Their Very Special Marriage. Kate HardyЧитать онлайн книгу.
then. She shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d ask.’
‘Rach—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She wanted to get away before the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids got any worse. Stupid, feeling rejected by her own husband. He was busy. She knew that. But all the same she wished he’d just grab a little bit of time to spend with her. She forced a smile to her face. ‘See you at home.’
‘Don’t forget, it’s late surgery tonight for me,’ he reminded her.
As if she could forget. Oliver spent more time at the practice than he did at home nowadays. ‘Sure,’ she said, hoping that he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice, and left his consulting room.
* * *
When Oliver came home after evening surgery, he handed Rachel a box wrapped in gold paper and a matching ribbon. ‘For you,’ he said with a smile.
Belgian chocolates. Her absolute favourites. She knew she ought to throw her arms around him and say thank you, but something stopped her. Why was he buying her chocolates? It wasn’t the sort of thing that Oliver did.
Unbidden, the words from the magazine article floated back into her mind. Your partner buys you lots of gifts because he feels guilty about betraying you and showering you with presents makes him feel better. Before she could stop herself, the words were out. ‘Flowers on Tuesday, chocolates tonight... Is there something I should be worried about?’
Oliver bridled. ‘Look, I just felt guilty that I couldn’t have lunch with you when you asked me. For God’s sake, I thought you’d like them. But I can’t do anything right where you’re concerned.’ He scowled. ‘Maybe you ought to start taking evening primrose oil.’
‘What?’ She stared at him. What was he driving at?
‘It’s meant to help mood swings.’
He thought she was having PMT? Or, even worse, early menopause? For goodness’ sake, she was only thirty-four! She shook her head. ‘Oliver, I’m not having mood swings.’
‘Look, I understand about PMT. I’m a modern man, not a dinosaur.’
‘Yeah, right.’
He frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just leave it. I’m going to have a bath. There’s ham and salad in the fridge, and French bread in the bread bin. If you want dinner, you can get it yourself.’
‘Rach—’
‘Leave it,’ she said again, and walked quickly away. Oh, God. This was unbearable. If Oliver really was having an affair... She shivered. And if he wasn’t, and she accused him of having an affair, it would deepen the gulf between them.
How was she going to bridge that gulf? Because if she didn’t, there was a good chance her marriage would be over by the end of the summer. They couldn’t go on like this.
Oliver didn’t come in to talk to her while she was in the bath, and she didn’t bother taking a mug of coffee into his office—what was the point, when he’d only snap at her for interrupting? She tried and failed to read the latest thriller from a writer who usually gripped her. All she could think about was Oliver, and how her marriage was crumbling before her eyes and she didn’t know how to stop it.
When she heard Oliver coming upstairs, she considered talking to him—but panicked and pretended to be asleep. She noted with an inward sigh that he didn’t cuddle into her, turning his back on her instead. Worse, judging by his deep and regular breathing, he fell asleep quickly, whereas she stayed awake until the small hours, trying to work out whether she was just being silly or whether she really did have something to worry about.
* * *
When Rachel woke the next morning, her eyes felt gritty and her head felt as if someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. A cool shower and a hairwash helped, and a couple of paracetamol helped even more.
Robin was already getting himself dressed, so Rachel went to wake Sophie. And stopped dead. There were half a dozen spots on the little girl’s face. Gently, Rachel pulled the duvet back, lifted Sophie’s pyjama top, and saw that Sophie’s torso was covered in spots.
Very recognisable spots, red with a blister in the centre. Chickenpox.
She sighed. ‘No nursery for you this morning,’ she said softly to the sleeping child. ‘I’d better ring them and tell them you won’t be in until all the spots have crusted over. Which probably won’t be for another week.’ She stroked her daughter’s hair. Best to let her sleep while she could—as soon as Sophie was awake, she’d start to itch and scratch her spots.
Rachel walked back to her bedroom. Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes, then stretched. ‘Is it morning already?’
Oliver never wore a pyjama top. The sight of her husband’s muscular shoulders and bare chest sent a shiver of desire through Rachel. But now wasn’t the time. ‘Bad news. Soph’s covered in spots. I’ll ask Ginny if she’ll take Rob to school with Jack, and I’m afraid you’ll have to get a locum in for me or share my list around today.’
Oliver groaned. ‘You talked it up yesterday.’
‘No. I just warned you it was on the cards. And that meant any time in the next twenty-one days. She can’t go back to nursery until the last spots have crusted over, so I won’t be working for the next week—unless you’d rather stay home with Sophie?’
Sophie would adore having her daddy all to herself. And Oliver would learn all about Pwintheth Mouse—maybe nursing his daughter through her illness was the wake-up call he needed. The thing that would make him start concentrating on his family.
Though Rachel already knew what his reaction was going to be.
‘No, she needs her mum with her.’
Sophie needed her dad, too. So did Robin. But Rachel wasn’t feeling up to a row. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she said coolly.
He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort things out at the practice.’ Almost as a second thought, he added, ‘Do you need me to bring anything home for Sophie?’
‘Antipruritic lotion. The itching’s going to drive her crackers, and I can’t make her sit in the bath all day. I don’t really want to take her out until her spots have crusted over, though.’
‘Sure.’ Oliver climbed out of bed and headed for their shower room.
Hell. Why did he have to look so sexy when she didn’t have time to do anything about it? Since they’d had the children, they didn’t spend Sunday mornings in bed any more. Rachel realised just how much she missed it, the warmth of her husband’s body heating hers, tangled limbs, the roughness of the hairs on his chest against her skin.
Then she remembered last night. The guilt-gift—chocolates that she hadn’t been able to face eating, because she knew why he’d bought them and they would have stuck in her throat.
Ha. What was the point of lusting after a man who’d not only fallen out of lust with you, but had fallen in lust with someone else?
She shook herself, and went to make a start on the calls to rearrange the children’s usual routine.
* * *
Distracting a small child from scratching the itchy spots was, well, almost impossible, Rachel thought. She’d tried reading the little girl’s favourite stories, letting Sophie loose with the CD-ROMs on Oliver’s old computer which they kept under the stairs for the kids to use, drawing pictures with her, reading more stories, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading more stories... And now Rachel was more shattered than if she’d gone in to the surgery. The house was a mess—she hadn’t even had time to hang the washing out, let alone tidy up—and Sophie was decidedly grumpy.
‘Daddy’s home!’ Sophie yelled.