Hell Hath No Fury (3 page)

Next day, when her mother changed the dressings, she refused to discuss the matter. Her father had also ignored the incident, but he had insisted that she should remain indoors until the bruises on her face faded and the swellings subsided. There had been no treatment for the bruising inside her mind.

If she tried to speak about it to her mother, her mother hushed her to silence, telling her it was best if she forgot all about what had happened. She felt too embarrassed even to try and talk to her father about such an incident. He was a formidable man, cynical, with a heart of flint. A dictator in his own home. Her mother not only waited on him hand and foot, but obeyed his every whim. He laid responsibility for what had happened on his wife, blaming her for not warning their daughter against having anything to do with boys.

From then on he had ignored Maureen completely. It was as if by not speaking to her, and pretending she wasn't there, he could forget the entire shameful incident.

A hostile silence invaded their lives. Her mother looked careworn and haggard, her face deathly pale with dark smudges beneath her eyes as though she hadn't slept for weeks.

Maureen remembered how she had cried herself to sleep at night. She'd felt dirty, soiled. Although they had told no one, she felt that everyone she met knew about what had happened.

Looking back, she realized her parents must have felt the same. Later that year they'd moved away from Benbury.

Her mother had been right, though; time was a great healer. She couldn't remember when she had finally stopped crying herself to sleep. It had probably been when she realized that no one else was aware of what had happened, or if they did know, they simply weren't interested.

The move had helped. Once there was no danger of meeting any of the boys who'd been involved in the debacle she'd been able to draw a veil over the experience and, in time, banish it into some deep recess of her mind.

Attending Business School had been the start of an entirely different lifestyle. Nevertheless, she had become very reserved. No one was allowed to penetrate the protective shell she built around her feelings.

Not until now!

It had been a revelation when she first realized that in Philip Harmer she'd at last found a man she could respect and love. One whose mental talents paralleled her own, and whose aims and ambitions mirrored hers.

Each passing day had brought a sense of astonishment. And tonight had seen the culmination of her most private fantasies. When he had asked her to marry him she had been too overwhelmed for words. It had been difficult not to throw herself into his arms with joy and relief.

Her heart beat wildly as she relived his reaction to her confession. The moment she'd seen the horror on Philip's face she'd wished she'd ignored his plea that she should tell him every detail about her life.

She was sure the only time she'd felt so terrified had been on that harrowing night itself. A chill chased down her back as she remembered what a struggle it had been for him to come to terms with her revelations.

Still unable to sleep, Maureen went to make herself a hot milky drink. By the time she returned to bed she was once more calm, and feeling confident about her future . . . their future together.

She even managed to convince herself she was relieved that she had spoken out. Philip was right; it was better not to have any skeletons in the cupboard. Now, they both knew everything there was to know about each other.

She snuggled down under the covers. It was sheer heaven to have a clear conscience at last, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Fingers of light were parting the curtains when she woke. For a moment she lay there wondering why she felt so light-hearted, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

As the events of the previous evening came back to her she smiled contentedly, letting her thoughts linger on the new life that now lay ahead of her.

She wondered how her parents would react when they heard she was to marry Professor Philip Harmer. Would they think he was a trifle old for her? Probably not. At their age they would consider someone in their early fifties merely middle-aged. And they would regard the fact that he was a professor of paramount importance.

Doubtless, too, her mother would find comfort in knowing that at last she was settling down and would not be on her own when they were gone, but would have someone to care for her.

Somebody to care for her!

It would be wonderful to have another person to share her thoughts and experiences. They'd be able to go to the theatre and concerts together. And, of course, they'd travel. The working trip to the Far East, and to Hong Kong for their honeymoon, would be only the first of a great many exciting expeditions.

Humming to herself, she took a shower, her mind still occupied with thoughts of the many changes marriage to Philip Harmer would bring.

She'd be able to give up this place for a start, she thought with a sigh of relief. When she had first moved in to Windermere Mews, having a one bedroom flat all to herself had seemed like heaven. It was only when she began to work as a freelancer that she had realized how cramped it was. In next to no time, bookshelves, computer, printer, and filing cabinets dominated the living room, and even overflowed into the bedroom.

Which was probably why she had become a workaholic, she thought wryly.

She wondered what Philip's flat in Portman Mansions was like. Even though they'd known each other for almost six months, they had never visited each other's homes. Philip would have considered that to be improper.

Flinging back her wardrobe doors she riffled through the clothes hanging there, pushing aside the sombre blacks and greys she usually wore and selecting a pale-blue wool dress that her mother had bought her one Christmas.

From now on, she would pay more attention to what she wore, she resolved as she slipped it on.

She was pleasantly startled by her reflection in the mirror. She looked so different. The dress softened and flattered, making her appear attractively slim. She was suddenly so eager for Philip to see her looking so good that she decided to phone him right away and suggest they meet for coffee. Afterwards they could go shopping for her engagement ring. He hadn't mentioned buying one, and she was sure he hadn't already done so because he was far too practical. He'd wait to make sure she accepted his proposal before taking such a step.

She was pleased in a way. It would have been more romantic if he'd produced it last night, of course, but this way she would be able to choose exactly the sort of ring she wanted, rather than something he thought appropriate!

She held up her left hand, splaying her fingers as if studying a ring on her third finger.

It would have to be fairly unostentatious, though, she mused. He would hate her to wear anything flashy. A solitaire diamond? That would be safest. He'd approve of that.

There was no reply when she dialled his number so she rang off. Often he didn't answer the phone if he was working. She had tried to persuade him to install an answering machine, but he said that would be too distracting. Returning calls would waste valuable time. If people wanted him then they would ring back again.

