Dark Obsession

by Valerie Marsh

  Unsurprised, Sacha said, 'I rather thought as much.' Then went on briskly, 'Well that accounts for your side of it quite satisfactorily. What's the reason for this delightful and unexpected impulsiveness on his part?' Her eyes returned to Fran's face and dwelt for a moment on the faint marks of abrasion round her mouth. 'Apart from the obvious, of course.'

  Flushing slightly, Fran asked, 'Is it as obvious as all that?'

  'It looks as though he got a little… carried away.'

  'A little,' Fran affirmed briefly.

  Sacha slanted her a sideways glance. 'Does this sudden decision to wed have any particular significance?'

  'No,' Fran said, her flush deepening. 'But it's hardly likely that it would have in this day and age.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' Sacha returned vaguely. 'There might be one or two left with an old-fashioned quirk of conscience when it comes to virgins, but if it isn't that…' Her voice trailed off musingly, then she said, 'Is it just the obvious?'

  'I don't know.'

  For a moment Fran was tempted to tell her about Julia, but the fear that Sacha's opinion might confirm her own prevented her, and she shrugged and said, 'But he knows he doesn't need to marry me for that.'

  Her eyes widening, Sacha drawled, 'Then you're just going to have to wait to find out what his motives are, sweetie.'

  Which was hardly comforting, Fran reflected later. Grant had told her that he wanted her and admitted he couldn't keep her out of his mind, but he hadn't told her he loved her and she suspected the omission was deliberate.

  He hadn't said what time he would ring her and she was afraid to go for a shower when she got in from work in case she didn't hear the phone over the sound of the running water. She was cooking scrambled egg when it finally went, and abandoning the pan on the draining board she flew to answer it. In response to her breathless, 'Hello?' Grant said, 'I trust you have no other arrangements for a week on Thursday at three o'clock?'

  Feeling suddenly weak, Fran sank down on to the chair beside the phone. She realised that until this moment she hadn't quite believed that they were really going to get married. Clutching the receiver tightly, she gave a shaken laugh. 'I'll just check my appointments book to be certain, but I'm reasonably sure I'm free at that time.'

  'Good,' Grant said, sounding amused. 'Because I'm not waiting until Friday. Break the news to your aunt and uncle if you want to, but ask them to keep quiet about it. If it should happen to be a slack day for news we could find ourselves being pestered by the press. I've got to stay in London to be on hand until they've finished filming this damned play, so we can't have a honeymoon straight away and they could be a nuisance.'

  It was something which hadn't occurred to Fran. She was marrying the Grant she knew of old, the figure in the open-necked shirt and denims or breeches. The handsome, immaculately tailored television personality somehow seemed a different man, unconnected with her. She made a mental note to warn Sacha not to tell anyone, then asked, 'How is the filming going?'

  'It isn't at the moment. We're waiting for it to stop raining and praying it doesn't turn to snow. I'm told the scenery is magnificent but all I've seen from my bedroom so far is a curtain of water.'

  'What's the hotel like?'

  'Gloom and stags' heads and the natives aren't particularly friendly. Not that I blame them. They've probably never come across anything like this crowd before. Film crews are a breed apart anyway, and the cast keep asking the bar for drinks they've never heard of. I'm tolerated because I'm a whisky man and I've got a Scottish grandmother.' His voice altered, the already deep tones lowering. 'I've got a room the size of a barn and a large and very chilly double bed. I should have brought you with me.'

  'Delightful,' Fran said. 'You'd like two of us to freeze.'

  'You wouldn't,' he said, laughing under his breath. He paused, then said reflectively, 'On second thoughts, perhaps it's better saved for effective central heating. I had a bath when I got in and my system still hasn't recovered from the shock of the temperature in there. The Scots are a hardy race.' The amusement back in his tone, he said, 'I'll just think of you instead. An occupation which has its drawbacks, but at least now I can indulge in it in a spirit of anticipation.'

