by Anne Mather
Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh—what did you say?’ she asked weakly.
‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'
Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I—I—yes, I suppose so. Why—why?'
Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'
Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.
‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I—we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'
Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'
Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'
Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'
Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'
‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'
‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'
‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.
‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'
‘Yes.'
Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter. She had not wanted to go to the concert, but that didn't matter to Victor. So far as he was concerned, any opposition she might raise to his plans was purely negligible.
* * *
She was ready when Victor arrived that evening, dressed in a plain gown of purple wool that did not enhance her colouring. But it was a dress Victor had brought back from Italy after a business trip and she knew he expected her to wear it whenever she could. The black cape she wore with it was more becoming, but as her hair was confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, she still managed to look staid and matronly. Was this to be her role in life? she had asked herself as her fingers trembled fastening the zip of her dress. Constantly aware of the age gap between herself and Victor and his obvious attempts to close it in this way?
The Festival Hall was almost full when they arrived and as Emma had not examined the tickets Victor had been given she was unaware that their seats would be in the front row until they were shown into them. Her heart pounded heavily. Surely Miguel could not fail to see her from this distance if he chose to look. She sighed. Why should Victor have been given such exceptionally good tickets? Surely they would have had no difficulty in selling these seats when almost all the hall was full. She moved uncomfortably. Had Victor in fact bought these tickets especially because he knew she liked the music and only pretended they were complimentary? She glanced at her fiancé uncertainly. If he had done so, then she should feel grateful and not resentful at all.
The orchestra leader came in to a loud burst of applause and after several minutes interval the conductor appeared. Emma waited tensely for the soloist. There was a grand piano waiting for him, a beautiful instrument, sleek and highly polished. Like the performer, thought Emma, with a rising sense of hysteria.
And then Miguel Salvaje came out and weakness flooded her being. Tall, lean; his immaculate evening clothes complemented his dark alien attractiveness, and Emma sank down in her seat, praying he would not notice her.
He seated himself at the piano, the applause died, and Miguel began the introduction to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. There was absolute silence in the hall, and Emma found her initial nervousness dispersing under the pure delight of the music. It was obvious that Miguel was interested only in the instrument under his hands, and his mastery cast a spell over the audience so that when it was over there was a moment's spellbound silence before the applause broke out. Emma found herself applauding just as enthusiastically, and only when he rose from the piano stool to take his bow and his gaze flickered over the front row did she realize Miguel had known she was there all the time. There was no element of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes, but they moved away before she could register any acknowledgment of that brief appraisal.
However, afterwards she had reason to doubt the truth of her earlier beliefs. At no time during the remainder of the evening did his eyes turn in her direction, and she began to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. But she had not been mistaken, she told herself angrily. He had seen her, but whether he had actually been aware of her presence beforehand, she was less positive.
Victor enjoyed the concert without any of Emma's misgivings. Unaware of his fiancée's mental agitation, he could not understand the unusual pallor of her cheeks as they left the auditorium, and suggested that instead of having supper out they should go back to his service apartment and eat there.
But Emma felt that food of any kind would choke her. Forcing a polite smile, she said: ‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Victor. Perhaps if you took me home, Mrs. Cook could make us some sandwiches…'
Victor hesitated, his square face showing his perplexity. Exhaling his breath noisily, he eventually nodded. ‘Oh, very well, then. But I only had a sandwich before the concert, and I'm quite peckish.'
Emma tucked her skirts about her as she got into Victor's luxurious limousine. ‘I'm sure we can find something,’ she observed comfortingly, and Victor nodded without enthusiasm.
In fact, Mrs. Cook was out when they arrived back at the house. Emma realized the housekeeper would not have expected them back so early, and hiding her weariness she made Victor comfortable in the lounge with a drink and then went herself into the kitchen to prepare the food.
There was plenty to choose from: cold ham, plenty of bacon and eggs, salad, a cold meat pie. Deciding Victor would prefer something hot, Emma decided to make a cheese omelette, and she was beating eggs in the pan when the telephone rang.
Frowning, she waited a moment to see if Victor would answer it, and when he did not, she dried her fingers on a cloth and went out into the hall. Lifting the receiver, she gave her number, wondering who could possibly be ringing at this hour of the evening.
‘Hello, Emma!'
The deep accented male voice was instantly recognizable and she almost dropped the receiver from her nerveless fingers.
‘Y—yes, señor?’ she murmured huskily.
‘You enjoyed the concert, si?
Any doubts she had had about his possible recognition of her presence fled away. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, stiffly, politely. ‘You played brilliantly.'
‘Gracias, señorita!’ There was a trace of mockery in his tones. ‘I was sure your—fiancé—would use the tickets.'
