Dark Obsession

by Valerie Marsh

  He got up and switched the recorder off, then smiled down at her and said softly, 'Bed, Mrs Mercier, and prepare to eat your words.'

  To Fran, the days and weeks that followed were pure happiness. They disagreed over some things—he continued to tell her that her taste in music was execrable and refused to have Radio One on at breakfast time, so she played it while he was working in his study, and in retaliation she complained of the volume at which he played Tannhauser, and drew the line at the Brandenburg Concertos.

  They went out quite a lot in the evenings, but when he began to work regularly again during the day she found she was restless, and told him she wanted to take over from the contract cleaners he'd always had in to do the flat.

  With faint caution, he said, 'Are you sure?' and Fran knew he was remembering the state of Sacha's flat the first time he had seen it.

  'It's all right,' she told him. 'That was Sacha's natural environment, not mine.'

  In fact they were well matched over what they considered comfortable. Grant was obsessively ordered in his study, refusing to allow her to touch anything, but otherwise they were neither particularly tidy nor untidy. She was scrupulous in the kitchen and the bathrooms, and cleaned everywhere else before it could begin to offend her—an arrangement which seemed to suit Grant equally well. In the first few days they got a washing machine and tumble dryer, and the following week, to her deep delight, he took her out and bought her a car.

  Her delight turned to terror however, when it came to the point of actually driving it. It was nearly three years since she had passed her test and she had never been behind the wheel of a car since. She almost needed to learn from the beginning again, and Grant drove her into the suburbs every day, then made her take over and patiently tutored her until he considered she was safe to be let loose in the city traffic on her own. She wondered how he had the courage to sit calmly beside her the first time she took it down Regent Street, but when she told him so he only grinned and said, 'If you want the truth I'm bloody terrified! Now watch the pedestrians—otherwise you're doing all right.'

  He also provided her with an assortment of credit cards and gave her carte blanche to get what she considered necessary in the line of clothes. Invitations had come in for various dinners and functions they would be going to, and he had been mildly surprised by her meagre wardrobe.

  He moved her few dresses from side to side with his hand and said, 'I thought models had a vast collection of clothes for the gay lives they lead.'

  His brows were raised in enquiry, and she gave a small shrug. 'I did have quite a few, but they weren't the sort of things you would like. I gave them away and I wouldn't get any more until I knew what I would be needing.'

  It was the only reference he ever made to her former career. By tacit consent they avoided discussion of anything in their past which might cause friction. Once Grant caught himself up and she knew he had been about to mention Julia, and on another occasion she said something about Seth, and meeting his suddenly cool stare, became aware that by the way she spoke and the warmth in her tone she had revealed some element of affection for the younger man. With a slight shock she realised he thought Seth had been her lover, and thinking back it came to her that she had never actually denied it—only that they had been living together. Perhaps she should have made it plain then that they had never been more than friends, but the basic injustice of Grant's attitude annoyed her. Defiantly, she said, 'There's no need for you to look at me like that. He's married himself now.'

  There was a pause before Grant commented sardonically, 'He transfers his affections quickly.'

  She had seldom heard that note in his voice before and wished heartily that she had never mentioned Seth. The information that it was a shotgun wedding would hardly add to Grant's opinion of him either, so she shrugged and turned away, and it was Grant who changed the subject.

  It was the nearest they ever got to a serious difference until the time he queried her spending. He had been generous in everything since their marriage, taking pleasure in giving her jewellery and other things she had never dreamed of owning, and when he first mentioned the cost of her clothes she was more than ready to agree with him that she had gone over the top.

  It wasn't so much that she wanted them for herself as the fact that she felt insecure when she was out with him, afraid of letting him down by some unwitting social blunder, and over-conscious of the trace of border counties accent which still sometimes showed in her speech. She wanted him to be proud of her, and to appear beautiful and well dressed—to see other men's eyes follow her and know they envied him—gave her confidence.

  Because of it she had bought without thinking enough of the cost, and there had also been some expensive mistakes in the beginning before she discovered he was curiously puritanical about bared flesh in public where she was concerned. In private it was different, and the beautiful nightdresses she had purchased before the wedding were practically unworn. He had told her with amusement to put them with his pyjamas and keep them for when they stayed in hotels.

  When he told her the total of what she had spent she was shattered. She stared at him, bereft of speech, and he smiled faintly. 'It's all right, we're not broke and I can stand it, but give me a bit of warning for any very expensive item in the future.'

  Almost in tears, she gathered her breath for a passionate apology. He was folding away the bank statement with its accusing DR against the final figure, and seeing her eyes on it he said non-committally, 'Don't worry, all that isn't yours. I've bought some shares, and I've spent quite a lot recently on new equipment for the farm. It's just that I like to have a rough idea of what the situation is. I have a standing order so I need to keep enough in the current account to cover it.'

  It was said with the intention of letting her down lightly she knew, but suddenly she realised what the standing order must be for, and her remorse was smothered, replaced by a wave of hate. Flippantly, she said, 'I'm sorry. I'd forgotten you had two wives to keep.'

