CHAPTER NINE
Annie soon guessed that something was wrong, and when there was no more mention of Torrin Anthony, she did everything she could to draw Merril into her circle of cocktail parties, dinners and weekends in the country. She even persuaded her to attend a summer ball, though it wasn't Merril's scene, and she introduced her to so many eligibles that Merril felt dazed to think that London was crammed with such numbers of wife-hunting young men. But the Nigels and the Hughs, the Frazers and the Richards passed like a distant procession, and Merril was scarcely aware of the hands she shook, the hands, in the back of taxis, she avoided, with a polite distancing smile never leaving her face. She heard herself referred to as 'an ice maiden' and felt only a little guilt that she was throwing Annie's generous attempt to help her through a rough patch back in her face.
'I really have an article to finish she began to apologise more frequently when Annie suggested some entertainment or other, and in fact she began to work increasingly hard, taking on extra shifts whenever she could, and using her spare evenings to build up some freelance work with a group of women's magazines.
Every day as it dragged by seemed like a month, and that first month seemed like a decade. In all that time she would take the long way to the tube on her journeys to and from work to avoid passing Torrin's theatre. One evening it was raining heavily as she came out of the office and, believing she must be over the worst of him, she decided to risk the shorter route, putting her head down, and bravely marching in the direction of the Strand.
Rush-hour traffic crawled and snarled along beside her as she approached the theatre. As she drew level she braced herself, intending to permit herself a quick glance into the glass showcase on the wall outside where Torrin's photograph would be enshrined. But when she drew level she couldn't help stopping.
His image was engraved so deeply into her memory, it was a shock to see the black and white studio photograph, with the familiar face smiling down at her just as she remembered it. Rain was sweeping in great gusts into the portico of the theatre but, ignoring it, Merril went right up to the case and peered in. As soon as she allowed her glance to dwell on that familiar smile, tears began to trickle down her cheeks before she could stop them, and as if in sympathy rain started to streak the front of the glass. She stood for an age watching the drops slowly obliterate Torrin's face behind a watery screen.
'Hello, lovely, you're quite a stranger round here!' A nearby voice broke into tier reverie and she swivelled in surprise at being addressed, then gave a start as she recognised the figure standing beside her. It was Tom, fake fur bedraggled by the rain, his collar pulled right up for protection.
'Rather damp out here. Fancy popping backstage for a cup of coffee and a chat?'
'No!' she yelped, stepping back. 'I mean—it's nice to see you, Tom, but I haven't time to stop.' She looked hurriedly at her watch, wondering if the gesture seemed convincing!
He gave her a friendly smile. 'You'd be extremely welcome, you know.'
'I can't. I really can't --' She half turned. It was sweet of him to say these things, but she remembered what Torrin himself had said about not believing a word Tom told her. She could imagine how embarrassing it would be if Torrin should accidentally walk in and see her sitting there in his dressing-room, chatting to Tom. What on earth would they say to each other? It was something too unbearable to contemplate.
'Must go,' she said hurriedly.
'Take care, sweetheart. We think of you.'
With a gasp Merril plunged off along the pavement. When she turned to look back, Tom was still standing in the portico with the collar of his fake fur tilted against the rain, gazing after her with an expression she was too upset to recognise.
After that there was the awards ceremony.
'Cornel and I are organising a team of supporters. If you win we'll go wild at that new nightclub in Covent Garden. And if you lose—we'll do exactly the same, though with slightly longer faces. Now, what are you going to wear?'
'What?' Merril had scarcely looked up from the article she was rewriting for the hundredth time. The piece about Torrin had gone out long ago, and now she was working on a piece about health farms. The drawback was that an image of a broad, muscular back sliding silkily beneath her hands would keep coming into her head, spoiling her concentration.
She ripped another piece of paper out of the typewriter and turned. 'You're simply ruining my concentration, Annie!' she complained in the sort of tones Tom would have used. Then she gave a wan smile to see Annie's expression. 'Why do I need to dress up? The chaps won't. I shall go as I am.'
