by Anne Weale
“And very becoming,” he said softly.
Once again Andrea felt slightly discomposed by the look in his black eyes. She was beginning to understand why he had such an unnerving effect on the less sophisticated Jill.
“A Merry Christmas, Miss Fleming.”
“Thank you. Merry Christmas. Goodbye.”
The presents stacked around the base of the tall Christmas tree were opened after lunch, and Andrea was very touched to find that all the Everards had included her in the little ceremony. Knowing something of their tastes from what Jill had told her, she had brought gifts for them, but had not expected them to be returned.
That night when they sat around the fire in the drawing room, talking about past Christmases, she felt happier than she had done for ,a long time. Later Jill put on the radio and danced with her fiancé, and the three Everard boys took turns to partner Andrea.
Andrea slept badly, and at first light she pushed back the bedclothes and got up. Careful not to wake Jill, she slid open the top drawer of the tallboy and found a thick primrose sweater and a pair of socks. Then, taking her tartan slacks and her brogues from the wardrobe, she scooped up her underwear from the chair by the bed and crept along to the bathroom to wash and dress. Back in the bedroom she scribbled a note to say she was going for a walk and foraged in her Christmas stocking for the orange wedged in the toe. The Everards all had Christmas stockings, and Jill had made one for Andrea, saying that no matter how old one was, half the fun of Christmas was waking up to find a bulky woolen sausage at the foot of the bed.
Hoping the dogs would not start barking, Andrea let herself out of the front door and peered at her watch in the dim gray light. It was just after eight, which meant she had an hour and a half to herself before breakfast. Leaving the garden by the back gate, she set up the narrow lane that led to the moor. It was a chilly morning and she swung out briskly, glad to be free of her tumbled bed and the sound of Jill’s steady breathing which emphasized her own restlessness. By half-past eight she was on the crest of a craggy spur of hillside with the village nestling below her like a child’s toy arranged in the hollow of a rough green and brown bedspread. She was warm now from the exercise of scrambling up the heathery slope, and sat down on a boulder to survey the view.
To the north and south the moors rolled away into the far distance, and London seemed a thousand miles away. She had been sitting on the rock for some time and was peeling the orange when she heard the thud of hooves and saw a man riding across the lower slopes on a powerful black horse. Even before he was close enough for her to see his face, she recognized Justin Templar, and wondered why he was riding so early on a bleak Boxing Day morning.
About fifty yards away from her he dismounted and looped his horse’s reins over the branch of a misshapen silver birch tree. Then he walked up to her.
“Good morning, Miss Fleming. I did not expect to find you on the moor at this hour.”
“I wanted some exercise,” she said, wrapping the orange peel in the pink tissue paper and putting it in her slacks pocket.
“I see you are not guilty of the townsman’s bad habit of dropping litter all over the place,” he said, sitting down on a nearby rock.
“Tidiness is my vice. I hate to see bits and pieces lying around anywhere. Would you like some orange?”
“Thank you. The air up here makes me hungry.”
She divided the orange and handed him half of it. He was dressed in a pair of well-cut but shabby riding breeches and a heavy gray sweater of the kind worn by Cornish fishermen. At that moment he did not look at all like a wealthy financier with every luxury that money could buy.
“You know, you are the only woman I have met who looks presentable at half-past eight in the morning,” he said abruptly.
Andrea laughed. “It’s just as well there are no photographers around. I’m not much of a credit to my job at the moment,” she said, putting up a hand to smooth her windblown hair.
“On the contrary, you are very suitably dressed,” he said, appraising the pale yellow sweater and sleek-fitting tartan slacks. “I have no patience with women who come to the country in clothes that are meant for a town.”
He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to her. They smoked in silence for some time until he said suddenly, “When do you go back to London?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Will you have dinner with me one evening next week?”
She must have shown her surprise, for he said, “Is that such an unusual request?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just that...” She broke off. The man seemed to have a flair for taking her off guard.
“Thank you, Mr. Templar. I would like to.”
“My name is Justin, and I would prefer to call you Andrea, unless that is a privilege you confer only on friends of longstanding.”
“You may call me Andrea if you like,” she said dryly, thinking that he would probably do so in any case. On close acquaintance he gave the impression of being a man accustomed to having his own way and ignoring attempted rebuffs.
Apparently Jill was right about his having his eye on me, she thought with an inward smile. Perhaps he is bored with the redheaded house guest—and I am the nearest diversion.
“Why that speculative look?” he asked, watching her expressive face.
She decided she would match his directness.
“I was wondering why you want me to have dinner with you.”
“Isn’t that obvious? I like the look of you.”
“You make me sound like an animal at a fair,” she said indignantly.
“Human beings are less easy to judge. A woman may have the face of an angel and the brains of a hen.”
“In that case I had better prime myself with intelligent topics of conversation,” she countered.
He laughed and stood up. “Allow me to escort you home. Can you ride?”
She shook her head.
“Then it’s time you began. Come on.”
Amused and a little annoyed by his high-handed methods, she followed him down to the birch tree.
“Up you go.” As easily as if she were a child he tossed her onto the big horse. “Sit astride. Don’t worry. Jason won’t bolt.”
Untying the reins, he swung up behind her. “Comfortable?”
“Not very.”
“Never mind. It’s quicker than walking.”
As they rode back to the house, Andrea was very much aware of his arms encircling her waist. She sat up as straight as she could to avoid accidentally leaning against him and was glad when they reached the back gate and he dismounted and helped her down.
“Thank you. I’m just in time for breakfast. Goodbye ... Justin.”
“Goodbye, until next week.”
He gave her a casual salute and sprang back into the saddle, urging the black horse to a trot.
