House of Mirrors

by Yvonne Whittal

  Liz digested this slowly, realising that she could not turn her back for ever on something which might well happen. “I can only help him if he’ll let me.”

  “What do you mean, if he’ll let you?”

  “Grant can be very stubborn if he wishes.”

  “Hm…I know what you mean,” Stacy muttered, and there was a hint of understanding in the smile she directed at Liz.

  “To get back to the actual reason why I’m here,” Liz changed the subject. “I want to leave the station-wagon here with you. Grant says it’s far too cumbersome for me to travel in, and he’s thinking of buying me a smaller car.” Her questioning gaze met Stacy’s. “Do you think Angus might be able to sell it for me?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Stacy replied confidently. “What do you want me to do with the money?”

  “Keep it somewhere safe. Who knows,” Liz smiled wanly, “I might need it some day.”

  Stacy frowned. “That’s an odd thing to say, considering that you’re married to a man as wealthy as Grant.”

  “There are such things as rainy days, you know,” Liz reminded her, unable to explain her cautious approach into the future.

  “You’re not hiding something from me, are you?”

  “I must go,” Liz prevaricated. “I have a shopping list the length of my arm, and there’s plenty to do before we leave on Friday.”

  Liz felt deeply disturbed when she left Stacy’s home a few minutes later.

  Why she should have this gnawing uncertainty about her future with Grant she could not say. She wished she could explain it to herself, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming.

  Chapter 6

  It was not until the afternoon following her visit to Stacy that Liz read Pamela’s letter. She had been searching in her handbag for a pen when she found the letter and, feeling guilty she slit it open with her thumb and drew out the single sheet of paper.

  “Dear Liz.” Pamela’s familiar hand-writing scrawled across the paper, “Stacy wrote and told me of your marriage to Grant. You could have written yourself, but I presume you were too busy. Who would have thought that my freckle-faced little sister would end up marrying the guy next door, and what a guy too!”

  A smile plucked at the corners of Liz’s wide mouth and, making herself comfortable on the bed, she read further. “Congratulations, Liz, but take a word of advice from me before you celebrate your achievement in landing this particular fish. Watch out for Myra; she’s like poison ivy, and she seldom lets go once she’s hooked her claws into someone. A friend of mine in the fashion business ran across Myra in Paris a week ago. Her elderly sugar-daddy got wise to her, and she’s at a loose end.”

  Liz went cold as if someone had poured iced water into her veins, and she stared blankly out of the bedroom window for several seconds before she had the courage to read further.

  “Don’t be surprised, little sister, if Myra turns up like the proverbial bad penny, and my guess is she’ll make a play for Grant. She had him once, and she had enough gall to think she could have him again. She fights dirty, Liz and if you want to hold on to Grant then I suggest you do the same. Good luck, and God bless. Pamela.”

  Liz’s hands shook so much that the letter fell from her fingers on to her lap, and slid down to the floor. She felt too sick inside to move at first, but she was galvanised into feverish action when she heard Grant returning from his meeting with Sam Muller. She stooped to pick up Pamela’s letter, and tore it into tiny shreds along with the envelope. It was as if she was attempting to tear up the threat of Myra’s existence, and what she could do to their marriage, but Liz did not quite succeed in stilling that gnawing fear within her heart.

  She dropped the pieces of paper into the bin beside the dressing-table mere seconds before Grant walked into the room, but she was not quite so successful in hiding the fact that something had upset her.

  “What’s the matter?” Grant demanded, his critical glance taking in her pale cheeks and trembling hands.

  Whatever the cost he must never find out about Pamela’s letter, nor its contents, and for the first time in her life, she lied to him. “I’m a little tired, I think.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  She avoided the close scrutiny of his eyes, and tired to smile. “It’s nothing serious.” Not yet, she could have added, but she didn’t, and Grant gestured her on to the bed.

  “Put your feet up for a while, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

  Liz felt a fraud lying there on the bed while she allowed Grant to pamper her with a cup of tea and concern. She wanted to scream the truth at him, but she did not dare, so she acted out this disgusting charade to the bitter end.

