Challenges of Play

By Susie Henshaw

Jane Ward has come to the end of her tether, trapped in a relationship long past its sell-by date and beset with financial worries and lost job opportunities. By chance she meets Michael Barrington, a successful, sophisticated man who introduces her to a new and unconventional lifestyle. As she struggles to shake off the customs and rules of her previous life, she finds that freedom and pleasure bring their own challenges and Michael’s inclination towards psychological game-play may prove to be her undoing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781291239218

Book preview

Challenges of Play

Challenges of Play

by

Susie Henshaw

First Edition

Copyright © 2012 Susie Henshaw

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-291-23921-8

All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Chapter 1

It was a dreary, miserable July afternoon.  Summer seemed to have bypassed the south of England and although it wasn’t yet six, a grey, premature dusk had already fallen.  Sheets of rain lashed the windscreen and for the fifth time Jane turned the ignition key.  Nothing.  Just an ominous click instead of the reassuring chunter of an engine coming to life.

Tears of hopelessness, never far from the surface, began to run down her cheeks.  These days she rarely sobbed because sobbing required an outlay of energy of which she was no longer capable.  Gently she rested her forehead on the steering wheel, remembering how Brian had laughed at her when she reminded him that the car was due for a service.

For God’s sake, do you know what a service costs?  All you do is potter down to the shops a couple of times a week.  I’d be surprised if it’s done more than 2,000 miles in the last year.  Just check the oil and tyres and it’ll see you right for another few months at least.

Of course she hadn’t checked the oil and tyres; she had meant to, but it was a messy, boring job and she had kept postponing it.  Now it had died on her, a spiteful little revenge for her neglect.  She was miles from home and the friendly local petrol station where the boy behind the kiosk always smiled at her. Brian would be furious and scathing of her incompetence.

But I told you to get the thing checked!  Bloody hell, your day isn’t exactly full, is it? Can’t you do the simplest thing right?

It would be quite futile to point out that maintaining the correct oil level and tyre pressures would not have prevented this breakdown.  Jane knew little about cars but to get no response at all when she turned the key probably meant the battery was flat.  Or possibly there was something wrong with the electrical connections, she thought vaguely.  Alternators, ignition coils, solenoids?  Did cars still have solenoids, she wondered.  At any rate, Brian, she knew, would deride her argument.

Oh, so now we’re Miss Motor Mechanic, are we?  What do you know about it?

She shook her head to get rid of the echo of Brian’s voice and tried once more.  Click. Perhaps she could just stay here, give the car a rest.  If she waited half an hour and tried again, it might start.  She unfastened her seat-belt and began to rummage through her bag which sat on the front passenger seat.  Her mobile phone, a basic, no-frills device she had bought in a charity shop a couple of months ago, was temperamental; she was also uncomfortably aware that she had very little credit on it.  She pressed a button to light up the display and wasn’t surprised to discover that there was no signal.  Nevertheless, she tried dialling Brian at the office as well as his mobile.  Emergency Calls Only flashed up on the screen.

While her predicament might well be classed as an emergency, the Fire, Police and Ambulance services would probably think differently, she reflected, winding down the window and thrusting her arm out into the deluge.  She waved the phone about but no signal appeared and with an expression of disgust she hastily wound the window up and threw the phone back into her bag.

She was wasting time.  She had to try to find help - a telephone box, or a house ... She rubbed at the condensation on the windscreen and peered out, then strained her eyes to look through the passenger window. It was almost dark and all she could discern were trees, so dense they made it virtually impossible for what little daylight there was left of the day to come through.  She must have been sitting in the car for a good ten minutes and in all that time, not a single vehicle had passed her.

Gingerly she opened the car door, grimacing as a curtain of rain swept across her face.  At least it would mask the tears.  She would have to walk until she reached a house or the next village, she decided, grabbing her bag and getting out, and she must do it before darkness fell.

Friendly, familiar Swindon seemed a thousand miles away.  She had driven aimlessly after yet another abortive job interview, scarcely aware of her surroundings and oblivious of the darkening sky and the increasing patter of raindrops on her windscreen.  She had no idea where she was: she had taken the A road out of Swindon towards Oxford but at some point she had veered off to the left.  Now there were no signs of human habitation, only trees and, she guessed, fields on both sides.  She set off down the road, dodging the brambles which snaked into her path from the verge, miserably aware that the combination of the rain and mud were ruining her last good pair of heels.

Keeping her head down and leaning into the rain, she wondered for the thousandth time why prospective employers failed to see her potential value to them.  She never applied for posts unless her skills fitted well with those on the job and person specifications; she was well groomed, well spoken, friendly, courteous and professional.  While it was true that editorial positions were thin on the ground and competition was fierce, she honestly believed that her CV should set her apart from the crowd, yet time after time, she came away from interviews knowing that the rejection letter was all but written and emailed.

She had to be doing something wrong at the interviews, she thought.  Too friendly?  Too stand-offish?  It was hard to strike a balance.  The inevitable IT skills test usually went well, although she knew she never performed at her best under test conditions and it was hard to see how she could be expected to proof-read and edit three pages of closely typed script in 15 minutes.

At the age of 32, was she too old, too young?  Employment law did not permit companies to discriminate but everyone knew they did.

Resentfully, she contemplated the glaring gap in employment on her CV.  She had not worked for a year and deep down she suspected that was the cause of her failure.  At a time when most people were well on their way up the career ladder, she had chosen - chosen, note - to leave a well-paid position with good prospects.  To the outsider, it demonstrated a lack of commitment, a poor work ethic, a certain instability.  When asked about it, she avoided the long and rather humiliating explanation, preferring to state personal reasons or domestic circumstances but she had to admit, it didn’t inspire confidence.

Because she was concentrating so hard on the ground, it was a little while before she noticed that the trees on her left had given way to a high and forbidding wall.  Her hopes of rescue raised, she increased her pace.

The grass verge came to an abrupt stop and was replaced by gravel.  To her left, the wall curved away from her and a pair of huge wrought iron gates loomed up, flanked by vast granite pillars. She peered through the bars of the wrought-iron gates up a tree-lined drive lit by carriage lamps.  The drive bent away out of sight and Jane shook the gates in vain.  Then she saw an illuminated intercom set into the right-hand pillar.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she pressed the button.

Hello, intoned a male voice about fifteen seconds later.

Hello, sorry to bother you! Jane yelled into the speaker, hoping she could be heard above the sound of the rain.  I’ve broken down not far from your gates - please could you call a local garage for me?

There was silence from the intercom then without a creak or a groan the gates began to swing open.  She pressed the button again.

Hello?  Hello?  Please - I don’t want to come in.  Could you just call a garage?

The gates were wide open and nobody answered her.  Perhaps the damp had got into the electrical connections and they had been unable to hear her request.  With a sigh she began the long walk up the gravel drive and at once the gates behind her swung shut.

For a moment she hesitated, regardless of the teeming rain.  Now she was trapped inside the grounds of this strange house; not your smartest move, Jane, she told herself.  There was nothing for it but to go forward.  She rounded the bend in the drive and in spite of the cold and the rain she caught her breath at the beauty of the white Georgian house in front of her, softly lit by spotlights set into the lawn beneath old oak trees.

She passed a statue of a water nymph from which water spewed into a circular koi pool and went up the steps to the double front door and pulled the bell chain.  She heard it chime sonorously within the bowels of the house and pushed her dripping wet hair back from her face.

The door was opened by a middle-aged man with a short neat haircut.  He wore a black suit and a blank expression but his eyes were kind and Jane immediately felt less apprehensive.

Hello, she smiled.  Did I speak to you?  I’ve broken down in the road outside your house and I wondered if you’d be kind enough to call a garage for me?

She supposed he was the butler.  The house was imposing and he had the quiet, formally-polite air of a trained servant.  Before he could reply another male voice sounded from inside the house.

Who is it, Travis?

Jane looked past the butler and saw a man emerging from a doorway to the right of a wide, sweeping staircase.  He was tall, perhaps about six feet, and had dark hair and a healthy sun tan.  He was wearing a white open-necked shirt with the cuffs rolled back twice so that his wrists and half his forearms were bare.  His navy trousers were perfectly tailored with razor-sharp creases and as Jane watched, he moved into the centre of the hall and came to a stop, his hands in his pockets.

