LITMIR.BIZ

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too. Maybe, by the end of that week, she could clear her diary somewhat and have some time off.

      Meanwhile, Aunt Helen would have to come to the party, whether she wanted to or not.

      “Mum,” she said firmly, “you do know you can’t stay here, don’t you? This place belonged to Lionel. No doubt he kept it a secret from his family, but there will be a deed somewhere. Sooner or later, someone will show up and if you’re still here, questions will be asked. You always told me Lionel didn’t want his wife and son to know about you, so…”

      “She’s dead too,” her mother broke in. “His wife. Kath. In the accident. They were both killed instantly.”

      “Dear heaven. How dreadful.” Celia sagged back against her chair. She’d often wished Lionel Freeman would go take a running jump from one of his tallest buildings, but she’d never wished any harm on his unfortunate wife.

      Poor woman, Celia thought.

      “Poor Luke,” her mother choked out. “He’s going to be shattered.”

      Celia frowned. She didn’t often think of the son, especially nowadays. He was a grown man after all, and not living at home. But now that her mother had mentioned him, she did feel sorry for the man. How awful to lose both his parents so tragically, especially his mother. Still, there was nothing she could do for him. She had her own shattered mother to worry about.

      Her mum suddenly looked up, her eyes troubled.

      “You’re right,” she said in panicky tones. “I can’t stay here. Luke might come. Lionel would die if Luke found out about me.”

      Once she realised what she’d just said, her face paled and a strangled sob escaped her throat.

      “I doubt Lionel’s son would come here personally, Mum,” Celia reassured her. “But even if he does, you won’t be here. I’m taking you to stay at Aunt Helen’s for a while till I can organise something more permanent for you.”

      Her mother shook her head from side to side, tears flooding her eyes. “No. No, I couldn’t go there. Helen didn’t approve of my relationship with Lionel. She hated him.”

      Didn’t we all? Celia thought ruefully.

      But this was hardly the time to say so.

      “She hated what he did to you, Mum,” Celia said gently. “Which is another thing entirely. And the situation’s changed now, isn’t it?”

      “But she never understood,” her mother cried, the tears spilling over. “You didn’t either, did you, Celia? You thought I was wicked. And a fool.”

      “I never thought you were wicked, Mum.”

      “But you thought me a fool. And maybe I was. But love makes fools of all of us.”

      Not me, Celia vowed privately. Never! When and if she fell in love, it wouldn’t be with a man like Lionel Freeman.

      “I know you think Lionel didn’t really love me,” her mother said brokenly. “But he did.”

      “If you say so, Mum,” was all Celia could say to that.

      “You don’t believe me.”

      Celia neither denied, nor confirmed this truth.

      “There are things you don’t know…things I’ve never told you…”

      “And please don’t go telling me now, Mum,” Celia begged. The last thing she wanted to listen to was all the lies Lionel had fed his mistress to excuse and explain his two decades of adultery. She’d refused to discuss Lionel with her mother for some years now.

      Her mother sighed a long shuddering sigh and, as the air left her lungs, so, it seemed, did her spirit. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes dulled. Perhaps it was only the sun going behind a cloud, but so did her hair.

      Suddenly, the eternally youthful and sensual creature that Lionel Freeman had lusted after so obsessively faded to nothing but a shadow of her former self. Till a moment before, she could have passed for thirty. Now, she looked every second of her forty-two years. And more.

      “You’re right,” she said with a weariness that worried Celia more than her earlier shocked state. “What does anything matter any more? He’s dead. Lionel is dead. It’s over.”

      Celia gazed anxiously at her mother. This was what she’d been afraid of, her thinking there was nothing left to live for without the man she adored.

      People said she was just like her mother, and she was, in looks. But, there, any similarities ended.

      Her mother was a romantic, Celia, a realist. Especially when it came to men. Impossible for her to be otherwise after twenty years of watching her mother being so ruthlessly used by Lionel Freeman.

      Perversely, there’d been a time when Celia had thought Lionel was wonderful. He’d entered her life when she’d been six, a lonely, fatherless little girl. What lonely little six-year-old wouldn’t have adored the handsome man who’d made her mummy so happy when he’d visited, and had brought such marvellous toys?

      It hadn’t been till Celia had reached puberty that she’d taken off her rose-coloured glasses where her mummy’s friend had been concerned. Once she’d realised exactly what Lionel came to visit for, and that he made her mother cry much more than smile, Celia’s love for him had turned to hate overnight.

      Outraged as only a disillusioned and disgusted teenager was able, she’d confronted Lionel and had torn strips off him, appalled when her mother had then torn strips off her in return for being out of line. But, after that, the lovers had met elsewhere other than at her mother’s flat. Celia’s mum had still cried a lot in the dead of night, and a distraught Celia had vowed never to grow up and fall in love with any man who wasn’t a genuine Mr Wonderful. Her dream man wouldn’t be afraid of commitment and fatherhood. And he certainly wouldn’t be already married to someone else, like Lionel. He would be decent and honest, brave and reliable, loyal and loving.

      Oh, and of course he’d be terribly good-looking and a really good kisser. She’d been only thirteen when she’d conjured up this vision of masculine perfection, after all.

      Celia hadn’t found him yet. In fact, she was pretty sure her Mr Wonderful didn’t exist. She’d had quite a few boyfriends since leaving school, but hadn’t found a single one who didn’t eventually disappoint her, both in bed and out.

      Maybe she had impossibly high standards. Her girlfriends always said she did. Whatever, her relationships never worked out.

      The last one had been a couple of months ago. He’d been a footballer she’d treated for a knee injury, and he had pursued her to death after his treatments had finished, telling her he was simply crazy about her, promising her the world if she would just go out with him.

      She had in the end, because she’d actually found him very attractive. She liked tall, well-built men. He was also surprisingly intelligent and seemingly sincere. Naturally, she’d made him wait for sex. She never went to bed with a guy on a first date. Nor a second. Nor even a third. When she finally had, she’d wished she hadn’t. For it had been such an anticlimax.

      He’d seemed pretty satisfied, however, which was always the case with men, she’d found. They really weren’t too worried about their girlfriends’ lack of orgasms, provided the girlfriend was coming across. They always blamed the woman, never themselves. And they invariably promised things would get better.

      Sometimes, if the guy was nice, Celia hung in there, hoping things would improve. But when the footballer had sensitively informed her during his second go that his previous girlfriend would have come three times by then, Celia had decided Mr Wonderful he wasn’t. Nor ever would be.

      She’d dumped him the next morning.

      Pity her mother hadn’t dumped Lionel Freeman the morning after all those years ago when she’d found out he was married. But then, Lionel, in bed at least, had been her mother’s

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