Love and Devotion (25 page)

So where had it gone wrong? thought Harriet. The only clue was that Felicity’s new life as a wife and mother lacked the excitement of the life she’d led before. Whoever the lover was, he filled that gap. If Felicity was to be believed from the way she wrote to him, he made her feel whole again. But this conclusion didn’t make Harriet feel sympathetic towards her sister. She was furious with Felicity for being so deceitful and for jeopardising so much. What about the children? Where had they fitted in? Where were they when she was secretly meeting her lover? And had she really planned to leave Jeff? That last email certainly implied that she wanted to: ‘ ...
you have to be patient. Trust me, please, it won’t be long now. Just give me a little more time.’

But it wasn’t only Jeff who had been cheated on. Harriet felt betrayed, too. She hated knowing that despite the closeness between them, Felicity hadn’t confided in her. It was a hurtful blow, and it left her wondering if she had ever really known her sister. It seemed as if Felicity had been even more reckless than Harriet had thought. By having an affair, she’d deliberately sought out a knife-edge on which to balance herself precariously. Why on earth had she done that?

Shock and bewilderment was causing Harriet to think less than kindly or rationally about her sister. In her mind, Felicity’s secret, wilful behaviour had become entwined with her death, as if she had in some way been deliberately negligent to the point of causing her own death and the subsequent disaster that was now Harriet’s life.

She entered the modern offices of ACT - Associated Controlled Technology - with five minutes to spare and was shown through to an office by a receptionist with the most amazing multi-coloured acrylic nails and a miniskirt that did her chunky legs no favours. She told Harriet that Mr Beningfield would be with her in a minute. ‘He’s just on the phone. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?’

‘Thanks. White, no sugar.’

Left on her own, Harriet regretted the sharpness of her reply. Come on, she told herself, you need this job. Be nice to people. When the girl returned with a wobbling, over-filled cup and saucer in her hand, Harriet smiled sweetly in order to get on the right side of her. After all, if she got the job, she’d be seeing this girl on a daily basis. The last thing she needed was to be labelled the Snotty Bitch before she’d even started.

It was some time since she’d experienced the nerve-racking ordeal of a job interview and Adrian’s description of Howard Beningfield hadn’t done much to put her mind at rest. As well as being brash, he was apparently garrulous and jocular, but a ‘bit much’ at times. ‘You have to stand up to him,’ Adrian had said. ‘He likes nothing better than a good sparring partner.’

At breakfast that morning, the children had presented her with a good luck card that they’d made. Presumably her mother had been behind the gesture, but even so, Harriet had been touched by their efforts. Joel had pointed out the bits that Carrie had allowed him to colour in, and she’d found herself getting stupidly choked up when he’d solemnly apologised for smudging part of it. ‘It’s perfect,’ she’d told him, kissing his cheek and then going round the table to thank Carrie.

Now that the dust had settled on Carrie’s handiwork at school, Joel’s nightmares had stopped and he was sleeping properly. He was also opening up a little. Not much, but enough to convince Harriet and her mother that they had things under control again.

Harriet had to wait half an hour before Howard Beningfield walked in. Offering no apology for keeping her waiting, he fiddled with the air-conditioning unit on the wall. In his mid fifties, he was one of those men who are as broad as they are tall, with arms sticking out as though he had two invisible basketballs nestling in the undergrowth of his armpits. The way he moved his enormous frame around the desk to the black leather chair suggested he hadn’t quite evolved. He plonked himself down - the chair exhaling a sigh of resistance - then looked up. ‘Well then, Harriet,’ he said, ‘may I call you Harriet?’

She nodded.

‘You come very highly recommended. Why’s that, do you think?’

‘Because I’m very good at what I do.’

He leant back into his chair, clasped his hands behind his enormous head and laughed. The chair groaned. ‘That’s what I like about you modern girls: more front than Blackpool and Southport put together.’

Oh brilliant! He was one of those suffer-the-little-women-unto-me types. In other words, he was a honking great sexist pig. Adrian had omitted to mention that. Feeling like she was taking part in an episode of
The Office,
she reminded herself, once again, how badly she needed this job.