  “At the rate you’ve been packing we could leave within the hour instead of in the morning,” said Grant eventually when he took the empty cup from her and placed it on the bedside cupboard.

  “I don’t like leaving things to the last minute,” she explained. “That’s when one is inclined to leave something behind.”

  “Don’t forget to pack yourself, will you? I wouldn’t want to arrive in Johannesburg and find you’re not in any of the suitcases.”

  “Silly!” she laughed, aiming a playful blow at his strong jaw.

  “It made you laugh, didn’t it?”

  Their eyes met and her laughter faded, leaving only the terrible feeling that what she had was only temporary and, in one fluid movement, she sat up and threw her arms about his neck.

  “Oh, Grant!” she whispered brokenly against his shoulder. “Hold me tight, I’m so afraid.”

  His arms were hard and comforting about her, and she could feel his throat vibrating with soft laughter against her lips. “I’m the one who should be afraid, not you.”

  Liz did not answer him, but simply clung to him in a desperate effort to find some reassurance in the hard warmth of his body against her own. How could she tell him of her fears? How could she explain that gnawing suspicion that their time together was limited, and how could she tell him of the uncertainty with which she viewed the future now that she knew of the possibility that Myra might be returning to South Africa, to her old hunting rounds, and to Grant in particular? No! She would prefer him to think she was simply afraid for him, and she decided to leave it at that.

  Grant’s home was a two-storied mansion set among trees, shrubs, and spacious lawns, and Liz felt as though she had arrived at a five-star hotel when white-coated servants appeared as if from nowhere to unload the car as well as the trailer Grant had attached to it.

  The house was imposing on the inside as well as the outside, but it did not quite match up to Liz’s idea of what a home ought to be. The furnishings were modern in the extreme in expensive glass and chrome, and the chairs in the living-room looked very much like elephant-sized bean-bags of the variety Liz used to play with a child. There were mirrors everywhere, making the rooms appear larger than they already were, and ankle-deep shaggy carpets covered the floors. Ultra-modern paintings adorned the walls in every room, their colours bright, their symmetry precise, but none of them made sense. Grant took her on an inspection tour of the house, and Liz felt as though she were turning the pages of a glossy magazine which depicted only the very latest inn furnishings. It was all very beautiful, and very impressive, but it lacked that homely, lived-in feeling.

  “How on earth did you manage to live all on your own in a house this size?”

  Ill-chosen words! She realised this the moment she caught that look in Grant’s eyes. He had lived here with Myra, and Liz had been foolish enough not to realise it from the moment she had entered the house. Myra’s stamp was all over the place, and the most glaring clue had been all those strategically placed mirrors. Myra was beautiful, and she thrived on the admiration of men almost as much as she enjoyed admiring herself. In this particular showcase there could have been no possibility of missing herself, for wherever one turned there was a mirror to catch a pose, gesture, or that look of admiration in a man’s eyes even if he sh
ould be standing behind one.

  There was, however, no admiration in Grant’s eyes when they met hers in the mirror across the room, only cold disdain, and his very silence gave Liz that answer to her question. A little shiver coursed its way up her spine, and she wondered how she was going to live with him in this house which must hold so many memories of his long affair with the beautiful Myra Cavendish.

  They were in the main bedroom, and Liz looked about her warily. One entire wall was mirrored, and so also the ceiling, and the adjoining bathroom was mirrored fantasy with a sunken, heart-shaped bath which had been tiled in mosaic. There was something conceitedly feminine in what Liz saw, and she knew at once that this had been Myra’s bedroom. Grant, she supposed, had shared it with Myra and, oh God!…she had to get out of it!

  “I thought we could use the suite across the passage,” said Grant as if he had guessed her repulsive thoughts. “It’s smaller, it doesn’t get as much sun, but it’s less ostentatious.”

