by Susan Napier
‘How boring,’ said Julia, believing it. ‘I suppose you’re now satisfied that I’m not the notorious Janette. Did you grill Mrs B under the bedside lamp?’ What was it about him that urged her to tease. Perhaps because he reminded her of Phillip … so correct, so thick-skinned.
‘She sang your praises unasked. Thank you for the eggs, but they weren’t necessary. I never eat breakfast.’
‘Then you should.’ Julia was genuinely concerned. ‘Someone of your size especially. You need the fuel to last you through the morning, otherwise you’re burning stored energy.’
‘I have a slow metabolic rate,’ Hugh Walton replied, so meekly that Julia frowned as she returned to her washing up.
‘I mean it. Could you bring your tray over here so I can wash up your things?’ As she took his plate she said, with a trace of smugness. ‘You must admit now that I can cook.’
‘I admit you can poach eggs,’ he said in a neutral voice, and Julia laughed with delight.
‘I was beginning to think you didn’t have a sense of humour.’ She could just imagine Mrs B’s apologetic presentation, but he had known the eggs for what they were.
‘That would be a fatal defect in my family,’ he said gravely. ‘But what makes you think I was joking?’
Julia looked at him uncertainly. Had she imagined the undercurrents to his remark? Could he really be totally without humour? ‘Reserving judgment are you?’ she asked, rubbing her nose with a soapy finger.
‘Are you always afflicted with legalese, or is it especially for my benefit?’
‘I can’t help it,’ Julia admitted. ‘It just comes out. You’re so … so …’
‘Big?’ he reminded her gently.
‘Judge-like. I can see you in a wig and black-gown putting on the black cap.’
Something shivered behind the impassive wall of his eyes, a fleeting pain that darted straight to Julia’s tender heart. There were depths to the placid grey waters. No, not really like Phillip at all; she couldn’t treat him with the slick superficiality she accorded her employer. Impelled by a vague and totally unfounded desire to distract him from whatever it was that had shadowed her flippant words, Julia added:
‘I told you I wasn’t a groupie, and I really am a friend of Richard’s.’
‘The one doesn’t necessarily cancel out the other,’ Hugh responded, raising his eyebrows as she clashed the dishes in the suds. ‘Why don’t you use the dishwasher?’
Julia broke out in a cold sweat at the very idea of the malevolent machine under the bench-top. ‘I like doing dishes. Peaceful, mindless stuff.’ She paused, and hurried on, ‘Not to imply I haven’t got a mind.’ This was terrible, she was sounding more foolish with every word. ‘I really am sorry about last night, disturbing you like that… it was only a joke. And as for the other, well, you can’t really blame me. You don’t look like a Marlow.’
‘And you don’t look like a Cordon Bleu chef,’ he said, obviously having received a potted history from the voluble Jean.
‘I know.’ Julia sighed as she swished the last dish. ‘It’s the bane of my life. I’m twenty-four, you know.’ It seemed important to stress her maturity to this oh-so-mature man.
‘It would help if you acted it.’
Julia turned to him, hands on hips. ‘I do; most of the time. But if you could have heard how patronising you sounded yesterday … I just couldn’t be bothered to correct your false impression. Actually I thought you were going to blame my youth when you reported the accident.’
To his credit he looked surprised. ‘I didn’t report it, and I had no such intention.’
‘I realise that now … but you can’t trust anyone these days.’ Her words rang hollow in the large kitchen. Somehow Julia felt that here was a man you could trust, to the ends of the earth if necessary. Not because of his size, or his profession, but because of his intrinsic integrity. Profound thoughts about a man she had only just met.
He kindly ignored the hackneyed phrase. ‘Don’t bother about breakfast for me in future, or lunch for that matter. When I’m working I like to grab something to eat at odd times. But I will come down for dinner.’ This seemed to put a train of thought in action and he crossed the kitchen to the window which overlooked the shambles which was the vegetable garden.
‘I heard about Jack Brabbage’s hip, but I didn’t think Connie would bother to employ a replacement cook— not until the summer, and by then Mrs B should be able to take over again. As it is there’ll be precious little work for you to do.’
