Andreas rang the bell on the dot of seven-thirty. When she opened the door, she saw his mouth open slightly. She was wearing black velvet trousers with a matching hooded zippered top. Casual wear.
“Come in,” Helena invited.
He stepped into the flat. The aroma of crushed garlic wafted over to him and he gave her a surprised look.
“You spend too much time in restaurants. I’ve made you a home cooked meal, all with fresh ingredients.”
“Sounds good.” She took his coat and went into the bedroom, hanging it on a hanger behind the door. “I wish you’d have said, I would have dressed a little less formally too.”
“Take off your jacket, you will be more comfortable. Would you like a glass of wine, or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Wine is fine,” he announced, placing his jacket over the back of a straight back chair and then loosening his tie. Pulling it free of its knot, he flung that over it too. When he opened the top button of his shirt, he felt more relaxed and comfortable.
She gave him a bottle of red wine to open, then excused herself and went into the kitchen. There was fresh salad and later a lamb ragout. She knew she was a good cook, she had learned from Maria and her mother. It was something she enjoyed doing as well, just so long as she hadn’t to do it every day.
When she returned, Andreas was seated on the cream- coloured sofa, had kicked off his shoes too, and for a moment she started to regret her decision to invite him into her home for dinner. There was something devastatingly attractive about him. It was not good for her peace of mind to have him oozing so much sexual magnetism.
She took a glass of wine from him and curled up in the armchair. “What did you mean,” she began, “about Marcia?”
“What I said. I am not going into detail about it. It would not be gentlemanly.”
“Since when were you a gentleman?” she teased.
“When was I not?”
“You mean to tell me you hadn’t slept with her last night?”
“I told you, there is nothing between us. I am saying nothing more. You either believe me or you don’t.” He shrugged. “I will not make excuses.”
“Don’t you have a lady friend?”
“Do you have a lover?” he countered, smoothly.
“Of course not!” She spoke indignantly, her cheeks reddening.
“Why so cross at the question?” he teased, and then took a sip of his wine. Helena did likewise, looking at him briefly over the rim of the glass. “You will not answer, I see. But thank you, Helena, for making me a home cooked meal, it is something that I do not have very often. I feel as if I am living out of a suitcase at the moment.”
He went on to explain about business, and how tied up he was. She understood. Having been brought up in a business family, she knew it was accepted that there were times when work came first. She had, being married to him, got a little impatient when he was away from home. But that had stemmed from her desiring to possess him body and soul. Her immaturity had had a lot to do with her behaviour at that time; it was nothing to do with her not understanding.
His coming to Malton was really an inconvenience, he said, but he had promised to support Peter and his exhibition, and he had some business to sort out with Ralph, but really it could have been done via Email or fax. He really should have been in New York.
“When do you leave?” she asked, hoping that it would not be soon.
“Tomorrow…” He sighed. “I have to go to New York…back to Paris and perhaps, in all this I may find sometime to go home.”
“Is Meletsa going with you?” she asked, feeling the unpleasant but oh so familiar lump of jealousy settle at the base of her stomach.
“No. Meletsa spends more time in Cyprus these days. I have another assistant to travel with…” He smiled disarmingly. “A man as it happens.”
“Oh? Interesting,” she murmured.
“Not really. It is simple. Meletsa has met someone. She will marry next spring.”
“Meletsa marry?” Helena gulped; she was ancient…had to be.
“Women marry later today, you know that,” he murmured, as if reading her mind.
“Do I?”
“You were a child bride,” he said with a smile.
“I suppose I was.” Of course, when she thought about it, Meletsa was not that old. When she had been married to Andreas, Meletsa must have been about twenty-five. Now she would be in her early thirties and as she recalled from the last time she had seen the woman, she was, in her prime, still terribly attractive.
A bell on the cooker tinkled and Helena left her seat. She called from the kitchen, “Dinner will be a quarter of an hour, all right?”
