by Anne Mather
Catherine couldn't take all this in. She felt sick with reaction, filled with an incredulous anticipation that weakened her knees and turned her stomach into a churning cauldron.
‘I—are you saying Jared broke his engagement to you because—because of me?’ she whispered disbelievingly, and Laura sighed.
‘Don't sound so surprised. Jared's engagement to me never meant a lot. I realise now he only did it to silence the gossips after his father died, and he and Elizabeth were alone at the house. After you arrived—well, you know what happened as well as I do.'
‘But—but—’ Catherine couldn't find words to say what she wanted to say. ‘Wh-why didn't he tell me?'
‘I thought he did.’ Laura frowned. ‘I understand you turned him down.'
‘I—turned—him—down?’ Catherine's mouth was dry. ‘But he never mentioned—marriage to me!'
‘Well, what did you think he meant?’ Laura sounded impatient now. ‘Surely you know Jared well enough to know he would never countenance anything else? Good lord, surely you realise he only brought Tony out to Barbados to find out if you cared about him.'
‘Cared about who? Jared? Or Tony?'
‘Why, Tony, of course. I think he thought you and he had been having some big scene. He wanted to see for himself.'
‘Oh, no!'
Catherine got up out of her chair to pace disbelievingly across the room. Of course, Laura didn't know about that business of the pregnancy! It was suddenly clear what Jared had wanted to do. He had thought she was expecting Tony's child. He had wanted to see for himself what kind of relationship they had. Would he have married her in spite of the child if he had been satisfied they no longer cared for one another? Oh, God, it all made a crazy kind of sense. And she had turned him away because he had shown that she had hurt him…
She turned to Laura. ‘Where is he?'
Laura's eyes widened. ‘Jared?’ She hesitated. ‘I'm not sure I should tell you.'
‘Why not?'
Laura shrugged. ‘I don't think you'd want to see him. He's changed. So coarse and unkempt. If you could turn him down at Amaryllis, you will certainly turn him down now.'
‘Where is he?’ Catherine persisted, and Tony said quietly: ‘You'd better tell her, Laura.'
Laura hesitated a moment longer, and then opening her handbag, she took out a slip of paper. ‘This is his address. But I warn you, he may not want to see you. He wouldn't let me in, and I've flown more than three thousand miles!'
Catherine turned the paper over. ‘Coniston Street?’ she said blankly. ‘Where's that?'
Tony was frowning. ‘Isn't it in Chelsea?'
‘I don't know.’ Laura was indifferent. ‘I just asked a cab driver, and he took me there. I think he mentioned—King's Road.'
‘That's Chelsea,’ said Tony definitely. ‘I thought I knew it. It's not far from the football ground, Cat.'
‘I'll find it.’ Catherine was already pulling on the fringed cream suede jacket that matched the calf-length dress she was wearing. She paused at the door. ‘Oh—and thank you, Laura.'
Laura moved her shoulders dismissingly. ‘Don't thank me yet. You may find it's a wasted journey…'
But Catherine had gone, the door banging noisily behind her.
It wasn't easy finding an unknown destination by the light of street lamps. A policeman gave her directions, but even then she almost missed the turning, and heard someone blare their car horn noisily at her.
Coniston Street was a row of old Victorian houses which had seen better days, presently converted into flats and bed-sitters. The number on the slip of paper Laura had given her was forty-seven, and it was about half way down the street on the left-hand side. Catherine managed to squeeze her Mini into the space between an old Vauxhall and a transit wagon, impatience making the exercise twice as long as it should have taken.
She climbed the steps up to the door and saw the list of tenants with their individual bell pushes. Two names too complicated to pronounce, a Philips, a Kenilworth, and a Brown. And that was all. She examined them again, a little desperately this time. Ahmed Mahdu… She gave up the rest. That definitely wasn't Jared. Viktor Czyviarchos. She shook her head. M. Philips. Maurice Kenilworth. J. Brown. She backtracked. J. Brown. She fumbled in her bag and brought out the slip of paper again. The number was definitely forty-seven. It had to be worth a try. If only Laura had explained! But who could blame her for being a little obstructive?
