by Daphne Clair
It gave her no satisfaction. It would have been expecting too much for her to actively like Averil, but she didn’t hate her. Poor Averil—did she know what heartbreak she was letting herself in for, that Sholto couldn’t be trusted out of her sight?
Perhaps she did. That could be why she’d decided to give up her flight attendant’s job, because it would take her away from him too often. Staying home was probably a good move. And bringing Sholto back to New Zealand where, perhaps, temptation was less rife. Maybe she hoped that a family would tie him down.
‘Good luck to her,’ Tara muttered, as she bent over the basin to clean her teeth. Averil would be lucky if she managed to turn Sholto into a family man.
Tara still remembered his reaction when she had suggested they might start a family.
‘Not yet,’ he’d said decisively. ‘In a few years, maybe.’
But in a pitifully few years their marriage had been over. Just as well they’d had no children to make the break even more traumatic. Firmly she pushed away the thought that if there had been children things might have been different. Surely Sholto wouldn’t have been so ruthless if he’d had a family to think of?
Don’t be such a fool, she scolded herself, her mouth tingling from the vigour of her toothbrushing. She rinsed
it thoroughly and spat forcefully into the basin. He never thought of you as the mother of his children.
He’d made that very plain. He’d treated Tara herself almost like a child, except in bed. He’d never blinked at the bills for any purchases she made for their home, or the clothes she’d bought. But he had not talked to her about his work or shared his business worries, if he’d had any, had never asked for her opinion before making decisions.
The only reason he’d married her was his inconvenient conscience. And he’d leapt at the first real excuse she had given him to dump her without being totally in the wrong. He’d had to square that with his conscience, too.
Like most people, Sholto liked to look good in his own eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
Tara tried not to think about Sholto any more. She didn’t expect to hear from him again, and told herself it was better that way.
But she was strangely restless, unsettled. She began seriously wondering what the future held for her.
Her business was established now, doing well in a small but comfortable way, and she had no desire to move into larger premises or open another shop. Empire building wasn’t for her. That had been Sholto’s specialty.
She had an adequate social life. Derek, who had never married, was always happy to escort her on the few social occasions when she needed a partner, and if he wasn’t available some other male friend would oblige. She tended not to see them so often because experience had taught her that men sometimes wanted to advance the relationship beyond mere friendship.
Derek understood as no one else did. For some time she hadn’t wanted to see him at all, but Derek had been worried about her, blaming himself. He’d probably saved her from a nervous breakdown, or worse. They had, not without difficulty and residual embarrassment, established a comfortable friendship, and she didn’t want to change it.
She had persuaded herself that her life was all she wanted it to be. Now she was inexplicably wanting more, feeling a sense of urgency, of dissatisfaction, almost of panic.
Sholto was getting married again, taking a new wife and planning a family. Tara’s personal life had been on hold ever since their divorce. She’d been jolted into an awareness of time ticking remorselessly on, of life passing her by.
Trying to shake it off, she accepted every invitation that came her way, determined not to sit about and brood on her fate. She should have realised, she told herself some time later, or perhaps she had subconsciously even hoped, that eventually she would accidentally bump into Sholto again.
It happened at a gala premiere evening for a New Zealand film. She’d agreed to attend with the set designer whom she had met a few times through mutual friends. He’d been scouting for historical artifacts for the film before it was shot, and had asked her to look for specific items that he wanted to incorporate into the sets. Tara had been able to provide a table lamp that delighted him, and several other small pieces, and she was intrigued to see them featured in the film.
Afterwards there was a party at a yacht club on the harbour’s edge, attended by about two hundred people. Ruben, the set designer, introduced her to the stars of the film, the director, and several crew people, all thoroughly pleased with themselves and lapping up the compliments that came their way.
While someone wrung her companion’s hand and congratulated him, Tara’s wandering eyes caught a dark blue gaze, and her hand, holding a glass of white wine, trembled so that a couple of droplets spilled coldly onto her wrist.
