Their Very Special Marriage

‘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.

Since when was delirium a symptom of chickenpox? Rachel wondered. The usual complications were bacterial infection of the spots if they were scratched, ear infections, conjunctivitis and rarely meningitis or encephalitis—inflammation of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

‘How’s my best girl?’ Oliver’s deep voice asked.

Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver never came home at lunchtime. Ever.

He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.

Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she’d learn something she really, really didn’t want to know—she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘I can’t stay long—but I thought you’d be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?’

Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,’ she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?’

‘No need.’ Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.’ He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.

‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!’ Sophie squeaked.

‘And for Robin.’ He put a puzzle magazine on the table, and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had noticed that Rob liked doing puzzles?

‘And...’ He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.’

For us? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.

Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph’s going to be absolutely fine. Don’t worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I’ve got a locum to cover you from Monday. I’ve known Caroline Prentiss for years.’

‘Caroline Prentiss?’ The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn’t think why.

‘She’s just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that’s all sorted. And I’ve asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan’s serum results.’

Which meant they’d get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,’ Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just being...’ Her voice tailed off.

‘You’ve been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don’t pull my weight in the house. It’s no wonder you’re feeling tired and tearful.’

And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.