He called back that it would be fine. When she came into the room she did not see his arm come out; the first she knew of it was when his strong lean fingers curled around her wrist. It stopped her progress back to her chair. He pulled and she toppled in an ungracious heap onto the settee.
“What are you doing?” she asked, but he pulled her hard up against him and moved quickly to cover her trembling lips with his own. Of their own volition, her lips trembled apart; his tongue took the offered advantage and slowly and sinuously curled around her own. The sensation travelled the length of her body She felt the pleasant throb manifest itself between her legs and as if he knew, his hand went down her body and rested between her already parted thighs. She moved slowly and pleasurably against his palm as he cupped the very essence of her being.
Her arms were around him, pulling the silk shirt free of his waistband, her hands desiring and then finding the firm skin on his back. She was down now amongst the folds of the settee, and he leaned over her, pressing his hardness where the hand had been, now unzipping her sweater, his breathing becoming ragged as he saw that she was nude beneath the top, her breasts exposed, their centres hard peaks. His head went down, his mouth covering the hardened centre. She cried out in an agony of pleasure. His mouth left the suckled peaks and once more plundered her own. Her hands were around him, sliding up him, feeling with pleasure the coarse hair that curled at his chest. Tugging feverishly at his shirt once more, she heard it tear, heard the pearl buttons rattling off. He murmured hot words against her ear; she recalled them; those Greek endearments, familiar and exciting. Her breasts now achingly thrust against his chest. Her top gone, now his hands pulled at her trousers, not releasing her lips as he tugged the velvet material over her hips.
At last she felt the spearing hardness of him against her warm moistness, pulsating against the soft petals until she cried for release and begged him to take her. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he slid into the fire of her and she rose up as if to devour him. He cried out, reached for her tumbled mass of hair, his lips against hers, stealing her very breath and when he released her mouth, she sobbed and cried in ecstasy as his body plundered her own.
* * * *
Helena awoke slowly, feeling replete, but for some strange reason also discomforted. They were lying on the floor amongst a litter of clothing and cushions. Andreas’ arm was around her waist. She wriggled her nose and then it came to her. The acrid smell of burning food. Quickly she untangled herself and sought for something to cover her nudity. She grabbed Andreas’ shirt that looked somewhat shredded and rushed into the kitchen. She turned off the oven and took up an oven cloth, opened the oven and removed the casserole. When she lifted the lid, there was a gooey mess of stew stuck to the bottom of the pan.
She started as Andreas, who had come up behind her, slipped his arms around her, looking down at the ruined meal. Helena groaned and then leaned back against him. “I’m hungry too,” she murmured.
“You are always hungry after we make love,” he whispered against her tangled hair. “We can find something, don’t worry; go and take a shower…”
“Save time; come with me…”
“That will not save time angel and you know it,” he murmured darkly, the huskiness in his voice causing her toes to curl in anticipation. She ran her tongue over her lips, and as if aware of it, he put up his hand and rubbed a finger against the wetness. She took hold of his hand and drew the finger deep into her mouth. “Stop it!” he said and she did, laughing madly because she felt so full of a reckless kind of joy.
When she had showered, she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel. Andreas went into the shower after her…and she wandered back into the kitchen. The ragout had been emptied into the bin and the pan left soaking. There was salad and crème caramel for dessert. She opened the fridge. There wasn’t very much but in the freezer there were some chicken parts. She slammed the door, the salad and pudding would be fine, and there was some cheese too.
In the living room she gathered up their discarded clothes, taking them into the bedroom. She hung up Andreas’ suit and wondered what on earth he was going to do for a shirt. The momentous thing that had occurred begged to be analysed. Her mind kept trying to put it to the forefront and by doing mundane tasks, she was keeping it at bay.
Andreas coming into the bedroom cast everything from her mind. There was something thrilling about seeing him there, his bronzed physique glowing from his shower, a rather short white towel about his middle. She stood staring at him, feeling the tug of things deep inside her, aware that by locking eyes with him and by parting her lips, she was causing an implosion of feeling deep inside them both.