‘You were sure—you mean—’ Emma broke off, breathing jerkily. ‘You sent Victor those tickets?'
‘But of course. Did you think otherwise?'
Emma glanced at the lounge door. It was closed, but she could not be sure that Victor could not overhear what she was saying. A pulse pounded heavily in her forehead, and her palms were moist. ‘I—I didn't realize,’ she managed unevenly.
‘But you came.'
‘Naturally.’ She infused a tone of indifference. ‘Why not? Was that why you rang? To find out whethe
r I enjoyed it?'
There was silence for a long moment, and she thought with an awful feeling of bereavement that he had hung up on her. Then he said in a quiet voice: ‘No, I rang because I wanted to speak with you, to hear your voice. I want to see you, Emma.'
Emma's legs turned to jelly beneath her. ‘I'm afraid I can't talk now,’ she said uneasily.
‘Does that mean that you wish to talk at some other time?’ he queried lazily. ‘I gather the worthy Señor Harrison is there.'
‘How do you—’ she lowered her voice—‘how do you know my fiancé's name?'
‘I made it my business to find out.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Will he be gone soon?'
‘Why?'
‘I've told you. I want to see you.'
‘Tonight?’ Emma was horrified.
‘Why not? Tomorrow I have a rehearsal and another concert. My time is limited.'
‘I'm afraid that's impossible,’ she exclaimed, glancing again towards the lounge door.
‘Why is it impossible? Unless…’ his voice cooled perceptibly… ‘you sleep with this man Harrison—'
‘Of course not!’ Emma was furious. ‘I don't sleep with anyone!'
‘No?’ His accent was very pronounced suddenly. ‘What time will he leave?'
The lounge door suddenly opened, and Victor's broad frame filled the aperture. ‘What's going on?’ he demanded, sniffing strongly. ‘Is something burning?'
‘Oh, heavens, the omelette!’ Emma looked down at the phone helplessly, and Victor made an angry gesture.
‘Who is it?'
Emma put the receiver to her ear. ‘I can't talk any more now—J-Jennifer. C-could you ring tomorrow?'
Without waiting for Miguel's reply, she thrust the receiver down on the rest and fled into the kitchen, grabbing the smoking pan from the flame. The eggs were ruined, a brown and lumpy mess in the bottom of the pan.
Victor had followed her and looked over her shoulder critically. Wrinkling his nose at the remains of the omelette, he said: ‘Who's Jennifer?'
‘Jennifer?’ Emma sought wildly for an explanation. ‘You remember Jennifer. She—she and I used to be great friends before she got married.'
‘I thought that was Sheila.'
‘I did have more than one friend,’ retorted Emma, with an amazing amount of composure in the circumstances. She looked down into the pan. ‘Go and sit down again, and I'll make another omelette.'
‘No, thanks.’ Victor stretched his arms tiredly. ‘Quite honestly, after waiting so long my appetite's somewhat diminished.'
Emma bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry.'
‘So'm I.’ Victor turned and walked back into the hall. ‘I'll just finish my drink and then I'll go. You look tired. Aren't you sleeping well?'
Emma moved her head helplessly. ‘Reasonably well,’ she answered. She followed him into the lounge. ‘At least let me get you another drink.'
‘No, thanks. I've had enough. I have to drive home, remember?'
Emma nodded and stood uncertainly, twisting her hands together as he swallowed the remains of his Scotch.
‘What did she want anyway?’ Victor returned to the subject of the phone call and Emma who had thought that matter over made a deprecatory gesture.
‘Oh, she'd tried to ring me earlier, and when I wasn't in, she decided to ring back.'
‘Was it something important?'
Emma managed a smile, feeling the guilt burning in her cheeks. ‘Not really. She's—expecting her first baby.’ That was an inspiration and seemed to satisfy Victor at last.
‘Oh, well, I must go.’ He came towards her, taking her by the shoulders and holding her firmly as he bent to kiss her lips. It was meant to be a very chaste kiss, but Emma, disturbed and needing reassurance, allowed her lips to part beneath his, pressing closer against him.
Victor drew back at once, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth rather vigorously. ‘I must go,’ he said, his face flushed for once. ‘Good night, Emma.'
‘Good night, Victor.'
Emma pressed her lips together and accompanied him to the door. If only he showed a little more emotion! Heavens, they were to be married soon. What kind of a relationship were they going to have if he backed away from the most natural demonstrations of their love for one another?
Victor didn't kiss her again. He squeezed her hand warmly, and then went down the steps. Emma closed the door with a kind of suppressed violence, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a little more experience where men were concerned.
