by Celia Scott
Damon handed her a glass of water with every appearance of solicitude.
'If you feel it's necessary to include it in the contract, I've no objection,' he said, 'but I assure you you're quite safe.'
Philippa winced from this insult, and considered flinging the water into his set face, but at that moment the waiter arrived with the check, and by the time he had left Damon was on his feet, all affability again, and somehow she was being helped into her raincoat and was standing outside in the light spring drizzle, her future husband towering beside her.
'Do you have your car, Philippa?' he asked.
'Yes. I have to shop for this evening, so I need the car.'
'Of course. I can't offer you a lift, then.'
'No, thank you.' She glared at him, his cruel jibe still rankling. When he leaned down and kissed her quickly on the cheek she nearly fell over with surprise.
'Till tomorrow, then. Don't lose your ring in the flour bin!' His quick grin transformed him from an immaculate business man into a mischievous small boy. He left Philippa standing motionless on the pavement, with passersby milling around her, looking curiously at the tall girl who mumbled to herself, 'I'm mad… quite mad, to be doing this!'
She took Damon's ring off when she arrived at the maisonette where she was to work that evening and she decided to leave it in its leather box when she got home later that night. She didn't relish any more scenes with Martha, and one look at that gorgeous sapphire would provoke one, she knew. But Martha was out when Philippa got home. There was a scrawled note pinned to her bedspread.
'Please wake me 10 a.m. Playing tennis Eric 11 a.m. Will be home late tonight. Don't wait up. Martha.' It seemed her kid sister had forgotten the request for help for the dinner party but that was nothing new.
Philippa doubted she could do anything but wait up for Martha, since she had so much to think about, but the moment her head touched the pillow she went out like a light and didn't even hear her sister come in.
She woke early on Saturday and crept out of the apartment without waking Martha, merely leaving the alarm clock set for ten o'clock close to the sleeping girl, with a note propped against it saying she'd gone shopping. She remembered she had told Martha she would be shopping for her trousseau this morning, so she headed for a boutique in Richmond that she liked, and spent a pleasant hour buying herself some clothes. She would need things for Crete, she reasoned. She bought a full skirt of bright mauve and purple cotton, not her usual style at all, and a matching mauve silk shirt. To go with this she purchased some flat sandals, strips of purple leather that set off her well-shaped feet. She also splurged on a pair of white linen slacks to go with an emerald and white striped cotton blouse she couldn't resist. Her final extravagance that morning was a white one-piece swimsuit that she had to admit would look stunning once she had a tan.
She mused about these purchases over coffee and wondered why she hadn't bought her usual navy or beige skirt for summer. It must be the ring, she thought, it doesn't look as good with dull colours, and that influenced me.
The rest of the day was a scramble. She bought a ready-cooked ham, something she'd never done before, and masses of vegetables for salad. Arriving home, she found Martha's usual shambles—her bed unmade, a dirty coffee cup and plate on the kitchen table, clothes everywhere. This gave Philippa a slight sense of satisfaction, since she was feeling unreasonably guilty about the ham, and she felt cleaning up this mess absolved her a little.
She dashed around and put potatoes on to boil for potato salad, and garnished the despised ham to dress it up a bit. As a sop to Martha, or to her own conscience, she made an elaborate dessert—a Bavarian cream, rich with out-of-season strawberries and lashings of whipped cream. By the time she had made the salad and set the table—extending it with boards covered with a double sheet, an invention of her own she had devised for parties—it was six-thirty, and still no sign of Martha.
Philippa had just got out of a hurried bath, pulled on her new mauve skirt and matching blouse and sandals, when the doorbell rang and Martha's first guests arrived. Philippa greeted them with her hair still damp, and streaming in honey-coloured disarray.
It was a young couple she hadn't met before. She gave them some wine and chatted until more people arrived, then she left them to entertain themselves while she combed her hair into its ponytail and wondered if she should phone the police about Martha. She was getting worried.