A car break down, sir, Travis informed him.  No need for you to trouble yourself.

Nonsense, it’s no trouble and we can’t leave the lady standing outside in the rain.  Come in, he said to Jane, walking forward and holding out his right hand.  I’m Michael Barrington.

Jane Ward.  She shook his hand.  She hadn’t intended to move over the threshold but her feet had moved of their own accord and she found herself in the hall and the butler was closing the front door behind her.  Her host’s handshake was firm and warm and she felt a sharp and sudden regret when he released her fingers.

I’m so sorry to disturb you, I didn’t mean to come in.  I just wanted to ask if you would call a local garage for me.  My car’s on the road outside, she waved her hand vaguely in the direction from which she’d come.

What a ghastly night to break down - you’re absolutely drenched.  He touched the collar of her grey linen jacket.  Come into the drawing room, I’ve got a fire going.

Oh, no, please, all I want ... Her voice died away as Michael disappeared through a doorway.  Reluctantly, she crossed the amber and ivory marble tiles.  The hall was lovingly decorated and tastefully furnished.  The walls were a pale apricot with white piping around the wooden beading and on the opposite side of the hall was a chaise longue upholstered in a beautiful gold brocade.

Paintings hung on the walls of landscapes, ships and animals and on the circular walnut table in the middle of the hall was a large bowl of lilies, irises and roses.

Slowly, she walked into the drawing room.  Michael Barrington was standing at a long sideboard, flicking through photographs on a tablet, one hand still in his pocket.  She had the impression that her arrival had interrupted this activity but he swiftly shut down the device and smiled at her.

Who would believe it’s July?  Travis!  Some tea, please.  He brushed past her and closed the door then, when he saw her whirl round in panic, he opened it again.  Sorry.  Please don’t be nervous, you’re quite safe.  Come closer to the fire and dry out.

Somewhat reluctantly, she moved towards the fireplace.  She couldn’t remember when she had last seen a real, honest fire burning wooden logs.  She held out damp, cold hands to the warmth of the flames and noticed that they were trembling.  A few moments later Michael pushed a brandy glass into her hand.

Drink that while we wait for the tea.  Did you have to walk far?  Sit down, he repeated, gesturing towards a beautiful Chesterfield sofa in maroon leather.

Oh, no ... She avoided his eyes and looked down at her clothes.  I don’t want to ruin your furniture.

He gave a nod of understanding.

Wait here a moment.

He left her and returned shortly with a thick fluffy white towelling robe.

Take off your wet things and put this on, he told her.  I’ll go and chivvy Travis along with the tea.  He left the room, quietly closing the door.

She shivered violently and began to undress.  The robe was impregnated with an intoxicating fragrance and she buried her nose in the collar and inhaled with pleasure as she tied the belt.   She sank on to the couch and picked up the brandy glass then promptly replaced it untasted on the glass-topped coffee table.  That was the last thing she needed.  She didn’t have a clue where she was, apart from the fact that it was probably somewhere in Oxfordshire; she was alone and virtually naked in a house belonging to a stranger.  A very sexy and attractive stranger, granted, but a stranger nonetheless.  The brandy could be drugged, what on earth had made her so obediently remove her clothes?  She could be -

There was a knock at the door and Michael returned with Travis on his heels, bearing a silver tray with bone china tea cups and saucers which he set down on the table.  Michael picked up the pile of wet clothes from the floor where she had left them and placed her muddy shoes on top.

Try and get these dry, would you? he said, thrusting the bundle into the butler’s arms.  Leave the door, he added when Travis began to close it behind him.

With rising panic Jane watched her clothes being borne away and she leapt clumsily to her feet.

May I call the garage now? she asked, gesturing towards the telephone on the desk.

I’ve sent my estate manager to take a look at your car, Michael said, pouring the tea.  He’ll let us know what’s wrong.

But I have the keys.

He’ll manage.  Michael gave an amused smile.  Milk, lemon, sugar? he queried.

