by Daphne Clair
'Your husband doesn't approve?"
' I t i s n 't t h a t ex a c t l y . B u t we don't need the money, a n d I ' m n o t trained for anything."
So what do you do with your time?'
'Various things.' She told him about the art clas s, making a funny story of her failure, and he laughed delightedly. Then she described the pantomime, and he watched her face as she talked, asked her questions about the production, the costumes, the dialogue. She sang one of the ditties that she had written for it, a wicked little spoof on a well-known song, with some comic references to current events. His enjoyment of it was obvious, and he asked, 'Do you do much of that sort of thing?'
'This is the first time. It was fun, though.'
'I'd like to see the show.'
'You don't mean that. An amateur panto?'
'I don't say things I don't mean. It sounds great. Is it only for the hospital patients?'
'And a few members of their families. If you're really interested ---'
'Yes?' he prompted, as she hesitated. 'Could you sneak me in if I disguised myself in bandages, do you think?'
She smiled. 'No. I was wondering, if you had the time, if you'd like to come along some time and give us some advice. As a professional.'
'I'd love to. If your producer won't mind.'
T can guarantee she'll be delighted. We're all beginners at this, apart from one or two of the singers who have some experience.'
'Tell me when. I'll try to be there.'
'That's a rash promise. Aren't you busy?'
'I have to drop a take in at the studio, then I'm officially on holiday for the next three weeks. Can I give you lunch?'Catherine looked surprised, and a little wary.
'No strings,' he said. 'Husband wouldn't approve?'
She didn't know if Jason would 'approve'. This situation had never arisen before.
'Lunch,' Russel Thurston said. 'In a public place. You said you were at a loose end.'
'I'd like to have lunch with you,' she said. 'If I'm allowed to pay my share.'
She felt slightly reckless, but where was the harm in it? She liked him. He liked her, but he wasn't coming on with any sexual invitations, by word or look. Of course he had noticed she was female, had said frankly that he thought her a pretty woman, but there it had stopped. No suggestive glances, no 'accidental' touches. He was a nice man. Safe.
He was smiling at her again. He had a very attractive smile.
'Are you a liberated lady?' he teased her.
She made a little grimace. 'Hardly. I'm the typical suburban housewife, with my regulation two point five children, a cabbage of the worst kind.'
'You're no cabbage,' he said, amused. Then, his eyes sweeping over her slimness, he repeated, 'Two point five?'
'I didn't mean that,' she said hastily. 'It was a figure of speech.'
He grinned. 'A pigeon pair, are they? A boy and a girl?' She nodded, and he said, 'Sounds like you've got it made, lady.'
'Yes, doesn't it?' Catherine heard the bitter note in her voice, was immediately shocked at herself. Why had she sounded like that? Russel Thurston had noticed, too. He had that look again, I'm not saying a word, b u t . ..
Involuntarily, she said, 'Don't do that!'
He looked startled, 'What?'
'Don't look at me like that. I am perfectly . . .'
As her voice tailed off, he looked at her unsmilingly. 'Tell me again how happy you are,' he said softly. 'I'm not ingoing '
Catherine bit her lip. This was ridiculous. It wasn't happening. How could a man she had met less than half an hour ago be dredging up feelings she had scarcely known about, herself? Simply by saying nothing?
She kept her eyes on the road. There was more traffic now. They had crossed the long bridge at Mangere, over the arm of the Manukau, skirted Onehunga, and climbed the slope to pass One Tree Hill with its obelisk and crowning tree.
She drew up at a red traffic light. and said, 'Maybe lunch isn't such a good idea.'
He waited until the lights were green and the car was moving forward.
'What's changed in the last ten minutes?' he asked quietly.
'My mind.'
He laughed. His look at her was speculative. 'I'm no danger to you, Catherine,' he said. 'I don't go round preying on frustrated married ladies
---'
'I am not frustrated!' she snapped. She had noticed his use of her name, found it strangely intimate, disturbing.
