detectives have a lot in common, you know—we both have to use guesswork to form a diagnosis. I guessed whoever had been in the car when it crashed might be injured, so I came to see if I could help.’

Dylan shook her head. ‘I wasn’t really hurt—just some cuts and bruises, and a sprained ankle, although I have no idea how I did that. But I’d be very grateful if you could ring a taxi firm for me, or drive me to the nearest taxi office.’