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288 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1992
It was a new girl, one Clare hadn’t seen before. She smiled as she saw Boyd and got quickly to her feet, the smile slipping a little when she saw Clare behind him.
‘Yes, it does; now they’ll think I’m just a killjoy.’ ‘Well, aren’t you?’ he said irritably.
Am I a killjoy? she asked herself. Maybe she was.
Everything would work out and life would be just wonderful—for the three of them. But a couple of months later she’d had the miscarriage, the first miscarriage. Boyd had been sympathetic about her disappointment, but he’d expected her just to forget it and go on as they had before.
I’ve just got to face the fact that I’ll probably never be able to have a child, never hold my baby in my arms. Her heart filled with unconsolable sadness and Clare had to fight back tears, knowing that if she cried she would wake Boyd.
That meant that she would have to do the shopping and clean the house today; Boyd didn’t like her doing that kind of thing when he was home. Selfish swine, she thought with a flash of resentment.
‘But he’s only forty-nine and he looks sixty. I don’t want you to end up like that in another twenty years or even less.’ ‘I won’t; I’m far more active than he is.’
Or had Boyd married her precisely because she already had all the attributes he needed to help him in his chosen career?
People expected her to be over it by now, both physically and mentally—after all, it was nearly six months since the last miscarriage—but sometimes Clare felt so low, so dejected, that she could do nothing but cry.
‘Yes, but Boyd might be home. I wouldn’t want to go away and leave him.’ ‘He leaves you, doesn’t he?’ ‘Yes, but that’s work; he doesn’t have any choice.’ ‘He went away to play in that squash tournament, didn’t he?’
Boyd was often in her thoughts. She still loved him, of course, that went without saying, but she felt that they had both changed; she certainly had.
She still loved Boyd and always would, but she was very much afraid that she could no longer live the life that he wanted.
‘Yes, when I was in Milan with Boyd.’ Velma poured out the coffee and brought it over. ‘Boyd did tell you I was with him in Milan, didn’t he?’
‘Do you like this?’ ‘Very nice,’ Clare said warily. ‘Boyd bought it for me while we were there. He said he thought the colour suited me.’
But Velma had been more than open; she’d pushed it down Clare’s throat. And Boyd hadn’t told her that he’d taken Velma with him to Milan.