Milk and one sugar, please.  She clasped her hands tightly in front of her body, then caught sight of her reflection in a large gilt-edged mirror on the opposite side of the room.  Her hair was hanging in rats’ tails and her mascara had run.  She gave an involuntary exclamation of horror and combed her fingers through her hair, trying to give it some shape and body.

You’re very welcome to take a shower if you want, Michael offered, noting her distress.

Um, no, thank you, but if I could please use your bathroom?

Of course.  He went to the door and pointed.  First on the right.

Taking her bag, she crossed the hall, shut and locked the door of the bathroom and gazed around in amazement.  It was as big as her bedroom at home and contained a Jacuzzi, a double-size shower, a basin, toilet and bidet.  The floor and walls were covered in the palest peach marble tiles and one entire wall was a mirror.  The fittings looked as if they were made of gold and there was a selection of toiletries on the vanity unit.  She took a pristine ivory towel and attempted to dry her hair, then removed the flakes of mascara from her cheeks with the aid of cotton wall balls and cleanser which had been thoughtfully supplied.  Finally, she repaired her make-up as best she could with the items in her bag, and gazed at herself in the mirror.

Typical, she said to herself.  The most handsome, sexy man you’ve ever seen in your life invites you to tea and you’ve never looked worse.

With some trepidation, she returned to the drawing room.  Michael was standing in front of the fireplace, looking down into the flames but at her approach he turned, poured her tea and placed the cup and saucer on the square glass coffee table.

Do sit down.  Feeling better? he asked solicitously.

Yes, thank you.  Mr Barrington, I really don’t want to inconvenience you -

Michael, he corrected her.  And it’s no inconvenience.  The village is a couple of miles away and there isn’t another house in any other direction for nearly five miles, so it was an unfortunate place to break down.  His dark eyes met hers.  Or perhaps not.

There was a fluttering sensation in her stomach and she looked away.  God, what a flirt!  But so gorgeous, so utterly self-assured.  His last words hung in the air and she dredged her mind for something banal and ordinary to talk about.

I don’t even know where I am, she said.  Is this Oxfordshire?

Yes.  The nearest village is called Mendall. We’re ten or twelve miles east of Oxford.  Did you get lost?  Where were you heading?

Nowhere, really, just driving.  She was aware that she sounded aimless and tried to shift the focus back to him.  Do you live here alone?

No. 

She thought that was all he was going to say.  His eyes were still on her and he was very still.  Then suddenly his body came to life again, he relaxed and picked up what looked like a black rubber ball from the coffee table.

Travis lives here, and his wife, Rosa.  Oh, and Jed, of course, my estate manager.  Jane - may I call you Jane?  Please do sit down.  He gestured towards the sofa, and seated himself in a matching armchair.  He began to toss the ball from one hand to the other, squeezing it on every third toss.

No wife, she thought before she could stop herself, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.

It’s a beautiful house.  How long have you lived here?

Thank you.  About fifteen years.  Carefully he placed the ball on the arm of the chair and picked up his cup and saucer.  He held his tea cup like a glass, as if his fingers were too large for the handle.

You don’t come from around here.  It wasn’t a question but Jane answered it all the same.

No, I live in Swindon.  I’ve never driven out this way before - so foolish of me, she added with some irritation.

He placed the cup back on to the saucer, put it down on the coffee table and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and placing his hands palm down on the arms of the chair.  His fingertips closed over the ball.

Now why would you say that? How else could we have met?

She knew she was blushing and felt angry with herself.  He was deliberately trying to make her feel uncomfortable and she was allowing him to succeed with that ridiculous, unattractive flush.  He’d drunk the tea so presumably it was safe.  She took a sip.

How did you know that I don’t live around here? she asked.

Lucky guess.  He smiled at her confusion, picked up the ball and started squeezing it once more.  It doesn’t matter.  He rose to his feet.  You haven’t touched your brandy.  It’s quite safe, you know.  He picked up her glass, drank and set it down the table again.  A mouthful, just to keep the cold away, he coaxed.

To please him she sipped it and smelt the same fragrance which emanated from his robe.  His hand or perhaps his lips had left the faintest scent of cologne on the glass.  It was by no means overpowering but it was distinctive and very heady.

What is that ball you keep playing with? she asked in an effort to concentrate on the mundane.