'You will not! And if you think they're all going to turn up in baggy coats with leather patches on their elbows, or battle-stained jeans as per usual, think again. You'll have some stiff competition, fashion-wise, and you're not letting us down.'
'I think your priorities are all wrong.'
'Right. All image and no substance. Now, don't be earnest. What have you got?' demanded Annie.
'To wear, you mean? You look. I'd be happy in a sack.'
'I think a trip round the boutiques is on,' reported Annie when she returned from rummaging around in Merril's cupboards. She looked pleased at the prospect.
'I'm glad I'm not put up for one of these awards every day,' grumbled Merril later, after they'd trekked round Annie's favourite shops, bought two complete outfits with hefty discounts, as Annie was known, and finally staggered back to the flat -- with arms laden and feet aching.
'I might do a feature on you, darling. "What to wear for that award-winning dinner"—would you model for me?'
'Will you pay me?' asked Merril unexpectedly.
'You're surprisingly mercenary these days. What are you doing with all this cash you're earning?' It was spoken lightly, but when Merril blushed Annie stopped in her tracks. 'Heavens, what have I said? Is anything wrong?'
'Not at all. But you're quite right—I'm not spending it. I'm saving. I've decided to resign from my job and go back to look for Azur.' Merril gave Annie a baleful stare. 'The paper's too damned mean to send me back, so I'm going to get the fare myself. Azur is the one man in the world who's worth chasing. I'm sick of the Torrin Anthony type. I remember saying to him once that if I was in a hopeless situation I wouldn't put up with it. I'd get out, or die in the attempt. Well, that's what I'm doing now—I'm getting out.
'To me, it looks like running away,' observed Annie caustically as she recovered from this outburst.
'I'm not running --'
'But,' insisted Annie, 'I think you are. I think you're too scared to face up to a little bit of heartbreak. You're running from reality.'
Merril tightened her lips. 'If this is reality, you can keep it!'
Observing her obstinate expression, Annie diplomatically let the matter drop. Merril's outburst put a blight on the performance of trying on new clothes. She couldn't hide what she thought about Merril's intention, and Merril was adamant that she wasn't going to stay in London another week longer than necessary.
'Soon I shall have enough money to go, especially if they take the article I'm working on now,' she explained after the clothes had been hung up out of the way. 'I know what I'm doing. I'll have enough put by to live for some time out there. The cost of living's very low and I have few personal needs. It's for the best, Annie, you'll see.'
'Maybe it's pride that's keeping you apart,' Annie pointed out. 'He may be sitting alone in his millhouse as full of regrets as you.'
'Who will?'
'Who?' Annie rolled her eyes.
There was a phone call for Merril a couple of days before the awards ceremony. It was her mother. 'Darling, I've just heard—why on earth didn't you tell me yourself?'
'I haven't won it. I'm simply a nominee,' Merril explained.
But even so, it's wonderful. I'm so proud—may I come down?'
Merril went silent and her mother's voice came over the line again. 'Are you still there, darling?'
'Yes—but what did you say?'<
br />
'I wondered if I could be there on the night—it'll be quite like old times. But of course, if you're going to be with your friends . . . and—it doesn't matter . . .' Her mother's voice trailed to a whisper. 'I know we've had our disagreements in the past, and you'll be busy, I expect --'
Mother? Listen to me. I'm just surprised, that's all. I thought you hated my job?'
'I don't hate it. I hate what it might do to you.'
She sounded as if she was about to hang up, but Merril nearly screeched into the receiver, 'Listen, of course you must come down! You still haven't seen my flat. And you must meet Annie. We'll do the sights together. And of course I want you to be here.
Mother --?' There was a catch in her voice. 'I thought you hated what I'm doing and—'
'J know you did. You've simply never understood how frightened I am for you.'
'I'm so pleased you want to come up.' Merril gripped the phone as a sudden rush of emotion overtook her. 'But please, promise me one thing, you won't be disappointed if I don't win?'
