For Pleasure...Or Marriage?

Now, a completely different emotion soaked through him. Far, far worse than outrage.

No! His mind cut out. He must not think—must not feel. Must not do anything, anything at all, except keep his foot hard down on the accelerator, giving the engine its head, riding it as if it were a surfboard in a hurricane.

The miles disappeared under the long, sleek bonnet. The junctions slipped by, one after another. Then it was the junction he needed. He slewed off the motorway, scarcely braking to move on to the road heading down to the coast.

He would be there soon, at a destination he did not want, but could not avoid.

It was déjà vu all over again.

The same neat terrace, the same sash windows, the same two steps to the front door, the same bright splash of flower boxes and doorstep tubs. He drew up in the space in front and cut the engine. Was she home? Walking along the seafront again? Having a check-up with her obstetrician?

No! He wasn’t thinking about that—not yet. Not until he had found out the truth.

The truth he did not want. But which he knew he had to discover.

He got out of the car, shutting the door and immobilising the engine. Like an automaton he walked up to the front doo, rapped the knocker and waited.

After an indeterminate moment he lifted his hand to rap again, but even as he did so the door opened to him.

She stood there, staring at him. He saw the colour drain from her face. Saw the door start to close again.

He pushed forward, putting his foot over the threshold to stop her shutting him out.

‘I have to talk to you.’

His voice was low, tense.

For a second she did not answer, then she spoke. Her voice was tight.

‘You did enough talking the last time. I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t need to hear any more. Leave me alone.’

The sound of her voice scraped right over that raw, bleeding spot inside him, but he could not take any notice of that now.

‘I have to talk to you,’ he said again. ‘I have to know—’

‘No!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t have to know anything—not a name, or an address, or anything. I don’t care who you think I ran off with. I don’t care squat what you—’

‘It’s not like that!’

His words cut across hers, urgent, imperative. His shoulders heaved.

‘I have to talk to you. Vanessa—for God’s sake. I have to know!’

He moved past her. He had to get inside. This was not a conversation he could have on the steps of her house. Carefully, as if she were made of red-hot metal, he stepped into the entrance hall. She lurched away from him as if he were equally red-hot, or contaminated with some deadly virus.

The movement away from him jabbed at something inside him. But he could not afford to feel it. Could not afford to do anything at all except get inside her flat and find out the truth, once and for all.

‘One question. That’s all I have to ask.’ He said it as much to himself as to her.

Silently she let him walk into her flat, following him with her differently balanced gait. He turned to look at her, taking her in. Taking in the swell of her abdomen, its secret hidden within.

Something moved in him, so overpowering that it threatened to sweep away everything else. An urge so overwhelming that all he wanted to do was rush to her, wrap his arms around her. Hold her close, as close as he could, hold her and keep her and have her for ever…

‘Well?’

Her voice was cold and distant. She stood looking at him, arms hanging loosely by her sides. She was not dressed in anything he recognised. And she looked, he registered, much as she had done the first time he had set eyes on her: with a natural beauty that took his breath away, unadorned by make-up or designer clothes or jewels.

Just Vanessa. Just herself.