Love & Desire & Hate

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Fran and Rod Gifford's marriage is drifting slowly but surely towards the rocks since the death of their baby daughter. Their disagreements - once settled with love and understanding-are flaring into mayor quarrels. And their sensitive schoolboy son Peter was conscious of the rift between them. Then Rodney fell desperately in love with Perdita, a brilliant and beautiful young science student who was as cool and analytical over her passion as she was with the computer she worked. She believes Rod is seeing another woman and the discovery of their affair came as a final blow to Fran. She determined she would fight back if not for her own sake, for Peter's, a divorce would shatter her son. She is caught in a terrible trap. Should she go on pretending that the man she loves in still hers-or will the love turn to hate and destroy them all?

Release date: June 26, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

THE Headmaster looked at the clock on his desk. Half-past twelve. Time to relax a bit. It was a warm sticky morning. He had had a lot of paper work, a rather trying staff conference, and an added aggravation because the senior matron had gone sick. It was the very devil these days trying to replace good staff. The Head was not in the best of humours although he was ordinarily a cheerful, just, and tolerant man. And this was one of the best and most successful Preparatory Schools in the South of England. He had nothing to complain about. But when a knock came on the door, he answered rather irritably:

“Oh, come in, come in!”

Who wanted him now? He had no more appointments as far as he could remember.

The door opened. A slim boy, rather small and slight for his twelve years; but good-looking, in a clean white shirt and grey flannel shorts, walked in. His arms were held rather stiffly at his side. He looked embarrassed.

The Headmaster relaxed.

“Ah, hello, Grifford. Come in, my boy. What can I do for you?”

“I just want to speak to you for a moment if I may, sir.”

“Certainly, sit down.”

The Head’s good humour returned.

Peter Grifford was one of his best pupils, leaving at the end of this term to go on to his Public School and although not too good at games, he was a nice co-operative boy; had first-class brains too. The Classics master found him brilliant. Bit of a change. Most of the lads these days swarmed like inquisitive bees around Maths and Science. The Headmaster was a Classical scholar. Both he and his wife had a soft spot for young Grifford.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked, and smiled at the boy.

Grifford sat down, pulling at his right ear, obviously nervous. But he had never been afraid of the Head. He blurted out:

“I’ve come on behalf of Butler, please sir.”

Now the Headmaster pulled at his own ear.

“Butler? Oh, yes, Butler – in the Fifth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know why you’ve come about him Grifford. Can’t he fight his own battles?”

Grifford coloured. He had the sort of fine pale skin that flushes easily. He’d be a nice-looker when he broadened out a bit, and put on a few inches, the Headmaster reflected. Good bone structure. Eyes perhaps a little too large and thickly lashed. Like his mother’s, as far as the Headmaster could remember. He had a soft spot for her, too. Beautiful woman. He preferred her to the father. Mr. Grifford talked too much, and mostly about himself. Odd thing, but he never seemed as interested in his son as the mother was, and it was she who came to most of the school affairs; she who fetched the boy for his exeats and often brought him back, too. They were obviously very close, mother and son. The Headmaster actually preferred things the other way round. He liked the father-son partnership. Made a better man of the child, in his opinion.

Grifford said:

“Well, it’s a bit awkward, sir. I know Butler ought to come and see you because he’s been so awfully upset lately. He was in a bit of a tiz-waz this morning and when I said he ought to tell you himself what he was feeling, he said he’d rather I did it for him.”

The Headmaster put the tips of his fingers together, leaned back in his chair and gave a faint amused smile.

“I see. So you are the carrier of the ‘tiz-waz’, whatever that may be.”

Young Grifford blinked his long lashes and responded with a faint smile on his own lips.

“Yes, sir.”

“Out with it, then.”

“Well, sir, you know that Butler’s parents are getting a divorce and it’s upset him frightfully. I know that he’s done badly in form this last week or two and been getting into trouble for being rude to old Twittering … sorry sir, I mean Wittering …” Grifford’s face was scarlet now. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at the Headmaster. He wished he had not come.

Oh God, said the Headmaster to himself, now I know what this is all about.

Of course he knew that a divorce was impending between Butler’s parents. It worried and angered him. It was never good for the young when parents separated like that. He’d seen the harm done so many times; the inevitable repercussion on a sensitive boy; the rapid fall from grace, as Grifford already suggested. Bad marks. General deterioration in character. Only for a time, perhaps. They pulled out of it eventually, but it was bad while it lasted. Damned selfish, these couples who went their own ways without any consideration for the kids. Far too many of them doing it now, too. There was the case of that boy, who had come from a broken home, behaved so badly at school, the Head had to ask the wretched mother to remove him.

He hoped this wouldn’t be the case with Butler. He was a splendid little fellow. Six months younger than Grifford. Not as intelligent, but first-rate at sports.

The father had come down personally to tell the Head that the home was breaking up. The mother wanted to go off with some other chap. The Head remembered listening to a long rigmarole about the domestic wrangles, etc., that had led up to the débâcle. Mr. Butler had, as a matter of fact, struck him as being a bit sticky and awkward, and at the end of the conversation he had even felt a faint pity for the erring Mrs. Butler. But most of his compassion went to the boy.

