by Celia Scott
'So do I.' Flint took the sponge out of her hand and spun her round to face him. 'Let's discuss it over dinner tonight. You haven't sampled our village restaurant yet, have you?'
She disengaged her hand. 'I can't. I have a date.'
'A serious date,' he smiled, 'or one that you can break? You know where the phone is.'
She answered him lightly. 'A serious one. One I can't break.'
'Okay. How about tomorrow night?'
Her caution had returned; she said, 'I can't tomorrow night, either.' If Dexter wanted to see her tomorrow night too she intended to be free. It was part of her plan to rekindle the spark.
His lips thinned. 'Are you going to free any night before the picnic?'
'I'm really not free for dates at all,' she told him, and when he gave her a look like blue ice she added firmly, 'I'm committed.
'Committed!' he barked. 'What the hell do you mean?'
'Don't you dare shout at me!' Her calm had deserted her and she was trembling. 'I'm committed. I'm…' She couldn't being herself to say 'in love', so she said instead, 'I'm fond of someone.'
'How nice! Anyone I know?' he asked in a voice of silky suavity which did nothing to disguise the cutting edge.
'None of your business,' she shot back. Anger was starting to flow over her like a hot tide.
'Oh, yes, it is my business! It's more of my business than you realise.' She started to leave but he caught her by the wrist. 'It's Dexter, isn't it? He's the one you're fond of!' He uttered the word with such withering sarcasm she flinched and pulled away from his grasp.
'Since you ask, yes, it is. Although I'm surprised someone with your—awareness—has to be told.' If he was going to fight her with sarcasm she would try and dish it out too. 'Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have know that I thought Dexter Grant was marvellous. I never hid the fact.'
'You never hid the fact that you were a mindless groupie at the beginning,' he said with venom. 'I thought you'd progressed from that.'
'I have progressed,' she spat at him. 'I now go out on dates with him. So much for your mindless groupie!'
He went very still and she could see the fury drain out of him. 'I shouldn't have called you that,' he said. 'Mindless is the last thing you are.'
'But still a groupie,' she prompted him with bitter hilarity, 'because if that means someone who admires another person, then that's what I am.'
'It's okay to admire Dexter,' he said, raking his hands through his crest of red hair. 'He's a terrific actor, and a nice guy—'
'You don't have to build him up to me,' she reminded him.
He went on '—but you're not—I don't know how to say this—you're not in his league…
'Thank you very much!' She was so pale with temper her freckles stood out, pale discs of gold.
'No, no!' He tugged at his hair with both hands. 'I don't mean it that way. But Dexter travels in a very fast lane—it's not your style, Pollyanna. He works hard, but he plays hard too. He's inclined to drink too much and—'
'—and with friends like you he doesn't need any enemies!'
'I'm a good friend to Dexter. He knows that,' he replied with dignity. 'All I'm saying is—be careful. Don't get hurt—and don't hurt others in your relentless quest for glamour.'
'I'm not looking for glamour,' she cried, stung because when she had first met him that was exactly what she had been doing. 'It's Dexter himself I'm in… in…' Again her mouth refused to form the word, but he said it for her.
'If you're trying to tell me you're in love with Dexter I simply don't believe it.' She could see that his temper was at breaking point again. 'You hardly know him!'
'I know him better than you think!' She experienced a moment of painful triumph as she watched this shaft hit home, then, ignoring the small voice of reason at the back of her mind, she said deliberately, 'I only took the job with you because I wanted the chance to get to know Dexter.'
There was a terrible silence, during which she felt as if icy water was being poured down her back. Flint stood, as still as if he were carved out of granite. The awful moment was broken by Duvet, who whined and pushed her head up against her master's leg. He patted her, but did not take his eyes off Polly.
'Congratulations,' he said at last, 'you got what you wanted.'
'I'd better go,' she said, taking her holdall and making for the kitchen door. 'I… I guess you won't want me to work as your assistant now, so I'll say goodbye.'
He was across the floor in two strides, gripping her arms so that she dropped the bag on to the floor.
