A Husband's Vendetta

‘What have I done?’ he asked in a low tone. But despite his attempt at control, his voice was shaken.

‘Nothing. It’s me. I can’t stay!’ she blurted out. ‘I can’t stand it any longer.’

‘It? Do you mean Gemma?’ he demanded, his face black with anger. She nodded. She couldn’t stay because of Gemma. ‘It. My God! You self-centred, idle…’ His eyes closed in pain. ‘If I hadn’t come back early, you would have left her,’ he said menacingly. ‘Yelling and alone—’

She flinched at the accusation. ‘No! I was waiting for you to come back! She…she was crying! She kept crying! On and on…’

‘But you wouldn’t pick her up.’

At her wits’ end, her mind confused, Ellen turned her back on him, unable to meet the bitterness and loathing in his eyes. Summoning up all her strength, she bent to pick up her case. Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath and she straightened, terrified of what he might do.

‘My God! You…you mean it, then!’ he breathed in horror.

‘Yes,’ she replied listlessly. ‘I’m going to my parents.’

Luc placed Gemma on the play mat and in two ground-swallowing strides was standing in front of her, fury in every line of his body. ‘Why?’ he raged. ‘OK, leave me, fall out of love with me, be bored by me. I can understand that—but how can you leave your own baby?’

Numb with misery, she stared back, watching him push back his hair in a tell-tale gesture that echoed the bewilderment in his face.

‘Say something!’ he snapped.

‘Nothing to say,’ she mumbled painfully.

‘You can’t go! She needs you!’ he cried passionately. ‘You’re fit and well. She’s not thriving. Don’t you care? Doesn’t your heart bleed when she cries? Don’t you feel pity?’ He stared at her uncomprehendingly, his frustration mounting. ‘What kind of a monster are you,’ he demanded, ‘that you rarely pick your own baby up and barely look at her? Why don’t you cuddle her? God, Ellen, can’t you find it in your heart to love her?’

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know. Only that she was scared of killing Gemma. Scared of the madness and violence which kept sneaking up and possessing her without warning. So she’d blocked her daughter from her mind as far as possible and turned her emotions to ice.

The suffocating sensation was taking over her body again. Knowing how close she was to screaming, she remained mute and kept her own counsel, willing her legs not to shake and betray the weakness which clamoured relentlessly within her, and which urged her to stay in the hope she might get better.

So she chanted to herself. I must go. For Gemma’s safety. I must go…

Seeing only her mask of cool indifference, he grabbed her roughly then, his eyes brilliant with passion and pain. For a moment they struggled as she tried to escape. But he was very strong and she had no energy to continue.

‘The trouble is, you’re used to being Daddy’s little darling!’ He let her go in disgust and she stood as motionless as a statue, fighting her illness with a single-minded desperation. ‘Adversity’s not your scene. You want to be featherbedded. You’re used to having money and we have none. You can’t hack it. I suppose you regret leaving your father’s expensive home. Romance in a hovel isn’t all you imagined, is it?’

‘Luc, please…!’ she croaked.

‘You want life on a platter. And all I’ve offered you is love and poverty!’ he thundered on, almost incoherent now. ‘Not enough, is it? Having a baby has made things worse. It forces you to think of someone other than yourself for a change! Too hard for you, is it?’ he taunted.

She nodded because she could do nothing else. Fear for her baby—and for herself—had driven her to this. She was going mad. Terror claimed her. She didn’t want to be sectioned and psychoanalysed in some awful institution.

Only her father could help now. Pride would stop him from revealing her madness. He’d find a private doctor to help and, she acknowledged bitterly, he’d probably welcome her vulnerability. And she’d see her mother again, be held in her arms…

Luc had gone white around the mouth and was trembling with emotion and exhaustion. Her heart went out to him. She knew he must be unbelievably tired after his twelve-hour shifts, especially when he always came home to chaos and then had to start cooking his own supper.

She ached to see him so hurt. Part of her wanted him to suspect that something was wrong, to take her in his arms and promise that together they could solve any problem. But when she reached out a tentative hand he drew back from her as if she were offering poison.

‘I don’t want to shake hands with you. I don’t want to touch you. Just get out of my sight!’ he muttered viciously. ‘Go back to your father. Help him count his money and live out his lonely, egocentric life! You don’t belong to my world and never have. You’re superficial and selfish and only out for a good time. I might come from a slum, but at least my family taught me decent values and I know how to love someone other than myself—’

‘Luc—’ she began jerkily, her eyes soft with unshed tears.

