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‘Oh, I think they did it just like everyone else; they did it with a good fuck,’ Zoe told him, baring her teeth.
She knew he hated her saying anything like that, and while normally she was gently careful not to tread on the tenets of his upbringing which still subconsciously led him to think that ‘nice girls’ did not use that kind of language, his criticism of her parents had annoyed her so much that she wanted to hit back at him, and she saw from his face that she had done and that he was aware of what she was doing.
Her temper, quick to flare, was always equally quick to subside, remorse darkening her eyes as she hugged him and said ruefully, ‘I’m sorry… I expect, or at least I hope, I was conceived with the same love and enjoyment that we share when we make love. Is that better?’
‘Mmm… but somehow I can’t see your mother… She always looks so perfect, so almost antiseptic that it’s hard to imagine…’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, then, if we’re going to Hampstead, we might as well start now before the rush-hour.’
* * *
‘Just think… I can hardly believe it! In two days’ time we’ll be there, seeing it properly…’
‘Where?’ Ben teased her, pretending not to understand and then yelping in protest as she took her attention off the road to aim a playful fist at him and in doing so nearly hit a car emerging from a side-street.
‘Idiot,’ Zoe muttered under her breath, causing Ben to stare at her when he realised it was the innocent and affronted driver of the other car she was castigating and not herself.
If Zoe’s mother was surprised to see both of them standing outside when she opened the front door, she did not show it.
‘You didn’t need to knock, darling,’ she told Zoe gently as she kissed her. ‘You’ve still got your key, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t like using it,’ Zoe told her as she stepped past her into the house, adding with a grin, ‘After all, for all I know you could be upstairs, enjoying a very private interlude with your lover!’
‘Zoe!’ her mother protested.
‘All right, Ma,’ Zoe laughed. ‘We all know that you and Dad are boringly faithful to one another.’
Because he was still standing in front of her and because the light from the still open doorway was streaming fully into her face, it was Ben and not Zoe who saw the way her expression changed, shadowing so that for a handful of seconds she was suddenly stripped of the cool veneer which Ben always found so irritating, and for once he could see behind it to a woman who was suddenly far more like Zoe than he had realised.
Automatically he stepped forward, and then checked as her general veneer slid back into place. Silently he watched her retreat from him and turn towards Zoe.
‘Ma, before we do anything else, Ben and I have something to tell you…’
Quickly and excitedly, before her mother could say a word, Zoe rattled on at high speed, delivering a complicated and muddled account of what was happening, leaving Ben to unravel the tangled threads of her conversation and to explain their plans.
When Heather interrupted quietly, ‘Wiltshire?’ it was Ben who picked up on the suppressed note of despair that contradicted the smile she was giving them, and cut through Zoe’s excitement to say calmly,
‘It sounds further than it is. Just a couple of hours’ drive, really.’
He watched as the hazel eyes briefly met his, revealing conflicting emotions of pride and gratitude, and wondered why it was that he had felt impelled to reassure her.
He was not antagonistic towards Zoe’s parents; at least, not as far as his relationship with Zoe went—there had never been any need. But if he was honest there was a small thread of atavistic, instinctive rejection of them within him that was more cultural than logical, something he normally tried to igno
re but which surfaced occasionally, normally in the form of some acid comment about their cushioned, protected, cosseted lifestyle.
Zoe’s mother in particular irritated and baffled him. She was so different from his own mother, different too from the women who came into the restaurant, career women in the main, efficiently businesslike and in control, without those odd flashes of vulnerability which Heather possessed and which disconcerted him so much, causing a shift in his perception of her, which made him feel unwantedly protective towards her, protective and irritated at the same time.
It was happening now, while Zoe chattered on excitedly about their plans and the future, apparently oblivious to the anxiety and panic her mother was suppressing. Those emotions were so clear to Ben that he felt angry with them both, Heather for imposing them on him and burdening him with them and Zoe for not recognising what her mother was feeling and thereby making him feel responsible for her emotions.
And yet as he looked away from her and glanced round the pristinely immaculate sitting-room with its fresh flowers and pastel colours, a prettiness and warmth which somehow only seemed to emphasise the loneliness of the small, slim, elegant woman who was its creator, he wondered as he had wondered so many times before how such a woman could ever have produced a child as vibrant and ebullient as Zoe, and, as he had been forced to do in the past, he had to admit that there must be something within Heather that he was missing, that he was simply not perceptive enough to see.
Now, as he saw the distress she quickly concealed from Zoe, he wondered if he was finally seeing it.
‘Well, that’s wonderful, darling,’ he heard her saying warmly to Zoe. ‘I only wish that Daddy were here to share your exciting news. Actually, though, I have something to tell you myself.’
Quickly Ben looked across at her, hearing the strain in her voice, but Zoe seemed oblivious to it.
‘What is it, Ma?’ Zoe teased. ‘Are you planning to change your hairstyle?’
‘I’ve been asked to consider working full-time for the housing charity. They’re running a training programme and there’s a place on it for me…’ She paused uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure what I should do. If I take the place and then it turns out that I’m not really suitable for the work, I’ll have prevented someone else from training.’