Shamingly, she was immediately glad that she had bought a new dress for the occasion, a dramatic black and silver sheath with a low neckline that set off the striking pendant about her throat, a single fiery green opal set in silver.
She looked for Averil at Sholto’s side, but although he stood taller than most of those around him, the crowd was such that she was unable to tell if his fiancée was with him.
With an effort she smiled in a glassy way at the man who was now asking her opinion of the film, and repeated what she’d already said several times tonight, while her skin prickled with the awareness of Sholto’s presence.
The next hour passed in a haze. She smiled and talked and pretended rapt enthusiasm, but the only thing that really interested her was where Sholto was, the only thing that held her attention the sight of his dark head courteously inclined as he listened to someone, the glimpse of an arrogant profile, the occasional sound of his rare laughter that she unerringly singled out from the high-pitched conversation and laughter all about them. He had never laughed so frequently when he was with her.
Ruben had his hand on her waist, guiding her through the crowd towards the buffet that was laid out for the guests. He said something in her ear, and she turned her head, smiled at him, not having heard.
She’d lost sight of Sholto, but as she arrived with her escort at the table they came face to face with him, almost close enough to touch.
For a moment she didn’t even notice that Averil was clinging to his arm. All she saw was Sholto’s face, his eyes glowing darkly with some banked emotion—perhaps reflecting the faint shock in hers.
Instinctively she made to retreat, but Ruben tightened his arm, tucking her more firmly against him.
Averil broke the silence. ‘Hello, Tara!’ she said vivaciously. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Such a crowd, isn’t it?’
Wrenching her gaze away from Sholto, Tara summoned some kind of smile and agreed. They were hemmed in against the table by the crush of people, and there was no hope of escape. Averil was looking questioningly at Ruben, who was smiling politely back, and Tara was forced to make introductions, her eyes rising no higher than Sholto’s immaculate pleated white shirt front.
‘What did you think of the film?’ Ruben asked.
‘Ruben is the set designer,’ Tara explained hastily. Sholto was capable of dispensing some trenchantly damning opinion, and she didn’t want Ruben offended.
Averil was impressed. ‘Really?’ She began to question Ruben eagerly, and Tara, pretending to be drawn to the food laid out on the table, edged away from his confining arm and turned to pick up a plate, randomly choosing savouries and cakes to put on it.
She found Sholto at her side, calmly ignoring her as he took a plate too and placed food on it. Behind them she could hear Averil’s light, pretty laugh. Ruben was making a story of the tribulations that had accompanied his search for historically accurate detail.
Looking down at her filled plate, Tara felt nausea churning in her stomach. Hoping that Ruben would eat most of the food, she backed away from the table, her bare arm brushing Sholto’s sleeve.
He couldn’t have felt it, but his head turn
ed abruptly, his eyes raking her with an almost accusing stare.
‘Sorry,’ Tara murmured.
‘What?’ Sholto was still looking at her, but didn’t appear to be listening. Maybe he wasn’t even seeing her. He had the air of a man who was thinking about something else. He said, ‘Where’s Derek tonight?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
His mouth moved in a slight grimace. ‘Poor bastard.’
Tara gaped a little. ‘Derek?’
Impatiently, Sholto shook his head. ‘Forget it. We’re keeping people from the food.’ He moved away from her to his fiancee, and somehow created a passageway of sorts through the crowd. Averil, her hand curled about Sholto’s arm, smiled charmingly at Ruben, generously encompassing Tara in the tail end of it, and carried on with what she’d been saying to Ruben, so that it seemed natural for him and Tara to trail after them.
Sholto slanted a glance at his fiancée but Tara couldn’t read his expression. Although Tara hung back a bit,
Ruben enthusiastically followed the other two, bearing her with him.
Sholto led them to a relatively quiet corner, and Tara found herself sitting side by side with Averil on an uncomfortably small and hard pseudo-Georgian sofa.