  She knew the acid had shown through her tone, and he raised his eyes quickly before she had time to clear the mutinous expression from her face. He continued his regard for a moment, then said evenly, 'It isn't anything you need to think about.'

  His voice was too controlled to be natural, and turning away from her he began to open the rest of his post. She wanted to apologise for her extravagance, and tell him as well that she was sorry for that tart, flippant reply, but before she could frame the words he swore abruptly at something he had been reading and reached for the phone, a heavy frown tightening his face.

  From his conversation it was obvious he was enraged. She melted away to give him time to calm down, and afterwards she couldn't summon sufficient courage to reintroduce the subject, quietening her conscience with the resolve to never again give him cause to mention her expenditure.

  The incident left her uneasy, but otherwise she viewed life with eager anticipation. Grant laughed at her, mocked her areas of ignorance, and got her to admit when he found her singing to it that she was starting to enjoy some of his music. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with a waiting, watching air, as though he had expected her to do something or say something which she hadn't, but he gave no sign that he regretted their precipitate marriage.

  Her fears and doubts gradually faded away, and she even began to view their eventual return to the country with only mild apprehension. It might be pleasant to spend the summer there—perhaps to ride again, and pick up old friendships. Perhaps to bear Grant's child.

  The thought occurred to her so often that she wondered ruefully if she was getting broody. The passion he showed her was still as undiminished as her own response. Sometimes he only looked at her with that slight, narrowed smile, and she was on fire for him.

  He knew it, and plagued her when they were out, stripping her with his eyes in company, and smiling at her betraying flush. When she objected he told her there was something exquisitely erotic about picturing her naked in
the middle of some respectable gathering, each of them knowing what the other was thinking but unable to do anything about their desires until the evening was ended. And she looked forward to that ending as ardently as he did, Fran admitted. She had come a long way since her wedding night. Grant had taught her all the refinements of lovemaking, and no man ever had a more willing pupil.

  He never told her he loved her, but she managed to convince herself that the omission was unimportant. Except for that she was utterly happy—so utterly incredibly happy that she would wake in the night afraid, lost in a nameless terror that he had been given to her in mistake and he would be taken from her again, because it was too much happiness to be granted to one person, and it was never intended that she should know the continuing joy of being with him and loving him.

  Sometimes she disturbed him when she pressed her cheek against his back, desperate to reassure herself that he was real and alive. When his breathing grew even again she would whisper how she loved him and how much he meant to her, half-hoping that her words might penetrate his sleep and one night he would tell her of his own love in return.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The blow, when it came, caught her completely unawares. They had gone to the dinner where the television awards were being presented, and Fran was wearing a new dress which Grant had chosen for her himself, paying an exorbitant price for it as though to cancel out the scene where he had called her to book for her spending.

  She was more assured on these occasions now. Though she seldom enjoyed them she managed to give the appearance of it, smiling and sparkling when it was necessary, radiating enjoyment to the people who mattered. She was prepared to do anything that might help Grant, and vigorously denied, when he asked her, that she found them boring.

  When the meal was over and they gave the awards, she clapped dutifully, then with more enthusiasm for the director of Grant's play when he won. At least this was interesting for Grant. A lot of the people he knew and worked with, and he was quietly getting the feel of the evening, picking up the subtle nuances which were present in a gathering of professionals like these, and which might provide him with useful information in the future about who were the up-and-coming men as well as the present geniuses.

  They would have to linger at the bar when it was over so that he could go on garnering information and gossip, and she sighed inwardly and wondered if she dared slip her feet out of her shoes for a few moments in preparation. These evenings were all so much alike that they blurred into one in her mind. The men would greet each other as though they hadn't met for years, then Grant would introduce her and she would stand holding her drink and appearing interested while they talked about things which were totally beyond her understanding. She would tell herself that it was her job and no more boring than the tedious hours she used to spend in front of the camera, and eventually they would escape and go home.

  This one followed the familiar pattern. The women all kissed each other with cries of, 'Darling!' and she wondered how soon she would be well enough known to get similar treatment. She was startled when a middle-aged woman, completely strange to her, suddenly broke off a conversation with someone else and hurried towards her, arms outstretched. It was obvious to Fran that she was about to be kissed, and she sent Grant a swift glance, puzzled and enquiring.

  He was standing frozen, staring at the woman. As she drew nearer he moved quickly as though to intervene, but it was too late. Fran found both her hands seized, was kissed on each cheek, then her hand was joined with Grant's and the woman peered up at them both, beaming with delight.

  'My darlings!' she exclaimed. 'You're together again! Oh, I always knew it would happen—didn't I say so? It was so plain that you were meant for each other that I knew that silly separation could never last!'

  She took a few steps back towards her friends, beckoning them, and Fran heard Grant swearing viciously under his breath. She was too stunned herself to do anything about correcting the misapprehension, and anyway she wouldn't have known what to say.

  It had all happened so quickly, in a matter of seconds, that she was unable to formulate any thought, or question what Grant's reaction must be, apart from his barely hidden fury.