She had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when Mrs. Cook returned. The housekeeper came into the room looking in surprise at the scoured pan. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were eating out.'
Emma had not told Mrs. Cook they were going to the Salvaje concert. It was easier that way.
‘We were,’ she answered her now. ‘But I wasn't very hungry, so we came back here.'
‘So I see.’ Mrs. Cook took off her coat and went to hang it away. Emma realized she had accepted the explanation without elaboration and decided to say no more. There was no point in relating the circumstances which had led up to the present state of affairs unless she wanted to make more explanations. Instead, she said good night, and went up to bed.
But although she was tired, sleep was elusive. She kept wondering what Miguel Salvaje had thought of her abrupt ending of their telephone conversation. She was half prepared to believe that he might indeed come round to the house, but the dawn light was paling the sky when she at last fell into a deep slumber and no one had disturbed the silence of the night.
Mrs. Cook awoke her at ten with a cup of tea. Regarding Emma's pale face critically, she said: ‘You look terrible! Didn't you sleep?'
Emma struggled up and took the cup of tea. ‘Not very well,’ she conceded, pushing back her heavy hair. ‘What time is it?'
‘Ten o'clock. Do you want breakfast in bed?'
Emma grimaced. ‘No, nothing, thank you.'
Mrs. Cook shrugged and walked towards the door. Then she halted. ‘By the way, there was a telephone call for you.'
Emma's nerves tightened. ‘Already?'
‘Yes. That Miss Harding from the agency. She said to ask you whether you could go in this afternoon. Apparently she's short-staffed again.'
‘Oh!’ Emma put down her cup and lay back against the pillows. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I could. Was that all?'
‘What more did you expect?’ Mrs. Cook was curious.
Emma shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.'
‘Did you enjoy the concert last evening?'
Emma stared at her. ‘How do you know we went to a concert?'
‘Miss Harding told me. When I told her you were still in bed she asked whether you'd had a late evening.'
‘I see.’ Emma swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Oh, well, it was no secret.'
‘Then why didn't you tell me?’ Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘Does Mr. Harrison know that Salvaje brought you home the night of the fog and then visited here a week later?'
Emma rose to her feet. ‘No, why should he?'
‘Strange that he should buy tickets for that particular performer, don't you think?'
Emma gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You're an inquisitive old woman, Mrs. Cook!'
‘I know it. I also know that while your father's away I'm responsible for you.'
‘I'm twenty-five, Mrs. Cook!'
‘I know that. But you're still my responsibility. If you ask me, there's something peculiar about the whole thing.'
‘Nobody asked you, Mrs. Cook.'
The housekeeper sighed and her expression became anxious. ‘Miss Emma! You wouldn't be thinking of doing anything silly now, would you?'
‘I don't know what you mean.’ Emma moved towards her. ‘Make me some coffee, there's a love. I'm not hungry, but I could certainly enjoy some of your coffee.'
Mrs. Cook moved aside reluctantly. ‘Oh, all right. Are you going to ring Miss H
arding? She asked if you could ring her back.'
Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I'll give her a ring.'
She waited for Mrs. Cook to move out on to the landing and then she passed her on her way to the bathroom. She knew the housekeeper suspected there was more to this than she could possibly know, but now that she had learned about the concert what more could Emma tell her? There was nothing more.
Emma was in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang. There was nothing unusual in that. Trades-people were always calling. But when Mrs. Cook came to the foot of the stairs and called up to her, her heart began to thump a little more vigorously.
‘Miss Emma! There's someone here to see you.'
Emma rose to her feet, looking helplessly at her unbound hair. It would take ages to fold it into its pleat, so she hastily plaited it into a thick braid and secured it with an elastic band. Her suit looked rather ridiculous with the childish hair-style, but it would have to do.
She hurried down the stairs and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw Miguel Salvaje standing below her. She wanted to turn and dash back up the stairs again, but he had heard her and swung round to face her.
‘Good morning, señorita,’ he greeted her, gallantly bowing his head, and Emma took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs.
‘Good morning, señor.'
Not one would have recognized the elegantly attired soloist of the night before as this casually dressed stranger. Close-fitting denim jeans topped by a navy roll-necked sweater and a waist-length denim jerkin disguised him most effectively, and he could have been taken for a student.
‘You are surprised to see me?’ he inquired, in his lazy accented voice.
Emma shook her head slowly. ‘N-not entirely,’ she admitted. ‘But—’ she glanced round to make sure Mrs. Cook was not hovering in the background, ‘I thought you had a rehearsal today.'
He tipped his head on one side. ‘I did. I do. But I am afraid I am—how do you say it—playing truant? Si?'
‘Si.’ Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘Why have you come?'