‘No, it wouldn’t be all right,’ she said huskily. ‘I promised myself just one more night, yesterday.’
‘One more night?’ he said softly, incredulously. ‘Just one more night?’
Evonne closed her eyes. ‘I…’
‘You…? You amaze me, Evonne. Particularly after your one last night. Do you remember any of what you said to me last night, outside, when I was kissing you in the moonlight, do you remember…?’
‘Rick,’ she put in despairingly, ‘tell me one thing, did you plan to ask me to marry you this morning or did it just happen because you felt sorry for me?’
He was silent for about a minute. Then he said abruptly, ‘No, I hadn’t planned to, but…’
‘You see?’
Their eyes clashed, and hers were unwittingly hurt but quite determined.
‘I… yes, I think I do,’ he said at last, and laid his head back on the pillow. ‘So you seriously believe this is a passing attraction between us?’
‘I… yes,’ she whispered.
‘All right,’ said Rick after another silence, ‘perhaps you’re right. I shouldn’t imagine we’ve given it much time to prove anything, but if you’re so sure I’m not the one for you…’
‘I think it’s more that I’m not the one for you. I told you that before, but you didn’t believe me. You need..
‘Evonne,’ he said with sudden violence, ‘don’t tell me what I need. I’m a little allergic to being told that.’
‘Oh, Rick, I’m sorry,’ she said helplessly.
‘Well,’ he sat up and looked down at her, ‘at least you haven’t told me how sweet I am. How shall we organise this parting of the ways? Any suggestions?’
Evonne curbed an impulse to hide her face in the pillow and wondered vaguely if her heart was bleeding to death. So easy, she marvelled, and you—more fool you—were hoping against hope, weren’t you?
‘I don’t know,’ she said barely audibly.
‘Yes, it’s a pity about that. It would have been better if you could have driven off and left me,’ Rick said meditatively, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to take you back to Sydney for your… walking away. But perhaps we can spend our last hours together in friendship of a sort?’
She did bury her face in the pillow then to hide her tears.
‘Oh, now, Patterson,’ Rick said drily, ‘does this mean you don’t have the courage of your convictions?’
Evonne twisted her head to look up at him and her eyes were suddenly angry. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said shortly.
‘I think—I hope I do,’ he replied
As a parting of the ways their trip to Sydney turned out to be not quite the ordeal Evonne had feared, because Rick acquired a passenger. One of the advertising people called back to Melbourne urgently discovered they were leaving, and when he made his plight known at breakfast Rick offered him a lift as far as Sydney.
In fact it all worked in well, because Evonne had decided to fly straight home from Sydney, so he was able to drop them both off at the airport.
But then again, although she didn’t have to pit her wits against Rick’s on the drive home, nothing altered or diminished the tearing sensations of pain she felt throughout the trip, the first when she had looked back at Peppers lazing in the morning sunlight, and then at frequent intervals as she thought with a feeble little spark of incredulity how easy it had been.
But that little spark was doused at the airport. Their farewells were stilted until the advertising man took himself off, then they became pointed.
‘I…got something for you,’ Evonne said awkwardly, delving into her hand luggage. ‘It’s only a bottle of wine, but its the Antique and Wine Company’s first vintage, a Peppers Creek Chardonnay. It might be special—they did say to keep it f-for,’ her voice cracked, ‘a while.’
Rick pulled the bottle out of its brown paper bag and stared at it. ‘How appropriate,’ he commented. ‘In a few years I shall drink it in a moment of sentiment, and toast one of those fleeting encounters of the not-meant-to-be kind. I might even have a suitable wife to wonder at my faraway expression.’
Evonne turned away defensively.
‘Tell me one thing,’ he said in an oddly hard voice, ‘are you still hankering for Robert Randall?’
She turned back and although she was, as always, perfectly groomed, her face was pale and weary. ‘No.’
‘Just…no?’ he said ironically.
‘If you don’t want to believe me what can I say?’
