LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

knowing that there would be no turning back.

      When Ronnie found herself pregnant she was furious. She did not want to have a baby. For a start, she subscribed to the western world's obsession with the Body Thin. Secondly, she had a low tolerance of pain and the idea of a possible twelve- to sixteen-hour stretch, no pun intended, with no guarantee of a satisfactory outcome was not an experience she wanted to undertake. Thirdly, she was only twenty-eight years old for Chrissake! She had her whole, single, fancy-free, the-world-is-my-oyster life ahead of her. If it had to happen at all, now was not the right time!

      Most of all, though, she did not want to feel that she had to stay with Boyd for ever. That would spoil everything. She knew she would start to feel trapped and that would take all the fun out of it.

      He, of course, was no help at all. 'You do what you think is right,' he kept saying, toeing the correct line, letting those who ride decide, letting the woman have complete control of her body, etcetera, etcetera. Pathetic SNAG. Why couldn't he say something like, 'Well, that's it, we have to get married now, the party's over,' or even, 'Okay, I'm off, it's been great but I'm just not ready to commit myself right now.' But, no, it was, 'You do what you think is right.' In other words, 'If you're going to flush it, it's your decision, if you're going to keep it, it's not my responsibility.' Those feminists had a lot to answer for, she railed, this was the kind of responsibility she could do without!

      Then, as the pregnancy hormones started to kick in, loosening her ligaments and lulling her into a kind of hypnotic trance, she decided, against the odds, to keep it. She stopped kicking herself and let the baby take over.

      Marriage and motherhood had changed her, but for the better, she thought. The focus of her affection now was her son, but she wasn't unhappy. In fact, most of the time she didn't give 'happiness' a second thought. So when she found Dexter making such a big deal about whether she thought Lawrence was good-looking or not it had pulled her up short.

      At what point in her life had she stopped looking? For that matter, had she ever done so? She was far more likely to be struck by a man's personality than by his looks - fortunately for Boyd, she thought with a chuckle. Nonetheless, the next morning she found herself taking a long hard look at the new member of staff. She noted his good taste in clothes, his broad shoulders, the thick, wavy, blond hair that fell over his tanned male-model features. Definitely cute, she concurred. But Ronnie had always been wary of so-called handsome men. Life was generally too easy for them. People - women mainly - were forever bending over backwards - and forwards - for them. In her limited experience they were users, for whom she had no use.

      She was staring, when Lawrence suddenly looked up and met her gaze. And held it. Held it a beat too long. Maybe he'd looked at her like that before and she hadn't noticed? But maybe Dexter had. Maybe that's what their conversation was all about? Maybe Lawrence was the kind of guy who couldn't look at a woman in any other way. And what kind of way was that? Ronnie asked herself. Why, in a sexual, come-on kind of way, stupid, she replied.

      An unsmiling, searching look; intimate, somehow, like a lover, and it was only when he raised his eyebrow quizzically and said, 'Did you want to see me?' that she realised she had been staring at him for far too long.

      'What? Oh! No. Sorry, I was miles away,' she blurted out, cheeks blazing.

      He smiled politely, nodded and they both returned to their work.

      And that was it. The beginning.

      A man, other than her husband, had looked at her 'like that' and she had felt - something. Chemistry? Cupid's dart? All that Mills & Boon crap? Anyway, something she hadn't felt for years. A former, long-forgotten self had awoken, stretched itself and sprung to life full of passion and mischief. A secret panel in her emotional life had slid open and she had entered it like someone in a trance, illuminated by a rosy glow.

      Just like that. In a split-second.

      It was as if someone had turned a spotlight onto Lawrence. In her hunger for another hit of that original blast, Ronnie found herself sneaking furtive looks at him, eavesdropping on his conversations, manufacturing excuses to talk to him. To discuss one of her drawings, for example, which would necessitate him standing next to her at her desk. Unbearably close.

      She was convinced, moreover, that he too felt the electricity and that, even though the other women in the office drooled over him and he, in turn, flirted with them, he treated her differently. Something special was going on between them and it made her feel very excited.

      Over the weeks this pleasant distraction burgeoned into an all-consuming obsession. She was constantly aware of him during their shared working hours. Then, driving home, she would while away peak-hour traffic delays with elaborate fantasies: clandestine meetings in stairwells, alone in the office after work, an interstate trip away together, these were some of many feverish scenarios starring herself and Lawrence Konitz. He desperate for her, she protesting marital loyalty, but succumbing after that lingering kiss. The graze of her coat collar against her cheek was enough to set her off.

      Some evenings would find her at home up to her elbows in the dishes staring out of the kitchen window into the void, cheeks on fire, heart pounding, as romance flayed her imagination.

      'Can I have a lunch order tomorrow, Mum? Pur-leese?' Matt's whingeing would snap her back to reality but it would take a long time for her pulse to return to normal.

      So powerful and detailed were her fantasies that the real-life Lawrence sometimes caught her off-guard by doing something quite uncharacteristic for his imaginary counterpart: like spending fifteen minutes in the drying room with Genevieve before returning to his desk without so much as a glance in her direction. Ronnie glossed over these glitches. And although she had an idea that she was courting disaster to indulge herself like this, after a while she no longer had the ability, let alone the will, to resist. After all, what harm was she doing? It was all in her mind, wasn't it? No-one was getting hurt and no-one need ever know.

      In the tea-room one morning in late December, when they were alone together, he had leaned against the benchtop, nursing a coffee as she rinsed her cup. 'That colour really suits you,' he said quietly. 'Dangerous.'

      She turned, catching sight of herself, in her short red dress, in the mirror.

      'What's that supposed to mean?' she asked, barely able to get the words out.

      He grinned mischievously, while somewhere on another planet someone called out her name.

      'You're wanted,' he said, and stepped aside for her to pass.

      They should rename this place the 'Take Too Long Cafe', she thought, as neither her breakfast nor her coffee had arrived after twenty minutes. Time to put in a quick call to work, and yet another trip to the toilet. This was getting beyond a joke. As soon as she had finished she wanted to go again. Something was definitely wrong.

      She caught sight of her face in the tiny mirror over the hand basin. She looked pretty good, considering how she felt. Not uncommon with a hangover, she had found - time the Ponds Institute found out why and bottled it.

      She crabbed over to the blue payphone and inserted a dollar coin, the only small change she had. Brain cancer, shmain cancer, she moaned to herself, I want my mobile!

      'Good morning, Arthouse Studios, this is Lou-Ann.'

      'Lou, it's Ronnie. I'm running a bit... '

      'Thank Christ, you've rung!' Lou-Ann cut in. 'All hell's broken loose. I have to put you straight through to Dexter.'

      'Hang on a minute, Lou! What's going on?' The knot of fear was back in her stomach. Was it something to do with Lawrence?

      'Sorry, Ronnie. More than my job's worth. Putting you through. Good luck.'

      Strains of 'Für Elise' tinkled down the line for a few bars.

      'Where the fuck have you been?'

      'Good morning to you too, Dex. I'm sorry I... '

      'Forget it, don't want to know. Just get your arse in here straight away. We've>got a major problem. We are in deep shit.'

Скачать книгу