A Perfect Marriage (29 page)

Celine was content to stroll along the wide, smooth, black streaked ironsands, and watch the pounding waves from the safety of the beach. The wind whipped her hair from its fastenings and lashed it across her cheeks. She leaned on Max's arm and when she looked up into his face he was grinning down at her.

They'd always liked this beach in rough weather. One year their two families had shared a holiday house here, and the children had spent two halcyon weeks running wild on the sand and about the rocks, exploring dark, damp caves and climbing cliffs, tumbling down sandhills, digging for shellfish at low tide, and swimming and surfing under the watchful eyes of their parents and older siblings.

Max and Celine still remembered that time with nostalgia. Years later they'd talked of buying a place there and spending holidays in it with their own children. But the day they recalled to each other most vividly was the day of
the
 
storm
, when the surf club life-savers had closed the beach to swimmers and there was nothing to do but stay huddled inside the house playing Scrabble and I Spy.

Max, who was twelve that year, had got restless. That aftemoon, when the unseasonable rain stopped driving against the windowpanes, he'd grabbed a windproof jacket and said, "I'm going to the beach."

His parents looked doubtful, and the other children told him he was crazy, the wind was just howling out there, and it was sure to rain again.

But Celine had said, "I'm coming, too."

The adults argued, but even then Max had been possessed of a strong will and the ability to argue any point. In the end the parents gave them permission provided, they were warned, they stayed well away from the water. "Not even a toe!" Max's father had ordered sternly.

"They'll be okay," Celine heard Nancy say as they fought the door open. "Max won't do anything risky if Celine's with him. He always looks after the younger ones."

Max had been a very responsible boy. Sometimes Celine and Michelle had thought him too bossy, and roused his ire by disregarding his orders. But that day the height of the breakers, great curving walls of water thundering along the shore, and the driving wind awed her into obedience.

She'd staggered once or twice, nearly blown from her bare feet, her heels sinking into rain-soaked sand. Max had taken her hand then, and hauled her with him along the beach until they found a niche in the sandhills where they could sit in relative shelter and watch the hurling, ever-changing sea. They'd huddled together in the shallow hollow for so long, hypnotised by the power of the
elements, that
eventually the women sent their two fathers to find them.

Today wasn't so turbulent, but the waves were impressive and the wind forceful enough to make Celine gasp and tighten her grip on Max's arm to keep her balance.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking down at her.

Celine nodded.
"Fine."
She felt singingly alive, her mind clear and her body, despite its increasing ungainliness, strong and fit. They walked for quite a long way, until
they
 
came
on a huge driftwood log that lay at the foot of a curved cliff, creating an almost windless space on its lee side.

Max quirked an enquiring eyebrow.
"Want to sit here for a while?"

She nodded, and eased herself down gingerly, a hand on her back.

"Is it aching?" he asked, coming down beside her.

"A bit stiff, that's all."

He knelt beside her. "Turn a bit and I'll see if I can ease it for you. Put those antenatal exercises into practice."

She shifted and he moved in closer, holding her between his thighs while he massaged her back with firm, rhythmic strokes.
"Any good?"

"It's soothing, anyway.
A bit lower?"

He went on rubbing until she said, "You must be getting tired. It's helped. Thanks."

He slid his arms about her from behind, under her breasts. His hands rested on the curve below, and she felt the baby protest.

Max caught his breath. "The little blighter packs a punch," he said. His cheek was against her ear. He moved his hands over her stomach. "Do you mind?"

"No." Max was touching her, wanting to touch her, wanting to feel their child in her womb. The baby kicked again and she gave a slight breathless laugh. "Did you feel that?"

"Yes." His voice was deep, husky. "Am I bothering him?" His hands ranged over her slowly, lightly stroking across and down until they met near her groin, cradling the round fullness as she sometimes did herself on days when the baby weighed heavily and she needed to temporarily ease the burden. Her own hands lay in her lap. She lifted them and put them over his, feeling the strength of his fingers.

