Torrin switched off the microphone round his neck, letting the applause continue, using it to make what he was telling her. 'I want to see you afterwards.'
'No chance. I'm with friends.'
'You must,' he insisted.
'No.'
'We'll see about that. You look ravishing, by the way. Have you been ravished recently?'
'How dare you? This is a public place!' Merril felt herself sneak a blushing glance at the people nearest to them. The applause was fading now, soon his voice, if he continued in this vein, would be booming out across the whole ballroom. She noticed him flick on his mike and hold up a hand.
In the ensuing silence he gave an outline of her short career, then she found a bronze trophy being pressed into her hands with another searing touch of those lips, and she was making a halting thank-you speech, words issuing from her lips like words of a foreign language, and then somehow the ordeal was over and she was stepping down off the platform, his hand steadying her, not leaving hers until the very last moment.
When she got back to her table she was trembling so violently that someone called for a triple brandy, then she was being kissed by all and sundry, passing off the chaotic tumbling of her emotions that made her shake so under the guise of excitement at winning the award.
Afterwards she was desperate to get away before Torrin could carry out his threat to talk to her, but there was an unending stream of well-wishers, hardened newspapermen shaking her by the hand, offers of jobs for which she would once have given her eye teeth. She supplied only the barest of answers as questions about her future plans were thrown at her, and then, with a sigh of relief, she saw Torrin being shepherded between the aisles, and at last the whole thing was coming to a close.
'What on earth was he saying to you when you went up there?' whispered Annie as they got up to go on to the nightclub as planned.
'Nothing,' Merril replied shortly.
'I've never seen you look like that before.'
'So?'
Annie gave a wicked smile. 'He certainly lives up to his reputation. I wouldn't mind joining his fan club myself!' She held Merril's arm, softening the effect of her words. 'You look fantastic. I set the video so you can see for yourself when we get back. I'll warn you, we're having a champagne breakfast!'
An orgy of celebration was the last thing Merril wanted. But there was obviously to be no escape. Dutifully she allowed herself to be swept along with the crowd. They had just reached the double doors at the exit when she felt someone push her from behind, and turning, she gave a gasp as she saw who it was bearing down on her.
'No, Torrin --' she protested as he took hold of her elbow beneath the full sleeve of her silk jacket and began to edge her out of the crowd. Ignoring her protests, he propelled her towards an empty alcove off the main ballroom.
It was littered with the debris of the celebrations—empty bottles, chairs askew, the air heavy with cigar smoke. A mirror behind his head threw back an image of her pale face turned to his.
'Well?' he growled.
'I've nothing to say to you, Torrin.'
He gave a leering smile as if he didn't believe her, and pushed her down on to one of the velvet-covered chairs against the wall, taking another one for himself and placing it directly in -front of her so she couldn't get up without first pushing him out of the way. He straddled it, resting his arms on the back. 'So how does it feel to be flavour of the month?' he mocked, eyes licking over her angry face.
'Why ask me? You know only too well.'
'Merril --' He paused. 'I've missed you.'
'Obviously. That's why you've never been off the phone.'
'No,' he said slowly, 'I didn't ring you.' He didn't explain why-not.
'I'm going on somewhere with friends now, so would you mind moving out of the way so I can join them?'
'Yes, damn you, I would mind!' For an instant his urbanity disappeared under a flash of anger, then the old charm reasserted itself. 'I'd like to see you again . . . please.'
Merril felt her throat contract. Looking at him now in his dinner-jacket, bow-tie undone, hair longer, thickening in rakish curls, she thought he looked like nothing so much as a small boy, crammed unwillingly into a wedding suit, eyes sparking with delightful devilment at the thought of mischief in the offing. He didn't mean to break hearts. He just couldn't help it.
'Say yes and stop teasing, angel --' he murmured, reaching out to take her hand in his.
