The Other Side of Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Even after several years of marriage Nira is still very much in love with her husband Des. She has two lovely children, a husband who adores her and a beautiful home. But her happiness is shattered as she discovers that her husband is incapable of fidelity. Struggling through a terrible time that is like a living nightmare, Nira fights her way through the darkness. Will she be able to embrace the bright hope of a happy future that is the other side of love? A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1973, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: October 16, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

NIRA WAS ONE of those people who wake up early and she was at her best in the morning, and more inclined to feel sleepy at the end of the day. On this particular April morning she woke at seven. Instead of getting straight out of bed to switch on the electric kettle and make the early tea, she lay quietly in the big double bed beside her still-sleeping husband and contemplated him – and life. Their life and those of their two children. Jonathan and Renira (her mother’s name in full) were not yet stirring. No sounds came from the two rooms at the end of the corridor.

Nira stretched her long slender limbs, luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and of the masculine body beside hers.

Desmond Curtis lay on his side facing her. At times, when she first opened her eyes she would find his head on her shoulder, and he would be snoring very gently, though not loudly enough to disturb her. Sometimes he opened an eye and blinked sleepily at her then with sudden longing would draw her close and begin to make love to her.

Nine times out often she responded. She was still in love with Des. Their relationship had been a very happy one. The close association of eleven years had not yet extinguished the fire of the early days. Neither had parenthood destroyed the romance, even though it sometimes made it a little more difficult for them to be romantic. Tricky was, perhaps, the word. Not so easy to exchange passionate embraces while a crying infant, or inquisitive child, disturbed them.

Little Jonathan had suffered from night terrors from the time he was two. He often ran into their room for comfort. So it wasn’t easy to feel relaxed and enjoy completely the ardours of the year before the first baby came.

Nira looked at her husband’s face with fond approval. She was lucky to be married to a man like Des and he seemed well satisfied with her. Of course they both had their faults and moments of disagreement and there had certainly been one or two blazing rows. On the whole they tolerated each other’s discrepancies and the infrequent quarrels were soon over, and followed by what Des called ‘fun and games’ in the marriage bed.

In sleep he looked very handsome, she thought. She put out a hand to touch the thick brown hair which he wore longer than he used to do; not too long. She couldn’t stand that. But he allowed a nice tail to grow down at the nape of the neck and he had recently cultivated a small moustache. She had hated that to begin with, now she liked it. He was a tall athletic man and at his best in country clothes. She liked to see him in pullover and slacks striding over the golf course or driving off a tee with his tremendous vigour. He was a good golfer. They spent most of their week-ends on the local course which had pleasant surroundings and an attractive club house. They were fifteen miles from Brighton. Sometimes they played up on the Dyke. Nira played mainly to please Des – and to be with him. She dreaded becoming what they called a golf-widow. But she didn’t really care for the game, and she wasn’t very good. Des both teased and encouraged her and had been glad when she stopped using the children as an excuse for not leaving them. Now Susan, a local girl, came daily to take care of Jonathan and Renira when they were not at school, or in the evenings when Nira wanted to go out.

Des has a lovely straight nose, thought Nira, and she adored his large, dark-brown eyes, long lashes and rather full sensual lips. Asleep, he looked young despite that moustache. He had marvellous points. He was kind and attentive and a wonderful lover. Of course he had his weaknesses – for wine and women. He almost always beat it up at a dinner party and he was a frightful flirt. But Nira was not a jealous person. She was sure of his deep affection and certain of his fidelity. But she did wish sometimes that he wouldn’t be quite so noisy when he’d had a couple of drinks or that he wouldn’t make such outrageous passes at the good-looking girls who were all too anxious to say snap. However, she was fairly sure that the fun didn’t go too far. Des always derided both the girls and himself once he was alone with his wife again.

“Attractive females amuse me, but you are the one I love,” he’d say.

She had nothing to complain of, she reflected happily as she lay dreaming, watching the sun filter through the slats in the Venetian blinds. It filled the room with little golden slivers of light It was going to be a lovely morning. It was Saturday, too. That meant Susan would be here early to take Jonathan and Renira off her hands. Golf, and lunch at the Club, and tonight they were going out to a dinner party.

A very pleasant day.

She began to think about what she would wear tonight. If it stayed fine she’d try out that new violet dinner-dress with the silver collar. She’d had her hair done yesterday – the way Des liked it best. It just needed a comb-out. Her hair was dark and silky. The best of the local hairdressers, an Italian, shaped it well. She wore it brushed back from her forehead high on top.