  She heard him mutter savagely, 'Why can't the stupid bloody cow wear her glasses, for God's sake!' then he went after her, calling out, 'Brenda!' in a vain attempt to silence her.

  Inevitably by now they were attracting attention. Grant lowered his voice as he said, 'Brenda, this isn't Julia,' but several people overheard and turned curious heads towards them. Fran stood still, feeling sick, watching and listening to Grant's explanations. Was she meant to go on smiling, even at a moment like this?

  Brenda looked confused then distressed, and turned back to look at her, making helpless little gestures. 'I must apologise… but they are so alike…' With lagging steps she returned and took Fran's hand, pressing it awkwardly as she gazed into her face, shortsighted and earnest. 'My dear, I'm so sorry… so embarrassing for both of us, but really I was so certain…'

  Fran found she really was still smiling. She said, 'It's perfectly all right—don't worry about it,' aware of the whispering starting up round them. Grant reappeared at her side and muttered, 'Careful, we've got a photographer!' and Brenda made her escape, still shaking her head in confusion.

  He watched her go, rage dangerously near the surface, and nervously and placatingly, Fran said, 'Grant, you can't really blame her if she hasn't seen Julia for some time.'

  'She hasn't seen her for three bloody years, but even without her glasses she should be able to see that you're at least four inches taller, apart from anything else!'

  'Well, I admit it was a bit embarrassing, but let's forget it. It's over now, and…'

  Tersely, he interrupted, 'Oh, no it isn't! It's only just begun! Smile!'

  She did as he ordered, just in time for a barrage of exploding flash bulbs, as the reporters, scenting news, deserted the stars of the evening they had been sent to cover. Grant said, 'Don't answer any of them!' and she kept her smile fixed as he tried to extricate them, parrying the questions shooting at them from all sides.

  'Is the lady your wife, Mr Mercier? How long have you been married? Where did you meet? How long since your divorce? Where is your first wife now, Mr Mercier?'

  They went on unceasingly. Fran felt buffeted, astounded by the impertinence of the questions, and terrified that Grant would lose his tenuous control over his temper and antagonise them. At the moment he sounded deceptively tolerant, laughing, and only raising his voice in order to make himself heard, though underneath she knew he was boiling. But he was also used to dealing with the press, and after a while they dispersed, not entirely satisfied, but anxious to get the stories in to their editors.

  Grant let out a harsh sigh, and said, 'We shall have to wait until tomorrow to see what they make of it,' then turned towards the exit. 'Let's get out of here while we've got the chance.'

  The phone was ringing when they got home. Grant picked it up and replaced it, then switched over to the answer-phone which for some reason he had forgotten to do before he went out. He made no comment on the earlier events, but he was still awake, one arm behind his head, when Fran at last went off to sleep.

  When the newspapers came the next day she read them with stunned disbelief. She had been upset at the time of the incident, but not as deeply disturbed as Grant because she couldn't honestly see how it could be of enough interest to the public to cause any great stir. Reading what appeared, she realised that what interest was lacking in the facts would be made up for in innuendo. They made it riveting.

  There were two photographs, the first of Grant and Julia, taken, she guessed, in the same theatre foyer where she had seen them all those years ago, then beside it, one taken last night. For a moment she even had trouble distinguishing them herself—Grant in evening dress, herself and Julia in similar black dresses, blonde hair drawn away from their faces and smoothly pinned up at the back. It carried the caption, 'Whi
ch is the current Mrs Mercier?' and went on for several paragraphs of carefully worded speculation.

  Disgusted, she pushed the paper away and reached for another, aware as she did so of Grant's bleak gaze fixed on her. As soon as she saw it she knew why.

  It was on the gossip page this time. Two photographs the same as before, drawing attention to the likeness, then another one of Grant and Julia in a restaurant, smiling at each other. Even before Fran's eyes went to the words printed underneath she knew somehow that it was recent.

  It began, 'An intriguing situation has been drawn to our attention…' and Fran thought dully that it had been brought to hers as well. 'Grant Mercier, well-known television personality and playwright, married in January to the astonishingly lookalike Mrs Mercier number two, is here pictured two weeks later dining in a restaurant with Mrs Mercier number one.' The columnist wondered what could be in the wind.

  He wasn't the only one, Fran thought, stricken. Carefully controlling her voice, she said, 'This was taken after we were married.'

  'Yes,' he admitted. 'I suppose I should have told you I was meeting her, but at the time it just seemed simpler not to. I didn't know that had been taken. There was some sort of celebration going on a few tables away and there were flashes going off everywhere.'

  Stonily, she said, 'So you thought I'd never find out.'

  'There is nothing to find out. Look, I'll tell you now what I should obviously have told you before. I rang Julia to tell her we were married…'

  'How civilised,' Fran interrupted acidly.

  'Damn it, Fran, will you listen! I knew there was always the possibility of last night's development and I simply wanted to warn her so that she would be prepared for it. She's probably got reporters all round her front door by now, and after what happened to us you must surely realise that it's too easy to let them rattle you into giving a wrong answer if the whole thing is sprung on you without warning.'