After she had put down the phone she rocked back and forth on the hall seat with her knees drawn up under her chin, thinking about the harsh words that had passed between them over the years, the wall of misunderstanding built up brick by brick—and she began to see it in a different light. But it couldn't alter the fact that her mother had spent all those years at home, waiting for her father to come back, like the princess in the tower waiting to be rescued by a passing prince.
'Heavens, Merril, you look simply stunning!' Annie surveyed the effect from all angles before pronouncing herself satisfied. She had forced Merril to wear a simple white silk outfit with a wide-lapelled jacket that slipped off to reveal an almost backless short silk evening dress. 'You want something that'll take you from a formal dinner to a nightclub, and you don't want black, chic though it is. You want a colour to make you stand out in the crowd.'
'If I lose, I won't want to stand out --' said Merril.
'On the contrary. If you lose the main award, you may as well get the unofficial one for most stunning creature present. Now stop grumbling and put the jacket back on. It's time we had an aperitif before the horde arrive.'
The doorbell rang. 'That'll be Mother and her beau.' Merril flew to answer it. She had been surprised when her mother had rung back again to say that rather than stay at the flat with the two girls she would be booking into a nearby hotel with a friend. It had come out that the friend was male. Annie had put two and two together.
'If she's half as attractive as you, of course she'll have men-friends,' she mocked when Merril told her about the arrangements. 'She must only be in her early fifties—a very fashionable age these days.'
Now Merril found herself being introduced to a big, bluff stranger with a handshake that could crack the bones of an ox. But his face was sensitive and alive, and he was obviously mad about her mother.
'I'm afraid he s another newspaperman,' Millie Park confessed to her daughter as she sipped a gin and tonic while Ron made himself useful cracking ice-cubes in the kitchen. 'I do seem to be rather addicted to them, don't I? But this one is the stay-at-home kind, I'm pleased to say. I'm even doing a little writing myself these days,' she went on. 'Fiction actually, short stories.' Her eyes, the shade of blue Merril had inherited, began to sparkle. 'Ron's trying to get me to write a novel. I've always wanted to—but I never dared set pen to paper when your father was around. He was always so disparaging.'
'Father?' queried Merril.
Mrs Park gave her a long look. 'We ought to have a heart-to-heart one day. Your father wasn't the little tin god you seem to imagine.'
Ron came back then and soon it was time to leave.
Merril was so chock full of nerves, she scarcely noticed who Annie had picked out to escort her to the hotel where the ceremony was to be held. It was all one to her, she told herself fiercely. As soon as all this tomfoolery was over she would get back to her typewriter and get down to some serious work again. She would have to start scouring the papers for cheap flights as soon as her visa came through, and she couldn't wait to get on with it all.
Television cameras and a gaggle of press photographers were at the ready as they walked into the ballroom where the presentations were being held. The excitement of the occasion reminded Merril of a film premiere. She shivered, catching Damian's eye for a moment, noticing that he was escorting a rather pretty girl from Accounts this evening. Annie had somehow managed to get a table near the front, right next to the one reserved for the men who owned most of Fleet Street. 'I don't know how you do it,' said Merril.
'Charm, darling, nothing else.' Their table was quickly filled by the supporters she had rounded up. Mike was there, in a suit and tie, and he sportingly gave Merril a thumbs-up when she walked in.
'There's no beheading if you lose,' he told her, noticing her pale face, 'but you won't,' he added generously. 'I've got fifty quid on you.' He nodded towards Rory. 'And another fifty on him. I reckon News and Views are going to sweep the board.'
Merril scarcely recognised Rory without a bunch of cameras hanging round his neck. 'Don't you feel naked?' she asked, leaning across.