'Fine,' he said, and his voice had hardened slightly. 'Then stop being so silly, and have lunch with me.'
He had knocked her off balance with that. She slowed for another set of lights, picked up speed as they flicked from red to green, and asked, almost humbly, 'Am I being silly?"
Gently, he said, 'Yes, you are, rather. You said you'd like it—lunch together So why deprive yourself? Change your mind again."
marriage under fire 'All right,' she said after a moment. 'Where to? We're nearly in city centre.'
He directed her to the studio car-park, into the space reserved for his own car. 'Come in?' he invited. 'Have a look around?'
She was tempted, but shook her head, shyness intervening. There would be people there, his workmates, wondering who she was, what she was doing with him. Really, it was simple enough to explain. She had pranged his car, given him a lift. Anyone would have done the same. Still, she stayed in her seat. Til wait,' she said.
'Promise?'
She withdrew a little, invisibly. It wasn't that important.
She saw his eyes on the keys in the ignition, but he removed his gaze to look at her. 'Be here when I get back,' he said. He turned to collect his bag, and got out.
He wasn't away long. When he returned, he didn't get into the car but said,
'I know a place not too far away. Would you like to leave the car here and walk? It saves finding parking.'
Catherine agreed, and slid out of her seat with his hand lightly on her arm.
He withdrew it as soon as she had straightened, and only touched her again as they crossed the road, when his fingers curved about her elbow for a few moments.
The restaurant was small and clean, brightly decorated for the luncheon trade. They had crisp salads and crusty French bread with cold meats, then strong, pungently dark coffee afterwards. And they talked. Catherine talked.
She didn't remember when anyone had taken such a blatant interest in what she had to say. She felt herself sparkling all over, suddenly more alive than she seemed to have been in months—years.
They had lingered ovet the coffee and when she glimpsed his watch and checked her own, alarmed, her fust thought was that she must get home before the children.
Of course, the children were not coming home, she could stay indefinitely if she wanted, but the sparkle evaporated. She became anxious and jittery, and said she had to go.
Russ—most people called him that, he said—didn't argue He lei her pay her share of the bill, his grin a little rueful, and then he went with her back to her car.
'Can I drop you somewhere?' she asked him, half fearful that he would accept, although another part of her wanted to prolong the delightful companionship they had shared.
His look was assessing, thoughtful. She fancied he could read her indecision. 'No, thanks, Cathy,' he said. 'Don't forget to let me know when I can come to a rehearsal of the pantomime, will you?'
She smiled, relieved, not analysing the relief. 'I'll call you,' she said. Cathy.
Nobody had called her Cathy since her schooldays. Russ said it easily, as if he had known her, even then.
Crazy, she told herself as she drove through the busy streets, going home.
Crazy. Having lunch with a man she had never met before. Telling him—
what had she told him? Silly things about her childhood, about her early, nervous attempts at entertaining as a young bride, stories about Michael and Jenny. She must have bored him. Who wanted to hear stones about the cute sayings of other people's children? But he hadn't been bored. He
had laughed, questioned, commented, encouraged. And told stories in his turm about his work, the personalities he met, the people he had interviewed in his reporting days. It had been—nice. Really a nice afternoon. Her mouth kept curving into a smile as she remembered his anecdote, that remark.
When she got home she would phone Bridie Hawkins, who, with help from all and sundry, was the nominal producer of the show, ask her when Russ could look in on them.
'You look better already,' said Jason, after he had kissed her. He had come in while she was mixing a salad for their evening meal, his briefcase still in his hand. He stepped back and surveyed her, making the unexpected comment.
'Better?' Catherine repeated.
'You've been looking tired lately.'
Had she? 'I don't know why,' she said. 'With the children both at school, I'm not exactly overworked. There's far less to do than when they were babies.'
'You've been spending a lot of time at the hospital, though, haven't you?
Did they get off all right? No floods of tears?'