Max said, "He seems awfully big. Are you nervous?"

"A bit."
She wondered if he found her size ugly. "Some of
it's
water, you know, and the placenta. The doctor doesn't think it's a big baby." Her voice sounded strained. She had a sudden desire to bring his hands down lower, invite an intimate caress. Her face grew hot, and she clasped

  
 
her
fingers in her lap again, away from temptation. She tried to breathe normally, her eyes on the relentless breakers racing helter-skelter, one tumbling over the other on their way to the shore.

After a while Max's hands slid up again over her stomach, and stilled on the new fullness of her breasts.

She held her breath, turned her head slightly, leaning back, and heard him whisper, "Celine-" His breath wafted her hair against her temple, and then his lips pressed warmly on the skin just below her ear. Behind her at the apex of his thighs she felt his body stirring, and his hands tightened.

"Max-" She made to move, to twist around and face him, hampered by his arms and thighs and her own cumbersome body.

Max's hands fell abruptly away from her and he stood up, the wind catching his hair and blowing it across his eyes. "God!" he said. "I'm a crass bloody fool!"

"It's all right." Celine started to get up, her hand on the driftwood log.

"No, it's not all right!" Impatiently, he shoved at his hair, not looking at her. His gaze fixed on the tumult of the waves, he said, "Just wait for
me,
I'll be back in a minute."

He went striding towards the water, and as he neared it she called, "Max!" Surely he wouldn't be crazy enough to go in? The surf today was murderous, and he was fully dressed.

She struggled to her feet, and then saw that he'd halted near the edge of the waves, his back rigid, feet splayed apart. He stood there for a while, then swung aside, picked up a gnarled chunk of driftwood lying nearby with a, hank of seaweed attached to it, and hurled it far out into the spreading waves.

Then he turned and came trudging back to her, his hands thrust into his pockets, head lowered. As he neared her he cast a fleeting glance at her face and said, "Don't look so worried. I wasn't planning to throw myself in."

She tried to smile, but he wasn't looking at her, anyway. He scooped up a large, broken shell from the sand
and
 
threw
it as hard as he could in the direction of the water, and then said, "Are you ready to go?"

He held her hand on the way back, steadied her when she stumbled, and supported her as she staggered up the sandy slope to the carpark.

The car seemed closed and stuffy after the exhilarating, boisterous air of the beach. On the way home Max hardly spoke, answering her few remarks in absent monosyllables, his eyes fiercely concentrated on the road.

Celine's thoughts were buzzing round in her head. She had no idea what was going on in Max's mind. For a brief few seconds he'd been sexually aroused. But when she'd tried to show her willingness to respond he'd pushed
himself
away and seemed angry.

She thought back over the sequence of events. She'd been aroused herself, even before his caress became overtly sexual. Had he felt it when he touched her newly sensitive breasts, guessed it, perhaps, even before that? Was that why he'd touched her that way?

And then he hadn't, after all, been able to follow through.

Why? He couldn't have been imagining she was Kate, could he? Not when he'd been tracing the shape of her-the very pregnant shape of her-with such care and deliberation.

It was weeks-months-since he'd said that Kate and he were finished. Perhaps it was quite simple. He had presumably been celibate since then, and proximity to a womanany woman-had sparked a natural bodily reaction. It hadn't been a personal response to Celine, but the random consequence of sexual deprivation, a reflex that didn't require any particular attraction, just a crude physical stimulus that had taken him unaware when she'd leaned back against him, inviting some kind of intimacy.

Outside the house, he pulled on the brake and sat staring moodily at the windscreen, his hands drumming on the steering wheel.

"Will you come in?" Celine asked, breaking into his reverie.

  
 
He turned his head, but she wondered if he'd heard her. "Oh, sorry," he muttered, and hurried to open his door, walking round the car to help her out.

"Will you come in?" she repeated as they reached the front door.

He looked at her rather searchingly. "Would you like me to?"

"I think we should talk."