Suddenly she sprang out of bed. She wanted to take off her shortie nightgown and stand naked in front of her mirror. She did so, and contemplated her reflection. With the blinds still down and in that dusty gold sunlight, she stood a moment, staring.

She had always been on the tall side – four inches shorter than Des, who was six foot. She had kept her small waist and her smallish, rounded breasts. People told her she had a lovely figure. She could have been a model.

She was the same age as Des but looked younger. She had limpid eyes, greyish-blue, narrowing to slits when she laughed, and a slightly tip-tilted nose. Her mouth was moist and sweet. She had a pale fine skin and high cheek-bones. When she was made up she could look quite stunning.

She slipped into a white candlewick dressing-gown, tied the belt, then switched on the kettle. She was going to make tea and wake Des.

Now she could hear the children’s voices. They were not allowed to come in here till half-past seven. Possibly by this time young Jon was out of bed and sitting beside his little sister. They got on very well, which was fortunate. Nira disliked brothers and sisters who were hostile to each other. It was usually out of jealousy. But she and Des had made a point of not causing this by showing favouritism. They prided themselves on being ideal parents.

Yawning, Nira dug a spoon into the tea-tin and made sure she hadn’t forgotten Des’s sugar. She didn’t take it. She had a strong will and stuck to a reasonable diet. Des was putting on weight and she was cross sometimes when he refused to deny himself an extra slice of bread or lump of sugar, or those foaming tankards of beer he liked so much, and which were so fattening.

As soon as the kettle hissed and boiled she made the tea and called her husband.

“Wake up, lover.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

“Too early.”

“It isn’t.”

“Darling, it is. It’s only quarter-past seven,” his muffled voice slurred back. “Not a working day. Why wake? Come back to bed.”

She leaned over him, shook the broad shoulders gently then dropped a kiss on his hair. She liked the odour of his hair tonic and after-shave lotion, and the faint rich smell of cigar smoke that still clung to him. A business friend had come back for a drink last night and given Des a cigar. He had enjoyed it. He liked expensive things. He meant to forge ahead in his business and eventually lead a life of luxury, and give her and the children all they wanted. That was one of the things Nira liked about him. He was so generous – too much so at times – inclined to be extravagant.

He was a business executive in an advertising firm, and after six years he was doing well and looked like making steady progress. They were always hard up – most young couples with children in their income group found it hard to manage – what with the steady rise in prices and disheartening taxation. But they were luckier than their friends the Hallings, whom they saw more of than anyone else in the district. Boyce Halling was a research engineer and he didn’t seem to get either the salary rises or opportunities that gave Desmond an aura pf success, yet Boyce worked just as hard. But his wife and small son had to economise and sometimes Mrs. Hailing – known as Cricket, because of her petite figure and twittering voice – envied Nira.

Desmond gave a prodigious yawn, cleared his throat and sat up, running his fingers through tousled hair. He licked his lips and scowled.

“I drank too much last night. Why in God’s name must you be so bright so early, woman?”

“Darling, you know we’re having early golf, and that first of all we’ve got to drive Susan and the kids into Brighton and settle them with Gandy.” (The children’s nickname for old Mrs. Curtis was Gandy.)

“What a bore!” said Des.

“Well, your mother’s taking Susan and the kids off our hands for the whole day, and you ought to be grateful.”

Desmond swung his legs over the bed and rubbed his palms over his naked torso. He had a habit of wearing pyjama trousers but never the coat. The hairs on his chest were curly – chestnut brown like the thick hair on his head.

Nira looked at him with pride and pleasure. Her handsome Des! No wonder all the girls fell for him.

“You never remember anything and you’re never grateful and you’re hopeless!” she complained, and fell into his arms and was nearly smothered. Then he pushed her away, protesting, “I refuse to be seduced at seven fifteen a.m., so go and get the tea and behave yourself.”

“You’re one to talk! And it’s seven twenty-five now and the tea’s been ready for ten minutes.”

“Well, make some more,” said Desmond. He walked to the window and pulled up the Venetian blinds, letting in the delightful warmth of the Spring sunshine. He whistled. “Crikey, what a day! It’ll be super up on the golf course.”

She put some more water into the tea pot, poured out two cups and handed him one.