This?  He held it up and squeezed it.  It’s a stress ball.

Are you stressed?

At this minute, no.  I’ve recently given up smoking and it was recommended to me.

I used to smoke, years ago.  Do you feel better for having given up?

I can’t say that I do but I’m told that my arteries will thank me for it in years to come.  So what brought you out this way on such a ghastly evening?

Oh, I just - She stopped.  How could someone like Michael understand how dispiriting and depressing it was to be rejected for job after job?  He’d probably never experienced rejection in his entire life.  And, of course, it wasn’t just the disappointment of that job interview, she realised suddenly.  She simply hadn’t been able to face the weekly supermarket shop, the mind-numbing tedium of trundling a trolley up and down the same aisles, tossing the same items into it week after week, nor the stifling sense of imprisonment once she got home.

She was embarrassed by the overwhelming misery of her existence, the sense of futility she felt, the lack of hope and pleasure and laughter, and she was definitely not going to allow Michael to have an inkling of how sad and lonely her life was.

I just drove too far, she said lamely.  I must call Brian - please may I use your telephone?

Why? Michael enquired.  And who is Brian?

He’s my - husband.  She hoped that Michael had not noticed the split second hesitation.  They weren’t married but after five years together, the piece of paper hardly made a difference.  He’ll be worried.

Michael once more began tossing the ball from one hand to the other, holding it in the palm of his hand for a split second each time before passing it to the other hand.

I’m sorry, he said frankly, not looking at all sorry.  It’s just that any man who allows his wife to drive at night down dark country roads in an unreliable car without so much as a mobile phone doesn’t seem to me to be worthy of much consideration.  Don’t you even have breakdown insurance?

He didn’t know I’d be driving this far, I told you, she said defensively.  She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that breakdown cover was an expense which Brian had deemed to be unnecessary.   I normally only go into Swindon.  And I do have a mobile phone but I couldn’t get a signal.

Ah, then I know exactly where your car is.  There’s a dead spot of about a hundred yards about a mile up the lane.  If you’d tried your phone outside my gates, you would have been able to use it, he added helpfully.

She reached into her bag, took out her phone and saw the comforting signal bar on the screen.  She dialled then swiftly switched it off when she saw the smug message which flashed up telling her she had no credit.

It - It’s still not working.  May I use your phone, please? she said, hearing a note of desperation creep into her voice.

He inclined his head and gestured towards the desk.  She dialled Brian’s mobile which went straight to voicemail, hung up and dialled her home and waited, gripping the edge of the desk until her knuckles were white, praying Brian would answer.  After twenty rings she hung up.

Not home yet? Michael surmised cheerily.  Well, at least you know he’s not pacing your hall and calling the police and the local hospital.  Come and finish your tea.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal a man a few years younger than Michael, his black hair plastered to his head, his jeans and t-shirt drenched and smeared with dirt and engine oil.

Ah, Jed, Michael greeted him.  Any luck with the car?

It’s the starter motor, sir.  I can fix it but not until tomorrow.  I’ve towed the car up to the house.

Thanks.

How did you get into the car? Jane interrupted.  I still have the keys.

I picked the lock, ma’am.

Oh.  She hoped there was no damage.  Brian would be angry if there was and she would have to make up some excuse to explain it away.

All right, thanks, Jed.  A smile played around the corners of Michael’s mouth.

May I call for a taxi? Jane moved back towards the desk.  Her uneasiness had increased, now that her car, useless as it might be, was also trapped within these grounds.  Yet she had no idea how she would pay for a taxi back to Swindon.  Perhaps it could take her to a station; her credit card was up to the limit but she thought her debit card might manage a single ticket home.

Not yet, Michael was saying mildly.  Your clothes won’t be dry and it’s still early.  Have supper first then we’ll call for a taxi, or Jed can drive you.

No, really, you’ve been more than kind, but I’ve imposed enough on your hospitality.

Leisurely, he rose to his feet and walked to the desk.  His hand covered hers as it rested on the telephone receiver.

It’s no imposition.

She stared fixedly at his hand, smooth and brown and ringless, not daring to raise her eyes to his.  His watch, she noted, was gold and very thin and what her father would have called a dress watch, unlike the hefty pieces of machinery with knobs and dials on them that most men seemed to wear nowadays.

I’d like to go home, she said in a low voice.  My husband will worry if he gets home and I’m not there.

You’re trembling. Michael placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently back towards the fire.  What you need is food.  What about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs?  Light, satisfying - perfect for a night like this. Travis is an excellent cook. He went to the doorway and called for his butler who appeared seconds later.

Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for two, please, Travis.

Are my clothes ready yet? Jane asked, trying to conceal the desperation she was feeling.

Not quite, madam.

Could you bring them to me anyway?  I have to go home.  She gazed at the older man hopefully, willing him to help her.

Travis, I believe Mrs Ward has become fearful in my company, Michael observed.  Please reassure her.

You will come to no harm, madam, Travis replied dutifully.  You are quite safe here.

He withdrew and Michael smiled at her.

He’s right.  I promise I’m not going to hurt you or make you do anything you don’t want to do.

The fact that he had sensed her fears and voiced them only increased her awareness of her own vulnerability.  Why even mention not making her do something she didn’t want to do, unless there was a chance he would?  To combat her fear she adopted a more aggressive tone.

Then why won’t you let me call a taxi and leave?

Because I really want you to stay.  His demeanour was disarmingly frank.  We don’t get many visitors and I’ve been working all day.  Come on, sit down and relax.  Tell me about yourself.

She exhaled slowly and sat down, holding herself stiffly erect.

What do you want to know?

Everything about you.  How long have you been married?  What does your husband do for a living?

Five years. Brian works in IT.

Right.  And what do you do?

I don’t work, she answered shortly.

Really?  Now that surprises me.  He picked up the ball again.  I see you in a creative environment ... advertising?  Publishing?  Communications, perhaps?

She took a sharp breath.  How had he guessed so accurately her previous career?

I used to be a junior editor at a publisher’s, she admitted.

Why did you leave?

Look, I don’t want to seem rude, particularly when you’ve been so kind and hospitable, but these are quite personal questions, she said to him primly.

Of course, I do apologise.  He gave a charming smile.  My excuse is that I often have to make snap decisions about people.  It’s a skill which I like to practice.  I’m interested in human nature, what motivates someone to do something, their thought processes and reasoning.  I’d be very interested to know why you left a job you loved - and it is clear to me that you did love it.  He leaned forward.  You and I need never meet again if that’s what you wish, if it makes you feel easier about confiding in me.  But you never know, I might be able to help.

That was true, she thought, he might be able to help.  He probably had plenty of business contacts and it was possible that one of them might be looking for an editor of some description.  Oh, what the hell, what did it matter what he thought of her?

Brian used to be a computer programmer, she began.  He was successful and earned well.  He decided he wanted to set up his own consultancy business and asked me to join him, to man the office, work the phones, do the accounts.  It all looked very good on paper, the business plan projections seemed viable and lucrative, so I agreed.  I felt - Well, I suppose I felt obliged to help him, to be a supportive wife.  But it all went wrong, recession kicked in, the projections were over-optimistic, we lost a lot of money and then - then I became pregnant.

Michael stiffened and the ball disappeared in his clenched hand.

You have a child?

No, no.  I - I miscarried.  She bit her lip.  She could hardly believe what she was saying, that she was telling a complete stranger the most private details of her life.

I’m so sorry.

She nodded and he relaxed back into his armchair.  The ball moved easily from one hand to the other.

Surely, after that, you could have returned to work?

She cleared her throat.

I wasn’t very well after the miscarriage - I’m fine, now, she hastened to add.  Physically, she was.  Mentally, she knew she was depressed but the miscarriage had little to do with that.

Brian got another job, she continued, but it’s not what he was used to.  Things are ... difficult just at the moment.  And he wants another child.  I’ve been looking for work but there are so few positions available.

"What do you want?  Do you want another child?"

To her horror, Jane felt her eyes filling with tears.  She looked down at her lap and began to play with the tie belt of her robe.  Poor Brian, so desperate for someone to love.  It had hurt her so much that she wasn’t enough for him, but in the last six months that hurt had gradually turned into resentment.  She had experienced terrible guilt after the miscarriage, not because she could have done anything to prevent it, but because the loss of the baby was nothing but a relief to her, while Brian’s disappointment had been so pitiful.