'Not really,' she said sadly, and as he looked at her sharply, 'No. Michael shed one small one. Jenny was very brave.'
Jason smiled. 'You too?'
'Me too. Only I---'
He had his hand under her chin, preparing to kiss her again. 'Yes?' he said.
'Nothing. I'll tell you later.'
His brows went up a little, and he let his hand drop and turned away.
Over their coffee, Catherine told him, 'I had lunch with Russel Thurston.'
'Who?'
'Russel Thurston. He's a television producer.'
'Oh, yes. He did Flames of Fury.'
'How did you know that? '
Jason looked amused 'His name was on every episode. He's good. I didn't know you knew him.'
'I ran into his car at the airport.'
'What?' His brows drew together.
'It's all right. I lie damage wasn't very bad, and the insurance will take care of it, won't it?'
'That's not the point!'
'I know, I'm sorry. I suppose I wasn't concentrating, hut I did look in the rear-view mirror, and honestly I could have sworn the way was clear.'
'Stop making excuses, Catherine!'
She looked down at her half-empty coffee cup and was silent. He sounded exasperated.
Jason said violently, 'I'm not bothered about the damage to the cars—yours or his. Or what caused it. Are you all right?'
'Yes, of course.' Her voice was husky with surprise and residual hurt. He had been concerned about her. She felt guilty, abased. 'You said yourself I was looking—well.'
'Yes.' He relaxed, the frown easing.
'I'm sorry, Jason.'
He shook his head impatiently. 'It doesn't matter. As long as you're all right.'
'No one was hurt. It was a silly accident. But he couldn't drive his car after it, so I gave him a lift into Auckland.'
'And had lunch.'
'Yes. I paid for mine.'
'Did you? How liberated of you!'
She looked up at him, smiling. That's what Russ said— '
Jason was watching her lathei Intently.
She stared again at her coffee cup, picked up the spoon in the saucer and put it down. Jason said, 'What are you trying to tell me, Catherine?'
'Nothing.' She looked up again, disconcerted by the keen gaze he was bending on her. 'Just about meeting someone interesting, having lunch with him, that's all. It was—pleasant.'
'Pleasant?'
'Yes.' She met his eyes with defiance in the sparkling green of hers. 'Are you jealous?'
'Should I be?'
'No.'
'Then I'm not jealous. You gave a man a lift, had lunch with him, enjoyed it.
Fine. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Have lunch with me, one day.'
'Could we? That would be nice.'
'Yes, I think it would.' He smiled, then said, 'But not this week. I'm tied up every day.'
The warm glow of surprised pleasure she had felt faded a little. 'Next week, then,' she said brightly, wondering if he would remember, or if he would get
'tied up' again.
Suddenly she was tired. Lunch had been an interlude, a few hours of fantasy, of being a person in her own right, not somebody's Wife, somebody else's mother, but a person that another person could take an interest in for her own sake. A woman that a man wanted to take to lunch, wanted to talk to, wanted to listen to, liked looking at.
She had lunched with Jason before, when he was entertaining clients or business colleagues. And sometimes she had met him with the children for lunch. She couldn't remember the last time they had met for lunch alone, away from home. Before Michael was born, probably.
Tomorrow—what was she doing tomorrow? The refrigerator needed cleaning.
She ought to do that. She had been letting stocks get low in the freezer compartment so that there wouldn't be much to leave out while the job was done. She could go out and buy some mon frozen foods to restock it. Not that they would need a lot while the children were away. Tomorrow was another day. Another day like so many other days that had gone before it.
Except this day. This day, today, had been different.
Catherine went to bed early, missing the nightly battle of sending the children oil for a bath, checking that after all the Hooding of the bathroom floor, and disintegration of the soap in murky water, the wringing wet towels and the reluctance to get out following an even greater reluctance to get in, they had actually managed to get some of the soap and water on themselves. And she missed reading the story that Jenny still insisted on, and that Michael pretended not to be listening to.