‘That you still have a long way to go before you know yourself, Evonne. However, perhaps you’re right, only you can sort that out. And all I can do,’ he added wryly, ‘is take it like a man. Goodbye, my dear Patterson. Thanks for your help with my manuscript and my…’ he held up the bottle of wine, ‘diamond bracelet.’ And he walked away from her without a backward glance.
That night, at home in her apartment, Evonne couldn’t sleep and wondered if she ever would again. And the most hurtful of her tortured thoughts, she found, was that Rick believed she was still clinging to that old love. But then, she kept telling herself, what is the truth now? That I love Rick as I’ve never loved before but I know I wouldn’t be any good for him. How can I be so sure of both of those things, so certain he didn’t really intend marriage? For some reason I had that premise firmly fixed in my mind, but then, when I gave him an escape clause, he took it…
If she proved nothing else to herself over the next couple of weeks, she found out how difficult it was to forget Rick. She even, she realised, was hauntingly sad when her period arrived on schedule, although it had only been the faint, crazy hope that something had gone wrong that she had been clinging to.
She took another week off after getting home to Melbourne, then went back to Amos Doubleday.
It was another wet Melbourne morning when she presented herself in his office.
‘Evonne!’ he exclaimed delightedly, then took a good look at her face and sighed heavily. ‘Sit down,’ he said gently.
She sat and smoothed her charcoal skirt. ‘I’ve come up with one or two really good ideas for the next catalogue, Amos…’
‘My dear,’ he interrupted, ‘please let me say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, and it was only the very real affection and respect I hold you in that prompted me to in the first place.’
Evonne stared at him, then said quietly, ‘I believe that, but I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Evonne…’
‘Please,’ she whispered, then took a breath. ‘Except for one thing. How did you know about Robert Randall?’
‘I didn’t know,’ Amos said slowly. ‘I put two and two together. When you applied for the job here, I checked your reference personally and, because I knew his grandfather, I was able to speak to him personally. He not only gave you an excellent reference but he also said, “She’s not only capable and clever but a rather special person.” ’ He shrugged. ‘Over the last two years what had started out as a tiny seed of suspicion in my mind hardened to certainty. I wasn’t wrong, was I?’
‘No, but he was never in love with me.’
‘I see.’
‘Well,’ Evonne smiled with an effort, ‘do you know that coral lends itself to beautiful jewellery when it’s polished and that since Out of Africa straw sun-hats have achieved a new art form? We’re a little behind on the hats, I admit, but I think they’re here to stay, and with the milliner I have in mind, who’s a modest genius, we could accomplish a range of them to end all ranges, each individually hand-crafted, a label, designer sun-hat and co-ordinated straw bags, perhaps sarongs as well.’
Amos said wryly, ‘I see you didn’t altogether waste your time in the tropics, Evonne!’
The first note arrived two weeks later, at work.
When she saw the handwriting on the envelope, Evonne’s heart started to beat slowly and heavily, her mouth went dry and her hands shook as she tore it open.
Dear Patterson, Have you noticed that since Peppers the world seems cur
They came twice a week for nearly two months, and Rick employed a technique she knew well, his diary technique, in fact, so she could visualise his day-to-day life, share the books he was reading, the plays and movies he had seen, his often funny political comment. The fact that she didn’t answer didn’t seem to perturb him. Nor could he have known how close she came to it sometimes, how she began to dread checking her mail in the mornings because it seemed impossible not to do anything, but that was all she was capable of, apparently. How thankful she was that she had a well-trained secretary who never opened any private mail—which was just as well. Her maidenly soul would have been sorely embarrassed at some of the memories Rick evoked so vividly. And he couldn’t have known the sense of utter confusion that was mounting in Evonne, the questions she asked herself…
Then they ceased abruptly, and she went from dreading the mail to lying sleepless at night wondering, hoping against hope that there would be one on her desk the next morning.
A week after their cessation, Amos press-ganged her into going home with him for dinner. ‘You’re looking thin and ragged,’ he accused her. ‘You, my living advertisement!’
