by Anne Weale
“No, Mrs. MacDonald isn’t expecting him back from Newmarket until very late,” said Heather. “It was nice of you to call, duckie—but don’t worry. I’m as right as rain again now. Take care of yourself up there.”
After they had rung off, Jane rinsed out her smalls and began the now automatic routine of perfectionist grooming. As she hadn’t told David where she was staying, there was no hope of a call from him tonight. But tomorrow he would be sure to find out her address from Heather and telephone or write to her.
But the next night the telephone by her bed remained silent, and the following morning the desk clerk shook his head when she asked if there were any letters for her.
“Never mind, he’ll phone tonight,” she told herself bracingly.
But her disappointment shadowed the whole day, and when her third night in Scotland passed without the longed-for trunk call from London, she could no longer stifle her misgivings.
On her fifth and last night in Edinburgh, she was so worried and upset that she very nearly put through a call to David’s flat. But, each time she reached for the telephone receiver, something held her back.
Her three days in York were a misery of increasing doubt and suspense. She was tormented by the knowledge that it was she who had made the running on the last night in London. She had invited David to kiss her ... had made it virtually impossible for him not to kiss her, in fact. And what had followed that first kiss was not an incontestable manifest of love, she realized sickly. Perhaps to have thought it was only showed how naive she still was.
Travelling from York to Norfolk for the country house charity show, she found that instead of looking forward to returning to London, she was dreading it. If David had gone to France as he had planned, it would be the end of all hope.
Jane got back to the flat in the middle of the afternoon. She unpacked her case, had a bath, and then paced restlessly about, waiting for Heather to come home.
She had made a pot of tea and was grilling bacon and chipolatas when she heard her friend coming upstairs and flew to open the door.
“Oh, you’re home. I didn’t expect you back till later tonight. How did everything go?” Heather asked.
“All right,” Jane said briefly. “How are things here?” Before Heather could answer, she added quickly, “Supper is ready. Sausages and bacon ... okay?”
“Oh, duckie, I’m sorry, but I haven’t time to eat,. I’m afraid I have to be out on your first night home, but I’ve got a rather special date. Look, I’ll have a quick bath and we can natter while I’m dressing.”
“Who’s the big date?” Jane asked when, fifteen minutes later, Heather came into the kitchen with her cosmetic box.
“His name’s Bill Lancing. He ran me home from the party the night I had that tummy upset. He’s a pilot for B.O.A.C., so he’s abroad most of the time.” Heather moistened a make-up sponge and began to smooth on ivory pancake.
“You sound as if you’ve fallen for him,” Jane said; watching her.
“Well, not quite—but I’m on the brink. You wait till you meet him, duckie. You’ll have to admit he’s rather gorgeous.”
Heather was working on her lashes when, in a carefully casual tone, Jane said, “When does David get back from France?”
“He’s not in France. He changed his mind.”
Jane’s fingers shook as she added milk to her tea. Relief flooded through her.
“Oh, really—why?” she asked huskily.
Heather grimaced. “Can’t you guess?” she said, shrugging. “I told you what would happen, and it has. Margot’s back in town.”
“She—she can’t be. Why, it isn’t a fortnight since her husband died.”
“So what? Margot’s never bothered about the conventions. She’s only wearing black because it suits her. She flew in three days ago. Didn’t you see the pictures of her? Most of the papers carried one. She announced that she was going to return to modelling. Well, it’s quite obvious why. It couldn’t be plainer.” Heather finished doing her eyes and reached for the teapot. “You look whacked, Jane. Was it a very gruelling trip?” she asked.
“A bit hectic.” Jane jumped up from the table, ostensibly to fetch some cheese from the cupboard. “So David cancelled his trip before Margot arrived here?” she said.
“Yes—but after the news that old Frensham had kicked the bucket,” the other girl pointed out. “And he’s been in a most peculiar mood.”
“Has he seen her?”
“Oh, sure. She phoned the studio almost the minute she arrived. She’s staying at the Mayfair Hotel—in their most expensive suite, I expect. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the temptation to listen in on the call. I know it was an awful thing to do, but I just couldn’t help myself.”
“And?” Jane prompted, still foraging in the cupboard.
“Margot asked David to dine with her, and he accepted. Not very eagerly, I admit, but it does suggest she still has a good deal of pull. If I’d been him, I’d have told her to go to blazes.”
“Well, it’s not really our business, is it?” Jane said shortly. “You’d better buck up or you’ll still be in your, slip when your date arrives.”
A few seconds before the door bell rang, Heather laddered a stocking. “Let him in and give him a drink, will you, duckie? I shan’t be two ticks,” she called out.
Shattered by what Heather had told her, Jane had only a blurred impression of Bill Lancing. He was not very tall, stockily built, and fair. After she had introduced herself and offered him a drink—which he refused—they sat in awkward silence, waiting for Heather.
As soon as they had left the flat, Jane’s control snapped. She ran into her room, flung herself on the bed and burst into a storm of anguished tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
ABOUT an hour later, Jane was ironing a blouse when the bell rang. She had already creamed off her ruined make-up and splashed cold water round her eyes. Thinking it was their landlady coming up for the rent, she did not bother to powder or put on lipstick. Shrugging a short housecoat over her slip, she took the rent money out of the cocoa tin on the kitchen shelf, and went to answer the door.