'We made a deal,' he grated, his white face inches from hers. 'I've fulfilled my part of it. You're damn well not going to default now. I'm picking you up at eleven as planned. You're not quitting on me!'
He gave her a none too gentle shove before calling to Duvet and heading for his office, leaving Polly to go to her car alone.
She drove back to Toronto in a raging rainstorm, but it was nothing compared to the storm in her heart. Blinking away furious tears, she peered into the deluge, wondering why on earth she had said those things. She had wanted to reawaken her first passion for Dexter, but all she had succeeded in doing was hurting Flint. For, in spite of his anger, she could tell that he was deeply hurt.
To make herself feel better she tried to justify their quarrel: she was free to go out with whomever she pleased. Just because he was at a loose end, with Sable in New York, was no reason for him to expect Polly to be at his beck and call. He had Sable, which gave him no excuse to act like a dog in the manger because Polly was attracted to his friend. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had been going to make another play for her tonight, just out of boredom. He was untrustworthy! His behaviour the moment Sable was out of the way proved that.
By this stormy train of thought she managed to whip herself into a fit of righteous indignation by the time she drove off the Expressway ramp into the city.
She dressed and made up, taking particular care with her eyes, which were still a little red, and by the time Dexter picked her up she had regained her calm, if not her spirits.
Tonight he drove a Jaguar. He seemed to have countless types of car. She discovered later that they were leased by the film company and Dexter merely borrowed them. His agent had arranged it in order to impress his many fans.
'Sweets to the sweet, honey,' he said as he presented her with a large box of chocolates. She was grateful that Marjorie was out, for even though the box was not shaped like a heart she could imagine her mother's snort of derision.
'You look real cute, sweetie,' he said, regarding her approvingly before taking her mauve shawl and wrapping it round her shoulders.
She was wearing the bleached silk with the motif of sea-shells round the neck, and she had piled her hair high on her head and fixed shell ear-rings in her ears. She knew she looked good, but her recent quarrel with Flint still echoed in her, robbing her of pleasure.
Dexter took her to the most exclusive—and expensive—restaurant in Toronto. Situated on a rise overlooking the city, it provided a spectacular view. The downtown lights glittered beneath them like a thousand spangles strewn on black velvet. And the food was magnificent: grilled truffles, anchovies baked in little puff-pastry cases, imported quail served on a bed of artichoke hearts… but she had no appetite and ate sparingly. She even refused a portion of the restaurant's famous chocolate praline soufflé.
However, Dexter didn't seem to notice that she was subdued. He talked steadily and she nodded and smiled, her mind still back in the Caledon Hills.
In the car he suggested they 'go back to my place for a nightcap', but she pleaded fatigue.
'You could spend the night with me,' he suggested, running his hand down her throat and letting it come to rest on the generous curve of her breast.
'No, I couldn't.' She firmly removed his hand. Fancy! she thought, the famous Dexter Grant wants to go to bed with me—and I don't feel a thing!
'Don't you like me?' he murmured softly, breathing into her ear.<
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'Of course. But I—I don't do that sort of thing.' It sounded terribly prissy, put like that, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him the idea didn't appeal to her.
'Hey!' He pulled away and looked at her solemnly. 'I do believe you're still a virgin. How about that!' He made it sound as if she had three heads.
'Yes, I'm one of those,' she agreed wearily. 'Now I do think we'd better get going, Dexter. You have an early call tomorrow, you owe it to your fans to be fresh.'
This was a very clever ploy and he started the car without further argument.
Outside her house, when she thanked him for the evening, he drew her into his arms and kissed her good night. She waited for the sky to fall, the way it had when Flint had kissed her, but it didn't. Oh, it was pleasant, being kissed by Dexter Grant. His lips felt warm on hers, and he held her with practised competence, but she experienced no swooning delight at his touch.
Very disappointed, she gently drew away from his embrace and escaped into the house. 'See you tomorrow, sweetie-pie,' he called after her.
As she fell into a troubled sleep she thought she had better see him a lot. It was going to take longer than she had realised to recapture that state of glazed wonder she had first experienced in the company of the legendary actor.