She pressed the button beside J. Brown, and waited. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. And again nothing happened. She sighed, and stepped back down a couple of steps to look up at the windows of the house. There were lights in several of them.
Going back up the steps again, she pressed J. Brown's button once more, and when still it was ignored, she pressed the button beside M. Philips. Whether Mr Philips, or Miss Philips, was expecting visitors, she never did find out, but at that moment the door released itself, and swung invitingly inwards.
She took a step forward, and then gulped as a group of Indians confronted her in the hall. But they smiled politely, and on impulse, she asked if they knew where she could find Mr Brown.
‘The top floor,’ one of them told her immediately, gesturing her towards the stairs. ‘Two flights up.'
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. But she waited until they had closed the outer door behind them before starting the long climb.
She was breathless by the time she reached the second floor, and she stood for a moment regaining her breath before deciding which of the two doors to choose. Then, running a smoothing hand over her hair, she knocked determinedly at the one to her left.
She had half expected to have to stand there knocking for ages before he answered, but to her surprise, the door opened almost immediately, and an angry voice exclaimed: ‘For God's sake, Laura—’ before breaking off abruptly as he saw her. He stared at her disbelievingly for a long disturbing minute, and then she said quietly: ‘Can I come in?'
She had been shocked by his appearance, she couldn't deny it, and when he stood reluctantly aside to let her enter the flat, her legs moved almost automatically. He was so thin, he was almost emaciated, and his hair was shoulder-length, matching the growth of beard on his chin. She would never have recognised him as the arrogant owner of Amaryllis, or indeed as Jared Royal, portrait painter and landscape artist. And yet he looked more like everyone's idea of an artist now than any other time in his life. If he had wanted to disguise himself, he could not have done it more successfully. But at what cost?
The flat was small and untidy, and it stank of stale liquor and cigarettes. Low windows were set in walls that sloped down with the eaves of the house, and through their open panes came the low rumble of the city traffic. Catherine gave one comprehensive look around her, and then she exclaimed frustratedly: ‘Oh, Jared! You could afford better than this!'
He had closed the door and seemed to be getting over the shock of finding her outside. ‘This is good enough for me,’ he told her harshly. ‘You must excuse the mess. I never was much good at housework.'
Catherine drew a trembling breath. ‘What are you doing in London, Jared? You told me you disliked the place.'
Jared shrugged. ‘I thought it was time I expanded my field.'
‘But'—Catherine looked about her. ‘Where's your painting equipment? Have you done any work since you came here?'
Jared held up his head, surveying her with a little of his earlier arrogance. ‘I don't think you have the right to ask a question like that,’ he said.
Catherine twisted the strap of her handbag. ‘I don't, of course. But—but finding you like this…'
‘How did you find me? Laura, I suppose.'
Catherine nodded. ‘She came—she came to the centre.'
‘You're still working there, then?’ He spoke heavily.
‘Of course. Why shouldn't I be?'
He shook his head. ‘Why have you come here, Catherine?'
Catherine made a helpless little gesture.
‘To see you, of course.'
‘Why?’ His lips twisted. ‘Did Laura tell you what a squalid little place I had? Did you want to see it for yourself?'
‘No!’ Catherine drew an unsteady breath. ‘Jared, you have to tell me—why did you break your engagement to Laura?'
He walked slowly across the room to where a bottle of Scotch resided on a low table. He held up the bottle to show Catherine, but she shook her head, watching him as he bent and poured some for himself into a thick glass. He was wearing jeans, and as he bent to his task, his denim shirt parted from the waistband of his pants, revealing bony hips. It was the last straw as far as Catherine was concerned. With a little sob, she dropped her bag on the floor, and covered the space between them, winding her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her face against the rough, sweaty material of his shirt.
‘Jared, Jared!’ she breathed, tears dampening her cheeks, wetting his shirt. ‘Oh, Jared—I love you!'