“Hello, Jane.” David stood on the landing, smiling down at her. “May I come in?” he asked, as she gaped at him in dismay.
Hurriedly recovering herself, sickeningly aware that her eyelids were still pink and puffy, she stammered assent. “Go into the living-room, will you. I won’t be a minute.” She darted back to the kitchen and closed the door.
Thrusting the money back in the tin, she did some rapid camouflage work with powder and the little bottle of eyedrops she always kept in her bag. Her fingers shook as she applied a pale lipstick which would not accentuate her pallor.
Oh, damn him, damn him! Why did he have to come tonight when she looked such a mess? When she had no defences prepared.
“How was the trip?” David asked, when she joined him a few minutes later.
“Oh ... tiring. Will you have a drink?”
David nodded, and she poured gin into two glasses and added tonic water.
“Thanks.” As he took the glass she handed him, their fingers touched.
The brief contact sent a tremor up her arm. But her face and tone were expressionless as she said, “Do sit down. What brings you here?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you surprised to see me?”
Jane ignored the question and opened the box of cigarettes they kept for visitors. David shook his head when she offered him one.
“When did you start smoking?” he asked, with a slight frown as he lit hers for her.
“Oh, I have one occasionally,” she said untruthfully. “You don’t object, do you?”
“I suppose not—as long as it doesn’t become a habit.”
Jane sat down on the sofa, swinging her legs up beside her to prevent him from joining her. She sipped the drink, loathing the taste but controlling a grimace. “What’s new in London?” she asked airily.
He shrugged. “Nothing much, I m
eant to write to you.” He paused, his own drink untasted, a crease between his strongly marked dark brows. “But somehow letters or phone calls are never very satisfactory. Jane, about last time—”
“Last time?” she cut in swiftly, looking blank. “The night I had dinner here.”
It was the first time she had ever seen him ill at ease and, in that moment, she hated him. Why must he explain ... apologize? Why make matters worse by telling her in so many words that “last time” had been a mistake? Did he think she had so little nous that he had to spell it out for her?
She said carelessly, “Oh, that! Don’t tell me it’s been on your conscience, David? I’d practically forgotten all about it. Were you afraid I might have lost my heart to you? How absurd! I’m not a country mouse now, you know. I enjoyed it, but I didn’t take it seriously. I’ve been kissed by lots of people. Why not? It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
She drew on her cigarette, then sipped her drink again, not looking at him. I’m in the wrong job, she thought bitterly. I should have gone on the stage. I’ve missed my vocation.
“Do you mean that?” His voice was unexpectedly harsh.
Jane forced herself to meet and hold his eyes. “Of course I do,” she said lightly. “After all, it was my fault it happened, wasn’t it? I did rather lead you on.”
“May I ask what was the point of the exercise?” His tone had the sting of a lash.
But she did not flinch. She got up to fetch an ashtray, and remained on her feet, outwardly nonchalant.
“Yes, it’s all right for you to brush me off—but it must be quite a shock to be brushed off, she thought acidly.
“Oh, it was just an impulse, I suppose,” she said aloud. “Call it a challenge, if you like.”
“I see,” he said tersely. “In other words, another scalp for your belt.”
She managed a light brittle laugh, but her throat felt tight. “You sound most indignant. Are you shocked? I don’t see why.”
He sprang to his feet and, in two long strides, was beside her. It took all her control not to shrink as his hands came down hard on her shoulders. His grey eyes were brilliant with anger, his jaw set hard.
“Your impulses could be dangerous,” he told her bitingly.
His sudden blazes of anger frightened her. She had seen him in many moods—but never like this. He looked ruthless, capable of anything.
His fingers bit into her flesh.
“I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily. I wasn’t to know you would make such a drama of it. Please ... you’re hurting me, David.”
For a second he really did hurt her, his thumbs pressing hard against her collarbones. Then his arms fell to his sides, and his anger was swiftly masked by a look of contempt.
“Goodnight,” he said roughly.
And, before she could speak, he had gone.
After the outer door had slammed behind him, Jane collapsed into a chair, her face in her hands. She began to shake uncontrollably, and then to cry again.
Dear God ... suppose she had been wrong. What if “last time” had meant something to him. If it had not, why was he so furious? Piqued vanity? Would that, alone, have sparked such white-hot rage in him?
Oh, fool ... fool! she thought helplessly.
What had made her over-play her role so irretrievably? She could have saved her face without going as far as she had ... without making David despise her for a cheap, heartless tease.
Mercifully, Jane had ho bookings with David in the following fortnight. The thought of having to work with him again—as was inevitable, sooner or later—made her cringe with mortification.
Heather reported that Margot was constantly telephoning him, but that, as far as she knew, he was not seeing her.
“But he’s been in a super-vile mood lately,” she said, one night about a week after Jane’s return. “So maybe the old black magic is still pretty potent, and he’s having a hard time resisting her.”
“Now she’s free again, why should he resist her?” Jane said tonelessly.
