‘It wasn’t all day.’
‘It was several hours all told.’
‘But I feel fine. Better than I’ve felt in ages. I enjoyed the exercise. I thought you enjoyed it too.’
‘You mean you enjoyed giving Veronica Leighton a thrashing.’ His face was full of anger. ‘I can’t believe how irresponsible you’ve been, Evelyn.’ He flung back the sheet, got out of bed, and left her room.
Evie stared at the closed door, misery swamping her. Never mind two steps forward, one step back, with Doug it was one forward and three back. No matter how hard she tried, she always came up short as far as her husband was concerned. And the one special card, the last ace in her pack had been played, and the game was lost.
She asked herself was he right? Had she taken an undue risk? She hadn’t fallen, hadn’t overtired herself. And the doctor had said exercise was not only harmless but beneficial. She remembered the vicious retaliatory shot Veronica had sent her way, smashing the ball into her ribcage. It could just as easily have struck a little lower and put her unborn child at risk. Her hands moved protectively over her belly. There was no sign yet of her pregnancy, no swelling evident. She lifted her nightdress and looked down at her ribs where already a purplish tinge was spreading. What an idiot she had been. Just a few inches lower and she might well have lost the child. Anger at herself – and at Veronica Leighton bubbled up inside her to mix with a growing sense of remorse.
She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and went across the room to the door. Moonlight flooded the landing as she crept along it towards the master bedroom. She eased the door open only to find it was deserted, the bed untouched. A cold fear clenched her stomach. Had he gone? Returned to Batu Lembah? Abandoned them at Christmas. Tears rose involuntarily and she cursed her own stupidity. She should have waited to tell him until the memory of the tennis match had faded – or had the good sense not to play in the first place. It was her own fault. She had been playing fast and free with her marriage and the life of their unborn child. An overwhelming desire to wind back the clock, to relive and reorder the past day, swept through her, only to be replaced by a heavy oppressive sadness. She had messed things up badly. And how would she break the news to Jasmine that her father wouldn’t be with them at Christmas?
About to return to her bed, although certain she couldn’t sleep, she heard a sound downstairs, a chinking of glass. Was he still here? She tiptoed down the staircase and across the hall. Her husband was standing framed in the open French window, looking out onto the moonlit lawn, a whisky in his hand. Relief washed over Evie.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she moved across the room and went to stand beside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Really sorry. I’ll go and see the doctor again straight after Christmas and make sure everything’s all right.’
He continued to stare across the garden but said nothing. The cicadas were emitting their endless high-pitched vibrations. Avoiding her eyes, he started to speak at last. ‘It’s just that…’
She touched his arm. ‘I know. I understand how much having this child means to you. I was wrong to take a risk like that.’
She saw Douglas was still angry.
‘You don’t want the baby, do you? That’s why you did it.’
Evie was aghast. ‘Not want the baby? I want nothing more. What on earth makes you say that?’
‘The tennis. Provoking Veronica.’
‘I was trying to win the match. I thought you were too!’ She started to feel indignant.
‘That ball she slammed at you. You wanted her to do it. Why don’t you admit it, Evelyn?’
‘Call me Evie! And that’s absolute poppycock. That ball got me right in the ribs and hurt like hell but it wasn’t anywhere near the baby. I certainly didn’t want it to happen. I’m desperate to have this baby. I thought you’d be as pleased as I am.’ The anger bubbled up. Anger and frustration that they appeared to be completely incapable of communicating with each other. No matter how hard she tried, he slapped her down. Well, she’d had enough.
To her astonishment, Douglas made a strange choking sound and she realised he was struggling to control his emotions. Instinctively, she reached for his arm and guided him to the sofa. He sat beside her, his head in his hands. Evie waited, saying nothing, conscious of the sound of his breathing, mingling with the chorus of cicadas. Trying to argue or reason with him was pointless and would drive him further away from her. There was clearly something damaged at the core of the man. It must be to do with his loss of Felicity and her own apparent shortcomings in comparison. How could she possibly compete with a dead woman, one whom he had clearly sanctified, one who could no longer afford him any opportunity for criticism – if indeed she ever had? Evie felt bleak. Lost and lonely. Unsure what to do or say, she remained beside him, silent, waiting.
Eventually he stirred, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘It’s gone midnight,’ he said at last. ‘Happy Christmas, Evie.’ He reached for her hand and raised it to brush it lightly with his lips. ‘I’m sorry. I was unfair to you. I am happy about this baby. More than you can imagine.’
Relief and happiness rushed into her. She gave him a broad smile. ‘Me too. I made you a present for Christmas. Would you like to open it now?’
‘You made me something?’ He looked astonished.
She went over to the cabinet in