She settled into bed and turned the reading lamp on, opening a thriller she had borrowed from the library, but the plot didn't hold her. She thought about Jenny and Michael turning to wave to her before they disappeared with the smiling stewardess who had shepherded them away from her. And about Russel Thurston saying, 'Tell me again how happy you are.'
Jason came in. He looked over at her and said, 'In bed already? Tired?'
'A bit.'
He seemed to hesitate before he walked over to the bed and sat on it, turning hei book so that he could see the cover.
'Bloodthirsty tastes you have,' he commented, raising his brows at the the picture of a half-nude blonde girl with a dagger in her heart.
'It's not as bad as that, really. You can't judge a book by its cover.'
'Now, there's an original remark!'
'You like it? It's yours.'
'Gee, thanks,' he said dryly, making her smile.
He smiled, too, then reached his hand around behind her and pulled her close to kiss her. His mouth touched her gently, a question in his kiss.
Catherine found her mind diving here and there, behind her closed eyes images of the plane disappearing into the distance, Michael wiping a surreptitious tear on his sleeve, Russ with his fingers just touching her elbow as they crossed the road ... and Jason frowning, saying, 'It doesn't matter, as long as you're all right.'
The mouth on hers became firmer, wanting an answer, and a warm trickle of response began to flow from her thighs upward through her body. Her lips were acceptant, quiescent, but just-as she was about to obey the sluggishly awakened impulse to return his kiss, Jason lifted his mouth from hers and said, 'You'd better not read too long. Get some sleep. I've got work to do in the study.'
At the door he said goodnight to her, and she automatically returned it. She read hardly a chapter before she put out the light to court the sleep that wouldn't come. But a long time before Jason came to join her, oblivion overtook her at last.
CHAPTER THREE
Bridie had been delighted at the idea of having a real live TV producer along to give his advice on the production of the pantomime 'Fantastic!' she had said. 'How did you manage to get hold of him?'
'Accidentally,' Catherine admitted. 'I backed into his car.'
Bridie shrieked, laughing. 'You didn't! Wow, that's what I call en
terprising!'
'I told you, it was an accident,' Catherine protested, smiling. Bridie was irrepressible, bubbling over with joie de vivre, always ready for a laugh. She had five children, four of them teenagers, the youngest a little older than Michael, and she managed to handle her family with apparent ease while still finding time to play tennis once a week, and serve on a school committee, help take meals on wheels to old folk, and be secretary of the swimming club, as well as take part in the hospital visiting and producing the pantomime. She was plump and freckled with a halo of frizzed sandy hair framing a perpetual friendly, rather mischievous smile, and Catherine admired her greatly, envying her energy and her capacity for enjoyment.
The admiration was shared by Bridie's husband. Paul Hawkins was a dark, quiet, thin man who was a company secretary—one of the best, according to Jason. Beside his effervescent wife he seemed ready to fade into the wallpaper, but those who got to know him discovered a puckish sense of humour Hand a sincere interest in other people that made him a very good friend.
Bridie said, 'Does Jason know you go about bumping into strange men?'
'I don't make a habit of it. Do you want to meet him or not?'
'Of course I do! When can he come?'
'Tell me when it suits you, and I'll phone him. Better still, I'll give you his number and you can arrange it yourself.'
'No, no. You know the rehearsal nights. Any time will do me just fine.'
So Catherine made the arrangement, and was warmed by the pleasure in Russel Thurston's voice when she told him who was speaking. It was only a short conversation, but he said he was looking forward to seeing her again, and she reciprocated before putting down the receiver.
He strolled into the rehearsal looking handsome and casual in dress jeans and an open-necked blue knitted cotton shirt. They were doing a scene in which Catherine, as the Good Fairy, figured quite prominently. She faltered when he came in, and the rest of the cast stared, but he shook his head and said, 'Please carry on, sorry to interrupt.'
He leaned against the wall until they had finished. Then Catherine introduced him to Bridie and the others, and Bridie asked eagerly, 'What do you think?'