Julia resented his thinking she was on to an easy wicket, but what could she say that wouldn’t blow the gaff on Richard? She applied herself diligently to wiping the cutlery, hoping he would keep his conclusions to himself.
‘But she wouldn’t do that, not Connie,’ she heard him say with slow precision. ‘She may be extravagant with words but she’s thrifty with cash. A real housewife at heart. Why are you here?’ No answer. ‘Are you and Richard feathering a love-nest.’
‘Of course not …’ began Julia hotly and saw the satisfaction in his face as he sauntered back over, hands in the pockets of his grey woollen trousers, to confront her. It would have been better to pretend that she and Richard did have something going—after last night he wouldn’t have found it hard to believe. ‘Richard … we … I …’ she stuttered, unable to utter the bare-faced lie.
‘Is this one of his practical jokes?’ The steely stare hardened. He knew his Richard.
‘I’m only the cook …’ she said weakly, hoping a dumb-blonde act might do the trick.
‘Chef,’ he corrected. ‘And you’re expecting to exercise your apparently considerable talents on someone.’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully and Julia weakened further. He only had to ask Mrs B and he would get the whole story in five minutes flat. What did she owe Richard? Nothing! He owed her. And it would serve him right if Hugh gave him a black eye for this particular episode. She wouldn’t mind giving him one herself for putting her in this position.
‘They’re all coming,’ she blurted. ‘The whole family, for a month, because everyone’s going to be tied up at Christmas.’
‘And how long has this been arranged?’
‘Connie hired me about a month ago.’ Would he swear? Throw things about? Stamp upstairs and pack?
Of course not. ‘Was it a general family conspiracy, do you know? Or is it just Richard’s delightful sense of humour?’
‘Umm,’ said Julia. Not wanting to throw her sometime friend completely to the wolf.
‘Just Richard. Naturally. And no doubt he had planned to be here to break the gleeful news himself.’
‘Umm,’ said Julia again, and then thought that Richard deserved some defence. ‘It wasn’t entirely a joke. Richard thought it was about time that you were reminded that you were a member of a family …’ she tailed off. He was looking down his long nose at her. There was a slight ridge half-way down its straightness, as if it had been broken once. He was very good at the quelling stare, Julia decided.
‘I’m only too aware of my family.’ The reply told her to mind her own business. ‘And where do you fit into this brotherly gesture?’
‘Nowhere,’ she said hurriedly and tried her own version of the quelling stare. Baby blue eyes and a retroussé nose were not conducive to success, to the man before her she looked like a startled kitten. ‘Richard just told me about the mix-up, and that Connie was having the decorators in so you wouldn’t be able to go back there …’ This time there was a definite wince. ‘But I didn’t know when you were coming and I certainly didn’t cause you to crash into me.’ Julia’s mind skipped a groove, as it was wont to do. ‘I think it was grossly unfair that you didn’t mention at the time that you were a lawyer. It gave you an advantage.’
‘I don’t see how,’ he countered calmly. ‘You seem quite capable of standing up for yourself. You made certain that I was aware of my own culpability.’
While he, like a good lawyer, had admitted nothing. ‘Yes, well, silence is provo
king in a situation like that.’
‘I get the feeling you’re not difficult to provoke.’
Julia simmered down and laughed. ‘That’s a chef for you, we’re volatile by nature. But I think it’s only fair that you should say what’s on your mind. Otherwise how can you expect people to understand your point of view? It’s no good bottling it up and then getting mad when nobody takes any notice.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Hugh Walton excused himself smoothly, ‘but I must beg off any further philosophising. If I’m to get any work done I’ll have to start before the horde descends.’
‘You’re going to stay!’ Julia stared at his calmness.
‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’ That was a lie. He was the kind of man who provides his own choices.
‘B-but, Richard said you’d …’
‘I can imagine. But Richard is prone to exaggeration. My attic is very private. It only has one door and entry is by invitation, as my family well knows. I shall survive a few hours of their company each day. I may even thrive on it, who knows?’