He pointed under his chair. 'Don't worry, I never go far without the life support system—and look here,' ne turned, 'you haven't met the rest of it.' He introduced a small, dark-haired woman. 'My wife, Jeanie.' They shook hands. Jeanie was bright and pretty, not at all a faded princess waiting passively at home. Merril wondered what the secret was. But she didn't have time to ponder. With everyone sitting down it was a noisy, light-hearted crowd and she was soon swept up in a bantering dialogue with one of Cornel's stock-broking friends, who quickly got into swing of things, and for a little while Merril found herself almost forgetting that this was just a passing show from which she was longing to escape.
She reached out to look at the programme, but Annie put out a hand to stop her, then bit her lip. 'Go on, then. You may as well read it now. I've had the devil's own job to keep it away from you.'
Merril frowned. 'What's the mystery?' She quickly scanned the menu, and the order of toasts, feeling none the wiser, but when she reached the end she gave a little gasp, her blazing eyes turned full on Annie. 'You knew! You actually knew, didn't you?'
'I couldn't tell you. I'd never have got you out of the flat.'
'You're damned right!' Merril's hands were shaking. She read those last two lines again, just to make sure. 'Awards to be announced and presented by the actor Torrin Anthony.' That meant the lucky winner would have to shake hands with him, would have to withstand the lazy scrutiny of those honey-brown eyes . . . She was trembling so much, she had to hide her hands underneath the folds of the tablecloth. Everybody was laughing and talking, no one but Annie knowing of her turmoil. I won't win, don't let me win, she prayed.
The meal passed in a nightmare, scarcely registering. She rose for the toasts with everyone else, sat when they sat. Speeches were made. Television cameras lined up for the part of the evening everyone was waiting for. Merril couldn't see Torrin from where she was sitting, and she didn't try. Her head was bent most of the time and she felt as if she wanted nothing more than to crawl out of sight behind the nearest potted palm.
Then suddenly she heard his voice from the platform. It ran through her like an electric shock. Every hateful rise and fall scored into her brain with the pain of remembrance, his voice caressing her through those nights of love, nights she wanted to forget for ever. Nights of lust, she told herself, wondering miserably why everyone was suddenly turning to stare at her.
'Go on, you fool! Stand up; and smile!' It was Annie, hissing at her across the table. 'You've done it! I knew you would!' Then she started to applaud like a wild thing, and it was taken up by the rest of the crowd.
Merril was aware of a sea of faces surging round her, and they were all smiling, everyone smiling, clapping, her mother's hand reaching out to squeeze her wrist, someone else leaning forward to kiss her, then her chair was being pulled back, and she f
ound herself standing in a sea of light as a spotlight found her.
'Go to the platform, love.' It was Ron. She felt his hand propel her forward.
Then she was being carried on an ocean of applause to the foot of the platform where, if only she dared look up, she would see the man she most longed and most feared to see.
CHAPTER TEN
She was at the foot of the steps leading up on to the brightly lit platform before she dared raise her head. Then she saw a pair of black shoes, the unending length of his legs in the black trousers, a white cuff below the sleeve of a dinner-jacket, one hand clenched, then, suddenly, her head lifted and their eyes met, and it was as if the whole room had been plunged into silence. There was only the unending moment of his eyes meeting hers, the melting, the melding as his glance pierced her to the soul.
He seemed pale, she observed, striving for detachment. His hair was longer, blond and unruly. There were shadows under his eyes, hinting at depraved nights. But his smile dazzled over her as if there was no one else on earth he would rather be looking at. The old charm, Merril tried to criticise—switch it on, switch it off.
She counted the steps to the platform and moved towards his outstretched hand. The lips she knew so well were drawn back in a smile, and to her horror she felt him take her by both hands, pull her gently forward until their bodies were almost touching, then, taking his time, kiss her on both cheeks. Before she could recover, his hand strayed around her waist and he was turning her towards the sea of faces, encouraging their acknowledgement with a movement of his head.
There was no escape from the sensation of his hand on hers. Confused by the dazzle of flash bulbs, the television cameras moving in, the pressure of his hand never leaving hers, drawing her close, she could only count the seconds until such sweet agony should cease.
Fantasy Lover Page 14