Anne Mather - A Haunting Compulsion

‘Before I discovered you were married, you mean?’ Rachel choked, getting abruptly to her feet, needing the self-assurance that came from being able, physically at least, to look down at him.

‘Okay.’ Jaime shrugged his shoulders indifferently, leaning back against the window with an indolence that both disturbed and infuriated her. ‘So you’ve said it. It’s what you’ve been wanting to say ever since you got here. Well, now I’ve given you the opportunity.’

‘You don’t care, do you?’ Rachel was incensed.

‘Was I supposed to?’ Jaime’s eyes were hard.

‘Don’t you care about—about anything but your own—your own—sexual gratification?’

Jaime’s mouth assumed a mocking tilt. ‘That’s a good old-fashioned way of describing it, I guess.’ One dark brow quirked upward. ‘But I have to say you seemed to enjoy it, too.’

‘You—you—’

‘Cad?’ Jaime pressed his weight down on the stick and got to his feet beside her, immediately reducing her advantage. ‘That’s another good old-fashioned expression. As you seem to be hooked on out-of-date attitudes.’

Rachel clenched her fists. ‘You—swine!’

‘Better.’ Jaime’s smile was malicious. ‘There may be hope for you yet. If you allowed a little more of the real Rachel Williams to emerge, we might find ourselves with a three-dimensional person again, instead of a cardboard cut-out.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this—’

‘Why? Am I getting too close to the truth?’

The sound of footsteps approaching across the hall stilled any response Rachel might have cared to make, and by the time Liz entered the room she had put the width of the hearth between her and Jaime, and was apparently engrossed in reading the cards on the mantelshelf.

‘Oh, you two have met, have you?’

Liz’s reaction was one of relief, although she glanced from her son to Rachel and back to her son again, with a doubtful expression marring her attractively ageing features.

‘We’ve been having a most interesting conversation,’ Jaime remarked, shifting his weight with evident discomfort, and his mother shook her head impatiently, indicating the seat behind him.

‘Do sit down,’ she exclaimed, anxiety colouring her tone. ‘You really should take more rest, Jaime. Dr Manning says it takes time for flesh to knit together.’

Jaime pulled a wry face, but he did sink down on to the window seat again with some relief, and glancing in his direction, Rachel knew a pang of guilt at her own obduracy. She had not even asked him how he was feeling, and although she despised herself for feeling that way, she knew she was still concerned about him.

‘So,’ Liz forced a lightness she was evidently far from feeling, ‘has Rachel told you about her promotion, Jaime? She’s an assistant editor now, isn’t that exciting? Who knows, she may produce her own programmes one day.’

‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Rachel deprecatingly, and Jaime’s cynical eyes probed her embarrassment.

‘She doesn’t have the right disposition,’ he remarked, addressing his mother, but evidently speaking for Rachel’s benefit. ‘Her ideals are too rigid. She doesn’t move with the times. Producers have to be modern in outlook, malleable in intent, they have to feel for their subject, and make allowances for human error. And also they need to be capable of distinguishing between truth and fabrication.’

‘And be sexually aware!’ exclaimed Rachel, unable to prevent the bitter retort, and Jaime inclined his head mockingly.

‘That, too, of course,’ he drawled, with heavy sarcasm, and Rachel longed to wipe the smug expression from his face.

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