  Relief washed over her almost like a belated blessing when he guided her into the suite he had mentioned. He was right, and there was nothing ostentatious about this room except perhaps the view from the window down on to the marble, oval-shaped pool, and tennis courts. There were no unnecessary mirror, no glass and chrome, and no shaggy carpet. The colours were predominantly blue and white, and the furniture had been made of solid, sturdy wood. The adjoining bathroom was blessedly ordinary with white, tiled walls, and for the first time Liz felt genuine pleasure at what she saw.

  “Yes, I like it,” she announced, smiling shakily up at Grant.

  “I thought you would,” he said curtly. “I’ll have our bags brought up, and the rest of your things could go into that small lounge downstairs. You may refurnish it if you wish, and use it as a study to work in.”

  “Thank you, Grant, and …” She caught at the sleeve of his jacket when he would have turned away. “Don’t be long.”

  “You don’t like this house, do you?” he mocked her.

  She was glad he had called it a house, and not a home, for the nearest thing to home was this suite, and looking up into his eyes, she said carefully, “Not very much.”

  “We’ll find ourselves something else in time.” He caught her chin between his fingers and kissed her briefly. “I won’t be long.”

  While Grant was out Liz made use of the bathroom and freshened herself up after their long journey from Pietersburg. They had taken their time, stopping for lunch along the way, but Liz felt dry and in need of the tea grant had ordered soon after their arrival.

  He was waiting for her when she emerged from the bathroom. Their suitcases had been placed in a neat row at the foot of the bed, but the unpacking could wait until after they had had their tea. She linked her arm through Grant’s when they went downstairs, and the mirrors reflected their images of a tall, dark, magnificently proportioned man, and a fair, slim girl whose head barely reached his shoulder. Liz could not help seeing herself in those hateful mirrors even though her gaze was directed at Grant. He looked as bronzed and fit as she had always remembered him.

  He no longer limped, and his long, lithe strides had been shortened to match hers. It was still difficult to believe that this man was her husband, and when at last she looked at her own image in the mirrors she found it equally difficult to understand why he had married her. She was plain in comparison with women such as Myra Cavendish, and her slim, straight figure was certainly not of the variety which would drive men wild with desire. Liz was so busy criticising herself that she missed entirely her town most outstanding features; her soft, generous mouth with the passionate curve to the upper lip, and her large brow eyes which might have been dipped in gold, Her eyes, if she but knew it, were the mirrors of her soul, and Grant, if he but cared to look, would have found there what most men spend their lives searching for.

  Tea was served to them in the living-room, and Liz felt her facial muscles tighten while she poured. Myra’s stamp was here as well, and the tea-cups were of modern pottery instead of conventional china. The desire was strong to fling the cups at the offending mirror against the opposite wall, but Liz controlled herself sufficiently to hide her irritation from Grant.

  “I think I should start unpacking,” she said when they had had their tea and the conversation dwindled, but Grant took her hand and drew her out into the garden.

  “It’s all being taken care of,” he explained.

  Liz felt odd. For the first time in her life someone else, other than herself, would be handling her clothes, and she could not quite decide whether she liked it or not, but she chose at that moment no to make an issue of it.

  The enormous garden was an autumn serenade of green, gold, and vermilion, and the cool breeze scattered the fallen leaves into a colourful carpet beneath their feet. A thick strand of hair blew across her face, and when her attempt to brush it away were unsuccessful, she removed the scarf from about her throat, intending to use it as a ribbon of sorts.

  “Leave it,” Grant ordered at once, taking the scarf from her hands and pushing it into his jacket pocket. “I prefer to see your hair blowing free like that.”

  “But it’s so untidy,” she protested.

  “When you tie it back into a ponytail you become ‘Liz the horror’.” His hands caressed her cheeks and her throat before becoming entangled in her hair. “When you leave it free like this I don’t somehow have the feeling that I’ve robbed the cradle.”

  “Poor dear,” she teased, trying to ignore the way his nearness stirred her senses. “Do I make you feel ancient?”