Handing the plate to Ruben, she forced herself to nibble on a tiered sandwich, making it last as long as possible while he chomped through the rest of the fare while expounding on the film industry to Averil, who listened raptly.
Sholto stood politely by looking faintly bored. Tara wondered if he minded being upstaged. But every now and then Averil looked up at him with sparkling eyes, saying, ‘Did you know that, Sholto?’ or ‘That’s interesting, isn’t it, darling?’
Tara wasn’t sure what Averil was trying to achieve, if anything. Perhaps she was genuinely fascinated by the glamour most people perceived in films and filming and the people engaged in making them. Or was she playing some kind of game with Sholto? If so, she ought to be careful. He wasn’t a man to play games with. Tara knew that from personal experience.
She shivered, remembering.
Sholto’s voice said, with an undercurrent of surprise, ‘You’re cold?’
The room was large and high-ceilinged, but grossly overcrowded. ‘No,’ Tara said. ‘Of course not.’ She hadn’t realised he’d been watching her so closely.
Averil turned to her. ‘A goose walking over your grave?’
Tara managed a composed smile. ‘Maybe that’s it. Luckily, I’m not superstitious.’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t wear opals if you were. Unless it’s your birthstone?’ Averil queried chattily.
‘Yes, actually. My birthday is in October.’
‘It’s a lovely necklace.’ Averil smiled quickly. ‘Was it a gift?’
She wasn’t looking at Sholto, but despite the smile and her casual tone, there was an aura of tension about her.
After a moment Tara said in a light, clear voice, ‘I sell quite a lot of this sort of thing in my shop. Sometimes I take a fancy to a piece for myself.’
‘Sholto said you have a little antique shop. It must be fun.’
‘Yes.’ Feeling stifled, Tara stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to no one in particular, ‘I’m going to the ladies’ room.’
‘I’ll come too,’ Averil said, disconcertingly. ‘We won’t be long,’ she assured the men.
It was much quieter in there. Tara made for a stall, locked the door behind her and leaned her forehead against the cool painted wood. She just needed a few minutes alone. Once they got back she would insist that she wanted to leave.
Unfair to make Ruben leave with her, though. It was a big night for him, and he’d probably planned on staying until the end.
When she unlocked the door and came out, Averil was at the long mirror, reapplying her lipstick. She dropped the gold cylinder into her black velvet evening bag and said, ‘I’m glad that you and I can be friendly with each other.’
Friendly? Tara thought. She’d have stopped at civil or polite, herself. She ought to respond in some fashion, but. was unable to think of anything to say.
Averil snapped her bag shut and peered into the mirror, tweaking a strand of pale hair and pressing her newly painted lips together. ‘Was it difficult being married to Sholto?’
Tara’s breath caught. Could Averil be having second thoughts? ‘We’re divorced,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t that speak for itself?’ She was damned if she was going to play agony aunt to Sholto’s wife-to-be.
Looking at their reflections in the mirror, Averil cast her a thoughtful look. ‘He wouldn’t tell me what went wrong. Except that it was his fault—’
‘His fault?’ That certainly wasn’t the impression he’d given Tara.
‘—for marrying you when you were too young for it.’
Tara shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was right.’ If she’d been older she might have found a more mature way to cope with Sholto’s betrayal. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘I was nineteen,’ Tara said, ‘when we met. I shouldn’t worry that history will repeat itself.’
Averil turned at last and faced her. ‘I love him,’ she said, ‘but he can be... difficult, can’t he?’
Let me out of here, Tara thought in near-panic. The last thing she wanted was to become Averil’s confidante. ‘I expect that applies to all men,’ she said tritely. ‘Shall we go back?’
Without waiting for a reply she headed for the door, almost glad to plunge back into the melee in the outer room.
Two older women now sat on the hard sofa, and Ruben and Sholto stood nearby, chatting in a desultory way.
