Thirty - Eight

As Mike stood at the wine bar counter, smiling at Maggie, Craig sensed there was something between them. He detected that undercurrent that runs between lovers, the secret mutual appeal they think is latent but is clearly noticeable by others.

‘Hi,’ said Mike. ‘How’ve you been?’

Maggie’s body language became openly inviting, as she returned his smile, and brushed her hands back across her stomach until they rested on her hips.

‘It’s been a bit hectic,’ she said. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll have a bottle of Beck’s.’

Craig nodded approvingly at Mike, then went into the kitchen, pleased that perhaps Maggie might rekindle an old love, which he knew would be far healthier than her drink problem.

Maggie handed Mike his beer, and he toasted her with the bottle before taking a small sip.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can live without you. I know you said you didn’t want to ruin my marriage or come between me and my wife, but ... well, these things happen. I want you, Maggie. I can’t stop thinking about you.’

Maggie knew then that she had to make a choice. Either ignore her brother’s warning, and carry on destroying herself, or choose to embrace the positive aspect of being desired, and finding a new strength through a burgeoning relationship.

‘Mike,’ she said softly, having made her choice, ‘I want you too. I never really wanted for us to split up. If you want to give me a ring tomorrow morning, after I’ve taken the kids to school...’

Mike’s grin widened. ‘I’ll do that. Maybe I can call round.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Though I might have to be here just before lunchtime. Let’s see how it goes.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ he smiled, raising his bottle of Beck’s.

Maggie frowned at the allusion to alcohol. She opened the cold cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Perrier, flipped off the top, and clinked bottles with Mike. Already she felt better about herself, thinking positively about what lay ahead in her life.

***

After Simon and Thomas were asleep, Mary sat watching a drama about young homosexuals on BBC2. There was a permanent frown on her face and she wasn’t really paying much attention to the programme; but she was distracted from her worrying thoughts when she saw the explicit homosexual love scenes between the leading character in the programme and another attractive young man. She found herself becoming curiously aroused by the scene, and wondered if there was something disturbingly wrong about becoming stimulated by homosexual sex. Then she surrendered to the lubricious enjoyment, knowing that it was because the actors were so good looking. A sex scene between two ugly male actors would have been different.

As she began to relax back into the sofa, her frown softening, a growling engine sound came from the street outside. It sounded like a car that was brash and aggressive, large and flashy, like the American car that Ronnie had driven. Frowning again, she got up off the sofa, and crossed to the window. Holding her breath she tugged the curtain back a foot. There in the shadows opposite the house was Ronnie’s Chevrolet Corvette. The engine of the car rumbled and died, and an eerie silence accentuated her fear. Suddenly, from the hall, the telephone rang, piercing and alarming, and she shuddered. Perhaps it was Dave. He had promised to ring as soon as his show had finished. She needed him. God! How she needed him. She would beg him to come home, even if only for the night. She dashed out into the hall and grabbed the phone.

‘Darling!’ she said with a quick intake of breath, expecting it to be the comforting warmth of her partner’s voice, but her expectation turned to ice as she heard the humourless laugh from the other end.

‘You haven’t called me that in years. Now I know I’m in with a chance.’

‘Ronnie!’ she said. ‘I told you not to call me. It’s over between us.’

‘Then why did you do that just now?’

In spite of wanting to slam down the phone, her curiosity was aroused, wanting to know what he meant. ‘Why did I do what?’

‘Give me the signal just now. Pull back the curtain as arranged. Letting me know you were ready for me.’

‘I didn’t!’ Her voice rasped as she tried to stop herself from shouting and screaming, in case she woke the children. ‘I heard your car, that was all. I had to see who it was.’

‘Could have been any old car. Don’t give me that, babe. You were waiting for me. So now I’m here. You going to let me in or not?’

Mary slammed the phone down, ran to the front door and slid the bolt across the top. Then she tore out to the kitchen and tried to do the same with the bolt at the bottom of the door, but the bolt was rusty and hadn’t been used in years. It wouldn’t budge. Panicking, because she knew Ronnie had somehow managed to enter the house when they were away in Blackpool, Mary dashed back into the hall and dialled the emergency services. She asked for the police, saying she was under attack from an intruder. And then she heard Ronnie’s car starting up, and heard it’s heavy roaring sound as it drove past the front door. Dazed, she stood listening to it’s diminishing roar as it distanced itself from the house.

She stood like a statue, unable to move, numb from the fear of knowing that Ronnie had the upper hand. What could she tell the police when they arrived? And, more to the point, what could they do to stop him?

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she stood helplessly clutching the hall table for support, waiting, growing colder and colder, and more desperate as the minutes ticked by.