'Damn Flint, anyway,' she muttered sleepily, for if it hadn't been for him she wouldn't be having this difficulty.
The next day she visited Dexter on the set and was introduced to his colleagues. Some of them she recognised from that first party at his house, but nobody remembered her. This time she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. Dexter made it clear that she was the new lady in his life, and his friends fawned over her. It was a far cry from that first encounter. Now they declared she was 'adorable', laughed at her jokes, and offered her innumerable cups of coffee.
That evening she and Dexter dined at his house with a select few. She was glad there were others around, because she knew if she had been alone with him he would have tried to make love to her and she would have had the inevitable tussle. Then her reluctance to head for bedroom, which he now viewed as 'quaint', would have started to irritate him, and she would have had to either sleep with him or say goodbye. And she didn't want to say goodbye to him. Not just yet.
Truth to tell, the idea of having affairs didn't really attract her, and to have one without overwhelming passion was intolerable. She just hoped the 'overwhelming passion' for Dexter would manifest itself before too long. She was playing for time.
When one of the company offered her a lift at the end of the evening she accepted at once. She had already had one struggle with Dexter when they had been alone in the billiard room; she didn't feel up to another.
'I love girls who play hard to get,' he had said, nuzzling her neck.
'I'm not playing a game,' she had insisted, pushing him away. 'Dexter, don't! It tickles!' And he had laughed and called her a 'clever cookie'.
But she still went to the set the following day, and ate with him in his dressing-room, and heard his lines. As long as she could keep their relationship on this level, all was well. Dexter enjoyed showing off, and she admired his genuine talent as an actor. But the emotion she was hoping for still eluded her, and now when he kissed her she found herself thinking of tactics to evade him, rather than being swept into a maelstrom of desire.
And so it went until Sunday, the day of the picnic. The weather was perfect, hot and still, the leaves hanging motionless on the trees as if carved from green jade.
Polly wore her batik dress and her straw hat, the one Flint had given her. Her new swimsuit was packed in her tote-bag, for today it would be a relief to plunge into the cold waters of Lake Ontario.
She was waiting for Flint at ten forty-five a.m., determined not to be late. It was a re-play of that first fateful morning when he had picked her up at the crack of dawn to take her to the farm. How long ago was it? Only five weeks! This morning her heart seemed to have come out of its temporary retirement and was beating fast. How would she behave when she saw him? She resolved to let him make the first move. Then she would forgive him. So she stood in the baking sunshine, a small, tense figure, her childlike lips firmly gripped to stop them trembling.
At eleven on the dot Flint's orange BMW screeched to a halt beside her. At the sight of him hunched over the wheel her heart gave such a lurch that for a moment she was incapable of movement.
She waited for his 'Good morning, Pollyanna', and his lopsided grin.
Leaning over to open the passenger door, he growled, 'Get in. We haven't got all day!' and her heart dropped like a stone.
The war was still on!
Silently she climbed in, determined now to present a front of icy dignity. To show him she didn't care if he was mad or not. The fact that she did was her own business. She had some difficulty maintaining her dignified front when she discovered Duvet in the back seat. It was hard to remain aloof when her hat was being knocked off by a frenziedly welcoming dog!
'Duvet, sit!' yelled Flint, and the dog did as she was told, no doubt taken aback by the ferocity in his voice. And that was the extent of their conversation on the drive down to the harbour. Insulated from each other, they sat, each stubbornly determined not to be the first to speak.
CHAPTER NINE
Originally the Toronto Islands were known as 'The Peninsula', but a severe storm in 1858 washed away the link to the mainland, creating this haven, a short ferry ride from the city. In the dim past, five weeks ago, Polly had enjoyed taking her bike across on the ferry and exploring the large parkland. There was an animal farm, amusement rides, and an assortment of cafes on Centre Island. If she was in a more solitary mood she would cycle to Ward's Island, with its tiny community of year-round dwellings, or she would go west to Hanlan's Point, visiting the abandoned lighthouse which was said to be haunted by the ghost of a murdered lighthouse keeper on the way. Or sometimes she would rent a canoe and paddle through one of the lazy lagoons. It had always been one of her favourite places, and usually she had a feeling of holiday about her when she landed on its shores. She didn't feel that way today, not with Flint, silent and grim beside her. Even Duvet was subdued.