‘I’m developing a headache,’ Tara told Ruben quietly. ‘Don’t let me spoil your evening—I’ll get someone to call a taxi.’
Unexpectedly he argued, insisting that he’d come with her, even as a colleague plucked at his sleeve and tried to carry him off to meet a producer whose name made Ruben’s eyes light up.
‘We’ll take you home,’ Sholto said, turning from a low-voiced exchange with Averil. ‘We’ve had enough, anyway.’
Across Tara’s dismayed objection Averil said, ‘I don’t want to be out late. I have an early flight call tomorrow. Of course you must come with us.’
Ruben looked relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Tara.’ Seeing that she had no choice unless she was to selfishly drag him away from a possible meeting with an important contact, Tara gave in.
She sat in the back of the car, and Averil turned to ask, ‘Where do you live, Tara?’
When Tara told her, she said to Sholto, ‘Darling, why don’t you drop me off first? It’s on the way.’
Sholto didn’t turn his head, but Tara had the impression that his shoulders and neck went rigid. ‘It’s only a few minutes,’ he said.
‘Yes, but tonight I really need my sleep. Could you—? I’m sure Tara wouldn’t object.’
She half turned, and Tara, trapped into agreement, murmured, ‘Whatever suits you.’
His voice clipped, Sholto said, ‘If you really want that.’
‘Thank you.’ Despite the restriction of seat belts, Averil managed to snuggle closer to him, her head touching his shoulder. She whispered something that Tara didn’t catch, and Sholto inclined his head, laying his cheek briefly against her hair. Tara turned to stare with suddenly burning eyes out at the passing street lights and nearly deserted pavements.
He stopped the car outside a block of flats in a well-lit street of solid bungalows and nicely kept flats, and when he’d opened the door for Averil, she insisted that Tara should take her place in the front seat before allowing Sholto to escort her inside.
It was five minutes before he reappeared, walking rapidly back to the car and snapping the door closed decisively after sliding into the driver’s seat.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Tara said. ‘I would really have preferred to get a cab.’
‘I know.’ His voice held a harsh note as he started up the engine again.
/> ‘It’s a long way for you to come back,’ she ventured.
‘I won’t be coming back here tonight. My place is in the centre of the city.’
So they weren’t living together. And tonight, at least, Averil had not wanted company in bed. Certainly she had clearly indicated that she was in the mood for sleep and nothing else.
As if she’d asked, Sholto said unemotionally, ‘Averil’s staying with her parents until the wedding. They have conservative views.’
About living together before marriage, Tara surmised. It had been different for her. Her mother had died when she was barely fifteen and though her father would not have approved if he’d still lived, it had seemed to her that no one would be upset by her decision. She felt a shaft of envy for Averil, because she had parents who cared.
‘What do they think of her marrying a divorced man?’ she asked.
‘Not a lot. But they’ve been welcoming, for her sake. They’re nice people.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ Averil was a nice person. She said it aloud. ‘Averil is, too.’ She had been almost too nice tonight.
‘I know.’
Of course he did. That was presumably why he’d fallen in love with Averil, asked her to marry him.
‘She’s very restful,’ he added.
Tara lapsed into silence, depression settling blackly on her soul. He could never, she supposed, have found her restful. She’d been at first a responsibility, one he hadn’t asked for. Perhaps after that he’d thought her exciting for a while, at least sexually—tempestuous, perhaps. And later? Shrewish, no doubt. He must have been glad to be rid of her in the end.
Absently, her hand went to the pendant at her throat, the silver warmed by her skin.
‘Thank you for that,’ Sholto said, although his eyes appeared not to have wavered from the road ahead.
‘You remember, then?’ she said huskily, her hand dropping to her lap. She didn’t know why she’d worn the pendant tonight. For years it had lain in the bottom of the jewellery box on her dressing table. Well, it had been perfect for the new dress, she rationalised. ‘Averil knew,’ she told him.