“Super. Out in the open all day – then the party tonight.”

“Who’s giving a party?”

“Honestly! You never remember anything,” said Nira for the second time, “You’ve got such a ghastly memory. I’ve got to remember everything for everyone in this house including Susan, and I’m much older than she is.”

“You don’t look it,” he said and threw an appreciative glance at Nira’s graceful figure and the face that he used to tell her in their early days of wooing could easily have launched a thousand ships had she lived at the same time as Helen of Troy. He had a sincere admiration for his wife.

“Surely you remember it’s Rob Bessiford’s dinner.”

“What, old Rob? What’s he throwing the party for? I forget.”

“Comme toujours,” said Nira whose French accent was poor but she made the foreign words sound withering.

Des was now in the bathroom. She could hear the whirr of his electric razor. He called to her, “Okay – I remember now. It’s for his birthday and it’s at The Richmond.”

Richmond Hall was one of the brightest spots in the otherwise unremarkable suburban town of Ponders Heath. Forty years ago, before the war, the Hall was private property – a beautiful Georgian building in a fine garden which nobody now could afford to keep up to anything like its old glory. But it made a superb hotel with the additional restaurant, dance room and a good bar which had been built on by the successful Brighton restaurateur who now ran the place.

They avoided ageing residents and catered for the general public. The gates opened on to what was now the main Ponders Heath Road from London to Brighton. There was much to attract passing trade, and the Saturday night dinner-dances at Richmond Hall Hotel had become very popular. There was a good band and the excellent cuisine encouraged the most elegant and monied among the local inhabitants.

“It is old Rob’s birthday, isn’t it?” Des called out to his wife.

“Yes, his forty-ninth, and he says it’s the last he’ll ever celebrate because he refuses to be fifty.”

“You can’t stop the march of time,” came from Desmond, followed by a great splashing as he sponged his face.

Nira walked into the bathroom and grimaced at him.

“So speaks my thirty-year-old playboy.”

“I wish I were a playboy, and I must say I’ve had a few chances of being one since I came here. I thought it was pretty ghastly, the life we led in Brighton. You never really got to know anybody. But they’ve all been very friendly in this little place. I suppose belonging to the local golf club has helped, and they’ve mostly turned out to be rather a smart go-ahead lot, haven’t they?”

Nira began to brush her dark silky hair, shaking it back from her face. For the moment she was silent. She loved parties and good times and enjoyed everything with Des, but personally, she had rather liked Brighton. True, their flat had been far too small and once Renira was born they had simply had to find a house and garden. Besides, it was countrified in Ponders Heath – they thought it good for the kids, and they were not too far from Reigate where they could shop if they didn’t find what they wanted here, but all kinds of new big stores and supermarkets were opening up in The Heath as they called it.

Brighton appealed only to Nira’s love of culture, art and beauty. There were good concerts, art exhibitions, and the Theatre Royal. She enjoyed all three. It was a part of her which had never really found response in the man she had married. They could get together – and did – in all kinds of other ways, but Des never wanted to stroll through the Lanes and look for treasures, or go to concerts or galleries. He only took her to the Theatre Royal to see the amusing shows. He didn’t really like serious things. Because she was so much in love with him, and his influence over her was considerable, she did as he wished, and shrugged off the sad fact that her idol was fundamentally a selfish man. She loved him. It didn’t matter that she was really much better educated than he. He was first and foremost a businessman. Because he was a gay companion and good lover when he was at home, she had so far felt he was all she needed.

They had had another important reason for wanting to leave Brighton – Des’s mother. She lived in one of those attractive Regency squares near Black Rock. Since her husband, a chartered accountant, had died, she had devoted herself to charitable pursuits. She was a dedicated do-gooder. She spent most of her spare time helping the helpless, attending committee-meetings, opening bazaars and helping the Church. She had been left enough money to live in comfort. Although she loved her only son, she openly disapproved because he was not a churchgoer, and Nira had admitted that neither was she.

The only time the young couple entered a church these days was to attend a wedding, a christening or a funeral. While they lived in Brighton, Mrs. Curtis was too often on their backs, and had a genius for upsetting Des and making him irritable. Nira quite liked her mother-in-law but was relieved when Des decided to move to their present home in The Heath. Fortunately Nira was placid and tolerant enough to avoid falling out with her mother-in-law, but the one real point of contact between them now was the children. Gandy adored them. She was much better with them than she had been with her own son. Neither Nira nor Des could forget that they owed a lot to Gandy. She paid for Jonathan’s and Renira’s private school education, bought quite a lot of their clothes, and occasionally financed a special holiday for the whole family.