He came to her, pulling her roughly into his arms, tugging her free of the towel, running his hands down her back to cup her hips, drawing her close against him. “My angel,” he murmured, seeking her parted lips, drowning in her mouth. She was up, off her feet and down on the soft satin bedspread; he leaned over her, his eyes hot as they poured over her slender curves. Her breasts pouted for him, her thighs parting. He groaned soft and low in the back of his throat, burying his head down against her throat, his tongue sensuously stroking the warm flesh. He moved down, pausing to suckle her eager breasts, his tongue teasing the pouting nipples; then his mouth moved slowly and sinuously across her stomach, down to the soft curling hair, his tongue straining for the moist petals beyond, then he was there, seeking the scalding moistness of her. She gasped with pleasure, her body quivering, her hips moving against his eager mouth…and then he moved, pushing himself swiftly into the hot liquid sweetness of her, riding a massive wave of desire and spilling his passion deep within her.
Exhausted, he lay still, reluctant to part them. She closed her eyes against the wonder of it all; the blissful lethargy of her limbs, still entwined with his, not daring to move lest she cause them to break apart. Very gently she ran her fingers through his hair, the undulations of his head familiar to her. It felt right.
When he eventually moved, their skins made a gentle tearing sound; she felt cold as he parted from her and immediately rolled close to him again, circling her arms around him, her head on his chest.
He murmured inconsequential things in their own language, more gentle than the savage but thrilling words of their passion of moments ago.
He fell asleep; his face in repose so soft and gentle, the crow’s feet at the sides of his eyes relaxed. They had had many differences and some tremendous arguments in their marriage, the one place they had had no problems at all had been in bed. Even the first time, he had been so patient, keeping her waiting so long for fulfilment that she had had to beg him and then he had been so easy, so slow, his penetration hardly giving her any pain. He had been like that with her for the whole of her honeymoon, giving her time, making certain she was ready for him. He was such an unselfish lover. She pulled herself very gently from the bed, crossing the room and picking up her tracksuit on the way. She took another shower, although hating to wash him from her body. If only, she thought, making her way to the kitchen, if only she had not been such a silly child! If only he had tried to be more patient with her over the Diane thing. It was no good crying over the past though. She took out carton of milk and poured some into a glass; drinking from the glass she went into the living room.
Dawn was making scarlet waves in the sky. It would soon be time for Andreas to leave her. Miserably she realised she did not want him to go. All the love she had felt for him in the past came to her again, overwhelming her, drowning her in its awful desperation. She had submerged her love for him and now that it had been reborn it was far more mature, more fanatical even. And she couldn’t tell him because she did not know how he felt about her. He desired her but he was a physical man and he knew she was physical too but that was not necessarily deep and abiding love, especially not for a man.
She made some coffee, set the coffee pot on a tray with cups and sugar and milk and went back into the bedroom. She thought his flight may be early and he would have to go to Manchester, that being the nearest international airport.
He awoke when she went in, stretching languorously, raising his hands above his head. “How come you are always full of energy after and I am shattered?”
She laughed in response. “Because I am a woman. Don’t you remember the painting of, I think of Mars, looking completely exhausted, while his beloved Venus was busily doing her hair?”
She poured him coffee and asked about his flight. He checked his Rolex watch and frowned. “Laws, I have only an hour…”
“Look you take your time here, I’ll go over to the hotel and get your bag; you’ll need a shirt anyway.”
He smiled. “I’m okay, but you can run me over there.”
“If you’re sure.”
He pulled her down to him, seeking her lips and kissing her until those lips parted. “Oh baby,” he murmured, “what are you doing to me?”
In the end she went to the airport with him; he mentioned it lightly but she jumped at the opportunity. At least in the car they could talk. She parked her car at the hotel and he said his chauffeur would bring her back to collect it.