“Well, I think you were right when you said she would have her work cut out this time. David’s no fool. He can’t have any illusions about Margot. You know I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the end, he marries some mousy little thing without an ounce of chic but madly maternal and domesticated,” Heather said contemplatively. “Haven’t you noticed how the most attractive men often pick completely unspectacular wives? I suppose they get a surfeit of glamor as bachelors. David certainly has.”
The first time Jane worked with him again, she felt sick with nerves for hours beforehand. When she reached the studio, he acknowledged her arrival with a formal “Good afternoon” and a glance that made her feel a foot high. And throughout the long gruelling session—it was a broiling day and she was posing in furs—he never spoke except to give her clipped instructions.
At each subsequent encounter, Jane tried desperately to find some way of counteracting the impression that she had become a hard-boiled flirt. But it was impossible. David treated her with an impregnable stony indifference now.
Heather, seriously involved with Bill Lancing, was too absorbed in her own love life to notice Jane’s increasing wretchedness.
Jane hid it as much as she could. But she had lost her appetite, and slept badly. Soon she was losing weight, and waking up listless and heavy-eyed.
One day, after they had been working all morning on pictures for a cosmetic promotion campaign, David said abruptly, “Can you have lunch with me, Jane?”
She was so taken aback, she blinked at him. “Yes, of course,” she said hastily, trying to cover her amazement.
In the changing-room, her heart began to thump against her ribs. Why did he want her to lunch with him? Admittedly the tone of his invitation had not been particularly cordial. But it must indicate some lessening in his coldness towards her. Surely it must?
He took her to an unpretentious chop-house round the corner, frequented mainly by business men. There was a slight lull in the buzz of conversation as Jane and David were shown to a table. But the other patrons might not have existed as far as she was concerned. She had been conditioned to being stared at for a long time now, and was aware only of David.
He ordered their meal without consulting her, and made only a few commonplace remarks while they were eating it.
“Cigarette?” he asked, when the coffee came.
Jane took one, and bent to his lighter. Beneath the table, her knee accidentally brushed his and, absurdly, her cheeks grew hot.
He showed no reaction at all. Leaning back in his chair, his supple fingers toying with the lighter, he said, “You realize, I suppose, that the life you’re leading is playing havoc with your looks?”
“W-what do you mean?” she said bewilderedly.
“I told you once before that you can’t burn the candle at both ends in this job. Don’t think because you’ve got to the top easily, you can stay there with even less effort. You can’t—and you won’t at this rate.” His hand shot out to circle her slender wrist for a moment. “You’re getting too skinny,” he told her flatly. “You’ll have no shape left if this goes on. What time did you get to bed last night?”
“I wasn’t out last night.”
His expression was sceptical. “Well, you look as if you came home with the morning milk. It makes no odds to me. I’m just warning you.”
“Thank you,” she said hollowly. “Have you any further comments to make? If not, I’d better get along to my next appointment. Thank you for the lunch. Goodbye, David.”
“Jane, wait—don’t be a fool.”
But Jane was already on her feet. Chin up, hands clenched on bag and gloves, she stalked swiftly out of the restaurant.
A taxi was cruising down the street. She hailed it and scrambled inside. Huddled in one corner, she had to close her eyes to hold back the hot despairing tears which would ruin her make-up. She almost desperate enough to cut both her afternoon appointments.
What cruel irony that
David should attribute her wan looks to a night life of hectic pleasure-seeking. If only he knew the truth!
It was a beautiful day, and the pavements were crowded with girls in new summer cottons and airy sandals. Watching them hurrying back to work from their lunch breaks, Jane thought bitterly that almost all of them probably had more fun, more dates than she did. Many of them, if they recognized who she was, would envy her. They would never dream that a top fashion model could be lonely and unhappy on her pinnacle.
I was happier in Starmouth, she thought wretchedly. Oh God, what a mess it all is.
For a couple of weeks after that, she did not see David. But they were both booked for an assignment in Paris at the end of the month.
Feeling she must have a holiday or she would crack up completely, Jane managed to fix a free week following the French trip. She planned to stay in Paris by herself. She might even try to get work in one of the cabines of the Paris haute couture, and give up photographic modelling. She knew being a house mannequin would be much harder and more monotonous than free-lancing in London, and not very well paid—but in Paris she might be able to forget David.
On the last working day of the Paris trip, she was posing in the Champs Elysees—with an obliging young gendarme ogling her in the background—when there was a squeal of scorched tires and a sports car slithered to a standstill a few yards away.
“Jane!” The driver sprang out of the car, and strode towards her. “C’est vous—quelle surprise! Comment ca va?” He seized her hands and kissed them.
“Yves!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
It was a measure of her recent state of mind that it had never occurred to her that, in Paris she might meet Yves St. Cyr again.
“But this is wonderful,” he said, in English. “I thought we had parted for ever, and here you are in France—more ravissante than before. Dites-mot, how long are you here? Can you dine with me tonight? Where are you staying?”
Before Jane could answer this barrage of questions, David intervened.
“I’m afraid this is not a convenient moment for an effusive reunion, St. Cyr,” he said curtly to the Frenchman. “We’re working.”