“What’s Butler got to say then, Grifford?” he asked with some unease.

“He asked me to ask you, sir, if you’d write to his parents and beg them not to get divorced. He’s very fond of them both, sir, and he’s keen on his home. He says he feels sure you could persuade them to stay together.”

“He flatters me,” said the Headmaster sadly, “I don’t think I could possibly achieve any such thing. I told Mr Butler what I thought about it when I saw him but it didn’t have any effect. Anyhow, it seems that it is the mother who is leaving home.”

“Yes, sir, but Butler says she hasn’t left yet and it’s all still a bit uncertain,” said young Grifford eagerly, “and he says it’ll be so awful if he goes home for the summer hols and has his aunt there instead of his mother.”

Oh God! thought the Headmaster again.

“Please, sir, couldn’t you do anything?”

“Well, it’s very decent of you to have come along and made this appeal on your friend’s behalf, but I really can’t interfere, you know, Grifford. It’s not my business.”

“It means an awful lot to Butler, sir. He doesn’t like his aunt.”

“Look, Grifford, you’ve got to face up to hard facts in this life and not let feelings run away with you. What I mean is, life does crack down on one now and again and deals some heavy blows, but one has to stand up to them. Poor old Butler’s got to face his troubles. I don’t suppose you know much about this sort of thing because you come from a happy home but it may well be better for Butler in the long run once his mother has gone. No doubt he’ll be visiting her regularly and from what I’ve gathered there’ve been some pretty hectic scenes and rows going on in the home. Don’t you think Butler might find it more peaceful once the divorce is over, and accepts the change?”

“No, I don’t, sir,” said Grifford.

For the third time the Headmaster muttered: Oh God! to himself. He heartily agreed with Grifford.

“You see, sir,” said Grifford, “Butler also asked me to ask you to tell his people that he doesn’t mind about the rows, no matter how grim they are. He’d rather listen to them and keep both his parents. He says so.”

The Headmaster suddenly felt old and tired. He sat silent, playing with the pen on his blotter, thanking God for his own happy marriage and wishing that he could have helped young Butler, but after the conversation he had had with the father he didn’t see the slightest use in even passing on that sad, sad message. So the boy would rather listen to the rows, and keep his home and parents intact. Poor little brute!

Now suddenly Grifford made a startling announcement.

“I know what Butler feels, sir, because things are not always all right between my own parents.”

“Oh dear, Grifford – I never thought … surely not …”

The Head found himself stammering and a sensation of very real concern for this, one of his favourite pupils, turned the Headmaster’s thoughts from the other boy.

Grifford appeared to have overcome his nerves and enlightened the Head still further.

“Mum and I are terrific friends and Dad’s often terrific too, of course, but he and Mum are not at all alike and I hear arguments that I don’t suppose they think I hear. Mum’s very quiet but Dad goes right up in the air when he’s put out. I’m only telling you this, sir, because when I talked to Butler about the divorce I thought how much I’d hate it if my parents had one.”

“Of course, of course,” said the Headmaster, and rose to his feet, “but they’re not going to have a divorce. There are always … ahem …” he coughed “little matrimonial differences of opinion, you know. It’s only to be expected over the years … ahem … but I’m sure you’ve nothing to worry about, Grifford.”

“Oh, no, but I just wanted to say that knowing what I would feel, I hoped you’d try and help Butler.”

Now the Head smiled very kindly at the boy who had been here in the school for the last four years and been a credit to it. He was going to miss him.

“I’ll do what I can, Grifford. As a matter of fact I think I’ll send Butler’s exact words to his mother, today. You never know, it might do some good. And thanks for coming. It was very decent of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Grifford, and left the room with an air of relief.

The Headmaster put a hand into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a pipe which he fingered thoughtfully. The conversation with young Grifford had depressed him not a little. It was obvious that Butler was feeling wretched even before his mother had left home. A pity the boy knew, perhaps. But nothing was hidden from these young people today. Nothing.

The Head sat down in his revolving chair and started to fill his pipe. But curiously enough it was not the memory of Butler and his miseries that weighed on his mind. It was that unexpected admission from young Grifford that his own parents did not get on too well, that troubled the Headmaster. He wouldn’t like to think that there was going to be trouble there. It would be very bad for Peter Grifford, indeed.

What had happened? They were always charmed by Mrs. Grifford when she came to the school. She was intelligent, and sensible about her son. He’d noticed that. Not the type to be ringing up, for ever complaining, or asking about her little darling. She was exactly the right type of mother. It couldn’t, surely, be her fault if there was trouble in the Grifford home. Much more likely to be that smooth, handsome, garrulous fellow she’d married.

“Who’s to know?” the Head asked himself aloud. “Who the heck’s to know? One seldom sees people on the outside as they really are, in their own home.”

He lit his pipe and sat back smoking, brooding and, if he cared to admit it, worrying.

WHENEVER Frances Grifford received a telephone call from her mother-in-law beginning with “Oh, Fran, please come down and see me at once, dear”, she knew what it meant. These summonses came regularly. Mrs. Grifford had had another dust-up with somebody in the hotel and wanted a change.

