Their Very Special Marriage (5 page)

Oliver bridled. ‘Look, I just felt guilty that I couldn't have lunch with you when you asked me. For God's sake, I thought you'd like them. But I can't do anything right where you're concerned.' He scowled. ‘Maybe you ought to start taking evening primrose oil.'

‘What?' She stared at him. What was he driving at?

‘It's meant to help mood swings.'

He thought she was having PMT? Or, even worse, early menopause? For goodness' sake, she was only thirty-four! She shook her head. ‘Oliver, I'm not having mood swings.'

‘Look, I understand about PMT. I'm a modern man, not a dinosaur.'

‘Yeah, right.'

He frowned. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Just leave it. I'm going to have a bath. There's ham and salad in the fridge, and French bread in the bread bin. If you want dinner, you can get it yourself.'

‘Rach—'

‘Leave it,' she said again, and walked quickly away. Oh, God. This was unbearable. If Oliver really was having an affair... She shivered. And if he wasn't, and she accused him of having an affair, it would deepen the gulf between them.

How was she going to bridge that gulf? Because if she didn't, there was a good chance her marriage would be over by the end of the summer. They couldn't go on like this.

Oliver didn't come in to talk to her while she was in the bath, and she didn't bother taking a mug of coffee into his office—what was the point, when he'd only snap at her for interrupting? She tried and failed to read the latest thriller from a writer who usually gripped her. All she could think about was Oliver, and how her marriage was crumbling before her eyes and she didn't know how to stop it.

When she heard Oliver coming upstairs, she considered talking to him—but panicked and pretended to be asleep. She noted with an inward sigh that he didn't cuddle into her, turning his back on her instead. Worse, judging by his deep and regular breathing, he fell asleep quickly, whereas she stayed awake until the small hours, trying to work out whether she was just being silly or whether she really
did
have something to worry about.

* * *

When Rachel woke the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her head felt as if someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. A cool shower and a hairwash helped, and a couple of paracetamol helped even more.

Robin was already getting himself dressed, so Rachel went to wake Sophie. And stopped dead. There were half a dozen spots on the little girl's face. Gently, Rachel pulled the duvet back, lifted Sophie's pyjama top, and saw that Sophie's torso was covered in spots.

Very recognisable spots, red with a blister in the centre. Chickenpox.

She sighed. ‘No nursery for you this morning,' she said softly to the sleeping child. ‘I'd better ring them and tell them you won't be in until all the spots have crusted over. Which probably won't be for another week.' She stroked her daughter's hair. Best to let her sleep while she could—as soon as Sophie was awake, she'd start to itch and scratch her spots.

Rachel walked back to her bedroom. Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes, then stretched. ‘Is it morning already?'

Oliver never wore a pyjama top. The sight of her husband's muscular shoulders and bare chest sent a shiver of desire through Rachel. But now wasn't the time. ‘Bad news. Soph's covered in spots. I'll ask Ginny if she'll take Rob to school with Jack, and I'm afraid you'll have to get a locum in for me or share my list around today.'

Oliver groaned. ‘You talked it up yesterday.'

‘No. I just warned you it was on the cards. And that meant any time in the next twenty-one days. She can't go back to nursery until the last spots have crusted over, so I won't be working for the next week—unless you'd rather stay home with Sophie?'

Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself. And Oliver would learn all about Pwintheth Mouse—maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call he needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family.

Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.

‘No, she needs her mum with her.'

Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn't feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it's best,' she said coolly.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don't worry. I'll sort things out at the practice.' Almost as a second thought,
he added, ‘Do you need me to bring anything home for Sophie?'

‘Antipruritic lotion. The itching's going to drive her crackers, and I can't make her sit in the bath all day. I don't really want to take her out until her spots have crusted over, though.'

‘Sure.' Oliver climbed out of bed and headed for their shower room.

Hell. Why did he have to look so
sexy
when she didn't have time to do anything about it? Since they'd had the children, they didn't spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it, the warmth of her husband's body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.

Then she remembered last night. The guilt-gift—chocolates that she hadn't been able to face eating, because she knew why he'd bought them and they would have stuck in her throat.

Ha. What was the point of lusting after a man who'd not only fallen out of lust with you, but had fallen in lust with someone else?

She shook herself, and went to make a start on the calls to rearrange the children's usual routine.

* * *

Distracting a small child from scratching the itchy spots was, well, almost impossible, Rachel thought. She'd tried reading the little girl's favourite stories, letting Sophie loose with the CD-ROMs on Oliver's old computer which they kept under the stairs for the kids to use, drawing pictures with her, reading more stories, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading more stories... And now Rachel was more shattered than if she'd gone in to the surgery. The house was a mess—she hadn't even had time to hang the washing out, let alone tidy up—and Sophie was decidedly grumpy.

‘Daddy's home!' Sophie yelled.