He had stiffened as she touched him, the untasted glass of whisky halfway to his lips. He remained motionless for fully half a minute, and then he carefully lowered the glass on to the tray, and turning, put his hands on her shoulders, propelling her away from him.
‘Now hear this!’ he muttered roughly. ‘I don't need your pity, Catherine!'
‘Pity?’ She stared up into his face. ‘Jared, if I pity you, I pity myself as well. For—for all the time we've wasted.'
He thrust her away from him, tugging impatiently at the hair at the back of his neck, but his hands were shaking. ‘What has Laura been telling you?’ he demanded. ‘Why have you come here now? Why now?'
Catherine spread her hands. ‘I couldn't come sooner. I didn't know you were here.'
‘And you didn't trouble to find out, did you?’ he muttered bitterly.
‘To find out?’ She was confused. ‘How could I have found out? I've had no contact with you since I left.'
‘But Liz wrote you. She told you the wedding was off.'
‘Elizabeth—wrote to me?’ Catherine blinked rapidly. ‘When? When did she write to me?'
Jared shook his head. ‘I don't know exactly. After I told her it was all over between me and Laura.'
‘But I got no letter!'
His eyes narrowed. ‘You must have done.'
‘I didn't, I tell you!’ She made a futile gesture. ‘Oh, what's the use, you won't believe me, will you?'
Jared took a step towards her. ‘I asked Liz to write to you,’ he said. ‘I—God help me, I didn't know what to say—what I could say after—after—'
Catherine caught her breath. ‘Did you—did you actually see the letter?'
Jared frowned distractedly. ‘I don't know. No, no, I don't believe I did.’ He closed his eyes. ‘She didn't write, is that what you're saying?'
‘If you believe me.'
His eyes opened again, staring into hers, bloodshot, but no less penetrating. ‘I have to believe you,’ he muttered. ‘For my own sanity.’ He took another step towards her. ‘So you didn't know that—that Laura and I…'
‘No. I thought you were—married.'
‘And Laura told you otherwise.'
‘Tonight,’ Catherine nodded.
‘And—that made the difference? Nothing else?'
‘What else could there be?’ she cried.
He hesitated a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Indeed. What else?'
‘Oh, Jared, I've been through hell!'
‘Not the hell I've been through,’ he groaned, and unable to prevent himself, he pulled her into his arms, shuddering down the length of his body as his hands slid possessively over hers. He buried his face in her neck, his beard rough against her soft skin, just holding her close against him until she felt the hardening pressure of his thighs. ‘God—oh, God, I want you, Catherine.'
Then, when she expected him to kiss her, he drew away from her again, trembling as he raked unsteady hands through his hair.
‘This is no good,’ he said thickly. ‘I'm not fit to touch you. I haven't had a bath in days, and I don't remember the last time I ate. I think it was yesterday—or maybe the day before.'
‘Jared!'
She caught his arm, but he released himself shakily, and she realised he was half fainting with weakness.
‘Let me get a wash and a change of clothes,’ he told her unevenly. ‘Then I'll be fine.'
‘You won't be fine!’ she protested, half tearfully, although she knew tears were no good right now. ‘You haven't been looking after yourself at all, have you? Dear God, Jared, do you realise, another two months of this and you'd be dead!'
He sought the back of an armchair for support, forcing a smile. ‘I—had nothing to live for, did I?’ he asked, with an attempt at lightness, and Catherine felt a surge of primitive hatred for Elizabeth for allowing this to happen.
She must have known how he felt, why he came to London. Yet she had been prepared to let him go on thinking the worst, that Catherine didn't care about him. If she hadn't become concerned because he had not contacted her and sent Laura to find him…
And of course, the last person she would expect Laura to contact would be Catherine. She had obviously overlooked Laura's gentler character, and her interest in Tony's rehabilitation centre. Had this been Elizabeth's way of paying them both back for what she thought were her grievances? But even she could have had no idea of the real state of Jared's health.
‘Where is the bathroom?’ Catherine asked now, and Jared nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Through there.'