At seven-thirty the hostess arrived, apologetic and giggly. She was dressed in brief tennis shorts under her coat, and looked tousled and pretty. Accompanying her was a young man, also in tennis clothes. He was startlingly good-looking, and Philippa guessed that this was the fabulous Eric. He never took his infatuated gaze from Martha's petite figure.
'Hi, everybody! Sorry to be late,' Martha called out, then gave Philippa's new clothes a hard stare. 'What have you got on Tusker?'
'Part of my trousseau. Don't you like it?' said Philippa, suddenly selfconscious.
'Oh, the skirt and top are fine. I'm just not sure they're right for you.' Martha smiled sweetly, 'I'll just go and change. Dinner won't spoil, will it?'
'Unless the ham grows legs and walks away from the table it can wait for hours.'
'Ham?' In an undertone Martha muttered. 'I thought we were having lasagne?'
'And I thought I was having help!' replied her sister grimly. She raised her voice. 'Before you leave us, Martha, aren't you going to introduce your young man?' She was aware of the hapless Eric hovering unhappily.
'Lord! I'm such a scatterbrain,' Martha twittered, a pale ghost of her mother. 'Everybody… this is Eric. Eric, this is everybody,' and with a gay laugh she disappeared into the bedroom.
Philippa introduced the dazed Eric individually to her sister's guests and then went into the bedroom herself. She had just remembered her engagement ring. It might be cowardly, but this seemed a good time for Martha to see it. With this crowd around she wasn't likely to make a fuss, and besides, she wanted a private word with Martha before they joined the party. She had time to slip the ring on to her finger before Martha came out of the bathroom and started throwing clothes around in a frenzy of choosing which dress to wear.
'Martha, where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick!'
'Sorry, Tusker, we went to the dearest little place for tea, and I just forgot the time.'
'You could have phoned.'
'I could have, but I didn't!' Martha yanked a shocking pink nylon dress over her head and wriggled her way into it. 'Do me up, Philippa, will you?' Her eyes fell on Philippa's left hand. 'Where did you get that… that rock?'
Philippa didn't like the greedy expression that filled the younger girl's brown eyes.
'It's my engagement ring. Mr Ever… Damon gave it to me yesterday. It's nice, isn't it?' she added placatingly, noticing Martha's downturned mouth.
'Nice? It's gorgeous! How much did it cost?'
'I haven't the faintest idea,' said Philippa with distaste, 'and I've no intention of asking. Come on, Martha, we're neglecting the guests.' And she led the way back to the living room.
Dinner passed without incident. Martha seemed subdued, but there were enough people around to take the focus of attention away from her sulky silence.
Philippa tried to make conversation with the besotted Eric, but it was hopeless. Privately she thought him a dreary young man, handsome or not, and she suspected Martha would tire of this inane devotion before too long.
She had just served the dessert to admiring murmurs, even Martha rousing herself from the sulks enough to say, 'Ooh!, Tusker, Bavarian cream… lovely!' when the doorbell rang. Philippa laid aside her serving spoon and wondered if the sudden pounding of her heart was visible through the thin silk of her new blouse.
'Who on earth can that be?' queried Martha.
'It's Damon. I forgot to tell you, he's coming for coffee,' answered Philippa, amazed that her voice sounded quite normal.
'Who's Damon?' asked a guest.
'My sister's beau,' shrilled Martha. 'I haven't met him yet. Goodness knows what he's like.'
'Well, now you're going to find out,' said Philippa, going to the door. And you'd better mind your manners, little sister, she thought. I don't think Damon Everett takes kindly to bad behaviour.
She opened the door. It was always a shock when she saw him again to realise just how tall and broad he was. She found his solid frame reassuring. It was the first time she had seen him in casual clothes. The beige suede jacket and whipcord slacks made him look younger, and the maroon and beige checked shirt and silk ascot tied casually round his muscular throat gave him a jaunty air. He carried an enormous bunch of violets which he handed to Philippa. They smelled of spring.
