‘Look,’ Marcus told her wearily, ‘all I’m trying to do is help to make things easier for you. You want to go to Provence but you say you can’t because of Vanessa, but then, when I say that I’ll look after her, you accuse me of wanting to get rid of you.’
Eleanor looked away from him. How would she tell him how afraid she felt, that she didn’t want to go and leave him alone with Vanessa in case… In case what? In case Vanessa turned him completely against her? Wasn’t she doing a good enough job on her own? And besides, why should she feel suddenly that his love was less strong than her own, his need of her less than hers of him?
‘I don’t understand, Nell. I’m doing my best.’ She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, willing back
the sharp tears burning behind her closed eyelids.
‘I’m sorry, Marcus. It’s just…’ She shook her head. ‘You’re right. It probably will be better for Vanessa if she has you to herself for a few days.
‘For God’s sake, Nell. It’s not Vanessa I’m doing this for, it’s you…’
She smiled crookedly at him, wondering why she felt as though the assurance had somehow come too late; as though it had no power to smooth the pain away from the raw, hurting place inside her.
‘Why do these things always have to come at the wrong time? I need the business so badly, Marcus, but I need to be here as well—the house…’
She caught herself up as she heard his smothered exclamation of impatience.
She felt achingly empty and sore inside and wondered if he was concealing the same suppressed feelings of resentment and pain from her as she was from him…
They made love that night—if you could call it that—perfunctorily and silently, and afterwards, when she was sure Marcus was asleep, Eleanor lay on her back, letting the tears trickle silently on to her pillow, contrasting the silent distancing act with the ecstatic intimacy they had once shared.
The first time they had made love she had been so nervous… and uncertain—not of loving and wanting Marcus, but of not disappointing him or herself.
Life as a successful single woman might have taught her that it was not her or any other woman’s duty to do anything, material, emotional or sexual, to please a man, and that she had as much right to expect to receive as she had to give, but her early conditioning, the feeling of constantly having to work for her parents’ love and approval, a burden which she had carried with her into her marriage and which she knew had contributed greatly to its failure, was still there, lurking ogre-like in the deep subterranean caves of her psyche. She never felt it more forcefully than at that point in their relationship, when she knew she was going to have to strip herself, not merely physically of her clothes, but mentally as well of the protection of her success, her calm control, her so hard-won self-confidence, and to reveal herself to another human being as she really was.
It was this fear which had held her back from committing herself to the possibility of several earlier relationships with men whom she had liked but for whom she had never allowed herself to feel strongly enough to put aside her self-made protection.
Liking was not what she felt for Marcus, though. She had surprised herself with the intensity of her physical and emotional need for him.
But she was not an accomplished lover, not skilled or experienced in the way that she felt a woman of her age ought to be.
The act of coition was after all a very simple and basic one, but all the nuances of desire and arousal that went with it—they represented a vast and, to her, unfamiliar territory, which she wasn’t sure she had the skills or instincts to traverse successfully.
It was only since the break-up of their marriage that, paradoxically, she had been able to talk with her ex-husband freely about the causes of their problems, both of them now free to admit that they had mistaken other emotions for the kind of love needed to bond two people together and be strong enough to endure the pressures of staying together. Allan had told her that part of the reason he had wanted to marry her was because she had seemed so suitable as a wife.
‘I knew that my parents approved of you, that you were a “nice” girl. The problem was that every time we made love I still thought of you as a “nice” girl and to initiate between us the kind of sexual intensity I wanted seemed to be a violation of that niceness…’
Marcus knew, of course, the history of her life, her marriage and the years since then, just as he had told her, briefly, about his own childhood and marriage. About his relationships since his marriage ended he had said very little, but she had learned from friends that there could have been far, far more of them than there had been; that he had the reputation of being not just a sexually skilled lover, but a truly loving and appreciative one as well.
Marcus had been open with her about his desire for her, but he had not rushed or pressured her.
It was after one evening out that he had driven her home, and told her, after slowly releasing her from the passionate kiss they had been sharing, ‘You know I’m not going to be able to stand much more of this, don’t you?’ and she had known that she must make up her mind one way or another, although it hadn’t been until she had found herself in her doctor’s surgery discussing various methods of birth control that she realised she actually had.
She had vaguely imagined that their first time together would be one evening after they had been out together, here at Marcus’s house, a slow, skilled seduction to which she had no doubt at all that she would respond as helplessly and overwhelmingly as she did when he kissed her; but how would she fare when it was her turn to repay his skilled pleasuring of her? However, in the end it was nothing like that, nothing at all…
She turned her head in the darkness, her body chilled by the knowledge of how insecure and frightened she must feel to need to relive those memories… to cling to them. To remember and cherish them was one thing; to need to relive them because they now seemed to be all she had was another.
But it had been so good… so natural and easy. She had been in the kitchen at home, cleaning out some cupboards; the boys were spending the weekend with their father and Marcus was away in The Hague.
It was a hot, sticky day, she had had her hair tied back in a ponytail and she had been wearing an old T-shirt she kept for household chores. Just the T-shirt… nothing else apart from her briefs.
She had gone to answer the doorbell in some irritation at being interrupted, padding to the door, too stunned to see Marcus standing outside to do anything other than stare at him.
When she did find her voice, all she could manage was an inane, ‘You’re supposed to be in The Hague…’
‘I know.’ He had smiled at her but her heart had suddenly given a little unsteady beat; part of her subconsciously aware of the silent messages his body was giving off, the tension behind his smile, the way he had looked at her as she opened the door.
Self-consciously she stepped back so that he could come in, her hand going to her hair, her face flushing as she started to apologise for her appearance, explaining what she was doing.