fascinated. He’d never seen anyone before eat with such dedicated single-mindedness. She didn’t even pause for breath.
Then she screwed up the paper, licked her fingers one by one and grinned. ‘Wow. That was the best.’
He chuckled and relieved her of the wrapper, putting it with his into the bin. ‘I thought you models only ate raw tomatoes and lettuce leaves.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I know. Millions of calories, but I don’t care. I was so hungry. I can diet tomorrow.’
‘You don’t need to diet.’
‘Oh, I do,’ she corrected. ‘I’m much fatter than I used to be.’
She was. Personally, Ben thought it was a huge improvement. He didn’t like skinny, anorexic-looking women. He liked smooth curves and soft hollows and firm, substantial limbs. He liked a woman that didn’t feel as if she would break if he touched her.
He looked at Liv, pottering at the sink now, washing her hands and filling the kettle, and frowned thoughtfully. Had Oscar made her feel unhappy about her body? He thought it quite likely, from the odd remarks she’d made about breastfeeding.
He shook his head slowly. He’d had to restrain himself hard today to keep from punching the guy’s lights out. The last thing he needed was any more reasons to go back to London and satisfy that urge. Thankfully Oscar was going to be out of the way tomorrow—that was one of the conditions.
Ben thought he’d put the frighteners on him sufficiently that he wouldn’t be a problem. If not, he had a few other tricks up his sleeve. He’d been watching the sleaze ball for the last four years, ever since he’d latched on to Liv, and he’d acquired quite a body of information. The man had a respectable veneer about a millimetre thick, and under that he was all slime. Ben just hoped Liv never had to find out quite how bad he really was.
It was odd going back. They’d left the children in the care of Ben’s cleaning lady, a sweet and motherly sort whom Liv had trusted instantly. The journey to London had been uneventful in Ben’s Mercedes, and she’d had nothing to take her mind off Oscar and what he would say.
‘Are you sure he’s not going to be there?’ she asked for the hundredth time as they turned into the underground car park, and Ben shot her a patient and understanding smile.
‘Quite sure. Stop worrying, Liv, it’ll be all right.’
It was. There was no sign of Oscar, just an empty flat that echoed with memories, most of them unpleasant. The packers were quick and efficient, and within half an hour all trace of her life there had been removed. She had the baby photos, all her modelling memorabilia and the childhood bits and pieces that she’d brought from her parents’ house, and all the children’s things.
And her clothes, wonderful clothes that would never fit her again, extravagant designer originals and exquisitely tailored suits and dresses. She looked down at her jeans and jumper that she’d changed into, and sighed.
Her life was going to be very different from now on, but she had no regrets. Leaving Oscar was the best and most sensible thing she’d done in the last four years.
‘Right, I’m done,’ she said to Ben, and he nodded.
‘Right, that’s it, lads, thank you. See you in Suffolk.’
They went out, and she took one last look round.
‘Sad?’ Ben asked her, and she shook her head.
‘Absolutely not. I feel nothing. It’s actually quite scary.’
He put his arm round her and hugged her up against his solid, dependable warmth. ‘Come on, let’s go home,’ he said, and she really felt as if that was what she was doing.
Going home.
Missy was thrilled to see her toys again. Her little face lit up, and Liv was glad she’d gone back with Ben and collected everything. There were so many treasures, as well—things like Missy’s first haircut, and the baby photos. She wouldn’t have been able to bear losing the baby photos, and she didn’t imagine Oscar would miss them. She’d send him copies, but it was probably pointless.
He’d got photos of them on his desk, in silver frames—if they were still there. It was all for show, of course—all part of his ‘trust me’ image. The perfect father of the perfect children.
They were being less than perfect at that moment, Missy crying because she couldn’t make a piece of her jigsaw fit the wrong way round, and Kit because he’d woken up and was suddenly, furiously hungry.
She helped Missy with the errant bit of jigsaw, picked the baby up out of his crib and settled down into the chair to feed him. He was impatient and screamed again, but as soon as she pulled her jumper out of the way, unclipped her bra and settled him at her breast, there was a blissful silence broken only by the occasional slurp as he suckled.
She closed her eyes, settled back against the comforting embrace of the big chair and felt her shoulders drop with the release of tension. She ought to be thinking about the evening meal—taking her housekeeping duties seriously—but she had to feed the baby and for now, what she needed was peace. Peace and—
‘Tea?’
She looked up to find Ben there, eyes carefully not on her breasts, not that there was a lot to see with her jumper drooping down and the baby’s head in the way, but it did seem to make him strangely uncomfortable. Still, he was there, rendering first aid as if he’d read her mind, and she loved him for it. He was a wonderful friend.
‘Please,’ she said, smiling. ‘He’s starving. Mrs Greer said he wouldn’t take his bottle very well this morning. Perhaps he’s getting used to me again.’
‘Hope so. It’s good for you both—just what you need. Oh, Missy, won’t it fit?’
He crouched down beside her daughter, and gently and patiently helped her complete the jigsaw. When it was done she picked up the wooden puzzle and waved it triumphantly, and all the pieces fell out. She giggled and picked them up, and she and Ben put them back again while Liv watched, entranced.
The kettle boiled, and he made some tea and sat in the other chair, bending forwards sometimes to help Missy, and at other times focusing on his mug of tea with undue concentration.
Still avoiding looking at her, she realised, and chewed her lip. It obviously worried him.
‘Would you be happier if I fed the baby upstairs, out of your way?’ she asked quietly. ‘I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you.’
He turned his head, meeting her eyes, and then lowered them, looking at the baby, at her breast, at the rosebud mouth suckling vigorously at her nipple. Then he raised his head and met her eyes again, and there was something unreadable and curiously sad in them.
‘You don’t embarrass me, Liv,’ he said, and his voice was gruff and tender. ‘You go ahead and feed him wherever you like.’
He looked away, returning his attention to his tea, and she gave a tiny shrug and eased the baby off, burping him and swapping sides. It was getting easier, she realised—more natural. Practice was obviously making perfect, or something closer to it, at least. And now Ben had assured her he wasn’t embarrassed,