  “It’s not that I feel particularly ancient,” he smiled, sliding his hands down her back and drawing her closer until the muscled hardness of his hips and thighs were against her own. “The problem is that you’re so young,” he dropped the proverbial ball back into her court.

  “If you’d said that to me six years ago then I could have understood it,” she said against his descending mouth. “I was so young then you barely noticed me.”

  “Oh, I noticed you all right,” he laughed deep in his throat. “You foiled every single attempt I made to get Pamela to myself, and I could have wrung your little neck at times,” he informed her in between tantalising kisses.

  ”You always looked as if you were ready to conquer the world, let alone Pamela, and I had to do something to keep your male ego intact.”

  He raised his head and smiled derisively down into her eyes. “You imagined I would fail with Pamela?”

  “I didn’t imagine it, I knew it,” she stated emphatically. “Pamela was always a flirt, but she had rigid principles with regard to sex.”

  “What makes you think she wouldn’t have discarded her principles for me?”

  “We three Holden girls are as different as cheese, chalk, and mealie pap, but we do have one thing in common.” Liz leaned back in the circle of his arms and raised her grave face to his. “We have to love a man before we’ll allow him to take liberties of such an intimate nature, and then it must occur within the bounds of marriage.”

  “Marriage before sex is considered old-fashioned,” he mocked her.

  “If that’s our opinion then why didn’t you attempt to lure me into your bed before we were married?”

  He released her so abruptly she would have fallen had she not been holding on to his shoulders, but she let go the minute she steadied herself.

  “I’d lost my appetite for that kind of relationship with a woman,” he explained harshly, thrusting his hands into his pockets and turning from her. “I wanted a marriage, something stable and solid, and I knew that with you I could have the kind of life I wanted.”

  A joyous warmth invaded her heart and brought a light of tenderness to her eyes. “I think that’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever paid me.”

  His lips twitched. “It wasn’t intended as a compliment.”

  “You don’t mind if I take it as one, do you?”

  “Please yourself.”

  She would please hers
elf, she decided, slipping her arm through his when they walked back to the house. It was gratifying to know that he had considered her capable of giving him the stability he had needed in marriage, and it was something she would cling to if ever she had doubts about their future.

  Liz felt lost somehow with nothing to do. Their suitcases had been unpacked and neatly stashed away in one of the built-in cupboards, and Grant had told her quite bluntly that she would not be needed in the kitchen. What, she wondered, had Myra done with herself all day? But then, Liz supposed, Myra’s modelling career must have kept her extremely busy, and this house must have been simply a place to sleep in, or a spacious venue in which to entertain her friends and Grant’s.

  Damn Myra Cavendish! Liz did not want to think of her, but she could not help herself. She felt her presence everywhere, from the grotesque-looking Buddha in the hall to the lingering fragrance of her heady, expensive perfume in the room across the passage. Oh, why did Grant have to bring her here to this house of mirrors with its memories of another woman?

  Dinner that evening was five-course meal which made Liz feel ashamed of her own elaborate efforts in the kitchen-prawn cocktails, celery soup, fish soufflé, tender veal with the greenest peas she had ever seen, and small baked potatoes. To round off the meal they had date sponge and butterscotch sauce, with cheese and biscuits to follow.

  Their coffee was served in the living-room, and Liz felt mentally winded by the time they went upstairs to their room. It was like living in a different world; a starchy world which seemed light years away from those cosy evening around the kitchen table with the dishes piled high in the sink, and a mug of coffee in their hands.

  She felt sad, too, as if she had lost something which might never be returned to her, and she swallowed convulsively at the lump which had risen in her throat.

  Grant showered while Liz soaked in the bath, and he was lying in bed smoking a cigarette when she finally came out of the bathroom. He smoked less these days, and it was something for which she was grateful, but at that moment she was more concerned with her senses being stirred at the sight of his wide, bare chest where the dark, rough hair curled tightly against his bronzed skin. The muscles were taut across his flat stomach, and she had been married to him long enough to know that beneath the sheet he was narrow-hipped and long-limbed with muscled thighs and calves.