She pressed the recall button. An instant double ring was the signal that they'd agreed on when she'd first started working for him so that he would know it was her.

She felt puzzled when there was still no reply. She couldn't imagine where he might be so early in the morning. He never left the house before lunchtime. It was one of his strictest maxims.

Perhaps he had gone to buy her a ring!

She went back into the bedroom to collect her coat, bag and car keys. She'd drive round to his flat.

When she reached her front door she stopped to pick up a letter lying on the doormat and felt a thrill of delight when she recognized his writing.

Delivered by hand!

So that was why there had been no answer when she'd phoned. A card, judging by its thickness. And so early in the day! Now that really did show how much he cared, she thought as she tore open the envelope.

It wasn't a card. It was a letter!

As she unfolded the single sheet of thick notepaper something fluttered to the ground. When she picked it up, she was mystified to find it was a cheque. A cheque for £5,000!

Colour rushed to her cheeks. Surely Philip didn't expect her to go shopping for an engagement ring on her own?

As she read the brief note that accompanied the cheque the colour drained from Maureen's face. Her throat felt so constricted that she could barely breathe, and there was a violent pounding in her temples.

Tight-jawed, trembling with humiliation, she read the note again. The words ‘fee for the work you've undertaken', ‘special bonus', and ‘termination of our contract' branded themselves on to her mind.

Her eyes blurred with tears, and that made her angrier still. As she brushed them away her rage turned to hatred.

Hatred for Philip Harmer.

She'd never forgive him for this. He had opened the door to a future that offered the culmination of her private dreams and fantasies, only to slam it in her face!

To reject her love, to spurn her, after she'd accepted his proposal of marriage, was unbelievable!

And all because she had done as he had asked her to do and bared her soul to him. By confessing that she had once been raped, she had forfeited his respect.

She shuddered. Why had she been so honest? She should have said nothing. It had taken such a tremendous effort to come to terms with what had happened that she should have left the memory buried deep in her subconscious, as it had been all these years.

Seething with rage and frustration she picked up the phone again. This time she let it ring. She wouldn't use their special code. She didn't want him to know it was her.

There was still no reply, and slowly it dawned on her that there never would be.

He had no further use for her. He had tossed her aside like a broken doll. In his eyes she was soiled, tainted, defiled.

She picked up the cheque, prepared to tear it into a thousand tiny pieces. Her pay off! Wages for services rendered! She laughed hysterically. And she'd thought it was to buy an engagement ring!

There was no engagement! There would be no wedding! There would be no further contact. His brief note made that very plain.

Stunned and furious, she quivered with mindless rage. She hated Philip Harmer with a savage vehemence.

But that was insignificant compared with the overpowering malevolence she felt towards the boys who'd ruined her life all those long years ago.

B
enbury sparkled in the sharp March sunshine. Flowering cherry trees and early daffodils set the bright stamp of spring on the town. In spite of the keen wind it was a glorious day.

The house in Mayling Street where Maureen had been born, and had grown up, looked smaller than she remembered. It had a dejected air. The net curtains at the upstairs windows needed a wash, and the silk flowers in the downstairs front-room window looked as though they'd been thrust into the black and white vase more as a means of getting rid of them than with any real thought.

White paint was flaking off the bedroom window sills, and the black front door was chipped and scratched. It had never looked like that when she'd lived there. Her mother had been most fastidious, and, regular as clockwork, her father had given the outside of the house a coat of paint every springtime.

Her mother had changed the curtains twice a year. She had hung up crisp floral cotton ones in April and changed them for heavy velvet drapes in October to keep out any winter draughts.

Maureen's own bedroom had been at the back of the house. There had been a huge horse-chestnut tree right outside the window, dominating the long, narrow strip of garden.

She'd loved that tree; had considered it her friend and carved her name on its bark. In late spring it had been covered with clusters of erect white flowers, like candles. In autumn it had provided a rich harvest of glossy conkers that everyone at school had wanted, especially the boys, so she'd filled her pockets with them for the sheer thrill of handing them out. Her face hardened. Dennis Jackson and John Moorhouse had been two of those boys. In those days she'd thought of them as her friends.

She let out the clutch and moved away. That had been a long time ago! She drove on, turning right, turning left, and then right again. The school was still there. She pulled in and surveyed the red-brick building with its tall narrow windows. A new wing had been added. It was like a huge concrete finger jutting out at one side, swallowing up part of the playing field.

She gripped the wheel. It was sixteen years since she'd lived in Benbury, since that horrendous day that had changed her life. She didn't want to dwell on it . . . not yet.

Tight-lipped, she drove on.

As she circled the town she found there were a great many changes. The new housing estates of pseudo-Elizabethan boxes, new factories and office blocks had almost doubled the size of Benbury. It was now a thriving modern town with countless mini-roundabouts, several new petrol stations, and an enormous glass and chrome car-showroom.

She drove slowly down the High Street looking for somewhere to park, surprised to find double yellow lines edging the pavement on both sides from one end to the other.

She recalled there had been a parking area adjacent to the library so she made her way there, found a space for her red Ford Escort, and parked up.

It was only a few minutes' walk back to the High Street through the park. That was where she had pushed her doll's pram when she was very small, and where she'd ridden her two wheel bicycle for the first time.

The pond, where she had been taken every Sunday by her father to feed the ducks, had been filled in and was now a formal flower bed, bright with daffodils and primroses. One corner of the park had been turned into a playground with swings and a climbing frame.