Before they began living together they had agreed they would like a family but a time-frame had never been discussed.  Soon after Brian had leased offices for his new business venture, she had found out she was pregnant and thought the timing couldn’t have been worse.  But Brian was thrilled and had managed to convince her that the money would be so plentiful from now on that she need have no fears, so she buried her misgivings and ignored her doubts, even when it soon became clear that Brian was no businessman.  She wondered now if the stress had brought on the miscarriage, although she would never voice that to Brian.

The business had failed and she had lost the baby.  Brian had managed to get a job which he hated but which did at least cover the mortgage.  Jane had developed an infection which, once diagnosed, was easily dealt with by antibiotics, but she had been totally unable to shake off her gloom and the knowledge that she had made a catastrophic error of judgement with Brian.

They were totally unsuited.  They wanted different things from life, had different values and she should never have set up home with him.  Nothing would ever change, he would never change.

The worst of it was that she now felt obliged to stay with him because the failure of the business had saddled them with debt, but she couldn’t get a job which would help to lift them out of the quagmire and thereby secure her freedom.

Then Brian had dropped a bombshell.  He wanted them to try for another baby.  She remembered arguing with him, trying to make him see that an extra responsibility like that was the last thing they needed.  He had been so dismissive of her job and her efforts to find work as an editor.

You never earned anything more than pocket money, he had scoffed.  Hardly enough to make it worthwhile.  You were only a glorified secretary anyway.

That last remark was what had hurt most.  She had worked tirelessly - long hours, few holidays and for a paltry salary in the early days - because her editor had told her she showed promise and would be promoted.  Brian’s refusal to recognise her career potential or to encourage her, sapped her confidence and her strength, and recently she had ceased trying to remonstrate with him over the issue of another child.  Her sole and silent rebellion lay in the contraceptive pills she kept concealed in a box which had held the perfume he gave her for Christmas the previous year.  The Pill, she had read somewhere, was 95% reliable: a one in twenty chance of her becoming pregnant was, she thought, an acceptable risk.

Jane? Michael asked softly, jolting her back to the present.  Do you want another child?

No, she whispered almost inaudibly.

Have you told Brian that?

I - I tried -

Jane stopped and surreptitiously brushed at her cheeks, desperately hoping he hadn’t noticed her tears.  What was it about this man that made her confess every intimate facet of her life?

If his heart is set on being a father, nothing you can say or do will change his mind.  You realise that, don’t you?

I can be very persuasive! she snapped, angry that he should have put into words what she had been telling herself over and over again.

I don’t doubt that for a second.  But if you have to use persuasion and feminine wiles to bring him round to your point of view on something so basic, so central to a couple’s compatibility, one is forced to wonder how much of the rest of the marriage is based on honesty and trust.

It’s really none of your business, she told him haughtily and was grateful for Travis’s arrival with supper on a trolley.

I’ve opened a bottle of Montrachet, sir, the butler said as he set down knives and forks, plate mats and plate of thinly sliced brown bread and butter.

Excellent choice.  Michael poured the wine and Travis departed.  Come and eat this while it’s hot, Jane.

She sat down at the small table, wondering if this was where Michael usually ate his supper.  She suspected there would be a dining room somewhere in the house with a highly polished mahogany table which could accommodate thirty.  She was also willing to bet that scrambled eggs was not his usual dinner fare.  Fragrant steam from her plate assailed her nostrils and she remembered she had not eaten since breakfast.

What shall we drink to? Michael asked, raising his glass.  New friendships, I think.

She sipped the cold sharp wine.

You’re right, he went on, as if there had been no interruption to their conversation.  It’s absolutely none of my business.  I’m sorry if I offended you.

He was so charming, Jane felt her anger and discomfort melting away.

What about parents? he went on.  And brothers and sisters?

My mother died when I was very small, before any brothers or sisters could come along.  I don’t see my father anymore.

Why?

Because he disapproved of Brian.

Why?