“Andreas,” she said as she sought his hand in the car. “About my father, what shall I do?”
“I can’t tell you that, baby. You must make up your own mind.”
“But suppose he isn’t my father, what does that say about Diane?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well if he thinks he might be my father, it surely means that Diane must have had more than one lover.”
“It happens,” Andreas said, but lightly and without condemnation. She wondered if he really felt like that or if he were being protective. In the end she let it go.
“I’m tempted but I’m afraid,” she admitted.
“Think about it, you’ve lived without the knowledge of him all your life, why rush things.” He took her hand in his, running his fingers through hers. Silence wrapped around them for several moments and she felt warm and precious and smiled up at him. He murmured a question, “Look, Helena, can you take time out from work?”
“Well…sort of, I mean it would mean leaving the designs for your hotels.”
“They can wait,” he said firmly, then his rather stern tone turned to laughter when he continued. “Although not according to Ralph. Why don’t you fly out to Paris to be with me? Take the Sunday flight. You can book it now at the airport. We can have four days together.”
There was no argument she could provide against that. She had a desperate need to be with him. She would go and the designs may not be that far behind because between now and then she could work flat out. Working very hard would take her mind off her longing to be with Andreas anyway.
Before he went through check-in, he pulled her to him, kissing her firmly on the lips. She melted against him, sighing her pleasure.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” he said.
On the drive home she thought it could have been even more perfect had he uttered three words, yet she knew she could not expect too much. She had chosen to walk out on him in the past. She could not expect to regain either his trust or his love so quickly.
* * * *
For the time that he was away, Helena worked tremendously hard. Peter had called to ask her to dinner but she had to turn him down, although she agreed to see him on Saturday evening. In between working, she found time to get her hair trimmed and to buy some new lingerie. An oyster-coloured lace trimmed satin camisole with matching French panties. Then she saw a beautiful emerald green dress that was practically the colour of her eyes. Green was her favourite colour and when she tried it on she knew that it made her look especially good. The soft wool emphasised her curves and the colour complimented her auburn hair.
Peter had lots to tell her about his exhibition. He had sold practically all his paintings and had several commissions. In-between all that he had managed to complete the artwork for the hotels and promised to bring them to her office when she came back from Paris. Helena did not tell him she was going to Paris to see Andreas, not having told anyone about the change in their relationship. There were several reasons, firstly she was not certain what would happen between them and also she didn’t want to share with anyone her deep feelings for her ex-husband, or the wonderful way he made her feel. However, she did share with him the news that Andreas had given her that a man had come on the horizon, believing he may or may not be her father.
“I believe,” Peter said, somewhat sharply for him, “that you wanted to know who you are. I remember you telling me that in Cyprus. I would have thought you would have been pleased.”
A little surprised by his attitude, she said. “I’m uncertain…” She wanted to say that things with Diane had somehow crushed her curiosity but instead she explained that it made it look like she did not trust what Diane had said about her natural father.
“Diane Jones was always creative where truth goes,” he said, the bitterness in his tone causing Helena’s head to shoot up in response.
“I didn’t know you knew her well enough to make that kind of assumption.”
“It isn’t an assumption, it’s an assertion,” he said, smiling at her confusion. “I was on the hippie trail too, you know, you meet lots of people. I had gone to the same school as Diane. Don’t forget Malton is a small place.”
“And you think that Diane tells lies.”
He looked away from the intensity of her gaze. He put his fingers around a spoon and spun it round like a roulette wheel. It was as if he were gambling on where it stopped, one stop would enable him to answer one way and another stop to give an entirely different answer. In the end he stopped it himself, flattening it to the table top with the palm of his hand.
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging, “I really don’t.” But she had the distinctive feeling that it was he who, at that moment, was telling lies.
“I’ll think about it.” He covered her hand with his own, started to say something, and then changed his mind.
“Think only of Paris.” She blushed because that was all she did think about. It was with her all the time. Paris and Andreas but of course Peter did not know about the latter. “The most beautiful city in the world,” Peter added, seeing her dreamy expression.