  He held the mouthpiece closer for his last words, and to her surprise, Fran found herself blushing. Before she could think what to reply, he said, 'I've got a queue breathing impatience behind me—there are no such refinements as phones in the bedrooms—so take this number down in case you need it.' As Fran wrote it on the telephone pad, he added, 'If the weather clears we shall be out all day but you can get me after dark. I'll ring you tomorrow anyway. Round about nine, if that's all right.'

  'Right,' she agreed.

  There was a short pause, then Grant said softly, 'Goodbye, darling.'

  She said, 'Goodbye,' and replacing the receiver slowly, stared at it for a moment. When she was with Grant she could believe that what she was doing was somehow predestined, ordained by the fates. Separated by hundreds of miles it was very different. Grant had called her darling, but she hadn't the confidence to use any endearment in return.

  The most ordinary common sense told her they should wait—that she should give Grant time to get rid of that first fierce heat of the physical attraction between them, then they could stand back and view their relationship more calmly.

  But she wasn't going to wait, she knew. Warming up her leathery scrambled egg, she acknowledged that she was allowing herself to be rushed headlong into this marriage because she was afraid that if she gave Grant time he would discover that his feelings for her were based on delusion.

  Because she wasn't Julia. However alike they might be on the surface, Grant was going to find that in character, thought, background, they were completely different. It was a risk, letting him make the discovery too late, but the sexual magnetism was real enough, and instinctively she knew that even if he realised he had made a mistake he would still try to make the marriage work. In time he could come to love her for what she really was. Perhaps not in the way she did, but people seldom loved equally, and it was enough that she would be with him.

  As Sacha observed, she was normally fairly cautious but at lunchtime the next day she went out on a reckless spending spree. For the actual wedding she bought a white, knitted silk suit with a Greek key pattern in lilac round the hem. The price would have made her go faint to even consider it at any other time, but for once she didn't care, and mentally setting aside only enough money to pay up her rent to Sacha, she squandered everything else she possessed.

  By the time she had bought some kid shoes to go with the suit she was already so late that she hadn't got the nerve to go back into work, so she spent the rest of the afternoon in places where she had only window shopped before. Grant was going to have a penniless bride, she reflected, selecting nightdresses and a negligee and some wildly expensive scraps of satin and lace to go beneath the suit. Her credit card probably hadn't been aired so many times before in its life.

  When she got home she put her purchases carefully away, then went through the rest of her clothes deciding which to discard and which to keep. When she had finished she surveyed the garments remaining in her wardrobe ruefully. There wasn't a great deal.

  She went through the things she was giving away once more, but there was nothing really useful. They were young, throw-away fashion clothes, some of them more trendy than becoming, eye-catching, but not in a way Grant would appreciate. He moved in different circles.

  Just how different was brought home to her later when she stood hesitantly in the doorway of his apartment. Feeling like an intruder she advanced slowly into the main room, cringing inwardly as she compared it with Sacha's flat. No wonder he had said, 'Thank God,' when she told him only the poster was hers.

  For a moment she felt oppressed and had the urge to turn tail and slam the door behind her. It would be ridiculous. In a few days she would be living here—it would be her home. She tried to imagine herself vacuuming the dull gold
carpet and fastening the long curtains back with their elegant sashes. She tried but she couldn't. It was all too far removed from everything she was used to. Sacha's slightly grubby clutter seemed comfortingly friendly as she gazed round at the watered silk wallpaper and graceful, antique furniture.

  Attempting to conquer her dismay she went back into the hall and opened another door into what proved to be Grant's bedroom. Grant's and hers, she told herself, more at ease because everything in here was modern from the kingsize bed to the raked pile of the oatmeal carpet. Her eyes scanned round then returned to the bed she would be sharing with him. The prospect brought a clutch of desire, overlaid with nervousness. Which side would she sleep?

  Which side had Julia slept?

  Overwhelmed by a sudden sickness she opened the drawers and doors of the cupboards built into the headboard. They only contained books and notebooks and a couple of folded newspapers with half-finished crosswords. There was nothing feminine in either of them.