Today, they were taken to Centre Island, not by one of the crowded ferries where people played transistors, and hugged coolers and children, and laughed good-naturedly in the crush, but by a sleek private speed-boat hired by the film company for the occasion. It zipped past the laden public ferry with its bow in the air like a haughty duchess snubbing her neighbours.
The marquee for the picnic had been erected on an enormous meadow shaded by tall green trees. Dexter's name was printed on a banner, and a booth had been set up where he could meet the public and sign autographs. Inside the tent, a long trestle groaned under the weight of food, and an equally well-stocked bar stood at another end. Already, flocks of curious bystanders were pushing at the ropes that cordoned off the area. They were shown to a smaller tent with a private bar and a garden chair in it. Wai, Dexter's man, was hanging a towelling robe and a change of clothes on to a portable rack. When he saw Flint his dried-prune face split in a welcoming grin. 'Mr. Dexter, he be here soon,' he said, then his eye fell on Duvet at Flint's heels and the grin died. 'Mr. Dexter no like dogs,' he said. 'Maybe you should tie it up outside.'
'Don't worry about it, Wai, I'll deal with Mr. Dexter,' said Flint. 'The dog is one of the props for today.'
They left Polly's tote-bag and the camera-bag in Dexter's tent before going out into the sunshine again. 'Is it true about Duvet being a prop?' Polly asked Flint. It was the first time she had addressed a remark to him since they had met earlier.
'I'm not in the habit of telling lies,' he replied curtly.
'I merely wondered how you intended to use her. Since I'm supposed to be your assistant it might help if I knew.'
He looked at her sourly. 'It will sell more magazines, and give Dexter a good image, if he's photographed in the company of his dog,' he said.
'But isn't tha
t dishonest? Dexter hates dogs,' she protested.
'The world of image-making often is,' he said bleakly. 'This is an actor's profile we're shooting, not a documentary.' He scuffed at the grass with the toe of his worn running shoe and she felt a moment's pity for him. She knew how much he hated this kind of work. This was the world he was making a conscious effort to leave, but because of the commitments of friendship he was caught up in it again.
'Hi, guys!' Dexter, surrounded by a coterie of hangers-on, came towards them. 'Sorry I'm late. Got trapped on the phone talking to Sable at the airport. Her plane to Paris has been delayed!'
Flint didn't comment, and Polly wondered if he had driven Sable to the airport earlier and was taking out his distress at the parting on her. Anyway, she didn't care! Dexter was the man she was interested in, and she focused her attention on him. He did look splendid in his immaculate white trousers and scarlet shirt. His shoes were supple white leather, and two gleaming gold chains nestled on his chest. And yet… wasn't he just a touch too groomed for an island picnic? Didn't Flint, in faded khaki pants and shirt, look more attractive in his sinewy masculinity than Dexter did, for all the latter's sheen? This time Polly didn't stifle the idea, and she was surprised to discover that she found Flint physically more appealing than the handsome film star. As if to test her, Flint pulled his battered baseball cap from his hip pocket and crammed it on to his untidy red head. She still found him attractive.
'Time to get to work,' he said. 'Back up, and make your entrance again, Dexter. We might as well start with that.'
'Got to have my kiss first,' said the actor, grabbing Polly and kissing her lingeringly. 'Hello, beautiful—I've missed you.'
Flint's face remained completely expressionless. 'Make sure you have plenty of film ready, Polly. I'll be taking a lot of shots,' was his sole remark.
Dexter caught sight of Duvet and a frown crossed his handsome face. 'Did you have to bring the dog, Flint? You know how I feel about them.
'For today you're crazy about them!' Flint informed him. 'Use your talent as an actor. You will look really good at this shindig with your faithful dog at your heels.'