Slowly rearranging himself, Howard sat forward and slid a thin file across the desk. He opened it and revealed Harriet’s CV. She knew it was well above the usual standard he’d see; the computer industry was currently overflowing with bright young things of the useless variety, but highly skilled programmers like her were rare and in demand. He scanned it briefly, the tip of a finger running jerkily along the page, then with excruciating theatrical pomposity, he ripped it up. ‘So much for the blah-di-blah,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to basics.’ He fired off a salvo of questions which she returned with equal gusto, outlining various large-scale applications she’d been in charge of, paying special attention to the vehicle-tracking interface she’d written most recently, until finally he said, ‘We’ll only know if you’re any good when you’ve worked here for a while. The proof will be in the pudding, so to speak. When do you want to start? Adrian explained that you’re keen to get going a-s-a-p.’

Wondering what else Adrian might have explained - had he mentioned the children and their obvious consequences? - she said, ‘I’m available as of tomorrow. Is it possible to have a chat with the people in the department I’d be working in?’

‘No problemo.’ He reached for the phone on the desk and punched in a number. It was then, as he waited for someone to pick up, that he said, ‘I’ll be straight with you, Harriet. Adrian told me to look no further than you, but I don’t want to hire you if in nine months’ time you waltz in to my office and announce that you’re pregnant. And don’t give me any of that equal rights in the workplace crap. I’m running a business, not a charity.’

Harriet knew that now was the moment she should raise the matter of being Carrie and Joel’s guardian, that there might be times when, quite possibly, if her parents couldn’t cover for her, she would have to take time off. But she didn’t. Self-preservation made her keep quiet. No need to put herself at an unnecessary disadvantage, was there? Nor did she feel inclined to point out the glaringly obvious, that Howard Beningfield was committing the cardinal sin of discriminating against women who wanted to combine motherhood with a career. He could be hung, drawn and quartered for such a remark. Indeed, another woman in this situation might well already be out of the door girding her loins to take him to court but, while it pained her to admit it, the dreadful man had a point. If it was her company, Harriet would feel exactly the same way; why employ a woman when you could take on a man who wouldn’t demand Tampax-dispensing machines and maternity rights? The sisterhood was all very well, but she’d never felt the need to be a part of it. Pinning that particular badge to one’s breast seemed the surest way to imply a weakness of some kind. It was as good as turning oneself into a moving target. Felicity had once said of her that she never made a fuss because she was an honorary bloke anyway.

‘Mr Beningfield,’ she said, adopting a firm but deferential tone, ‘I think we can safely say that there is about as much chance of me becoming pregnant as the Pope.’ Well, he hadn’t asked straight out if she already had children, had he?

 

An hour later, after considering all the pros and cons, her mind was made up. The overall package was marginally more generous than her last job, and the range of clients and prospective clients looked interesting and challenging. Moreover the company was expanding, hence the need for another senior analyst with her level of experience.

She drove away with a verbal job offer under her belt; a written offer would be in the post forthwith. She couldn’t wait to get home and share her good news. Better still, she’d be able to have a celebratory drink that evening with Miles - they were now meeting regularly for either a drink or a meal, depending on how busy he was.

It was gone six when she turned into Maple Drive and parked alongside her parents’ Rover. Across the road, she saw Will Hart getting out of his car. There was a young blonde girl with him - the same girl she’d seen him with at The Navigation, and presumably the ‘someone very close’ to him who was pregnant. Harriet hadn’t been fooled by that guarded speech of his. Honestly, why didn’t he just come right out and admit that he was having a relationship with a girl young enough to be his daughter and had got her pregnant? And what about his children? It was all very well him pontificating about the rewards of parenting, but she’d never once seen him with kids. Practise what you preach, matey!

Letting herself in at the back door, all set to announce her good news, Harriet froze. She could hear a voice coming from the sitting room. A voice that was all too familiar. Knowing that her arrival had gone unnoticed, she stood for a moment in the kitchen observing her parents and their visitor through the gap in the door. But as though gifted with a sixth sense, their visitor stopped mid-sentence and slowly turned round. ‘Hello, Harriet,’ he said, ‘how long have you been standing there?’