She was so confused by this unexpected gift that she stood holding the flowers, her attractive nose buried in their fresh blossoms for a full minute before she thanked him for them. Then, pulling herself together, she said:
'These are lovely, Damon. But you really shouldn't have bothered. I don't expect you to bring me things, you know.'
He took this remark in his stride.
'Isn't it usual for the prospective bridegroom to bring his bride flowers?' The sound of his voice, smooth as liquid honey, sent a shiver of pleasure right through her body. She was so surprised by her reaction that she became even cooler.
'I wouldn't know, never having been a bride before. Besides, I hardly think these customs apply to us.' She faltered under his black look. 'I mean, our situation isn't particularly… romantic. You mustn't feel I expect you to do romantic things, like bringing me flowers.'
'Throw the damn things away if they cause you so much embarrassment,' he said savagely. 'I thought you'd enjoy them. Most normal women would.'
There was an awkward pause, which Philippa filled by burying her nose in the violet again, while Damon glared angrily over her head. After a few moments of silence he sighed and said:
'Why don't I go out and come in again, and we can start all over.' This broke the tension between them, and in spite of herself she giggled.
'There's no need. They must think it peculiar that we're spending so long in the hall. You'd better come in now.'
'They probably think we're billing and cooing like any engaged couple,' he said, 'so an extra minute won't confuse them. You're looking very nice, Philippa,' he went on, 'or will my paying you a compliment throw you into another rage? Like my gesture with the flowers.'
She coloured. 'Of course it won't. This is a new outfit,' she added unnecessarily.
'It's very attractive,' he assured her. 'I'm glad to see you've dropped the habitual mourning.'
'Mourning?'
'All those black and navy things you usually wear—very drab. This is a great improvement. I was going to mention it, but you've saved me the trouble.'
He was always doing this, Philippa thought crossly—behaving nicely, then spoiling it with a cutting remark. She never knew what to expect with this man.
'I'll go out and burn my entire wardrobe after coffee,' she said bitterly, 'then you won't have anything to complain about.'
Damon smiled goodnaturedly. 'Don't count on it. Are we having our coffee here in the hall?'
'Hardly,' she said with all the hauteur she could muster. 'Now, come in and meet my sister and her friends.' She led the way into the dining room.
A hush fell over the group when Damon entered, and Philippa was aware that it was not only his size which caused this, but the natural aura of authority he possessed. Martha's friends eyed him with respect.
Martha sat at the head of the table, a spoonful of whipped cream half way to her mouth. Her dark eyes widened as she took in the forceful face and piercing blue eyes of her sister's future husband, and she put her spoon, the cream untasted, back on her plate.
'Damon, this is my baby sister Martha,' said Philippa.
He approached the staring girl with a smile, and Philippa noticed that he had very nice teeth, white and even.
'I'm delighted to meet you, Martha. I hope we'll become good friends.' He enveloped her tiny hand in his powerful one. Still Martha did not say a word. Philippa broke the silence.
'Why don't you introduce Damon to your friends, Martha, while I put these in water?' She held up the violets and hurried to the kitchen, praying that Martha wouldn't make a scene. Besides, she didn't want to be absent too long. She might have to deflect the conversation, if Martha started making references to Philippa's fib of the previous night.
Jamming the violets into a large tumbler, she scurried back to the party. Damon was sitting at the table now, and the young people were laughing at something he'd said. Even Martha was smiling. Philippa heaved a sigh of relief. So far so good, she thought; it might be all right after all.
'Everybody ready for coffee?' she asked with forced gaiety to mask the tension she was feeling, and proceeded to pour from the tray on the sideboard. One of the young men helped by passing cups around the table. Heaven forbid Martha should do more than play the gracious hostess at her own party!
'I congratulate you, Tusker,' her young sister's voice cut through the chatter and she turned to Damon. 'I think it's so clever of Tusker to have found someone her own size. Usually she towers over people.'
Damon looked puzzled.
'I don't understand. Who… or what… is Tusker?' he asked.
'Didn't Phil tell you her nickname? She's always called Tusker at home. Mummy named her that.'
'Why?'