She had actually stayed at this present one in Eastbourne longer than at most. She had moved from one hotel to another at least six times during the last five years since her husband’s death.

Fran found her trying but because she was Rodney’s mother and Fran had a kind heart, she usually did her best to help.

Rodney was the one who complained. Mama to him had become an old nuisance but Fran argued:

“The poor old thing’s lonely and helpless, and she’s been rather confused since your father died. You don’t understand her.”

Rodney’s reply to that was:

“You can be an angel if you want, darling, I never was one and I’ve no time.”

Typical of Rodney. He rarely had time for anybody but himself. He was really very fond of his mother but managed to wriggle out of most of his disagreeable responsibilities. What had he to grumble at, Fran often asked herself. When his father died, in order to save death duties, he had left everything to Rodney. All he had to do was to make his mother a reasonable allowance which of course he did. That, he didn’t begrudge her. Both his parents had been very good to him. When he left Cambridge he was lucky enough to be able to go straight into the firm of stockbrokers of which his father was once a senior partner. Since then Rodney, himself, had become a partner, and despite the recent squeeze and economic uncertainty, he was still able to make money. He had charm, good looks, and a good business brain.

On her way down to Eastbourne to see her mother-in-law, Fran thought, as she so often did, of her husband. She still felt much of the fervent love she had given him when they were first married, without, perhaps, all the illusions. She knew well that under all his charm there was another Rodney – a moody, and at times difficult, self-centred man. But then, as he had once told her, why try to preserve illusions? You always lose them. Better to be an intelligent realist, rather than a romantic fool.

“I know I’m a stinker, but go on loving me, Fran,” he added – which she did, and she would think:

I expect he finds my adoration boring. Men don’t really like to be adored and I’m not very clever with Rod. I don’t think, anyhow, that he likes the me I really am, and the fact that I am romantic at heart.

Things change. They had both changed.

They had met fourteen years ago on the ski-slopes in Zürs – both of them good skiers. She, three months away from her coming-of-age, and he, four years older. He was gay and handsome; all the women looked at him and he had a way of looking back which they found irresistible. Fran was no exception. But her own success with him had staggered her, because she was a little shy and retiring and imagined Rodney Grifford would pass her by for a more dashing, sophisticated type of girl. Not at all. Before that holiday ended he appeared to be head over ears in love with her and she couldn’t think about anything or anybody else. He was the first one she had ever cared for seriously. He said the same about her. There had been a lot of women already in young Rodney’s life but with Fran, he said, it was different.

She used to be small and slender in those days, with rather fragile bones, and an elfin beauty; pointed chin, large eyes, and boyishly short dark hair cut with a fringe. Those were the days, too, when she adored dancing and he seemed just as keen about it. They danced every night, most of the night. They sat up at the bar drinking together. They went up the mountains in the sunshine for long excursions. They seemed to have a lot in common.

Seemed … that was the operative word Fran thought sadly as she drove through Caterham toward the coast on this fine September day.

Why was it that years of marriage, and habit and custom, and all the set-backs and frustrations, should so completely change the pattern of love – and the tune?

She didn’t love Rod any less. At times she felt she loved him more. She was the faithful kind. A one-man girl. But she had an idea that he didn’t feel the same way about her. Just an idea, nothing tangible. And after all, he told her openly, bluntly, a dozen times that she was too romantic and expected too much of him. So she tried to be different. And she no longer let him know how she felt. But it certainly seemed to her that the sort of women who attracted him today were not in the least like the Fran he had fallen for so madly at Zürs. They were more sophisticated.

Sophistication was something that Fran had never possessed nor was ever likely to. It wasn’t in her make-up. She was really a domesticated ‘stay-at-home’ girl.

But they led a gay life, constantly entertaining in their small elegant house just off Eaton Square. She led it because he liked it. She had been trying for years to get him to the country, and even after their son, Peter, was born and she had pleaded that it was so much better for a child to live in the country, he had refused to move.

“Frannie, my darling, you know I’m not the type to want to mow a lawn or prune a rose. For God’s sake don’t try and turn me into one of that kind …”

That’s what he said, so she stopped trying. But she just wondered why it never entered his head to make a single sacrifice for her.

He was at times affectionate. He brought her flowers and he gave her handsome presents when he was doing well, and everybody told her that she had a gorgeous husband and that she was lucky. On the whole, of course, she believed that she was lucky. She could never care for or live with anybody but Rod.

She wrote long letters at intervals to her father, who had married again after her mother died and settled in South Africa with his new wife, and told him how happy she was. But things had changed. And not even Fran with all her faith, her loyalty, her love, could deny that, after Miranda died. Miranda, the little daughter who had been born to them when Peter was three.

Fran rarely allowed herself to think about Miranda.

It was too terrible, and even though it was all past history the awful memory of the fatality that had happened eight years ago, could, if she allowed it, hit her like a physical blow.

Rod had never taken much interest in Peter. Children were not in his line and he had had a family only to please her. She knew and appreciated that fact. To Rod they were a bore. All too often one had to make sacrifices, financial or otherwise, for them. They might come between Rodney and his fun and freedom. He had been pleased when . . .