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'About me?'
'You'll probably come into the conversation somewhere,' said David wryly, acknowledging the innocent self-absorption.
'Then why can't I come?' Clare relaxed slightly as she recognised the stubborn expression on Tim's narrow face. She wouldn't have to refuse, Tim would do it for her.
'Because I want to be alone with your mother. Don't you think it's important that your mother and I be friends?' Tim considered that for a moment, then nodded. 'Well, in some ways the beginning of a friendship is like learning to play the violin. It needs some devoted concentration and privacy to develop properly, before one exposes it to the stresses of public performance.'
'Oh.' Illumination was complete. Tim's stubborn look became the pride of martyrdom. 'Well, I suppose you have to go by yourselves, then.'
'Wait a minute! Don't I have some say in this little arrangement?' cried Clare, betrayed by her own fles
h and blood.
David and Tim looked at each other, one of those irritating man-to-boy looks, then David frowned and turned his head from side to side in bewilderment. 'Who said that?' Tim giggled.
'I might have a previous engagement,' said Clare coolly.
'And pigs might waterski,' replied David, confident of his ground. Tim's giggles intensified.
'Time you were in the bath, young man,' Clare told the traitor sternly and, egged on by his ally, Tim saluted.
'Yes, ma'am. But you will be friends with David, won't you?' he hesitated long enough to ask.
'Of course she will. She's only pretending to be reluctant,' said David smoothly.
Tim trotted off, violin case tucked under his arm, reassured, while Clare was left to hiss fiercely, 'Do you usually have to resort to using innocent children to get dates?'
'Only when their mothers make a habit of hiding behind them,' he said silkily. 'You want to come, Clare, you just think you shouldn't. So I helped relieve you of the burden of the only reasonable excuse to deny yourself. Now you can pretend you're doing it just to keep Tim happy.'
'Of course, it's beyond the bounds of possibility that a woman could actually refuse David Deverenko.'
'Not 'a woman'. You. Why the song and dance, Clare? Are you afraid you might enjoy yourself, after all? Would that be so unnatural? You're an attractive, mature, single woman. Why shouldn't you enjoy male companionship once in a while? It would be unnatural if you didn't…'
She wasn't unnatural, just cautious, Clare told herself the next night as she got ready for her first 'date' in over seven years. If it had been any other man she would have accepted or refused the invitation according the impulse of a moment without ruffling a hair, but with David her impulses were inclined to lead her dangerously astray. They made her wish for the forbidden—to be young and free again, untrammelled by responsibilities, unshadowed by the past. If she didn't have Tim to anchor her heart and her life, she might have tossed her cap over the windmill and thrown herself into the kind of wild, passionate, fleeting affair that David offered.
She looked at herself gravely in the mirror, sobered by the thought. She didn't see the beauty of the wide grey eyes, or the sensuality of the rosebud mouth, or the charm of her creamy, freckled skin and honeyed waves. She saw a loving mother who for a guilty moment wanted to deny her motherhood, deny the son who had given her life meaning. How could she, even in fantasy, wish that he didn't exist? What kind of monster was she? Or was it something all women faced, the opposing pull between the fulfilment of a biological and emotional drive and the desire to be free, like a man, to roam, to hunt, to live life on one's own terms?
Clare adjusted the ruffles on her cream silk blouse and smoothed her black velvet skirt. The gold band on her left hand was her only adornment—Lee hadn't been able to afford an engagement ring, and it hadn't mattered, for their love was the only jewel Clare had coveted. She thought she looked just right, feminine but not flirty, attractive but in an austere, monochromic fashion that she hoped would reaffirm her intention to remain aloof from any attempt at seduction. Yet she couldn't help the quicksilver trickle of exhilaration through her veins at the risk she was taking. Clare, who never took risks! David would view her aloofness as a challenge. He would look at her with that dark, exciting glow in his eyes and seek to break down her reticence…
She heard Tim call out, and curbed the wicked trend of her thoughts as she went into his room. By rights he should be well asleep by now, but as soon as she saw him Clare's heart sank. Her mouth tautened as she ran to his side, disgusted with herself for her momentary twinge of impatience. Tim was leaning against his pillows, struggling for each harsh breath. Clare helped him sit up, talked soothingly as she straightened his back and tried to encourage the rest of his body to relax.
'Try and breathe from your diaphragm, Tim,' she urged, putting her hand against the lower part of his chest as with her other hand she fished in his bedside drawer for his inhaler. Usually his breathing soon eased, but tonight the air still whistled through his restricted air passages and suddenly he leant over and retched, vomiting all over the bedclothes and Clare's skirt. The spasm seemed to unlock the muscles in his throat, but soon his rasping breaths were clogged by sobs. Clare whisked the soiled bedclothes back and held his shivering body against her for a few minutes until his crying settled to a series of dull shudders. Murmuring a reassurance, Clare slipped into the bathroom to sponge off her skirt and fetched a warm, soapy flannel and towel so that she could clean Tim up. She undressed him, put on fresh pyjamas and held his head over a bowl as he retched miserably again. When she was sure that he had finished being ill, she got the sheets and duvet from her own bed and tucked it around Tim, brushing the damp hair off his pale forehead.
'Better now?'
Tim nodded, but tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. His silent misery thickened Clare's own throat. She knew that, even if Tim felt well enough for her to leave him, she couldn't go out now. She would spend all evening wondering how he was.
'Breathe deep and slow.'
'My tummy hurts.'
'I know, darling; you squeezed all the muscles when you were sick.'
'My throat's burning, too.'
She got him a little boiled water from the kettle and he drank it gratefully. His breathing was still irregular, but at least he didn't bring up the water.
'Are you going soon?' Tim quavered, his hands tight on the sheet.