  Quickly she went through the rest of the room and sat on the bed a few minutes later feeling the overpowering surge of revulsion fade. There was nothing anywhere. If Julia had ever been in this room, every single sign of her presence had been removed.

  There was bound to be another bedroom though. Returning to the hall she pushed open the next door and heard her own sigh of relief as she saw it had been made into a study. Grant's typewriter sat on a desk near the window, a row of well-used reference books on a shelf beside it.

  It was all very tidy and ordered, and she carefully closed the door again as she went out. There was a bathroom next door, and at the far end of the hall, the large kitchen, expensively fitted out but bare. She could find only the minimum of cooking utensils—no pastry bowl or rolling pin or anything of that nature. A small utility room led off it, and pausing in the doorway, Fran was finally convinced. There was no washing machine. The plumbing was there for one, the red-and-black hoses connected to taps, but the space was empty.

  Julia had never been here. Even if Grant had gone through the apartment and deliberately eradicated every trace of her, he wouldn't go to the length of throwing out a washing machine and Julia wouldn't have lived here without one.

  Such was the strength of Fran's relief that her legs felt weak and she realised she had been rigid with tension from the moment of entering the apartment. She decided to make herself a cup of coffee, but it wasn't until she was sitting with it at the kitchen table that full realisation hit her.

  Julia had never lived here—Grant must have acquired the apartment after she left him—but this wasn't his home. Home was the sandstone house up on the hill, and before long he would want to go back.

  Unreasoning panic filled her but she fought it down. It wouldn't be yet. They would have some time here first, probably not returning until late spring, and surely by then she would have built up her own relationship with Grant and the spectre of Julia would no longer be so threatening?

  The rest of the time before he came back passed too quickly and too slowly by turn. She had written to her aunt and uncle, endorsing secrecy and giving the reason, but in spite of her aunt's known aversion to the telephone she was hardly surprised to receive a call from her the following day.

  She heard the pips with a sense of resignation. They seemed to go endlessly, and she could imagine her aunt at the other end, nerving herself to put the money in. When they finally ceased, the breathless, over-loud voice at the other end said, 'Fran, is that you?'

  'Yes, Aunt Beth,' she said reassuringly. 'It's very brave of you to ring.'

  'Well, I had to! I just couldn't believe what you wrote in your letter! You've never said a word about Mr Mercier before. Your uncle and I had no idea!'

  'We decided rather suddenly,' Fran told her apologetically. 'He came to see me in hospital after I had my appendix out and it all started from there.'

  Her aunt's appalled tones came clearly over the line. 'But Fran, that's not long enough to be marrying him!' There was a short pause and she added accusingly, 'And why mustn't we tell anyone?'

  'I haven't been doing anything I shouldn't, Aunt, if that's what you're thinking.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' her aunt returned tartly. 'But it's what everyone here is bound to think. All the neighbours will naturally wonder why we never mentioned it, our own niece marrying Mr Mercier.'

  'All right, you can tell them,' Fran said with an inward sigh. It would be a nuisance if the news got out, but it was unfair to cause embarrassment needlessly.

  'Besides,' her aunt went on, 'well, there's bound to be talk anyway. It's going to be difficult for you. Have you thought about that?'

  'Difficult in what way?'

  'He's been married before.' Disapproval showed plainly in her voice before it was replaced by discomfort. 'His first wife was very highly thought of round here—she did a lot of good, and her father being a Brigadier, people could respect her. Your uncle and I are just ordinary folk and there are bound to be some who won't accept you in her place.'

  'I'm not expecting to be treated any differently by the people I grew up with, just because I shall be married to Grant.'

  'It isn't only that…' Her aunt paused, her discomfort showing plainly now. She went on with a rush, 'It's bound to cause a lot of talk, you and she being so much alike.'

  'What can they say except that we are?' Fran returned lightly. The pause this time was so long that she added, 'Are you still there?'

