Not Just for Christmas Ch. 01-04

Over the phone to Claire he repeated his threats to kill her and the children, which she duly recorded for future use. The next day he would abjectly apologise and assure her he would never harm her or them. Technically it was a breach of the injunction, but Claire did not push it.

Towards the end of June, Claire finished her exams, and on the Thursday after they finished she went by bus into town to the farewell evening at the pub as she always did. The usual provisions were in place. She would ring Mike when she wanted to come home. Julie from next door would arrive and he would go and collect Claire.

Except that the phone call never came. Julie had come over ready, but by quarter to twelve Mike was becoming worried. Julie suggested he ring her mobile, which he did. It was turned off.

He sent Julie home with thanks and waited. And waited. Now he was really anxious. Rather like the parent of an erring teenager he was envisaging all sorts of horrors, rape, violence or hospital. He tried her mobile every ten minutes. Voicemail. He left messages each time asking her to ring him. Nothing.

He dozed for a while, head down on the kitchen table. Then something woke him. It was the sound of a car. There was a long pause, then he heard the tyres on the gravel as it went and shortly after the front door quietly opening and closing. He was very angry. He looked at his watch, 3.30am. Then Claire quietly came into the kitchen and started at seeing him at the table.

He stared at her. Her hair was mussed up, her blouse had most of the buttons undone and the ones fastened were on the wrong buttonholes. Her lipstick was smudged. The catch on her jeans was undone and the zip halfway down. She looked a mess.

He felt... What did he feel? Disgust, certainly, and it must have shown on his face. Anger? That too.

Now when Michael Stewart was really angry he would go quiet. He deliberately looked her up and down, stood and walked past her.

"Next time you're out fucking your boyfriend," he spat as he passed her, "perhaps you could have the decency to phone to say you won't need a lift," and he was on his way.

He could hear her beginning to say something, but he was not listening. He seethed with anger, and with something else: jealousy. He felt betrayed. All he had done for the woman, and the first time she celebrated it was with another man. All his friendship and love, and she had a casual fuck to celebrate the success he'd given her. All the hours he'd done her job at home while she studied and this was how she thanked him. He hit his room and locked the door.

She knocked at the door about half an hour later. He did not answer. She tried the door, then went away. He drank four glasses of single malt scotch, doubles. He fell into bed and only just remembered to set his alarm before sleep claimed him.

Strangely he awoke long before the alarm was due to wake him. He felt wide-awake. The events of the night before rose to mind, and he decided he didn't want to talk to her, or hear her feeble excuses. So he got up, had a cereal breakfast and left the house.

He was at work by seven o'clock and enjoyed the warm early morning sunshine slanting in through the windows. He had covered most of the work he needed to do that morning by nine.

At eight thirty he got the first phone call. It was Siobhán.

"Mike," she panted. She was walking as she phoned. "Can you phone Mum? Something's happened. She looked terrible this morning, half-awake and I think she was in pain."

"Don't worry, Hen," Mike replied. "She went to a party last night and didn't get in till after three. It's probably a hangover."

"How d'you know?"

"She was supposed to phone for a lift home, but didn't. Her boyfriend brought her home."

"Boyfriend? Mum?"

"Seems so."

"But..."

"But what?"

"Nothing. Bye!"

Rosemary arrived, did a double take at his early presence, but then simply smiled and said nothing. He was going through some projections for the next year or two, since he had nothing else to do. At ten o'clock he was about to take a tour of the place when Rosemary buzzed him.

"Mike, I have a Ms Laura Vallant here. She would like to talk to you."

He didn't know the name. "What's her business?"

"Personal, something to do with Claire. About last night?"

He stiffened. His anger and jealousy returned in double measure.

"Send her in."

Laura Vallant was a surprise. He was expecting someone Claire's age, but Laura was about eighteen. She was a blonde, willowy with a flat chest and hardly any waist at all. Her arms, which were bare, were very thin. He wondered if she were anorexic. She looked nervous.

"Mike Stewart," he said, rising to his feet and extending a hand of friendship. She took it limply, and let go.

"Please sit down," he invited.

She sat, twisting her hands together nervously as Mike also sat down.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"It's about last night."

Her hands were writhing.

"What about it?"

"Well," she hesitated a moment. "I don't know how to say this."

"What's the problem?"

"Well," she started again. "Claire rang me this morning, and said that you were angry about her celebrating, and being brought home by another man."

"That's not true."

"But you were angry when she got home."

"Yes."

"Because she'd been with another man. She hadn't-"

"No," Mike realised he was in fact also angry at that, but she was not to know it.

"I don't follow," she said, puzzled.