Since when was delirium a symptom of chickenpox? Rachel wondered. The usual complications were bacterial infection of the spots if they were scratched, ear infections, conjunctivitis and rarely meningitis or encephalitis—inflammation of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!'

‘How's my best girl?' Oliver's deep voice asked.

Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver
never
came home at lunchtime. Ever.

He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,' he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.

Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she'd learn something she really, really didn't want to know—she couldn't help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.'

‘I can't stay long—but I thought you'd be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?'

Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,' she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?'

‘No need.' Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.' He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.

‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!' Sophie squeaked.

‘And for Robin.' He put a puzzle magazine on the table,
and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had
noticed
that Rob liked doing puzzles?

‘And...' He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.'

For
us
? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.

Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It's OK,' he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph's going to be absolutely fine. Don't worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I've got a locum to cover you from Monday. I've known Caroline Prentiss for years.'

‘Caroline Prentiss?' The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn't think why.

‘She's just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that's all sorted. And I've asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan's serum results.'

Which meant they'd get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,' Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I'm just being...' Her voice tailed off.

‘You've been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don't pull my weight in the house. It's no wonder you're feeling tired and tearful.'

And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they'd just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.

‘Why's Mummy crying?' Sophie wanted to know.

‘Because she's feeling a bit out of sorts, too,' Oliver said. He kissed the top of Rachel's head, then stepped back. ‘Right, you. Go and get some fresh air for five minutes. I'll
make us a coffee, then we'll have lunch together. Just like we should have done yesterday.'

When he'd been too busy. And he was even busier today, covering for her as well as doing his own list. Guilt flooded through her. ‘You had to cancel things, didn't you?'

He shrugged. ‘They can wait.' He smiled. ‘Five minutes. Or I'll eat your baguette as well as my own!'

She knew that look. Teasing, loving... Her husband was back. And he wasn't—absolutely
wasn't
—having an affair. He loved her, she loved him, and all was right with her world again.

So why was there still that little niggle in the back of her mind?

CHAPTER FOUR

O
LIVER
worked that evening, just as Rachel knew he would. But when she was reading a story to Sophie, he came upstairs to kiss the children goodnight. Then he took her hand and led her downstairs into the living room. It wasn't dark outside but he'd already pulled the curtains.

‘Just you and me now,' he whispered. ‘You, me, a film and a bottle of wine.'

He'd uncorked the Merlot to let it breathe; he poured two glasses and handed one to her. ‘It's been too long since we did this, Rach.'

And whose fault is that? she wanted to ask. Who is it who spends every minute in his wretched office in the evenings? But she took a sip of wine instead, savouring the taste.

He took the glass from her hand, set it down beside his own, then sprawled on the sofa and patted the space next to him. ‘Come here.'

She lay with her back to him, spoon-style, and his arm curved round her, pulling her back against him. It was how they'd often spent Friday nights when Robin had been tiny, watching a good film together and sharing a bottle of wine. They'd have the baby listener turned down low—the flashing lights would tell them if Robin was crying—and often they'd only catch the first half of the film, because then Oliver would start to kiss the back of her neck and slide his hand under the hem of her top, and they'd be so lost in exploring each other that the film would be forgotten.

Did he remember those nights, too? Maybe, because the arm around her waist tightened. Rachel relaxed against him.
It felt so good to be in Oliver's arms again, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

‘Rach,' he whispered, nuzzling her shoulder and she arched back against him. He kissed along the line of her neck. ‘I love the way you smell,' he murmured. ‘The way you taste.' His hand slipped under the hem of her top and he cupped her breast. ‘The way you feel.'

Which was exactly the way she felt about him. She twisted round so she was facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Me, too,' she whispered, and kissed him.

‘I want you so much,' he told her when he broke the kiss. His pupils were huge, edged with a narrow rim of blue, so his eyes looked almost black with passion.

Everything was going to be all right. They were going to make love, and everything was going to be all right.

Slowly, he undid the button of her jeans and slid the zip down. He teased her, his fingers drifting over her midriff; Rachel made a small sound of impatience and tilted her hips.

‘Something you wanted, Dr Bedingfield?' he asked, his voice low and husky.

‘You,' she replied, her voice equally husky.

‘I think that can be arranged.' He gave her a smile that managed to be teasing yet smouldering at the same time, and a thrill of desire ran down her spine.

It didn't take him long to remove her jeans—or her to remove his. Her top followed, then his T-shirt. And finally they were skin to skin. Rachel could still remember the first time they'd made love in her narrow single bed at university, the heady excitement of exploring each other's body fully for the first time, learning where each other liked to be touched and stroked and kissed. That headiness had never quite gone away, for her. Even now, she thrilled at how good Oliver's body felt against her own.

And right now he was all hers.

‘Rachel.' He breathed her name as he kissed his way
down her collar-bone, stroked the length of her spine, then finally took the hard peak of one nipple into his mouth.