  'Yes,' her aunt said at last. As she became more used to the phone her voice had resumed its normal pitch. 'But folk can add two and two, or at least they think they can.' Before Fran could question her she said hurriedly, 'Dora Matthews for one. You're going to get trouble there, because she won't welcome you and that's a fact. She was devoted to his first wife— absolutely devoted.'

  Fran felt despair begin to creep over her. Mrs Matthews had reigned as housekeeper for over twenty years and wouldn't easily be dislodged. The despair deepened as she wondered what it was about Julia that seemed to inspire devotion in everyone. Surely no mortal could be so completely perfect? There must be a flaw in her somewhere.

  Concerned and fretful, her aunt said, 'Oh Fran, are you sure you know what you're doing? It's all too quick! Wait a bit longer. Come home for a while and talk about it. Be certain.'

  It was insanely quick, but Fran didn't dare wait. Steadily, she said, 'I love him, Aunt Beth.'

  A faint sigh gusted down the line. 'Folk always think that, or nobody would get married in the first place. There are plenty find they were mistaken.'

  She didn't add that Grant was one of them, but Fran knew it was what she meant. It was apparent he had fallen from grace with the divorce. Making her tone bantering, she said, 'Stop being so gloomy or I shall wish you'd never rung.'

  'Don't say that! It's just that it was such a shock when we got your letter. I never dreamt of such a thing, and naturally I can't help being worried when it's all so sudden.'

  'But it's not as though I was marrying someone you didn't know.'

  'I'm not sure I wouldn't be happier if you were.'

  Fran stiffened. 'Aunt Beth, please!' she protested.

  'Well, you've got to face the fact that if his wife left him he gave her good cause—she wasn't the sort to go off over nothing. Has he told you why she did, I wonder?'

  'No,' Fran said. The word wouldn't come out at the first attempt and she had to clear her throat and say it again. 'He told me he deeply regretted it, but it was something which couldn't be put right.'

  'Oh, he was sorry enough, I grant you, and there's no doubt he did his best to make amends, but it's too easy to say you're sorry afterwards. It's no excuse.' Grudgingly, she added, 'Even Dora admits he couldn't do enough, trying to make it up to her, but that's what I'm saying, Fran! If she wouldn't stay after all he did to try to persuade her, then it must have been something terrible! Dora said it would break your heart to see how unhappy she was, crying all the time when he wasn't about.'

  Tonelessly, Fran obs
erved, 'It sounds to me as though Dora Matthews said altogether too much. There's such a thing as loyalty to the person who pays your wages as well.'

  'She perhaps says too much at times,' her aunt agreed uncomfortably. 'But she could tell a lot more if she chose to, and she doesn't make things up, nor she doesn't deny he took it very hard when she went—very hard.'

  Fran found she was gripping the phone until her nails dug into her thumb. She let herself slowly down on to the chair by the wall. She didn't want to listen—didn't want to know. With all her heart she wished her aunt had never rung, but still she found herself saying, 'It's something in his favour that he was sorry.'

  'That's as may be, but he wasn't all that long getting over it.'

  'How do you know that?' Fran asked automatically. She didn't really want to know. She wanted time and quiet to assimilate all the other things she had learned, without having more added to them.

  A note of defiance creeping into her voice, her aunt said, 'He came round here asking for your address but I didn't think it right to give it to him. I was thankful I hadn't afterwards when he started having women up at that house. Actresses, some of them were.'

  She might just as well have said harlots, Fran thought. She had an insane desire to laugh as she imagined how her aunt would have reacted to the information that her own niece had decided to go in for nude modelling.

  Her tone censorious, her aunt continued, 'I suppose if you're charitable you could say it was his way of trying to forget—I've heard some that held it was—but in my opinion it's no way to behave whatever the reason.'

  Curiously unaffected by the last revelation, Fran did laugh. 'I'll make sure he doesn't take any up there in the future.'

  There was a silence. 'You are going to marry him, then?'

  'Yes.' Fran heard the sigh from the other end and said gently, 'Wish me happy.'

  'Oh, I do, Fran.' Her aunt began to cry noisily. 'You know I do. It's only that I was so worried.'