Julia certainly didn’t. Was he being sarcastic? How stiff he sounded, standing there, coolly disposing of the family that had adopted him. Had he been too old when he came to them, to be influenced by his adoptive parents’ enthusiasm for life? What had made him so mountainously placid? It had to be unhealthy— everyone needed outlets for their human emotions. She shivered. Perhaps it was just as well; in a rage Hugh Walton would be magnificently terrifying. But what of the softer passions?
‘When is everybody due?’ he asked, turning at the door.
‘Any day now,’ said Julia, unable to resist a probe: ‘Aren’t you even the teeniest bit annoyed?’
‘I’m furious,’ he said, with a calm sincerity that spoke volumes. ‘But since there’s nothing I can do …’ He spread his large palms. From across the room Julia could see the fascinating life and head-lines deeply etched into the pale skin.
‘Why don’t you scream?’ she asked. ‘It might make you feel better.’
‘I’d rather work, it’s much more productive.’
Julia stared after him thoughtfully. Work. Is that where all his vitality went? Was there nothing left over for himself? Everything about him seemed grey and dull. Yet, she reminded herself, an uncut diamond was dull to the eye … all its beauty and fire locked inside, waiting to be released by the skilled hands of a craftsman. Julia was no diamond-cutter, but she was interested in people, and this man intrigued her by his very blandness. What was he like underneath? What made him the way he was? What thoughts and feelings did he conceal behind that poker face? Would she ever learn to read it?
I’ll work you out, G. B. H. Walton, before I leave, she vowed silently. I might even get you to smile at me. That would be an achievement indeed!
CHAPTER FOUR
JULIA’S first week at Craemar was chaotic, but by the middle of the second she had established a satisfactory routine, and was beginning to enjoy herself.
Fortunately she had got her VW back within a few days, and the bill had not been severe, although the garage man had tsk-tsked over the car’s general condition. As she lit the range on a freezing Thursday morning, pumping energetically on the bellows until the flames began to roar, Julia decided that she wouldn’t report the accident to the insurance company after all. It wasn’t worth it, since she would lose the excess on her policy, which was more than the price of the repairs. She’d have to discuss it with Hugh, though, if she got the chance. He was sticking rigidly to his word, appearing at dinner only and Julia couldn’t help worrying over his eating habits. She could only guess that he had squirrelled away some provisions up there.
Kidneys in cream sauce and soft scrambled eggs: Julia skidded around the kitchen in her thick yellow socks, dancing to keep warm and singing along with the radio.
Michael Marlow seemed to be the only other one up. He had already been in for a cup of Julia’s special Mexican coffee, and a chat, and was now at work in the downstairs study. He was a real darling. Thin, blue-eyed and fine-featured, he had a beautiful creamy voice that could rise to a parade-ground bawl when he lost his temper. Fortunately no one took his temper seriously, since it followed closely the progress of his play.
Richard, of course, had been the first arrival at the house, slinking in the kitchen door and throwing himself on Julia’s mercy with a mumbled story about a long-lost school chum whom he had dropped in to see and couldn’t, just couldn’t, turn down the offer of a weekend’s reminiscence. Julia didn’t even ask what gender the ‘chum’ was. She must have made him feel doubly guilty, for now Richard was keeping her almost constant company, dogging her footsteps in the kitchen and generally making a nuisance of himself.
Watching Hugh take the wind out of his brother’s sails had been reward enough. Richard was completely baffled and disgusted by the pleasant welcome Hugh gave each arriving member of the family. Not even his most outrageous baiting disturbed Hugh’s calm and for days Julia was nagged about it.
‘He must have said something, darling. He can’t have swallowed it without a comment or two. If only I’d been here.’
Remembering why he hadn’t, Julia had enjoyed putting on her dumb-blonde act and watching him gnash his teeth.
It was lovely to see everyone again. Olivia and Rosalind were as irrepressible as ever, short-cropped Olivia the slightly more serious of the two. Charley, topping Julia by almost a foot, voice long broken, was beginning to shrug off his former shyness and emerge as a person in his own right.