Ignoring the urge to take him in her arms, she brushed past him and switched on the light in the kitchenette. It was small and rather grubby, but a rapid exploration revealed that the bath folded away beneath the sink, and it was large and reasonably clean. She would have liked to have taken him to her own flat with its more modern conveniences, but she guessed he did not have enough strength to trail down all those stairs and up others. This would have to do, and turning on the taps at the sink, she began to fill the dish preparatory to transferring its contents to the bath.
Jared came to the door, leaning against the jamb for support. ‘What are you doing?'
‘I'm filling you a bath.'
‘I can do that.'
‘No, you can't.’ She resisted his attempt to grasp her wrist. ‘You see—you haven't the strength.’ She bit back another wave of anxiety, and indicated his shirt and jeans. ‘You'd better start undressing.'
A look of self-contempt crossed his face. ‘I won't let you bathe me.'
‘I wasn't about to offer,’ she retorted, pouring another dish of water into the bath. ‘Hurry up. This won't take long. Then I'm going to prepare you some food.'
‘I'm not hungry.'
‘Nevertheless, you're going to eat something.'
‘You're giving me orders?'
Catherine flushed. ‘Yes.'
He shrugged and obediently started to unzip his pants. It was intoxicating having him at her mercy like this, but she guessed that it wouldn't last long. Once he had recovered his strength… But then she wouldn't have it any other way.
She turned her back as he got into the bath, and then handing him the soap, she said: ‘Where are your clean clothes?'
He sighed, relaxing lazily in the water, disturbingly sensual in this intimate state. ‘I guess they're in the dressing table drawers,’ he answered, looking up at her, and a quickening of emotion in his eyes made her catch her breath. ‘Come here.'
She shook her head, albeit a little reluctantly. ‘Not—not now.’ She walked towards the door. ‘You can give me a shout when you're finished.'
His bedroom was a small, single-bedded room opening off the living room, and these three rooms formed the flat. Going in there, Catherine grimaced at the tumbled bed and wrinkled sheets, stripping off the covers and rolling the linen up for washing. She found clean sheets in a chest of drawers, and remade the bed, finding pleasure in the task.
His clothes were in disorder in the drawers, and she pulled out a tangle of shir
ts and socks, dislodging some papers as she did so.
They fluttered to the floor, and as she bent to pick them up, she saw that one was a copy draft on a London bank for a sum of money which not long ago had figured so prominently in every conversation at the centre. One hundred thousand pounds! It could not be a coincidence. And she sank down weakly on to the side of the bed, staring at the draft disbelievingly.
She ought to have guessed, she supposed, although it was such a large sum of money, she could see no reason why he should have donated it. And yet he had. It was there in black and white. And the other papers only verified what she suspected.
She looked across the living room to the kitchen door. Perhaps that was what he had meant when he had asked her why she had come here. Perhaps he had been afraid Laura had revealed the truth of what he had done.
She was still sitting there when she heard him getting out of the bath, and she pushed the papers away again, knowing she could not mention them now. She had not found his underclothes, but she had found a navy bathrobe, so she walked back to the kitchen with that.
Jared was standing at the sink when she reentered the kitchen, the towel tucked around his hips, using his razor. He had washed his hair and it was damp and tousled; the beard had disappeared. Already he looked years younger, if no less gaunt. He rinsed the lather from his jaw and turned to face her.
‘I—’ Catherine's mouth was unaccountably dry—‘I couldn't find your underclothes, so I brought this.’ She held out the bathrobe.
‘Thanks.'
He came to take the robe. Even barefoot, he was taller than she was in her heels, steadier now than before his bath. He unhitched the towel and let it fall to the floor, and then, with a muffled exclamation, he gathered her into his arms, finding her mouth with his, parting her lips with his tongue and kissing her with hungry urgency.
‘Mmm, Catherine, you smell so good!’ he groaned, his fingers finding the long zip at the back of her dress and steadily impelling it downwards.
‘You—must be hungry,’ she got out breathlessly, but he only gathered her closer, letting her feel the effect she had on him.