Now that she was getting what she wanted, she realized what she had known all along. She didn't want it. She never had. She didn't want Franco to do a con¬venient vanishing act, and she didn't want her com¬munications with him to be reduced to conversations between lawyers.
But there was a big difference between what she wanted, what she could have and what had been of¬fered, and Ruth knew that, however tempting it was to snatch at the little she had on the off chance that it might lead to bigger, more substantial things, she would be a fool to do it.
She undressed and slipped into her nightie, the starched maiden aunt one, and then crept along the corridor to the unused bathroom, which was the size of a matchbox, and up a few winding stairs en route to the attic. There, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and then rested on the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Locking for changes in her body had become some¬thing of a nightly ritual. After she had recovered from the initial shock of her pregnancy, a deep feeling of satisfied pleasure had taken its place. She had become accustomed to inspecting her face and her body for any differences. Her breasts, she knew, had grown. She had never been flat-chested and now they were heavy, the nipples bigger and darker than before.
Her stomach was beginning to fill out too, though not obviously so. She just fitted into her clothes a little more snugly. Soon those small changes would become unmistakable, until her stomach would swell with her child, their child.
Knowing that Franco would not be around to wit¬ness any of those changes was like carrying a splinter around in her heart.
Knowing that he would share their child but not her life was an ache that seemed to have no end.
Worse than that was the knowledge that one day he would meet a woman with whom he wanted to build his life, and it would be inevitable that she, Ruth, would meet this woman, would know that the happi¬ness she would never have belonged to someone else, and she would have to smile bravely through that knowledge even if she was weeping inside.
It was scant comfort to know that she was doing the right thing in standing firm against Franco. She had already paid dearly for giving in to temptation. She placed the flat of her hand against her stomach and stood very, very still, wondering if she could feel the baby move inside her. But it was too early yet, and, with a little sigh, she headed back towards the bedroom.
Evidence of Franco's decision to leave was strewn around the room. A pile of clothing lay on the bed and his two suitcases had been dragged out and opened. More clothes were crammed in, a creased bundle of shirts, trousers, underwear, ties and socks.
Ruth watched numbly as he continued to hurl more various items of clothing from bed to case, ignoring her in the process.
"There's no need for you to leave tonight," she said weakly, and when he didn't bother to look at her, she repeated herself in a louder voice.
"But isn't that what you want?" Franco jeered, fling¬ing some after-shave into the case with venomous pre¬cision. He was wearing a pair of khaki-colored trou¬sers and a shirt which had not been buttoned up and gaped to expose the muscular wall of his chest.
Yes, he admitted with vicious self-disgust, he had finally reached the bottom of the road. Here he was, self-control shot to hell, acting like a toddler. And she was to blame. She of the creamy hair and creamy skin and innocent, dreamy smile that could drive a man mad within seconds. She had reduced him to this. Pelting clothes into a suitcase glowering with rage and confusion and sheer, bloody hurt.
He looked at her, standing by the door, her face wearing an appalled expression, and a lifetime of knowing precisely what to say on precisely what oc¬casion deserted him. He knew that if he opened his mouth he would not be able to hide his bewilderment at this strange turn of the tide.
It's for the best," she said miserably. "But there's no need for you to...to be so dramatic... I mean..."
"Dramatic?" His voice was thick with an ominous tone of threat, and Ruth looked at him hesitantly. Of course she had said the wrong thing. Didn't she specialize in that? It was only natural that he would be furious at her refusal to go along with him. He was a sophisticated man of the world. He would be utterly perplexed at the moral inconsistency of a woman who could happily sleep with him until she got pregnant, and then wouldn't come within a mile of him.
"I d...didn't mean dramatic..." she stammered.
The accuracy of the description had cut to the quick. He was, he knew, being dramatic. Behaving like a complete ass. And the worst of it was that he just couldn't help himself. His hand was throwing items of clothing into the suitcase, the muscles in his face were contracting into an expression of glowering rage, his mouth appeared to have a will of its own and was spouting forth the sort of rubbish that he would have sneered at in someone else.
And where the hell was his brain in all of this? His brain was fine, thank you very much. His brain knew full well that he should just walk away from the sit¬uation and give her what she craved, namely his ab¬sence, even though her body might still want to be touched by his.
"Mum and Dad are going to wonder... I mean, we've... you've only just gone and bought..." She ges¬tured towards the bed, which had been the source of this final, tragic showdown. "What are they going to think?"
"It's time you stopped living for what your parents want," he said harshly, snapping shut the suitcases and buttoning up his shirt.
"I don't live for what my parents want." Ruth took a deep breath and lashed out with unexpected vigor. "I consider their feelings. That's something entirely different. Haven't you ever considered the feelings of someone else?"
There was a telling silence, then Ruth said slowly. "You haven't, have you? You've always had what you wanted. You have money and charm and good looks and...and...everything's always gone your way. You've never had to stand back and think about other people because other people were always there, think¬ing about you."
"That's a load of rubbish," he countered uncomfort¬ably, wondering how her description of him as having charm and good looks had managed to backfire into an insult.
"No, it's not. It's the truth." She took a few steps into the room, stepping around the suitcases and head¬ing for the small wooden rocking chair that was now jammed against the wall since the arrival of the double bed. She sat down and looked at him.
"That's why you're in such a rush to get out of here. You wanted to sleep with me and because I said no, you decided to clear out as fast as your legs could take you. Now that you won't be getting what you want, you no longer feel the need to impress Mum and Dad, or even to tell them to their face that you're leaving. You've washed your hands of the situation and you can't wait to clear out."
"Listen to yourself!" His voice was confidently dis¬missive, but he still had to admit to himself that what she had said made sense, even if every single word was wildly off target. "I'm doing what you want and you have the nerve to tell me that I'm being inconsid¬erate!"
"I'm asking you to wait until morning, at least. You've gone and told Mum and Dad that..." She could feel her eyes welling up again, and she gulped back the urge to cry. Hormones, pregnancy and a naturally soft nature were conspiring to turn her into a sodden, weeping mess. That a blessing would be a brilliant idea, and now, just when they will have gone to bed crowing with delight at the thought of it, planning what needs to be done, you're prepared to walk out without even saying goodbye!"
"I..." Now he felt like a cad. For once in his life he had been propelled by emotion, and he had come out of it looking like a cad. He shot her a seething, defen¬sive look, but was finding it difficult to defend his stance.