'Because she's so big, of course. "Tusker" means she's like an elephant.'
Damon's honey-smooth voice became dangerously level. 'I fear your mother's knowledge of natural history was deficient,' he said. 'Elephants have wrinkled grey hides and lumber around like oversized battleships. Your sister is as graceful as a gazelle, and I've never heard of an elephant with skin like silk and beautiful golden eyes.'
Philippa stared at him in astonishment. She was not aware that he had ever noticed her eyes. The look Martha gave him was frankly hostile.
'But she is huge,' she said unpleasantly, 'you must admit that.'
'I admit no such thing. Your sister is tall—a very different thing from being "huge".'
'Well, I'm so small, and Mummy was too, and…'
'It's hardly Philippa's fault she was brought up with midgets,' Damon countered equably.
Martha's jaw dropped, and Philippa waited with trepidation to see what that would provoke. Mercifully one of the other girls asked her when the wedding day was to be, and further discussion about Philippa's nickname was averted.
'I… I'm not sure,' Philippa answered her. 'In about two weeks, I think.'
'Two weeks to the day,' Damon broke in. 'We leave for Athens after the ceremony. I was going to tell you later,' he added to Philippa.
'Thanks. I might want to wash my hair,' she replied bitterly. This wedding day was not remotely like her dreams. But this was a business arrangement, she told herself, and had nothing at all to do with the romantic world of weddings these young people were talking of.
This reminded her again of her boast to Martha about being 'madly in love', and she sent out a silent prayer that nothing would be said. She would die with embarrassment if it was mentioned in front of Damon. Meanwhile the chat about the coming wedding went on. The idea of a honeymoon in Crete seemed to cause quite a stir.
'It's a working honeymoon,' Damon explained. 'I have to work while we're there.'
'I'm surprised you don't have a conscience about all your projects,' Martha said nastily, and Philippa's heart sank. It was apparent Martha had decided she disliked Damon and was out to bait him. However, her victim seemed quite undisturbed. He smiled at his future sister-in-law.
'A conscience? Why?'
'Building monstrous luxury hotels all over the place, and spoiling the countryside.'
'It's obvious you don't understand the purpose of my work at all.' He turned to Philippa. 'Does she, Pippa?' The surprise of hearing herself addressed so intimately by that velvety voice
caused her to stutter like an idiot.
'N-n… no, I… I…' Damn him, she thought, to hear him one would think he cared for me! His eyes were resting on her now with a gentle, amused look. His eyes are such a dark blue, she thought. Suddenly aware that she had been looking intently into those dark-fringed eyes for quite some time, she looked away in confusion. He was the most unsettling man she had ever met, and she felt irrationally annoyed with him for putting on such a good show in front of Martha and her friends.
He continued talking to Martha. 'I do more than just finance the building of my hotels,' he explained. 'I act as a liaison between the architect and the builders. I make it my business to see that everyone connected with the running of the hotel is satisfied with their working conditions. And I have a particular concern for the local people. If you study our track record I think you'll find that we've not spoiled any of the towns or villages. On the contrary, we've provided work for the locals, and contributed to the community as a whole.'
'So you say. I still think you're a… a sort of parasite… destroying everything.' Martha's mouth was curving downward in that discontented droop Philippa had come to dread. 'I think people like you should be stopped by law!'
'Well, I wouldn't suggest that to the people of Chania, you wouldn't be very popular,' he replied. 'They're staking a lot on their new hotel.'
Martha's new boy-friend now asked a question.
'How are you going to manage with the language? If you use local people it's not likely they'll speak English, is it?'
'Most unlikely,' Damon agreed, turning his broad shoulder on Martha's thundery face. 'Fortunately I speak fluent Greek. I learnt it from my mother.'
'From your mother? Are you half Greek, then?' The question blurted out of Philippa before she had time to think. Martha caught the slip in a flash.
'You mean you didn't know, Tusker? Your own fiancé? For heaven's sake!'
'I… er… forgot,' her older sister said lamely. Her cheeks flaming, she cursed herself for her stupidity.