jobs, if she could help it.
July was very hot; nobody wanted to work much, everyone wore as little as possible, and had deep tans; dogs lay about, panting; beaches were crammed with people. Linzi had to work, though. She managed to get time off to go swimming in the local pool some days, but she had to work late every evening for a week, and Barty bitterly resented it.
On the Friday evening Ritchie finally finished the long presentation he had been dictating to her for hours, which she keyed in to the computer while he walked about behind her talking. He came to a halt behind her, massaging the back of his neck.
‘God, I’m tired! That’s it, Linzi. You might as well get off home. You can print that out on Monday morning.’ Then he looked at the clock. ‘Is it that late? And you haven’t had a bite to eat since lunchtime? Why didn’t you say something? We could have had sandwiches brought in.’
‘Never mind, I’ll cook myself something when I get home.’ She had been sitting in one position for so long that when she got up cramp knotted her leg muscles and she staggered slightly.
‘Are you OK?’ Ritchie put an arm round her and for a second she leaned on him and was suddenly aware of his strength: it was like leaning on a rock. She felt intolerably weary at that instant; she wanted to put all her weight on him, cling, like ivy. She hadn’t been able to lean on anyone else for so long. She had had to be the strong one in her marriage ever since Barty’s accident. Oh, she’d told herself she didn’t need to lean; she could stand alone, could cope with whatever life threw at her, and no doubt she had this strange yearning only because she was exhausted and at the end of her tether.
It didn’t mean any more than that, yet she was stricken, shamed by her fleeting weakness. Face burning, she stumbled away from him.
‘Sorry...I’m fine,’ she lied and was conscious of his sardonic, watchful gaze.
‘You don’t look it. You’re as white as a ghost. I’ve never seen you look so frail. I could kick myself for working you so hard, it was damned thoughtless of me. I’m sorry, Linzi—why don’t we go somewhere and have dinner, a bottle of wine to put some colour back in your face?’
‘No!’ she broke out wildly, and saw his brows rise at her tone. She bit her lip. ‘I...thanks, but I must get home.’
‘What are you scared of, Linzi?’ he drily asked. ‘That I’ll make a pass at you? I won’t, I assure you. I don’t make passes at married women. That isn’t my style. You’ll be quite safe with me.’
She couldn’t even meet his eyes. ‘No, of course not, that isn’t...I just have to get home,’ she stammered. ‘My husband will be worried about me.’
He didn’t argue any more; just followed her out to the car park and watched her climb into her red Ford Sierra.
‘I’ll be working out of the office on Monday morning, don’t forget,’ he told her before she drove away, and she nodded. ‘Have a restful weekend,’ he added.
When she got home Barty was out. He didn’t get back until midnight and by then Linzi was asleep. She had tried to stay awake but her body was too weary. She woke up when Barty fell over something in the sitting-room of their small flat. The crash, followed by swearing, shocked her awake; she sat up just as the bedroom door opened and the light blazed on, blinding her.
‘Oh, there you are, you little tramp!’ Barty muttered thickly, glaring at her across the room. She could see at once that he had been drinking heavily; he was unsteady on his feet, his face flushed and blurred with drink, his eyes bloodshot.
Alarm leapt up inside her; she tensed, very pale. When he was this drunk he sometimes became violent and started hitting her. Next day he was always horrified, would cry and beg her to forgive him, and she always did.
You couldn’t stop loving someone because they were going through a very bad period, and she had loved Barty for as long as she could remember. They had both been through so much together; the bonds of pain bound them as strongly as the bonds of passionate love had done long ago.
‘I’m sorry I was late again, Barty,’ she said quietly, hoping to placate him. ‘But it won’t be so bad next week because we won’t be quite so busy. We’ve been preparing a presentation for this new contract...’
His lip curled as he stared at her. ‘Don’t give me that! I know what you’ve been doing with him. I thought this time you were staying with him all night—that’s the next step, isn’t it? You’ll want to spend all night with him, lovers always do. Or has he got a wife who might object?’
Linzi was too tired to cry. Wearily she said, ‘Don’t start that again, Barty. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing personal between me and Ritchie Calhoun?’
Barty lurched towards her. ‘Liar!’
‘Stop it, Barty!’
He leaned over her, swaying on his feet. His brown hair was dishevelled, he had lost his tie, and his shirt was open. He still looked so young, she thought, watching him unhappily—there was a lot of the boy left in him. He was too thin, painfully thin, although there was a puffiness around the jaw and eyes that came from drinking, his skin was always sallow and his hazel-brown eyes had heavy shadows under them, but she could still trace the old Barty there.
‘I’m not putting up with it any more!’ he snarled at her. ‘You’re giving him notice on Monday. Do you hear? You’re leaving that job, or leaving me—take your pick!’
Warily she said, ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’
‘We’ll talk about it now!’
Linzi could see there was no arguing with him in this state, so she slid out of the bed and picked up her robe from the nearby chair.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Barty demanded.
‘To sleep on the couch,’ she said, suddenly angry.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ Barty took hold of her by her long, silky hair, and shook her, making tears start into her eyes.
‘Barty, you’re hurting me!’ she cried out, and he suddenly threw her away from him. She fell heavily across the bed. The edge of the headboard hit her cheekbone and she gave a cry of pain, stumbling up, a hand to her face.
‘Why don’t you just admit it?’ Barty shouted. ‘He’s your lover, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’
‘No, Barty!’ she moaned, her voice rising higher. ‘No, no, no!’
‘Yes,’ he screamed, and hit her hard. She was too shocked to cry. She stumbled backwards again, fell on to the bed, and before she could scramble up again Barty threw himself on top of her, wrenching his clothes off while he held her down with the weight of his body.
‘You’re my wife!’ he muttered hoarsely. He hadn’t tried to make love to her for many months; there had been a time when he’d kept trying, growing more and more humiliated, more and more frustrated. Linzi had tried desperately too, knowing that, physically, it was possible. His doctors had told her that firmly. He would never now be able to father a child, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make love. The blockage was in his mind—not in his body. She didn’t know if they were right or not; but in the end Barty had given up trying. His ego couldn’t