The faintest tremor of expression showed in his eyes. He followed her silently into the house.

Celine made coffee, and instead of helping or taking over as he often did, Max leaned against the sink counter, his hands in his pockets, staring broodingly at the floor.

Celine placed two steaming cups on the table and said, "It's ready."

He looked up then. "Oh ... thanks."

She sipped at hers tentatively while he sat absently stirring his. After a while she said, "You'll wear out the spoon."

"What?" Following her ironic gaze, he removed the spoon, placing it in the saucer. For a moment he watched the dark liquid, still swirling round in the cup, and then he picked the cup up and took two large gulps before clattering it back into the saucer.

His shoulders, hunched over the table, rose and fell on a deep breath. Looking up, he found her eyes on him. "You have every right to bawl me out," he said.

"What for?"

"What for?"
He shook his head disbelievingly and returned his gaze to his cup. A hint of dark colour crept into his skin.
"For that exhibition of gross insensitivity and lack of control.
I really-" He paused to clear his throat of some obstruction. "It was unexpected. That's not much of an excuse, I admit. I should have known that if I touched you... all I can say is it wasn't meant to be ... to be...'

Watching him floundering, Celine couldn't help but smile. "Sexual?" she supplied, and saw with amazement how his colour deepened further. "Max," she said, "I'm not some shy young virgin, you know. I do have a fair
idea
 
how
a man's body works. You surely didn't think I was shocked? As a matter of fact," she added quite deliberately, "I'd have to say I found your involuntary reaction rather ... flattering."

"Flattering?" He looked up, disconcerted.

"Women in my interesting state don't attract too many admiring glances," she said. "I feel like a bloated cow, unattractive and unappetising-"

"Unattractive?" Max
exclaimed .
"You're beautiful! Why do you suppose I've hardly been able to keep my hands off you all the while I've
been-
"

"Been what?" Celine asked him curiously as he hesitated.

He seemed to be searching for the right word. "Wooing you," he said finally.
"Courting you.
Ever since I found out that it wasn't Roland Jackson's baby you were carrying."

Celine felt a shiver run over her skin. She swallowed, finding her voice. "Is that what you've been doing?"

"Didn't you-?" Max started.

And then the doorbell rang.

They sat staring at each other, as though both of them were willing the caller to go away, hoping that if they didn't move or make a sound whoever it was would give up.

It rang again, imperatively.

"Your
car's
in the driveway," Celine said, resigned. "I'll go and see who it is." She got up and reluctantly went out of the room and along to the entrance lobby, and opened the door to find Kate Payne standing on the porch.

Chapter 15

Kate's blond curls had been pulled back and secured in a loose bun. She wore an anorak and jeans, and very little makeup. In spite of the more sophisticated hairstyle, Celine thought she looked younger than ever. At a casual glance she'd easily be taken for nineteen rather than twentyfive or twenty-six.

Her face was thinner than Celine recalled-perhaps that was the effect of the hairstyle. She stared at Celine, her cornflower blue eyes widening as they took in the loose dress and the unmistakable bulge it covered. Her mouth parted, her eyes went oddly blank, while
all the
colour suddenly left her face. One hand went out to clutch blindly at the door frame, and Celine grabbed her arm, leading her inside.

"Here, you'd better sit down," she said grimly, almost dragging the girl into the lounge to push her into the nearest chair. "Put your head between your knees," she advised. "I'll get you a glass of water."

Kate murmured something incoherent and the fair head lifted slightly,
then
sank.

"Just keep still," Celine said, and made for the kitchen. Max had finished his coffee. "Who is it?"

 
Celine took a glass and filled it before turning to reply. "Your girlfriend," she said. "Kate."

"Kate?" He stood up, scraping his chair back so fast that he had to grab it before it toppled. "What's Kate doing here?"

"Fainting, at the moment," Celine told him. A horrible thought struck her. "Max-could she be pregnant?"

It was his turn to go pale. "Oh, God, no!" he said. "No!"