“Is it really?” she asked eagerly. “I haven’t seen that many cities.”
Peter talked to her then of the many cities that he had seen; he brought places to life. He was an exciting raconteur and was well able to paint pictures with words. She was fascinated and realised she had seen so little of the world. Yet of all the cities, he told her, it was Paris that was the city of lovers. She knew he could not possibly know that she was meeting Andreas, but she sensed that he suspected that she was not going to be on her own in Paris. However, he was too kind to ask so personal a question.
* * * *
Helena could barely eat; she was so excited at the prospect of seeing Andreas again. She looked at the piece of toast, smeared it with honey but could not face it and tipped it into the pedal bin. She took the bag out of the bin, ready to take down to the garbage when she was ready to leave. After a sip of coffee, she tried to talk herself into calming down.
Andreas had arranged for a driver to take her to the airport, rather than having her use her car. She checked her watch again; he should be arriving in ten minutes; the bell ringing out made her start. He was early and that was good.
She sprung open the door only to see that it was not Andreas’ driver but Diane. The woman reeled into Helena, putting her arms around her but more to steady herself than to give her daughter a hug. Helena stepped back, taking hold of her mother by her shoulders. The woman looked terrible with her skin tinged with yellow and her eyes barely able to focus.
“I feel so ill, please help me, Helena.”
Helena was too busy to even think about what Diane’s arrival actually meant. She got her mother into bed before calling the doctor. He said he would come as soon as he could. Diane felt icy cold so Helena put the central heating back on and found an electric blanket that she plugged in and draped over her mother. Then she made her a hot drink but Diane didn’t want it, preferring to snuggle down into the bed and to close her eyes.
The first person to arrive was Andreas’ chauffeur; he looked disconcerted when she said she would not be coming. However, she pre-empted him, telephoning his boss by saying that Andreas already knew. It was a lie but of the white variety. It would give her time to speak to the doctor before she actually spoke to Andreas. The chauffeur was no fool; she ought to have known that because Andreas did not employ fools.
“But he must have left a message for me?” She could see his mind ticking over, why had Andreas not cancelled his pick-up if he already knew? Hating herself, she lied even more.
“He did; he said you were to go back to base and wait for his call. He had to rush off to an important meeting. He was late.”
“I see.” But Helena could see that he didn’t see at all. She knew that she would have to call Andreas before the doctor came so that he would not hear from his chauffeur first.
She had his mobile number, being sure that at eleven o’clock in the morning, he would have already left the hotel. It did not ring long. She could hear the sounds of traffic in the background so she surmised he was outside. He told her to wait a moment and when he came back, there was quiet.
“What?” he asked sharply, when she told him she would not be coming and why.
“Diane is really ill. You must see that I have to help her, Andreas.”
“I see that,” he said, but coldly. “You would feel it your duty.”
“But it is my duty, Andreas. Goodness the woman is really ill. I can’t desert her.”
“I suppose not,” he said and sighed.
There was a long silence. She wondered if he was thinking that she could not desert Diane, but she could desert him and not for the first time.
“I’ll phone you after the doctor has been here.”
“There’s no need, I don’t know where I will be. I’ll see you, Helena.”
“Andreas…” But she let her words fade away into the silence.
Miserable, she replaced the receiver in its cradle. He was being unreasonable, she told herself, failing to understand just how ill Diane was. He might even be thinking Diane was faking, but when Helena went back into the bedroom she saw that Diane was sleeping deeply and by the colour of her complexion, she was not faking her illness at all. Andreas always did have a blind spot when it came to Diane.
The Doctor came and after he had seen Diane, he told Helena that her mother had a viral infection. He gave her a prescription and said she would need a lot of rest and looking after. Diane had a severe tummy upset before going down with the infection and she was in a very weakened state.