‘Amos, if this is…’
‘It’s not. Hattie says she hasn’t seen you for ages!’ He stared at her reproachfully.
‘Well—but…’
‘No buts!’
Hattie Doubleday might get a knitting pattern confused, but if there was one thing she loved it was cooking, at which she excelled.
‘Oh, dear,’ Evonne said helplessly, a three-course meal later and as she stared at a silver dish of brandy snaps, ‘I’ll burst if I eat another thing!’
Hattie rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘I know it’s fashionable to be thin, but you can take it too far. Remember that,’ she said, and patted Evonne’s hand kindly. ‘Now tell me some more about this new range Amos seems so excited about—coral jewellery, hats and bags.’
Evonne obliged, and produced preliminary photos of what they had chosen for the catalogue.
‘Beautiful!’ sighed Hattie. ‘If only I was slim enough to wear a sarong… what have I said?’ she enquired as Amos and Evonne grinned at each other.
They told her, and she laughed richly. She was a happy, kind-hearted person—what a pity she couldn’t have children, Evonne thought with a sudden pang.
And right on cue, Hattie patted her person, searched a pocket, then said with a shrug, ‘I seem to have lost it, but I got a letter from Ricky today, Amos. You would not believe what that poor boy…’
‘Hattie!’ muttered Amos, and pulled a peculiar face which his wife seemed not to notice, because she went on,
‘Not that you could have read it, his writing is bad enough at the best of times, but I suppose I’ve had years of practice.’ She turned to Evonne. ‘But I’m forgetting—you know our nephew, don’t you? Amos sent you up to help him with his manuscript, and he certainly asked to be remembered to you in his letter—at least I’m pretty sure it was that. Such a talented boy, isn’t he?’ she sighed. ‘Imagine, one day he’ll be Dr Sir Richard Emerson! If only he weren’t so accident-prone …’
Evonne looked across at Amos, her eyes cold, and he sent her a helpless little shrug in return, but then they both turned to Hattie and echoed simultaneously, ‘Accident-prone?’
‘You wouldn’t believe what’s happened this time! He was driving his car—I never liked the idea of that Porsche, Amos, they go so wickedly fast, but he says he wasn’t in the wrong—when someone ran into him! A truck, would you believe!’
‘Hattie!’ Amos said urgently.
But Hattie continued soothingly, ‘It’s only his arm that’s broken—an ankle last time, this time an arm. He says he’s sure this period of his life is closed now, because these things come in threes—two limbs and his car is pretty broken up, but the really sad part of it…’
Amos rose quietly and fetched Evonne a brandy. ‘Drink it,’ he said gently.
She did, coughed a little as Hattie talked on, seemingly unaware. And when she finally spoke it was to say incredulously to Hattie, ‘You mean to say he lost all his notes for his thesis in this accident?’
‘Not quite all.’
‘But how?’
‘They got run over.’
Evonne closed her eyes. ‘It’s not possible!’
‘Nothing’s impossible with Rick,’ Hattie said placidly. ‘He had, you see, a briefcase in his car, containing his notes and part of a typescript of his thesis, plus the copy. Well, in the collision, the door flew open, the briefcase flew out and also flew open and under the wheels of the truck. If this wasn’t bad enough, a fire engine arrived to spray the truck with some sort of foam because it was carrying an inflammable load, and no one realised that all the paper lying around was Ricky’s thesis.’ Hattie shook her head sadly. ‘He reckons it will be a little while yet before he’ll be Dr Sir Richard, some of his work is irreplaceable without doing another trip, and anyway, it was his left arm he broke. Evonne, my dear child, what’s wrong?’
Later, as Amos escorted Evonne to her car, he said, ‘I swear I knew nothing about this!’
‘Forgive me, but I don’t believe you… The timing, for one thing.’
‘Evonne…’
But she rounded on him and said bitterly, ‘If you ever interfere in my life again, Amos, I’ll never speak to you again!’ And she got into her car, dropped her face briefly into her hands, then drove off with a roar.