'You honestly expect me to say yes?' she asked in astonishment. 'Why on earth should I? It was just part of the job, wasn't it? For both of us. Why have a repeat performance? You have hundreds of women throwing themselves at you the way I did. And as for me,' she shrugged, 'I was simply one that got lucky.'
'Merril—please!' There were thumb-prints of shadow beneath his eyes.
'Haven't you ever heard the word "no" before? Are you so used to flicking your fingers and having women fall at your feet, you can't believe it when someone actually turns you down?' She paused, humiliation at how completely she had given herself to him that weekend making her add words she would have erased at once if she could have. She said, 'I got the two things I wanted that weekend, Torrin. I got a view behind the scenes --'
'Yes, I read your article --'
'And,' she went on, ignoring his interruption, 'I got you.'
There was a pause.
'Merril . . .' His fingers slid over her wrist, fell.
'I've already told you I don't want to see you again. What would be the point?' she went on before he could continue. 'I don't happen to regard myself as one of life's "little luxuries"—as you can see, I have a successful career of my own and don't need a man to make me feel important. I exist in my own right. Now move out of the way, will you?' she finished, as harshly as she could. 'This is becoming quite boring.' She was just about to try to push him aside when a voice interrupted.
'Tory, so this is where you're hiding! Come along, do! We're ready to go.'
Merril shot a bleak glance at the woman who stood in the archway. It was the one who had thrown herself all over Torrin after the first performance, the night they had met.
She was giving Merril a disparaging glance, and even Torrin must have been able to reel the air crackle with animosity. He rose slowly to his feet, silently offering a hand to Merril which she dashed to one side with an exclamation of disdain.
'Goodbye, Tory darling,' she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster as she stood up, 'it's been wonderful to see you again. Have a marvellous evening. Remember me to Tom --'
'It's not goodbye,' he said hoarsely, gripping her savagely by the arm, apparently oblivious to the hard stare his woman friend was giving him. 'I'll ring you.'
'You'll have to be quick,' Merril told him sweetly. 'I'm leaving as soon as I've fixed up a visa. I'm going back to Azur.'
Torrin looked stunned and his mouth opened, then closed. She took the opportunity to prise his fingers from off her arm, then, with a pitying look at the other woman, she swept out of the alcove to rejoin the celebrations.
'If it's anything you want to talk about—well, I am your mother.' It was mid-morning and Merril was still in bed, propped up on a pillow, riffling through the messages of congratulation that had come in with the post and trying to recover from the night before. The champagne breakfast had been a riot and she had managed to snatch only half an hour's sleep before the postman woke her. The trophy, draped in paper streamers, stood next to the bed. Banks of flowers made her bedroom look like a sickroom, she thought with a jaundiced glance round. She gave her mother a cheesy smile.
'I'm all right. It's just that, unlike you, I seem to have a penchant for falling for the wrong man.'
'Unlike me?' Her mother burst into a peal of laughter. 'My darling, that was my cardinal mistake. Look at me. Fifty-four—and what have I done with my life? I'll tell you,' she went on before Merril could interrupt, 'I flittered it away on a man who, wonderful though he was, would have preferred a professional servant to the amateu
r ministrations of a loving wife.' She looked contrite. 'Don't misunderstand—I wouldn't have chosen otherwise. But I can see now how your father sat on everything I wanted to do. He was such a dominant character. He would have been better off with someone more like himself, or no one at all.'
Merril didn't say anything.
'I can see I've shocked you. I did love him, Merril... Still do. No one will quite measure up, not even dear old Ron. But he was hell to live with—utter hell. I don't think I had a single night when I wasn't kept awake worrying about him, wondering if he'd come back to me dead or maimed—or whether he'd come back to me at all,' she added with a sideways glance. 'I used to blame his job, taking him off all over the world at a moment's notice. But it wasn't that. If he hadn't been a war correspondent he'd have been a racing driver or something equally foolhardy. I felt each day simply brought violent death closer. And I was right.' Her eyes listened. 'As they tell us, if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But I couldn't.'
