The Little House. Philippa GregoryЧитать онлайн книгу.
and Ruth turned to embrace him in the bedroom. Patrick held her close and kissed her with warm, seductive kisses. It was so unusual for them to make love during the week that Ruth was slow to respond. She stayed in his arms, content to be kissed, her eyes closed.
‘Into bed with you, Mrs Cleary,’ Patrick said and gave her a little push towards the bed. Ruth lay back and stretched luxuriously. Patrick dropped his head and nudged sexily at her breasts, his hands pushing up her skirt until he found the waistband of her tights.
‘Patrick!’ Ruth said. She half sat up. ‘Perhaps I had better go to the bathroom!’ she said. She meant that she needed to put in her diaphragm, their only contraception.
‘I want you,’ he said urgently. ‘I want you right now.’
Ruth gasped with surprised delight at his urgency. He was stripping down her tights and panties, and kicking off his own shoes. Ruth giggled drunkenly, delightedly.
‘I have to go,’ she protested.
Patrick shucked off his trousers and pants in one swift movement and swarmed up over her, kissing her neck and her ears. His hand reached behind her back and undid her bra, slid his hand under the lace and caressed her breast. Ruth felt her desire rising, felt herself careless, sexy, urgent.
‘Come on, Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Like when we were first lovers. Let’s take a chance. Let’s take a sexy chance, Ruth. I want to be right inside you with nothing between us. Come on, darling, I want to.’
His fingers stroked insistently between her legs. Ruth, drunk on wine and drunk with desire, protested inarticulately but could not bring herself to stop. In a small sober part of her mind she was watching him, calculating the days from her last period, fearing the sudden rush of his desire, terrified of pregnancy.
He rolled on top of her, moving steadily and deliciously, Ruth opened her legs and felt her desire rise and rise to match his, but then her caution chilled her. ‘Patrick, we shouldn’t…’ she started to say.
With a sudden delighted groan he came inside her.
Ruth’s routine changed little after her week’s notice expired and she became freelance. She left home at the usual time and she came home, if anything, later than usual. It was as if she were afraid that any slackening would prompt Patrick to exploit her unemployment.
‘You could take it easy,’ he said on the first Monday.
‘Better not,’ Ruth said. ‘I want to show them I’m serious about getting work.’
Patrick had not pursued his theme—that Ruth could rest, or could tidy the flat, or could visit his mother and see the cottage. He had kissed her and left for work. He was in less of a hurry now in the mornings. He strolled to his car and let the engine warm and the light frost melt from the windscreen before he drove away. He no longer had to be in at the television newsroom first; he now had status. He had a parking slot of his own outside the building and a secretary who had to be in before him to open his post. Patrick’s stock had risen dramatically, and his timekeeping could decline. Some mornings in November it was Ruth who was up first and Patrick who lured her back to bed. On at least two mornings they made love without contraception. Patrick had been urgent and seductive and Ruth could not refuse him. She was flattered by his desire and enchanted by its sudden urgency. One morning she was half asleep as he slid inside her and she woke too slowly to resist. One morning she acquiesced with a sleepy smile. Escaping pregnancy the first time, she was becoming reckless.
In mid-December she felt sick in the mornings and felt tired at work. She was trying to persuade the afternoon show producer to commission a series on local Bristol history.
‘Something about industry,’ she suggested. ‘From shipbuilding to building Concorde at Filton. We could call it Bristol Fashion.’
‘Sounds a bit earnest,’ he criticized.
‘It could be fun,’ she said. ‘Some old historical journals. I could read them. And some old people talking about working on the docks and in the aircraft industry before the war. There’s loads of stuff at the museum.’
He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Are you sure? Oh, well, maybe. See what you can dig up. But nothing too dreary, Ruth. Nothing too historical. Bright and snappy. You know the kind of thing.’
She closed his office door quietly behind her and went to the ladies’ room. She ran the cold-water tap and splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth.
One of the newsroom copy takers, combing her hair before the mirror, glanced around. ‘Are you all right, Ruth? You look as white as a sheet.’
‘I feel funny,’ Ruth said.
The woman looked at her a little closer. ‘How funny?’
‘I feel really sick, and dreadfully tired.’
The woman gave her a smiling look, full of meaning. ‘Not up the spout, are you?’
Ruth shot her a sudden wide-eyed look. ‘No! I can’t possibly be.’
‘Not overdue?’
‘I don’t know…I’d have to look…I’m a bit scatty about it…’
The woman, with two children of her own at school, shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe it’s just something you ate,’ she said.
‘Probably,’ Ruth said hastily. ‘Probably that’s all.’
The woman went out, leaving Ruth alone. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her dark, smooth bobbed hair framed her pale face, her large dark eyes. She looked scared, she looked sickly. Ruth shook her head. She could not see herself as a woman who might be pregnant. She had an image of herself as a girl too young, too unready for a woman’s task of pregnancy.
‘It’s something I ate,’ Ruth said to her reflection. ‘It’s bound to be.’
She bought a pregnancy test kit on the way home from work and locked herself in the bathroom with it. There were two little test tubes and a collecting jar for urine and immensely complicated instructions. Ruth sat on the edge of the bathtub and read them with a sense of growing panic. It seemed to her that since she could not understand the instructions for a pregnancy test then she must, therefore, be totally unfit to be pregnant. She hid the test, tucking it behind the toilet cleaner, secure in the knowledge that Patrick would never have anything to do with cleaning the toilet, and brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and pinned on a bright smile for Patrick’s arrival home from work.
She woke in the night, in the shadowy bedroom, and found that she was holding her breath, as if she were waiting for something. When she saw the grey-orange of the sky through the crack in the curtains she knew it was morning, and she could do the test. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Patrick, and went to the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and took the pregnancy test from its hiding place. She lifted her nightgown and peed in the toilet, clumsily thrusting the collecting jar into the stream of urine for a sample. Then she poured urine and test powder into the little test tube, corked it, shook it, wrapped herself in a bath towel for warmth, and waited.
She had to wait ten minutes before the test was completed. Ruth made herself look away from the tube, fearful that the strength of her wishing would make the results go wrong. She was longing with all her heart for the liquid to stay its innocent pale, pale blue. She did not want to be pregnant, she did not want to have conceived a child. She turned her mind away from Patrick’s new insistent lovemaking. She had thought their marriage had taken a sudden turn for the better; she had seen it as a renewal of desire. She had explained his new demanding sexiness as being a relief from the stress of his job as a reporter, a celebration of his new status as a manager. She did not want to think that he had been aiming for this very dawn, for Ruth sitting on the cold floor of the bathroom waiting for the result of a pregnancy test to tell her that she was no longer a free woman with a multitude of choices before her.
She glanced at her watch: