Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  The afternoon flew, and it was almost six by the time she got home. She had forgotten the troublesome tooth, and also her morning visitor by then, and Libby made no reminder of the little episode when she told Miranda there was a salad and some home-cooked pressed beef and a cherry pie ready for her whenever they were required.

  After Libby had gone down to her own flat Miranda curled up on the wide settee to listen to her new records. She was not in the least lonely now, or forlorn at the thought of spending the evening in her own company. She was going to wash her hair, have a leisurely and luxurious soak and do her nails, then she was going to wait up for Jason, even if it was into the small hours before he returned. However, it was only a few minutes after ten, she was scarcely out of the bath and just completing a rather elaborate packaging in black and gilt paper of the pre­sent, when she heard the dull metallic sound of the garage door. She sped down the hallway to greet him, the chiffon folds of the midnight blue negligee floating out behind her.

  There was a blustery wind rising, with flurries of rain on its wings, and he brought the cool damp of it in with him, on the soft smooth stuff of his jacket and on his cheek as she went into his arms.

  'Warm and wanton—you'll get your death!' he exclaimed, bussing her generously. 'Missed me as much as all that?'

  'Shouldn't I?' She didn't wait for an answer to that and said happily: 'I'm glad you're not terribly late after all.'

  He shot the bolts on the rear door. 'Our man was feeling a bit travel-weary, so the evening was cut to essential discussions. Had a good day?'

  'Mm, super. I went shopping and bought you two gigantic presents—expense no object.' She rushed ahead of him into the lounge and thrust the two packages into his hands.

  'It isn't my birthday, is it?'

  'No—do you want anything to eat?'

  'No, thanks.' He turned the black and gilt packages over in his hands, then sat down to open them.

  'Shall I make you some coffee?'

  He shook his head.

  'A drink?' She hovered.

  'No, thanks.'

  'No?' She perched on the arm and watched him sniff the spicy tang of the toiletries. He glanced up, one brow quirked.

  'Thank you—where's the guarantee?'

  'What guarantee?'

  'Aren't these the kind that guarantee to make a man utterly irresistible to all women? Will I cause havoc on the under­ground?'

  'You rarely use the underground,' she said dryly.

  He sat up straight. 'I must try them straight away. This minute.'

  'In that case, as there's nothing I can get you…' Pretending indifference, she uncurled and stood up, knowing his mood and that his hand would close like a whiplash round her wrist, challenging her to escape.

  It was all part of the game and the exhilaration of the desire he had taught her to kindle. His mouth curved as without scruple for his superior male strength he pulled her off balance and dragged her down into his arms.

  His eyes sparkled with devilry. 'Maybe I said there was nothing you could get me—but I didn't say there was nothing you could give me.'

  'Oh… I must have got the wrong impression.'

  'That's your story… see it doesn't happen again.'

  The flacon of bath oil rolled down on to the carpet and lay there, unheeded except for a small breathless exclamation from Miranda, also unheeded.

  She felt the velvet bandeau slide from her head under the domination of his hands. His fingers tangled in the silky tresses as his mouth explored the warm white skin of her throat.

  'You smell of honey and nectar and warm girl,' he said huskily.

  'I'm made of warm girl…' Dormant senses were waking to the clamour he rarely failed to evoke in her now and her arms tightened round the lean hard contours of his shoulders, com­municating all the love she wanted to give. A sigh shuddered through him as he curved the pliant body more closely, his fingers raking the soft, newly washed hair until it lay in a dis­ordered cloud over his arm. For a moment he gazed down at her, satisfaction darkening the grey gaze, and murmured thickly: 'I like making you look like an abandoned woman.'

  'I feel like an abandoned woman…'

  There was no response, except the kiss that crushed her own soft responsive sigh against his mouth.

  Much later she lay in a pleasant state of semi-wakefulness, musing on the day that was now over, and the muted chimes of the hall clock played the hour of midnight, bringing her to full wakefulness. Suddenly she remembered, and stirred.

  'Jason, are you still awake?'

  'I wasn't, but I am now,' he murmured sleepily.

  'I've just remembered—'

  'True to form!' He rolled over and threw one arm across her, sighing. 'I wish you'd lose your memory at night. Is it vital?'

  'No, at least it might be.' She twined her fingers in his. 'A woman called this morning—someone you know, darling. A Mrs. Lindsterne—Lissa. She—'

  Jason's fingers had closed so sharply on hers she stopped.

  'What did she want?' he demanded.

  'To wish us happiness, and—' Miranda's shoulders moved in the semblance of a shrug—'she and her husband had been on holiday. She's invited us to spend the week-end after next with them. I said—Jason! What's the matter? You're hurting my wrist.'

  He turned away, yanking viciously at the bedclothes. 'You didn't accept, did you?'

  'Well, yes…' Puzzled, she raised herself on one arm to stare down at the dark outline of his head. 'At least I said we'd go if you were free.'

  We're not,' he snapped, 'and in future ask me before you accept invitations from people you've never met.'

  'But you do know them, don't you?' More puzzled than ever, she bit her lip. 'You were at Winchester with him, or so she said. Why are you angry?'

  'I'm not angry.'

  'I'm sorry.' Miranda sank back on the pillow. 'I thought she…'

  'Oh, for God's sake, let's get to sleep. We'll have the inquest in the morning.' Savagely he pulled the sheet over his head and presented a hunched, uncompromisingly unfriendly back that defied the most placating of soft little arms to steal timidly across it.

  Miranda knew Jason's moods too well by now to persist, and her mouth trembled as she hunched forlornly into a small lonely huddle at her own side of the bed. What on earth had she said? Or done? How was she to know he didn't like the Lindsternes? She'd taken Lissa Lindsterne on trust; what else could she have done?

  Sleep retreated farther and farther away as she tried to work out why Jason was so angry, and presently the nagging ache concentrated itself in the most vulnerable spot, the troublesome tooth. She spent a sleepless night with toothache, not daring to get up and seek aspirins lest she disturbed Jason and incurred his further wrath. In the morning she was wan and melancholy, and Jason's dark countenance did not look encouraging.

  His responses were terse and unfeeling at breakfast, and finally she gave up the pretence of pretending that nothing had happened and lapsed into miserable silence. It was not until he poured his second cup of coffee that he looked directly at her and said flatly: 'I'll cancel that invitation; you can forget it.'

  'Whatever you want,' she said wearily. 'I don't care whether we go or not.'

  For the first time he noticed the plate pushed aside unused. 'You haven't eaten anything,' he said sharply.

  'I'm not hungry.' She evaded his eyes.

  His brows drew together. 'Did you make that appointment, by the way?'

  'No.'

  His mouth tightened in a grimace of exasperation. 'Scared, I suppose. Listen, it's no use putting it off. I'll arrange for you to see my own man, today if possible. He's excellent, so you need have no qualms.'

  'Yes, but not today—I'm going to the hairdresser,' she pro­tested.

  'Tomorrow, then.'

  'I'm meeting Susan for lunch—I haven't seen her for ages.'

  'For at least two weeks!' He gulped the remainder of his coffee and glanced at his watch. 'Which will bring us to the week-en
d. Oh no, Miranda, we're not having best part of another week of broken nights through toothache. It's so sense­less to put up with pain which can be remedied.' He stood up. 'I'll ring you from the office at ten this morning and let you know when he can fit you in, then you'll have to juggle your other appointments to suit.'

  The kiss he dropped on her cheek was a very brusque token as he told her he would be home early that evening. 'No joy,' she whispered to herself as he hurried out, leaving her to ponder anew on the cause of his irateness and hope that by the evening he might have relented.

  But it proved a vain hope. Miss Mayo made the promised phone call to inform her that her dental appointment was fixed for the following afternoon at three-fifteen, and Jason landed home with a briefcase full of work, with which he disappeared into the study immediately after the evening meal.

  He was a little more amiable, she was forced to admit, but the atmosphere of strain was still discernible and when he joined her shortly after nine he seemed disinclined for idle talk, and still less inclined to indulge in loveplay.

  He did not mention the fateful invitation and she was still too unsure of him to raise the matter herself. Obviously some­thing about the Lindsternes bothered him, or why should the mention of them destroy so quickly and utterly what had been a blissful interlude? She remembered the odd little tremors of unease as she went to greet her visitor, and that odd exchange of glances between Libby and the attractive newcomer. Imag­ination? Or a kind of premonition…?

  Of course it was imagination, she reasoned with herself as she got ready to meet Susan the following day. And it was ridiculous to imagine that there was a new barrier of restraint between herself and Jason… It was simply that he was irri­table with overwork; he lived at too high a pressure. She must try to be patient and understanding. All the same, he might have been a little more patient and understanding over Lissa Lindsterne's innocent invitation. Full circle again! Deter­minedly she forced the circle of worry to break and began to run as she saw Susan peeping from the cafe entrance where they'd arranged to rendezvous.

  It was the first time she'd been alone with Susan for a leisurely chat since her marriage and there seemed to be so many things she wanted to ask about her old office-mates.

  'Everyone's asking after you,' Susan said, 'especially Rena Harvey—she's got a nerve!'

  Miranda nodded. Her own memories of Rena were not exactly affable. 'Who's she lampooning now?' she asked.

  'You may well ask.' Susan took a deep breath, but forbore to mention that it was Miranda herself who was still the cause of a great deal of speculation concerning her marriage to J.S., and Rena, in that coarse, blasé way of hers, had boldly given her estimate of how long the marriage would last. Two years at the most; more likely one, was her verdict, before J.S. wearied and sought more exciting diversions. But Susan had now suffered first-hand experience of Rena's particular attention and she was smarting with rage. She was also feeling a trifle guilty.

  In sympathetic silence Miranda listened to the story of Rena's inquisitive sallies and insinuations regarding Susan and Ray. 'I told her to mind her own business,' she said furiously. 'As it happens, we don't, not yet, but it's no business of hers if we did. But I'm sure half the department believes that Ray and I have shacked up. Actually he wants us to get engaged. He's terribly serious, wants to save up the deposit for our own house—and you know what sort of money that takes. And he wants me to give up my job once we're married. But I'm not sure if I want to give up working. I like having my own money—I don't believe in a woman being completely dependent on her husband for every penny—it's Victorian.'

  Miranda nodded. She knew that longing for independence. 'I should stall for a while if you're not sure,' she advised. 'But be honest with Ray. Tell him what you've told me.'

  'Oh, I shall! But two years… I might meet somebody else.'

  'Well, better before marriage than after. That was the orig­inal idea of engagements. A sort of testing time to get to know one another more closely.'

  Susan nodded, and for a little while the two girls were silent.

  giving their attention to their lunch while they pondered. Susan finished her mushroom omelette first and looked up.

  'I seem to have hogged the conversation.' Her eyes sparkled. 'How are you? Dare I ask what it's like living on the same plane as the great J.S.?'

  'If I live long enough I may get used to it.' Miranda's eyes took on a misted faraway light as she realized she could never formulate the answer to Susan's question. 'But he's just insisted I go to the dentist and made the appointment himself to make sure I do,' she said ruefully. 'It's this afternoon, actually, but I've plenty of time, so we can take our time over lunch.'

  'Poor you,' Susan shuddered. 'But you might have known he'd be the managing type. Are you truly happy?' she asked in a somewhat different tone.

  'I think so,' Miranda said slowly. 'If I say that I couldn't visualize myself ever wanting any other man than Jason, would that give you the answer?'

  Susan toyed with a knife, trying to balance it on its edge. When she set it straight and looked up there was a hint of guilt in her eyes and a certain awkwardness in her manner. 'I—I don't quite know how to say this,' she began slowly, 'but I must. I should never have repeated those things I told you that night before your wedding. But at the time I felt I had to tell you, warn you, in case it was true, because if afterwards…'

  Miranda had gone white. 'What do you mean, after­wards?'

