Anne Mather - Jack Riordan's Baby

‘My God!’ Jack’s reaction was predictably violent and Rachel cast an anxious look over her shoulder to see if Mrs Grady was listening. But the housekeeper had left the room, evidently deciding to leave them to it. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

Rachel’s mouth was dry. ‘Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? You have been seeing someone else?’

‘I’ve seen a lot of people,’ retorted Jack harshly. ‘What’s this all about, Rachel? What was last night all about? Why didn’t you tell me how you felt before you—?’

He broke off abruptly, turning away to rake unsteady fingers through his hair. All of a sudden he felt sick and dizzy; the aftermath of too much excitement? he thought bitterly. Or anticipation of the nightmare to come?

‘Jack?’

Rachel sounded almost concerned now, and he wondered if she’d guessed that something was wrong. But the last thing he needed was for her to feel sorry for him. He had some pride, albeit somewhat shredded after last night.

‘Just go away, Rachel,’ he said, gripping the overhanging lip of granite with both hands. He made a sudden decision. ‘I’ve got to go into the office.’ He straightened. ‘I’ll see you when I see you, right?’

Rachel touched his arm and he flinched. God, he had it bad, he thought. She’d only to lay a hand on him and he wanted to turn round and drag her—kicking and screaming, if necessary—into his arms. Despite his shaky equilibrium, and the fact that she’d apparently only been using him the night before, he still wanted her. And how pathetic was that?

‘You’re not dressed for the office,’ she said now, and Jack knew he had to turn and face her.

‘I was hungry,’ he said, even though the thought of the omelette Mrs Grady had offered to make for him was making him feel sick.

Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I suppose you can’t wait to see her, can you?’ she said, and Jack blinked at the sudden attack.

‘To see her?’ he echoed. ‘Who the hell are you talking about?’

‘This woman,’ she persisted. ‘She works in your office, doesn’t she?’ She paused, and when he made no reaction she went on, ‘Karen Johnson? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten her.’

Jack swayed back on the heels of his loafers. ‘How the hell do you know about her?’

‘I know.’ Rachel refused to tell him the woman had been here.

‘I can’t believe you were interested enough to investigate my life.’

‘Can’t you?’ His words pained her, but she managed to hide it. ‘I guess we don’t know one another very well anymore.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ he countered, feeling his heart quickening in tune with his rising agitation. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, I didn’t move out of your bed!’

‘You know why I did,’ she cried, stung into defending herself, but Jack wasn’t in the mood for compromise.

‘They were my babies, too,’ he said savagely. And then, feeling as if he’d pass out if he didn’t get some air, he walked unsteadily across the kitchen floor. ‘Just go to hell, Rachel,’ he muttered, going out of the door.

Jack was sitting in his office in Plymouth, slumped over his desk, when the intercom buzzed. Scowling, he pushed himself up and pressed the answering button. ‘Yeah?’

‘You’ve got a call, Mr Riordan.’ His secretary sounded apologetic. ‘I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but it’s your wife.’

‘My wife?’ Jack was stunned. He had no idea why Rachel should be ringing him after their altercation that morning. But he was ever the optimist, he thought dourly. ‘Put her on.’

‘Yes, Mr Riordan.’

The line went dead for a moment, and then a voice said, ‘Hello, Jack.’

It wasn’t Rachel. That was his first thought, and his spirits foundered. And because of that his response was savagely blunt. ‘Karen,’ he said, recognising her voice instantly after what Rachel had said. The way he was feeling now, if the woman had been in the immediate vicinity he’d have wrung her neck.

‘Darling—you remember me!’ she exclaimed, and Jack wondered how she expected him to forget. She’d been ringing him off and on for the past three months—ever since she’d been fired, actually. So many times, in fact, that he’d had to ask his secretary to monitor all his calls.

‘Don’t call me darling,’ he snapped, wondering why he didn’t just slam down the receiver. He’d done it before. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing? Impersonating someone else is a criminal offence. If you ring this number again I’ll have you arrested. There’s a word for what you’re doing, Karen, and it’s harassment.’

‘Oh, Jack, don’t be so stuffy. You didn’t used to be like this when we were together.’

‘We were never together, Karen.’ Jack was wearily aware he’d said all this before. ‘We went out together once. And believe me, that was a mistake.’

Karen only laughed. ‘You don’t mean that, Jack.’

‘Yes, I do. And I mean it when I say I’m going to report you to the authorities. I should have done it before. But I guess I felt sorry for you.’

‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Jack.’

Her tone had altered now, and he could tell he’d annoyed her. Well, good! Way to go. He hoped she’d got the message at last.

‘Feel sorry for yourself, Jack,’ she went on sharply. And then, her tone softening again, ‘We need to be together. You know that. You can fight it if you like, but it won’t do you any good.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Jack lost patience. ‘Get a life, Karen. One that doesn’t include stalking me!’

He would have slammed the phone down then, but she must have sensed it, and rushed into speech. ‘We’re going to have a baby, Jack,’ she burst out wildly. ‘That’s why I’ve been ringing you. We have to talk.’

Rachel spent the morning in the studio Jack had had built for her in the garden. It was on the far side of the property, with a magnificent view of Foliot Cove. The cove was at the foot of the cliffs that etched this part of the coastline, and could be reached by a flight of stone steps some previous owner of the land had had carved out of the rock.

Rachel was quite a gifted painter, using both oils and charcoal in various forms. But her favourite medium was watercolour, and she’d created quite a name for herself in recent years, illustrating children’s books for the London publisher who’d recognised her talent.

Today, however, it was hard to concentrate. She kept thinking about what she’d done the night before, and remembering Jack’s face when she’d told him she knew about his affair with Karen Johnson.

He hadn’t admitted he was having an affair with Karen, but then he hadn’t denied it either. Instead, he’d accused her of abandoning their marriage. Of moving out of their bed and effectively putting an end to their relationship.

Yet surely he should be able to understand how she’d been feeling at that time? Three times she’d become pregnant, three times she’d felt the miracle of life inside her, and three times she’d lost the baby in the third month. All right, perhaps she hadn’t given enough thought to how Jack was feeling. Perhaps she had been totally tied up with her own emotions, her own grief.

But Jack had always seemed so strong, so impervious to anything life threw at him. The eldest son of an Irish labourer and his wife, who had emigrated to England in the sixties, he’d worked hard to get his degree in civil engineering. He was the only member of his family who’d ever gone to university, and although one of his brothers and all three sisters were settled now, with families of their own, for years Jack had helped to support his siblings, doing two jobs even when he was at university so that he could send money home.