Tom into this?’
‘Why not?’ Ben regarded her without expression. ‘He is involved.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ Ben lifted his shoulders indifferently. ‘I assume you’d rather I didn’t tell Phil about him.’
‘Phil!’ For a few moments, Jaime had forgotten about her ex-husband, but Ben’s words struck a chill into her heart. ‘That’s—that’s blackmail,’ she said unsteadily.
‘No, it’s not.’ Ben pushed his beer aside. ‘I’m not suggesting I would tell Phil. I’m just pointing out the alternatives I have at my disposal.’
Jaime scrubbed at the wrist he had been holding with her other hand, hardly aware of what she was doing. ‘If you don’t intend telling Phil, then why did you mention him? You’re threatening me, Ben. And I despise you for it.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Ben expelled his breath heavily. ‘Jaime, all I want is for you to accept the situation as it really is, and not as you’d like to make it.’
Jaime moved her head from side to side. ‘And if Tom doesn’t want to see you again?’
Ben’s mouth flattened. ‘He will.’
‘Why?’ Jaime knew she was losing, but she had to make one final bid for her future. ‘Because you can offer him big houses, and big cars, and—and swimming-pools?’
‘No.’ Ben’s response was grim, and when he leaned towards her a frisson of fear feathered her spine. ‘Believe it or not, I regret what I said on Saturday night,’ he told her savagely. ‘It was a—gut reaction to your intransigence, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I shouldn’t have bragged about the house. No, the reason Tom will want to see me again is something much more basic. You may not like it, but we got on rather well. And whatever grudge you think you have against me, I won’t let you keep us apart!’
THE rest of the week was an anti-climax. Jaime went to work every morning anticipating the worst, and came home every evening fully expecting Ben to have contacted Tom in her absence. But he didn’t. Tuesday seeped into Wednesday, and Thursday into Friday, and there was no further communication from him. Indeed, it got to such a point that Jaime actually found herself wondering if he was ill, and although she told herself that that prospect gave her no concern it gave her no satisfaction either. Tom, she knew, was disappointed that his uncle hadn’t been in touch. In spite of his brave statement of indifference, he had expected Ben to try to see him again. Of course, he knew nothing about his mother’s encounter at the beginning of the week. Jaime had had no choice but to keep that to herself. She only hoped that if Ben did see Tom again he would do the same. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her son, but it was too late now to do anything about it.
‘Are you going to the disco tonight?’ she asked on Friday evening, finding even the prospect of her son’s continuing association with Angie Santini preferable to the alternative at the moment, but Tom shook his head.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘I don’t feel like it. I think I’ll clear out my room instead.’
‘Clear out your room?’ Jaime turned from straining vegetables at the sink to stare at her son. ‘Since when did you clear out your room without being asked?’
‘Since now,’ exclaimed Tom defensively. ‘Well—there’s not much else to do, is there?’
Jaime hesitated. ‘Well, it’s a lovely evening. You could take—Angie—for a walk.’
‘Nah.’ Tom shook his head again. ‘Angie’s going to the disco.’
‘And you’re not?’ Jaime couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.
‘I’m not in the mood,’ declared her son, flinging himself into a chair at the table. ‘Not tonight, anyway.’
Jaime shook her head now, not quite knowing how to take this unexpected turn of events. She couldn’t help thinking that Tom hadn’t had these reservations last weekend, and the connection between Ben’s visit and her son’s sudden aversion to going out was impossible to ignore.
‘You’ve not fallen out with Angie, have you?’ she ventured, needing to clarify the situation in her own mind, and Tom looked up at her with guarded eyes.
‘No,’ he said, toying with the cutlery Jaime had laid on the table. ‘Why? Do you want me to go out or something?’
‘Of course not.’ Jaime was thrown on the defensive now, although another thought had occurred to her. ‘It’s just not usual for you to spend Friday night at home, that’s all. You’re not—expecting anyone, are you?’
‘Are you?’
‘Me?’ Jaime was lifting a casserole out of the oven as she spoke, and the word degenerated into a squeak of pain as the dish slipped against her palm. ‘Damn,’ she added, shoving the offending container on to the hob and pressing her two palms together. ‘Who would I be expecting?’
Then, as she was staring somewhat resentfully at her son, the doorbell rang. Like a blatant reaction to her plea of innocence, the sound echoed resonantly around the small kitchen, and Tom was out of his chair and on his way to answer it almost before the chimes died away. But it was the expression he flung at his mother as he did so that caused Jaime’s heart to lurch in silent protest. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he believed she knew who it was, and his interpretation was obvious.
Jaime froze as he bounded up the hall, the casserole forgotten on the hob beside her. It had to be Ben, she thought sickly, guessing he had chosen this way to do things to avoid any repetition of the confrontation they had had on Monday. By coming to the house, he was forcing her to accept him. And Tom was simply playing into his hands.
The door opened, but the voice that greeted her son wasn’t Ben’s. It was female, and as the numbness that had gripped her began to ease Jaime recognised her mother’s voice. Her mother’s voice! A wave of hysteria swept over her, and she had to physically suppress the urge to laugh out loud. It wasn’t Ben, it was her mother. Dear God, was she going mad?
‘It’s Nan,’ announced Tom offhandedly, preceding his grandmother into the room, and resuming his seat at the table. He didn’t look at his mother, and, conscious of her own weakness, Jaime guessed her son was suffering the same reaction. He had expected it to be Ben, of course, and the sulky twist to his lips was an indication of his disappointment.
‘Hi, Mum!’
Jaime greeted her mother warmly, but Mrs Fenner surveyed the pair of them rather wryly. ‘Did I interrupt an argument or what?’ she asked, setting her handbag down on the floor and unbuttoning her jacket. ‘If I’m in the way, I can easily go back home.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum.’ Jaime flashed her son a reproving look, and went to help her mother off with her coat. ‘You’re not interrupting anything. We were just going to eat, actually. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Fenner shook her blonde head. Like her daughter—and her grandson—her hair had once been silvery pale, and although its colour now owed more to the skills of her hairdresser than to nature she was still a very attractive woman. ‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea, if that’s all right with you. It’s so hot! It’s years since we’ve had a summer like this.’
‘Are you sure you won’t have something to eat?’ Jaime moved the casserole on to the table, and took off the lid. ‘It’s your favourite—chicken.’
‘Honestly.’ Her mother fanned herself with a languid hand. ‘Besides, I had a sandwich before I came out. And I mustn’t stay long. I promised your father I’d be back before the place got busy.’
‘All