When she returned from the chemist, she made Diane a hot drink and took her pills into her. She was able to weakly sit up and swallow the pills and to take a little liquid, but then she fell back once more into the comforting warmth of the duvet.
Helena went to make up a bed in the spare room for herself. Her bag was still on the chair by the door; she took it up and pushed it into the wardrobe. She had not the heart to unpack the clothes she had selected to take with her. The telephone caught her eye; she wanted him to know that it was genuine but she shook her head sadly. It would not make any difference to Andreas. He would only see that she had put Diane before him.
* * * *
Diane was not the easiest of patients. She was fractious and impatient. She hated being ill and was hard on herself as well as on Helena. Gradually she grew stronger with Helena’s care but she showed no sign of moving out of Helena’s bedroom. Meanwhile Helena made strength-building meals and nursed her mother as best she could. In order to cheer up her mother she called a local beautician and hairdresser and the girl came around one day to give her mother a massage and to cut and style her hair. Diane seemed to enjoy the fuss and was considerably brighter when Helena came home from the office.
“I am getting too old to do the things I want. I can’t rough it like I used to,” Diane said, somewhat thoughtfully. “When I think how I used to be, now I get anything that’s going…I suppose if I want to travel I had better travel where there’s better hygiene at my age.”
“Maybe you should try to settle down,” Helena ventured, and then realised she had made a big mistake. Diane went on about “stick in the muds”, miserable people who did nothing and went nowhere. She went on for two hours about the people whom she held in contempt. These were, as she saw it the ordinary folk who, if they were lucky, had a couple of weeks holiday a year. Diane seemed to condemn them and it annoyed Helena. However, she knew better than to argue. The topic would never end if she put herself up as defence counsel for people who were, like herself ordinary hardworking people.
“But what do you want to do, Diane?”
“I don’t know yet, but when I do I’ll tell you. One thing I don’t want is to be stuck in a shop,” She said ungratefully. “I suppose you sold my flat.”
“No, I rented it,” said Helena, not being able to resist adding, “to a drone.”
“A what?”
“An ordinary hardworking person, the girl who runs the shop. She’s made a success of the shop too.”
“Well, good luck to her.”
As Diane regained her strength, so her complaints and misery grew. Helena felt exhausted some evenings. She was working hard at the office and arranging the finishing touches to the new designs for the hotels, then once at home, it was impossible to relax as Diane had a list of miseries for her to listen to. The latest was the possibility of her living somewhere warmer. Helena had suggested Spain or the Canary Islands. Diane was short of cash so buying a place was out of the question. Her mother had not suggested that Helena buy her an apartment but she dropped broad hints that Helena ignored.
“Cyprus might be a good idea,” Diane said one night, as if the thought had just come to her. “English is widely spoken and it is warmer than here in winter.” Helena digested the news in silence; if only she did not feel so lethargic she could be more positive with Diane.
“Perhaps I could stay at your place.”
“My place?” Helena looked confused, wondering what Diane meant.” My place?” she murmured the question again.
“The place that George left to you.”
So that was it—the house that Uncle George had left to her. Guiltily, she realised she did not want Diane to go there and yet there was no real reason why the woman should not. “Oh I don’t think that would be a good idea. Not to have you living there. You would be right in Andreas’ sphere, you know.”
“I don’t care about him anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“Why should I? Anyway, he doesn’t own Cyprus, does he?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing.
“No, but he’s well known and well liked in Larnaca.”
“You don’t want me to go,” Diane accused.
“Believe me, it’s not that, Diane. Please, let me think about it.”
Diane sighed meaningfully but said no more. Wearily, Helena washed their dinner things; if only she had more energy she could think straight. Diane could not stay with her forever. The flat was small and Helena was used to doing her own thing, besides which Diane’s presence was depressing these days, rather than uplifting.
She asked later, simply because she had not seen him or heard from him, “You knew Peter Frodsham, didn’t you?”
Diane’s head shot up; there was a faint line of colouring across her cheeks. “Why?”