‘Hattie,’ Amos said sternly, ‘that was extremely bad of you—and you always were a clever girl,’ he added tenderly. ‘But is it all true?’
‘Of course it’s true! I got the letter this very morning! Why do you think I made you invite her to dinner?’
Evonne couldn’t get a flight that night, it was too late, so she said to herself, that’s a good thing. I can sleep on it, not do anything rash. Was there ever a letter? Or was it just Amos and Hattie’s machinations? What if there wasn’t even an accident and they made it all up? I’ll look a right fool running up to Sydney… but would they do something like that?
‘Yes, they would,’ she told herself. ‘Remember how Amos conned you into going to Brampton in the first place? Well, I won’t fall for the same card trick twice!’
She was home by this time, pacing her apartment like an angry tigress. She had changed into a long scarlet silky robe and removed her make-up; she was incredibly angry and wrought-up and there was no way she was going to be able to sleep, she knew.
But Rick did stop writing, she reminded herself, although who’s to say it wasn’t because I didn’t answer? Why didn’t I?
She stalked across to her writing desk and got all his notes out of a drawer—and re-read every one of them, then held them to her breast. Love letters? she asked herself with a tortured look in her eyes. In Rick’s own inimitable manner, but could they be classed as love letters? He doesn’t actually say it, but why would he feel as if the world had gone flat and you could fall off rather easily if he wasn’t…he isn’t… And all the other little things he says, the dozens of ways he’s made me part of his life—this house he’s renting, for example, in Woollahra… that’s a big jump from Woolloomooloo—what am I thinking!
Why is it always raining in Sydney when I fly in? Evonne asked herself the next morning as she stared out of the taxi. What will Amos be thinking right now? Serves him right if he’s wondering whether I’ve been run over by a bus!
‘Woollahra, you say,’ the taxi driver broke into her thoughts. ‘What’s the street again? Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Well, haven’t you got a map or something?’ ‘It’s a bit difficult to drive and read a map at the same time.’
‘I thought taxi drivers were supposed to…’
‘Sydney’s a big city, lady. I’ll have to stop and ask.’
In all he had to stop three times, during which process Evonne’s nerves stretched to screaming point. So that when they finally found the street and the house she said bitterly as she paid him, ‘I can tell you, you wouldn’t get a licence in Melbourne!’ causing the driver to look at her sardonically and drive off in a similar manner.
‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, hastily raising her fold-up umbrella which she always travelled with. ‘I don’t even know if he’s home, for all I know he might still be in hospital or heaven knows where! I should have asked the taxi to wait.’ She grimaced angrily.
She looked distractedly up and down the quiet, leafy street and knew that if Rick wasn’t home she would have to walk up to a main road to get another taxi. She looked down at her elegant black leather pumps, at the rain hissing down on to the pavement all around her, splashing her shoes and tights, at her sombre grey suit and white blouse, at her fingers clutching her black purse so tightly, then finally at the street door let into a high wall, standing slightly ajar, and she drew a trembling breath.
The doorway led into a small, tiled courtyard with plants in pots, all dripping in the rain. The front door of the two-storey, narrow, lovely old house was also ajar, she saw, and she hesitated, then crossed the courtyard swiftly, snapped her umbrella shut, hung it on a stand that bore another one beneath the small porch roof, and stepped inside.
The front door opened right into a lounge that was two steps down, a lounge decorated in sandy beige with dark leather furniture, pictures on the rough brick feature wall, slimline blinds on the windows, modern lamps lending a welcoming glow from the gloom outside.
And Rick. Sitting on the floor surrounded by papers. Rick in a blue and green football jersey with a white collar, and jeans, Rick barefooted and with his sun-streaked hair ruffled and falling over his eyes as he looked up. Rick with one sleeve of the football jersey cut off raggedly above the elbow and a plaster cast down to his fingers. Rick, staring, then blinking experimentally.
And herself, unable to tear her eyes away from his, unable to believe the torrent of emotion rising in her…
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