"I was angry because she was supposed to phone for a lift at about 11.00. She didn't. Her phone was switched off. She arrived home at 3.30. From the look of her she had had a whale of a time; she was half-dressed. But I have work to do, and sitting up till 3.30 isn't my idea of fun. I'm only half awake today and I need to be on the ball. It was lack of consideration for me."

"Oh," she said. "I mean, I'm sure she didn't mean it."

"She switched off her phone," he exuded patience. "Did you know she is divorcing a violent husband?"

"Well, yes," she answered. "I mean that's why we went on to the club after the pub closed. You know - because she'd got her Decree Nisi."

That staggered him. She hadn't told him. She'd gone off celebrating her divorce and hadn't told him.

"You didn't know?"

"She hasn't bothered to tell me."

"Oh."

"So if that's all, Mz Vallant..." he stood.

"Well, thanks for seeing me."

They shook hands again. Her hand was skeletal.

As she opened the door she turned, "Mr Stewart, I think it's you she loves."

"Funny way of showing it," he snapped, and she was gone.

Claire loved him? There had not been any sign that she wanted more than friendship. What was he, a mind reader? It certainly didn't square with her fucking some other bloke the night before, and cutting off contact with Mike that night of all nights with a violent husband about, who would have got the Decree at the same time. Mike gave up in disgust.

However, his anger simmered in the background all day, and when Tom phoned to ask if he was game for a night on the town he agreed enthusiastically. He asked Rosemary to phone Claire to say he would not be eating at home that night.

Then there was a last minute hitch in one of the test programmes, and Rosemary, Bill, who was their best technician, and Mike got lost for some hours trying to find the bugs. The phone rang and Rosemary answered.

"Hi, Claire."

"No, we've hit a snag, but I think we're finishing soon."

"No I don't think so," she turned to Mike. "Are you still going out with Tom?"

"Oh Hell!" he exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about Tom. Yes, I'll try to catch him now."

"Yes," Rosemary said, turning away from us. "He's still going out with Tom tonight."

"I don't know anything about that Claire, but there was a visitor this morning."

"OK, see you!" and she disconnected.

He called Tom on his mobile and Tom was ready to meet him at the club for a bite to eat. Mike begged an extra half hour, left the two workers to lock up, promising he'd come in the next day if necessary, even though it was Saturday, and drove home rather above the speed limit. Once arrived, he called a taxi and rushed inside.

Ginny ran to greet him with a hug and as usual he lifted her up. Ryan followed and received his hug and then Mike made for the stairs. On the bottom step Claire intercepted him from the kitchen.

"Mike," she said, urgently with a worried frown. "I need to speak to you."

"Tomorrow," he said, rather sharply. "I'm late for Tom, and need to shower and change."

"I need to explain," she said, ignoring his statement but reacting to his sharpness.

"About what? Some problem?"

"About last night," she began. "It wasn't-"

"No time," he snapped. "I said tomorrow. Set the house alarm tonight but don't bolt the door. I don't know if or when I'll be back."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Look Claire," he almost shouted, but became aware of two scared little faces witnessing the exchange. "There's nothing to say about last night. You tell me time and again to keep my nose out of your business when it suits you, then you want to delay me with explanations when I'm in a hurry. What you do with your boyfriend is no concern of mine."

"He not my-"

"Whatever!" he shouted as he ran up the stairs and dived into his room.

A quick power shower. The force of the water reflected his anger. The usual resentments came back. The shower did not alleviate his feelings of rejection and betrayal. He put aside logic, the logic that said that she was free to live her own life, and he allowed his hurt free rein. He dressed for an evening out and on a whim got some condoms out of the drawer by his bed. Then he clattered down the stairs.

Claire was nowhere to be seen but there was Ryan looking scared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are you gong to hit Mummy?" he asked plaintively. Mike stopped short, appalled.

"Of course not, laddie!" he exclaimed gently. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You were shouting at her and now she's crying in the kitchen."

"Ryan, sunshine," he was almost lost for words. "Grown ups can have arguments without hitting each other you know. Mummy and I have fallen out about something but we're going to talk about it tomorrow."

"Daddy always hit Mummy when they had arguments."

"My dear laddie," he gathered him into his arms, squatting on the floor. "I promise you that no matter how angry I get I will never, ever, hit Mummy, or any of you. I don't hit women or children."

"Will you say sorry to Mummy?"

He was caught. What to say?

"Ryan," he whispered in his ear which tickled him and made him giggle. "If I've made mummy cry I'll say sorry tomorrow. Now I have to go."

"Good!" the little lad said, satisfied that he'd sorted everything out. Mike wished he had. The boy ran off to the kitchen.

As Mike left the house he heard Ryan shouting "Mummy, it's all right! Don't cry! Mike won't hit you! He's going to say sorry tomorrow."

Kids! The taxi arrived and away he went.