  'Well, you could have been dreadfully unhappy and it would have been my fault. Because I thought it was true,' Susan hur­ried on, as though anxious to get it explained and over. 'Every­body knows that Rena and Money Travers are like that—' she held up two crossed fingers '—and he's very friendly with Mr. Ambrose, who was very friendly with Mr. Frears before he was moved to Rome. And Mr. Frears was—'

  'Was very friendly with Jason until they both got involved with Catrina Kay. I know,' Miranda finished for her, 'but actu­ally it was arranged for Mr. Frears to be transferred to Rome before it happened. He's coming back next month and we're having him to dinner one evening.'

  'So Jason does talk about things to you?'

  'Most things,' Miranda said after a brief hesitation. It was true; he did often tell her about his work and his colleagues, but it wouldn't be entirely true to say he confided in her about his past affairs. He had, however, remarked sardonically one day that he supposed she'd heard all about the Catrina Kay business, then added that the grapevine, though very efficient, wasn't one hundred per cent accurate. She said aloud: 'Jason would never allow personal affairs to influence his business actions. He did feel a bit annoyed about Mike at the time, but it had nothing to do with his transfer to Italy.' She hesitated. 'What are you trying to tell me, Sue?'

  'Just that I'm sorry. It could have ruined everything for you, and I'm sure it was all exaggerated gossip. You see, Rena said you were just an innocent going in with your eyes shut, and somebody ought to give you a hint about the man you were going to marry.'

  'Yes,' Miranda's lips set as she remembered the anguish of that long night, 'but I doubt if Rena knows the meaning of the word "trust". I chose to trust him, because I don't believe he would have given up his freedom if he'd wanted to go on from affair to affair. It didn't add up.'

  'Oh, I agree!' Susan seemed relieved, for she laughed. 'I reckon old Rena was peeved because she wasn't the first to get to know. I told her off, you know, and she had the nerve to say there was no smoke without fire where a man like J.S. was concerned.'

  Miranda took a gulp of her coffee and wished she could summon enough courage to ask Susan to change the subject. Part of her desperately wanted to hear whatever it was her friend was about to impart, the other self was more craven, dreading what it might hear. She said in a small choked voice: 'Really!' and tried to look blasé.

  'Yes.' Susan rounded her eyes, as though to express her own fervent disapproval. 'But I insisted that she told me because I felt it was time to see
if there were any actual facts behind dramatic hints she's always throwing out.' Susan took a deep breath and leaned forward. 'Apparently it started the night she went to the Lyric with a friend to see—I forget what she said the show was called, but it was the week when J.S. came back from Stockholm. Anyway, during the interval she and her friend went for a drink and who should they see but—'

  'No!'

  Miranda spoke so sharply that Susan jerked back.

  'What's the matter?'

  'Nothing. But I don't think I want to hear any more of Rena Harvey's tales,' Miranda said firmly. 'I don't care who she saw my husband with at the theatre, and I don't want to discuss it any more. It's all over.'

  'Yes, I know,' Susan protested, 'but I think you should know, just to straighten things out. That's why I—'

  'There's nothing to straighten out. What Jason did before our marriage doesn't concern me, any more than my personal affairs before I met him. Please forget it.'

  In silence Susan stared back. Miranda's face had lost some of its colour and her mouth was taut. Only her eyes betrayed the haunted shadows. Susan bit her lip. 'I—I'm sorry. I only—' She shook her head and gave an exclamation as her dinner napkin slipped to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and straightened to embarrassed silence. 'I—I think I'll have another cup of coffee,' she said at last.

  Miranda reached for her cup and refilled it, her movements appearing more calm than her inward emotions warranted. 'When are you going on holiday?' she asked.

  'In a fortnight's time.' Susan did not sound at all enthusiastic at the prospect and there was another awkward silence. Sud­denly she looked appealingly at Miranda. 'Have you forgiven me?' she asked unhappily.