‘No!’ he yelled, clearly close to breaking point. ‘Don’t prolong this; I couldn’t bear it. There’s no point in hanging around! Just go! Get out of my house! I don’t want to see you ever again!’

His brutal words beat into her brain like iron hammers. The injustice bit deep into her heart. If he’d truly loved her, he would have tried to stop her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t wait for her to leave.

Cold to the bone, she took a last look at her baby. Poor little mite. She lay on the padded play mat and started to scream. Goodbye, Gemma. Forgive me, she prayed forlornly. For a split second Gemma stopped crying. The coincidence was too much for Ellen to bear. Almost sick with despair, she turned on her heel and stumbled out, a well of acrid tears streaming from her eyes and almost blinding her.

She heard her luggage being flung out on the ground beside her, because she’d forgotten it in her panic. The door was slammed shut with a vehemence that rattled its glass panes.

Indifferent to their neighbours’ twitching curtains, she remained for a long time outside their tiny terrace house—their love-nest which they’d painted and decorated and loved and laughed in. Inside, Luc could be heard trying to calm Gemma. When the child’s screaming stopped, Ellen numbly picked up her case and walked away.

Back to her parents. Back to ‘I told you so’.

Her father’s self-congratulatory attitude made her feel worse. He’d been proved right—and therefore he assumed the right to dictate her every move. Crushed and defenceless, her mind a fuddled blur, she let herself be pushed around because she didn’t care what happened to her any more. She had lost the two people she loved.

But it was almost the last straw when her hair fell out. Great handfuls of it remained on the pillow each morning. Every sweep of her hairbrush drew out clumps of hair, roots and all, leaving disgusting bare patches on her head. That nearly tipped her over the edge, and she wept and wept for her lost love, her child and her femininity.

At that moment, with her breakdown worsening with every day, Luc took a devastating revenge which almost destroyed her reason entirely. He took Gemma away to Italy. Ellen had never believed she could suffer so much and not die of despair.

But she had survived. And she was looking at an altogether different person now. Critically she scrutinised her elfin hairstyle, her perfect skin—thanks to a healthy eating regime—and her up-to-date clothes.

Luc would be the one at a disadvantage, not her. She stood there for a moment, breathing steadily, gathering up her courage. And now she was ready.

Stuffing the chocolate bar and magazine in her big canvas shoulder bag, she malevolently eyed the door, which lurked with intent, like an implacable enemy.

‘I hereby name you Luc!’ she muttered with loathing.

Then she whipped out her mascara and lipstick for a quick coat all round, and slipped her small feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes before going forth to limbo around the door and meet its namesake head on.

By the time Ellen arrived at the café, Luc was already there. His face was hidden behind an Italian newspaper, but Ellen knew it was a million to one chance that anyone else would be reading La Stampa and wearing knife-creased beige trousers with matching socks and designer shoes in this particular part of London!

‘Hi, Ell. Usual?’ called out the young waitress cheerfully, flicking back her marmalade ponytail.

‘Thanks, Tracy.’ Feeling unbelievably nervous, she shut the door with exaggerated care. A coffee and doughnut would give her something to hold, to fiddle with. Props could prove useful, she thought.

Luc was knocked sideways by Ellen’s appearance. He watched her sashay in and felt that old, familiar grabbing at his guts as the full impact of her amazing sex appeal rocketed around the small café.

It occurred to him that this could be the last time he ever saw her, and he decided to make the most of the opportunity to feast his eyes.

To this end, he studied her avidly. Her hair was incredible, hugging her head in close, feathery blonde wisps which accentuated the clean lines of her beautiful face and neck.

It suited her. The new Ellen excited him. Everything about her gave off a challenge: the carriage of her body, her clothes and that assured manner which suggested she didn’t give a damn about anybody’s opinion.

Yet she was sending out sexual signals too, in every movement she made, in each glance from those smoky eyes and with every word that came from her pillowy lips. She looked, in fact, as if she’d just climbed out of a tumbled bed.

As well she might.

His teeth ground together and he fought down the rush of jealousy which had come from nowhere to scour his stomach. Her appearance confirmed the spur-of-the-moment decision he’d come to during their telephone conversation.