Jane sighed, casting her mind back.  Five years ago Brian had been enthusiastic and dynamic, a sparkling contrast to her cold, authoritarian father with whom she still lived.  The courtship was rapid, peppered with promises of the wonderful life they would have together and she had fallen in love with the future Brian had mapped out for them, as much as with him.  At some point during the last year she had accepted that rosy future would never materialise.  Brian was basically a dreamer; his thoughts and energies were always centred on the next holiday, the next company car, the next promotion - so much so that he failed to devote sufficient attention to the present and thereby failed to do adequately the job he was paid to do.  To her certain knowledge he had already received one written warning from his employer, in the form of a brusque letter she had discovered tucked inside the pocket of a suit jacket when she took it to be dry-cleaned.

Her father had despised Brian on sight, and had made no secret of the fact that he thought his daughter was settling for third or fourth best.

The thoughts were unwelcome and she resented Michael’s curiosity.

They just didn’t hit it off, she answered dismissively and attempted to shift the topic of conversation.  Have you ever been married?

No, he replied after a pause.  Up until now I’ve never met anybody I wanted to spend a whole night with, let alone a lifetime.

She looked across at him in the midst of giving a reflex nod, then the implication of his words registered and she felt the violent blush rise from her throat.  He was watching her, as if expecting a reaction, and she took a sip of wine to try to cover her embarrassment, hoping that her reddened cheeks might be attributed to the glow from the fire.

Do you always blush when a man pays you a compliment?

She swallowed.  The answer to that question was she didn’t know because it was so long since any man had paid her any sort of compliment.  She had certainly never been regarded with the sort of admiration and interest she saw in Michael’s eyes when he looked at her.  Obviously, he wasn’t serious but it was ... exciting.  And she couldn’t stop herself from offering a little encouragement.

Did you just pay me a compliment? she asked innocently.

I thought I did, he laughed, although I could be a little rusty, I suppose.  I thought I implied that I wanted to spend the night with you.

The room was deathly quiet.  Jane took a mouthful of food and then wished she hadn’t because she suddenly seemed incapable of swallowing.

That’s very flattering, she managed eventually, but you hardly know me.  And I’m not available.

I know you well enough and I think we’ve established that your current domestic arrangement isn’t going to prove an insurmountable obstacle.

Jane gasped and leapt to her feet.  This couldn’t be happening, he couldn’t be saying these things.

I have to leave.  Please ask Travis for my clothes.  I’m going to call Brian again.  She dialled.  It was a heavy irony that she spent a good proportion of her life avoiding him and counting down the hours of each weekend until Monday morning arrived and Brian’s oppressive presence left the house.  Now, more than anything, she longed to hear his voice at the other end of the line, but all she got was the ringing tone, seemingly mocking her for continually calling an empty house.

Michael’s hands came down on her shoulders once more as she hung up.

He’s not there and he doesn’t know where you are, he said gently.  If you were mine I’d make damned sure I knew where you were every second of every day.  And night.  His fingers firmly kneaded her shoulders, sending delicious shivers down her spine.

But I’m not, she replied, almost unaware of closing her eyes and leaning her head back against his chest.  His lips brushed her neck and moved up towards her earlobe.

My misfortune, he murmured, but not an irreversible one.

She jumped and flung herself away from him.

I really have to go.  I’m going to find my clothes and call for a taxi.

Alas, that’s easier said than done.  He drained the wine in his glass and resumed his seat.  First, you have to find your clothes and Travis won’t hand them over unless I tell him he may.  Which I won’t.  Second, you can only call for a taxi if I permit it.  Which I won’t.

Why - Why not? she stammered.

He contemplated her through half-closed eyes.

Because I don’t want you to leave.

Her face dropped incredulously.

You’re going to keep me prisoner?

I wouldn’t put it quite like that. 

Jane waited for him to elaborate but he showed no sign of speaking again.

How would you put it, then?

He put his head on one side and gazed at her rather as a botanist might gaze at a particularly rare plant.

I suppose I’m going to discourage your desire to depart, in the anticipation that in a short while it will be replaced by a different, and rather more primitive, desire.

This time there was no mistaking his meaning and she stared at him in shock.  His arrogance was breath-taking and terrifying.  Yet at the same time, she felt the