The Baby Scandal(31)

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.