It was Nira who coaxed Des into going to see Mrs. Curtis more often than he would have done without her influence. Sometimes she accused him of lacking gratitude and affection for his mother. But it was not her business, as she often told herself, and she had to admit that the rather smug little white-haired woman, now in her sixty-seventh year, could be very irritating. However, they had all been better friends since they put a few miles between them.

Des was successful in his business life but one had to have more salary than he could provide to run an establishment like this one in The Heath. It was a seven-roomed house with a small garden. They could only just afford Susan (Mrs. Curtis helped them to pay her wages). And whatever Des said or however much he clashed with his mother, he couldn’t deny that the rather gay and free life they were leading now, they owed to her generosity.

Susan was Nira’s greatest help and joy. Not only was she the baby-watcher, but dealt with all their washing, ironing and mending. Nira had had to do it herself in the old Brighton days. What a difference the allowance from Gandy had made! There remained the cooking. But Nira rather liked her kitchen, and trying out new dishes, and she watched the television chefs avidly. She shared the housework with Mrs. Tulk, a plump, cheerful daily who came three mornings a week to clean. Everything was organised. For the moment, Nira felt that she was so lucky – she feared something must go wrong.

THEY RAN INTO Rob Bessiford as they walked into the golf club.

“Hi!” Des said cheerfully to the older man and grinned the schoolboy grin which Bessiford never felt was quite in character with the moustache, or the pseudo-American slang. Being essentially English and rather conventional, Rob returned with a more ordinary “Hello!” Then turning to Nira, he added, “And good morning to you, Nira. You’re looking as fresh as the Spring morning, if I may say so.”

“You may say so,” said Nira happily. “I feel rather Springlike. It’s quite warm. I shall shed my pullover any moment now.”

“Don’t forget you’re my guests tonight.”

Nira put the tips of her fingers against her lips.

“Oh, of course, it’s your birthday. Many happy returns, dear Rob.”

“Let’s skip that,” he smiled, “I’m only using the anniversary as an excuse to throw a party.”

“Well, you can be sure we won’t forget to come.”

“And if I may add,” put in Desmond, “you don’t look a day over eighty, Rob!”

They all laughed. That sort of quip was typical of Des. It did in fact suddenly annoy Nira. She knew that Des meant to be just jolly, but she thought it rather a tactless joke. After all Rob was pretty well the oldest of them all in their circle.

“I feel eighty sometimes, my dear Desmond,” he said. He was the one person who never shortened the name to Des. Some of Nira’s friends thought Rob a bit on the staid and sober side. Des jeered and called Rob a flag-raiser, the type to get up and stand smartly to attention when The Queen was played; to do the right thing on all occasions; unfailingly courteous. The sort of chap Des wouldn’t tell a dirty story to in front of the girls. He was interesting, well-informed and friendly to all. Worthy, of course. Nobody could possibly dislike Rob.

“I rather enjoy his old-fashioned manners,” Nira had said on one occasion when she had heard Rob being criticised. “It’s refreshing.”

Des had qualified this by saying, “So are you at times. I don’t know why you married a coarse brute like myself.”

She had denied fiercely that he was either coarse or brutal. He was, she said, just – a devil at times. But she liked that. She adored him. Everyone had their little ways. Take Cricket Halling, who was tiny and looked fragile, but was never ill. She had huge limpid blue eyes and a silver-bell voice. That spurious air of innocence and childish laugh seemed to fascinate the men. But she was far from what she appeared to be. Nira had heard her tell a story in front of the boys which made her blush. Cricket prided herself on being with it, and frank about intimate subjects. Nobody could dislike her. She was as affectionate and cuddle-some as a kitten. There seemed to be no real malice in Cricket, but somehow Nira didn’t trust her. She made her feel that although they were the same age, she, Nira, was a good deal older.

Nira had grown up in a rather dull conventional home – the kind that seemed to be rapidly disappearing. Undoubtedly it had left a mark on her. She had a reserved, dignified side, but fundamentally she was warm, impulsive and passionate. Her father had been a Regular Army Officer, killed in the last year of the War. A fine soldier, but not as strong a character as Nira’s mother. The most important legacy he had left . . .