Helena shrugged. “No special reason. He did the paintings for the hotel in town, Stanton’s place, and for the other ones that I am doing the interior design for.”
Diane responded with deep sarcasm. “Don’t you mean Orphanides, surely Stanton is the yes man.”
“He’s the senior partner, Diane.”
“That’s what they say. You didn’t tell me you were working on other hotels they own. I wonder why.”
“No special reason,” Helena lied, and not enjoying doing so, even if it was so that she could have a peaceful life. “I’ve nearly finished anyway. He’s rather nice.”
“Who is?”
“Peter Frodsham.”
Diane shrugged. “He used to be…okay. I haven’t seen him in years. I didn’t even know he was in England. He went to America, or someplace. The Frodshams always thought they were a cut above everyone else.”
That figured, Helena thought, remembering Marcia and her attitude, but Peter wasn’t like that and Helena told her mother so.
“He was like that as a kid, but then he got into rock and roll and wanted to be working class. It went like that in those days. Then he went on the hippie trail. As I said, he was okay…sort of.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Did he say I did?” Diane asked, her suspicion clear in her voice. Helena saw Diane closing her fingers into her palms and wondered why it had made her so tense. “No. He didn’t say very much, apart from his knowing you.”
“There’s nothing else to say. You meet all kinds of people on the road. He’s doing well for himself then?”
“Yes, yes he is.” Helena went on to tell Diane about the art exhibition. Diane seemed more interested in Peter as Helena told her of his success. Her eyes narrowed a little as she took in each word and then, surprising her daughter, she asked where he lived.
“He lives here?” Diane exclaimed.
“I think he’s been here because that’s where he’s had some work and some success. I suppose he’ll move eventually. Like you, he likes the warm places.”
Diane said nothing else. She sat quietly for a long time and then said she was going to bed. Helena thought wryly that she should have spoken about Peter before. It had finally shut Diane up and given Helena some peace and some space.
The next couple of days were hectic as Helena put the finishing touches to the design for the hotels. Her two assistants were busily working on a couple of private houses. The office was a hive of activity. She delivered the designs herself to Ralph Stanton. He did not mention Andreas and neither did she.
When she arrived back, Jenny came into the office. She looked pale and stressed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just women’s problems. Have you any pain killers, Helena, I know you usually keep some in your desk…”
“Sure…” Helena opened her desk and took out a bottle. “Here take them, go and have an early and a very long lunch.”
“Thanks, you’re a treasure.”
Helena smiled. When Jenny had gone, she slid the desk drawer shut. It was only then that something occurred to her. She had been so busy, too busy to realise that her own women’s time had past and she had had no result. A long time passed while she sat in horrified silence, listening to the thunderous clamour of her heart. Fear held her fast in her chair. Eventually, when she left her seat, she swayed slightly and had to grab hold of the desk.
She told herself that she was being ridiculous. Just because she was overdue did not mean what it had to mean. But she was never overdue. Unable to stand the suspense, she left the office and drove her car to the precinct. She went into the chemist and purchased a kit. Putting it into her bag, she drove back to the office.
Once at her desk, she read the instructions, looked at the kit, and then put it into her drawer, too afraid to have the facts confirmed. But she could not just leave it. If it was positive what could she do? The question burned into her mind. She knew that if she were pregnant she would have to go through with it; the alternative was something she could never consider. When they had been married, Andreas had looked after that side of things. He had some notion that she was too young to go on the pill. Her mother had put the idea in his head, cautioning him that it was not safe for someone as young as Helena was. He would not listen to Helena when she said very young girls went on the pill. He must have imagined that, having been keen on the idea when they were married, she would have been on the pill now. He could not know that she had not been attracted to any man since divorcing him. Every man she had ever met had paled into insignificance when compared with Andreas.
Again, she took out the package, reread the instructions and took the kit out of its wrapper.
She took a deep breath and then followed the instructions. The wait for the result seemed hours rather than minutes away