'He always seemed wonderful to me,' said Merril in a small voice.
'He was—a marvellous man. And he adored you. But we were simply chalk and cheese. I'm the quiet, home-loving type. Sunday lunch at the golf club, that's my idea of excitement. He needed someone more robust, someone who could keep pace with him, with a similar taste for danger. 'That,' said Millie, taking Merril's hand in hers, 'is why I was so down on your journalism. I knew it would lead you into all kinds of adventures if you turned out to be anything like him. And I was right, wasn't I? I hoped to steer you into something less risky. But I should have known, you're a chip off the old block, darling. And although I know you're going to go on giving me sleepless nights, I know you wouldn't be nappy living any other sort of life. Now,' she said briskly, 'what about this man whose name Annie breathed into my ear last night?'
'It's all over,' shrugged Merril.
'And whose decision was that?'
'Mutual, I suppose.'
'Annie tells me he was the one presenting the prizes?'
Merril nodded, wishing the conversation could be over.
'He certainly looked smitten when you went up—'
'Mother! He's an actor. It's his job to look smitten when there are women around.'
'Think carefully, sweetheart,' her mother warned. 'Ask yourself which is more important, pride ... or love.'
This brief conversation gave Merril plenty to think about. Was her mother saying she should throw herself at Torrin and risk the harrowing pain of being discarded again? It was obvious from Torrin's attitude last night that he wanted a relationship of some sort. What sort didn't take much working out. It was as clear as daylight. His ego, deflated by her rejection, wouldn't let him rest until he had neatly ensnared her again. Then it would be the same thanks-and-goodbye performance as before.
The phone rang and Annie called from the sitting-room to say she would get it. A moment later she was holding it out to Merril with a meaningful expression. 'It's him!' she mouthed.
This time it was the voice Merril expected, sliding down the line with seductive sweetness, telling her how clever she was, how beautiful she had looked last night and finishing up with a suggestion for lunch that day, a celebration for winning the award.
'Look, Torrin, I don't think it would work. We both want different things. And I've already told you I'm leaving as soon as I can. So what would, be the point?'
'I thought you were waiting for a visa?' he asked.
'Yes, but --'
'Then see me once before you go. Please, Merril. See me now, this morning.' His voice seemed to shake. 'I must talk to you, darling.'
'I expect you're acting again. I must say it's very convincing.' Confusedly Merril realised she was on the point of giving in.
There was a pause and she expected to hear him repeat his invitation to lunch, but instead he said abruptly, 'You don't know what acting is. Forget it. I'm sorry I rang so early. I hope I didn't wake you.' The line went dead.
She sank back on to the pillow, her eyes sealed against the pain. Torrin could play her like a fish, offering the bait and, when he got her to the point of acceptance, snatching it away again, to leave her floundering.
The phone bleeped once more and she rummaged among the bedclothes for it with a sneaking hope that he had decided to give her another chance, but it was a foreign voice, and she had to strain to catch what was being said. Her heart leaped. It was someone from the Embassy. Her visa was ready and would she like to pick it up.
As she made arrangements to call in later that day she got an unexpected sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hadn't worked her notice at News and Views yet, not having had the sense of purpose to inform Ray Doyle of her decision to resign. The response would be predictably fiery, and for a moment she saw the huge step she was about to take, opting out, they would say, at the start of a brilliant career. Then she thought of Torrin, the nightmare reality of knowing they were likely to keep on bumping into each other so long as she stayed in London. It would be no good living like that. It was best to make a clean break—to let the pain heal.
With an effort, she managed to force an image of Azur's rugged good looks into her mind, building up a picture of the way he had looked as they had said goodbye. The image was a little faded by time now, half real, half fantasy, distorted by imagination.
It'll have to do, she told herself . . . until the real thing comes along.