Only Steve struck a sour note. Listless, sullen and uncommunicative, he was obviously wrestling with a personal problem, determinedly rejecting all family overtures. Only with Julia did he seem to relax fractionally, possibly because she made no demands on him, held no expectations. He kept out of the way during the day, but often, later at night, he would sit at the bare, scrubbed table in the kitchen and watch Julia prepare the food for the next day. She didn’t question him, but rambled on in her own, cheerful fashion during his long silences and listened curiously to his equally long, erratic, oddly detached monologues about pollution, nuclear warships and other blights on modern civilisation. He didn’t pick at the food, as Richard did, just drank glass after glass of water. More often than not he was still there, staring into his glass, when Julia went off to bed. She longed to help in some way, but knew that pressure from her was the last thing he needed at the moment.
Breakfast was the one meal of the day that Julia liked to eat alone, in peace, and she was finishing off a leftover portion of kidney, dreamily gazing out of the window at the delicate wreaths of morning mist that lingered in the encircling bush, when her reveries were rudely interrupted.
It was Hugh, with a brusque request for morning tea to be served in the courtyard by the small swimming pool. A colleague, on her way back to Auckland from Tauranga, was stopping by to pick up part of Hugh’s manuscript.
Some detour! ‘Who is she?’ popped out before Julia could stop it.
On the point of leaving Hugh raised a thick eyebrow. ‘Does it make a difference?’
‘If she’s Indian or Chinese I might whip up something ethnic,’ said Julia, cunningly, widening her eyes innocently.
‘Her name is Ann Farrow. She’s of English extraction. She’s a senior lecturer in the Department of Computer Sciences at the University. Is that sufficient background for you to produce a simple tea and biscuits?’
‘Married or single?’ she shot back, encouraged by his sarcasm. Sarcasm was humour, wasn’t it?
His mouth thinned and for a moment she thought he was going to say something rude. ‘Single. She’ll be arriving about eleven.’
Julia grinned as he stalked out. A computer expert, just his cup of tea! They probably didn’t make love, just indulged in a bit of mutual programming. Julia’s mind drifted into the realms of fantasy. What would Hugh be like in bed? Surely he would shed some of that self-restraint along with his clothes? Or perhaps, because of his largeness, he n
eeded it even more. It must be a little like making love with a steam-roller! Julia giggled as she put her plate in the sink. Her thoughts roamed from fantasy to indecency as she tried to imagine Hugh in the flesh. She had never seen a naked man in reality, but basic knowledge of human biology filled the gaps. He had a magnificent chest, wide and hard and warmly furred, would the rest of him match up? Weren’t feet and hands supposed to indicate the size of a man’s vital parts? Julia blushed at the involuntary tingling sensation that invaded her as she remembered the large, capable hands on the Maserati’s wheel.
Natural curiosity prompted her to mention the expected guest to Connie when she brought through the breakfast trolly.
‘Oh Ann. I might have known she’d find an excuse to drop in while Hugh’s here.’
‘Is she nice?’
Connie wrinkled her face. ‘A paragon. Brunette, cool, cerebral … just Hugh’s type. To tell the truth I think she’s a bit of a bore. And I think Hugh knows, at least I hope he does, that his chief attractions for Ann are his wallet and his status. She’s convenient for him, though, and available.’
How terrible, thought Julia, to be accepted on the basis of your convenience and availability. Was that all Hugh asked of a woman?
Baking for Hugh’s guest suddenly gave Julia the idea for the perfect revenge on that wretch, Richard. She’d bake him a cake. A gorgeous, mouth-watering, tempting chocolate cake, made with loving care from the most revolting ingredients possible. She had seen it done before, as part of a secret prank on the part of fellow Cordon Bleu students, the day before a cooking contest.
It turned out perfectly; Julia crowed with delight when she eventually took the innocuous-looking cake from the oven. To disguise the odd smell—a mixture of curry, mustard and pickles—she carefully covered the entire surface with chocolate icing, liberally laced with brandy. Finally she decorated the top with stiffly salted cream and half-hid the cake on one of the back shelves in the pantry. Richard was a confirmed pantry-raider, a midnight-feaster extraordinaire; he wouldn’t be able to resist taking a piece, a big piece, Julia hoped cruelly.