Her first thought was that he still had the same effect on her. But just as she had taught herself all those years ago, she stamped on the emotion. Stamped on it hard. She would rather die than let him have the pleasure of knowing she’d spent the best part of her childhood hero-worshipping him.

‘Hello, Dominic,’ she said. And wanting to hurt him, to twist the knife round in his heart just as he had with her so many times, she added, ‘We missed you at the funeral. What happened? A college crisis that was more important than saying goodbye to your oldest friend?’

 

 

 

 

Will could hear Suzie being sick upstairs. It was the third time that morning. Unable to finish his coffee, he poured it down the sink. He was almost sick with nerves himself. He glanced at his watch. Another five minutes and they would have to go. The clinic had told them to be there for ten o’clock.

Originally Maxine had insisted that she would be the one to accompany Suzie, and he’d had no complaints with that. Coward that he was, he had been glad for once that Maxine had taken charge. But then yesterday all hell had broken loose. He didn’t know the full story, but Suzie and her mother had had one almighty row. The first he knew about it was when Suzie rang him at work to ask if she could stay the night at his place and said she wanted him to take her to the clinic. When he’d turned up to fetch her, Maxine had said, ‘Suzie’s got some stupid idea into her head that I’m treating her like a child.’

‘I expect it’s a combination of anxiety and hormones,’ he’d replied, noting how unusually tired and fraught Maxine looked.

‘She says I’m a control freak. Her exact words were: “Leave me alone you controlling bitch.”’

For the sake of keeping the peace, for Suzie’s benefit if nothing else, he said, ‘Come off it, Maxine, we all have our moments if we’re honest. Let it go. This is perhaps the one time in Suzie’s life when we can allow her to behave as badly as she needs to.’

‘Oh, that’s so typical of you, isn’t it? You always have to take the girls’ side.’

‘It’s not a matter of taking sides; I’m just suggesting we try to keep things in perspective.’

She blew her nose, making him realise that she was close to tears. He said, ‘If you want, I’ll try and talk her round. Make her realise that it would be better if you took her to the clinic.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Dad.’

Startled, they both turned to see Suzie. She had a patchwork duffel bag slung over her shoulder and despite the firm defiance in her voice, Will could see she’d been crying and looked ready for a fresh bout. Getting her away from Maxine probably was the best thing to do.

 

It was raining during the journey to the clinic and the wipers, long since past their best, squeaked and juddered in the awkward silence. Will couldn’t remember a time when he and Suzie hadn’t had a hundred and one things to chat and laugh about. But what could they discuss today? Anything, other than what Suzie was about to go through with, would seem trivial and insulting. He’d never been good when it came to medical problems — to his shame he’d once fainted at school during a biology lesson and had been teased mercilessly for weeks after — but stupidly, late last night when Suzie was in bed, he’d gone on the Net to read up on the procedure for an abortion. It was ignorant of him, he supposed, that he didn’t know the full details, but twenty minutes of browsing and he knew enough to wish he’d never clicked on SEARCH. Just as well he’d stuck to the plain medical facts. Had he scanned any of the antiabortion websites, he’d probably have been spark out on the floor. He reminded himself that it was a straightforward procedure these days, that nothing could go wrong, and turned to look at Suzie in the passenger seat. Her head was back against the headrest, her eyes closed, her hands clasped on her lap. She’s so beautiful, he thought, his heart bursting with love. She didn’t deserve this ordeal. If there was a way, he’d willingly bear the fear and pain of it himself. He could remember thinking the same when Gemma had had to have four teeth out before her brace was fitted. How long would he go on wanting to protect his girls? he wondered. The answer was easy. For ever. That’s what parents did. Didn’t his own mother still phone him up to make sure he was eating properly? He smiled and started to hum to himself.

Suzie opened her eyes.

‘Sorry, love, were you trying to sleep?’