A few hours later she was sitting in a taxi bearing her along Baker Street, all the necessary proofs of identity in her bag. The visa would be waiting for her. It would take only minutes to pick it up. Then there was nothing to prevent her from getting out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The taxi was already crossing the park by the time Merril looked out to see where they were. It was a sunny day and London was making the most of it. Children tumbled and shouted on the grass, nannies in starched uniforms gossiped on benches beneath the trees, couples strolled arm in arm, people walked dogs. To Merril it spelled only heartbreak.
A red London bus cut in front of the cab and her driver drummed his fingers impatiently on the wheel before seeing an opening and thrusting them forward with a jolt that sent Merril rocking back. By the time she recovered he was turning off the main road into a tree-lined avenue, slowing as he drew level with the driveway of one of the white Georgian mansions just visible between the trees.
There was something familiar about the Embassy as the taxi turned into the drive. She rapped on the glass partition to attract the driver's attention. Slowly he brought the cab to a halt.
'This can't be the right address,' she told him as he pulled up and slid back the glass.
He reached out for the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled the address that morning.
'These embassies come and go,' he told her, handing the scrap of paper back. 'This is it, all right.' Silently he indicated a brass plaque on the wall facing them by the entrance. It was overhung with white blossom, but the name of the Embassy was clearly visible;.
Merril slid back into her seat and let him take her along the short oval drive to the foot of the steps. There was a uniformity about government buildings, and anyone could make mistakes, she told herself, but the neat circular flowerbed in the middle of the lawn seemed disconcertingly familiar.
An arrow and 'entrance' painted in bold black letters indicated which way she should go, and she went round the side of the building as directed, coming to an open door leading into a short corridor.
There was a bell push with a further sign saying 'Ring for Attention', and one or two doors led off into other parts of the building. There was a perfume in the air like wax polish. A yellow duster lay on a windowsill where someone had dropped it. A bee bumped haphazardly against the window and there was a sense of flowers somewhere outside in the small courtyard on the other side. The air of tranquillity was unexpected after the rush and bustle of Fleet Street.
It would be quite possible, Merril told herself as she waited, for
a portion of the building to be given over to flats. After all, a small country of little commercial or strategic importance would hardly be swamped with applicants wishing to visit it. The building was vast, probably far too large for their administrative requirements, but satisfying the instinct for prestige a foreign embassy required.
A door behind her was opened, interrupting these ruminations, and a woman in a long native caftan came in. Her appearance momentarily dispelled any doubts that Merril had come to the right place.
After stating her business she was at once conducted through one of the doors and along a corridor. She hoped they would have to cross the main entrance hall, for as soon as she set foot in it any lingering suspicions that it was the house where she and Torrin had had that first stormy interview would be dispelled.
But the woman showed her into a small waiting-room nowhere near the main entrance, ushering her in with a little bow of the head. She indicated that Merril would have a few minutes' wait and placed one or two travel brochures on a table beside her before she left.
Merril flicked through them. They were the usual sort of travel pictures, making a beautiful country look ordinary. Rory had put together a better selection for Jeanie while they were there. Even so, the sight of familiar places brought back a rush of memory.
Forgetting the pictures in the brochure, she closed her eyes, composing a series of snapshots of her own—Azur walking down a village street, a crowd of raven-haired children descending on him with screams of unmistakable delight—Azur hoisting two of them on to his shoulders and tucking another delighted brat upside-down under one arm as he kept on walking—Azur leading her to the top of the tower at dawn to watch the mist-wreathed valley come to life—Azur listening to the far-off sound of goat bells borne on the motionless air, turning to her as the sounds grew, as the sun touched the treetops in the valley. Then the sounds of the villagers themselves had begun to prick the silence—a herdsman's cry, a baby, the dry thud of someone chopping firewood—and all the time the white veil concealing the village was being peeled away by the hand of the wind, until at last the sun was full and red above the horizon and the whole village was revealed in picturesque detail.
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