Watching him ride to the bend in the lane, Andrea wondered if she had been wise to accept his invitation. Later in the day she mentioned the encounter to Jill, who was very excited about it and declared that Justin was obviously in hot pursuit.
“He’ll probably follow you back to town and invite you to the Savoy for a champagne supper,” she forecast.
“He already has. Nothing specific. Just a general invitation to dine one night next week.”
“What did you say?” Jill asked eagerly.
“I accepted, but I might change my mind. I’m not sure that I like the great Mr. Templar,” Andrea said thoughtfully.
They left Cornwall on a cold, bright morning and arrived in London in the middle of a downpour of sooty rain which increased their feeling of post-holiday deflation. The apartment seemed very small and cramped after the spacious rooms at Moorhaven, and Jill was doubly depressed because Nick had to cover an assignment in the Midlands and would be away for several days.
“People are mad to live here,” she said gloomily one evening after a day of drizzling rain. “The subway has that horrible wet raincoat smell
and everybody scowls and complains. Sometimes I wish I’d never left home.”
“You wouldn’t have met Nick if you hadn’t,” Andrea said, trying to cheer her up. “Let’s forget our waistlines for once and make macaroni and cheese.”
They were having supper in their tiny kitchenette when the telephone rang. Answering it, Jill’s face brightened.
“It’s the great J.T.,” she said in a stage whisper, disentangling the cord and handing the receiver to Andrea.
“Hello?”
“Andrea? Justin Templar here. How are you?”
“Deep in post-Christmas gloom,” she said feelingly.
“Good. Then an evening out is just what you need. I have tickets for the new play at the Haymarket on Friday if you’d care to see it.”
“I would love to.”
“I suggest we dine beforehand. May I call for you about six?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.”
As soon as they had said goodbye and she had replaced the receiver, Jill said, “When and where?”
“The Rattigan opening night on Friday. Dinner first.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“The black chiffon, I should think.”
“For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that old rag. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and find something really dashing,” Jill said excitedly.
“But I don’t need a new dress. I’ve hardly worn the black one,” Andrea objected.
“Darling, I don’t think you’ve quite grasped it yet. Justin isn’t just anybody. He’s one of the richest men in London. Girls fall over themselves for a date with him.”
“As far as I’m concerned he’s a rather overbearing man whose chief recommendation is that he has tickets for a good play when I happen to feel in a January slough of despond,” Andrea said crisply.
But in spite of her refusal to jump for joy at the prospect of Friday evening, she did buy a new dress, much to Jill’s triumph.
She saw it in a store window the following morning when she was hurrying along Bond Street to an appointment, and went back at lunchtime to try it on. It was made of stiff blackberry-colored silk with a plain close-fitting bodice, long tight sleeves and a rustling bell-shaped skirt over a flurry of taffeta petticoats.
To her secret relief Nick returned to town on Thursday, and on Friday he took Jill to a party, so she was alone in the apartment when Justin called for her. She dressed with her usual care and was ready at ten minutes to six. To her surprise she found she was nervous, which was quite absurd, for the evening ahead had no special significance. Jill had lent her a pair of Victorian earrings made of clustered seed pearls in the shape of crescent moons, and these and an enormous rhinestone star on the shoulder of her dress were her only ornaments.
On the stroke of six the doorbell rang and she took a final quick glance in the mirror before going to answer it.
In the narrow hallway Justin looked even taller than she remembered. They shook hands, and this time she was prepared for his forceful grip.
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything but beer,” she said as he followed her into the sitting room. “We got a case in the other day for Nick. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.” He looked around the room. “This is a very pleasant apartment.”
“Yes, we were lucky to get it.”
“I mean the furnishings. Who did the flowers?” He looked at an arrangement of expensive white roses on the sideboard. They were a present from an actor who refused to accept the fact that Andrea felt nothing more than a friendly liking for him.
“I did,” she replied. “Do sit down. I’ll fetch my wrap.” When she came out of the bedroom he was examining the bookcase.
“Someone has a very catholic taste,” he remarked. “Are you the bookworm?”
“Yes, they’re my one extravagance. I buy far too many.”
He ran his forefinger along the row of titles. “Economics, Buddhism, the history of the theater. I didn’t know young women were interested in such weighty subjects.”
“I left school at fifteen. I have had a lot to catch up.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I should have primed myself with intelligent topics of conversation,” he said, arching an amused eyebrow.
As he held her coat for her he said, “I don’t know whether you have any preference in restaurants, but personally I dislike having to talk in competition with a band, so I suggest we go the Jersey Club. Do you know it?”
Andrea shook her head. Her escorts included a number of reasonably prosperous young men, but from what she had heard, a dinner at the Jersey Club would probably have cost them a week’s salary.
Outside the apartment stood a glossy Bentley Continental, and as she sank back against the soft cream leather upholstery, Andrea wondered what it was like to have been surrounded by luxury all one’s life, to be able to buy anything one wanted.
Over a dinner of superlative foods and wines, they discussed the cast of the play, and the stage led to books and books to music. It was a lively conversation, and Andrea was almost sorry when they had to leave for the theater.
The play was brilliantly written and produced, and judging by the enthusiastic comments from people making for the bar during the second intermission, it seemed likely to be the success of the season. While they were talking in a corner of the bar about the superb acting of the leading lady, a plump woman in a skintight satin dress that clashed with her raddled complexion suddenly pounced on Justin with a rush of effusive greetings.
If he was annoyed at her advent, he did not show it.
“This is Miss Fleming, Lois. Mrs. Cassell, Andrea,” he said smoothly.
“How do you do.” Lois Cassell’s pale blue eyes swept over Andrea in a comprehensive glance that took in every detail of her appearance, including an estimate of the price of her clothes. “Haven’t we met before?”
“Miss Fleming is a fashion model. You’ve probably seen her photograph in Vogue,” Justin said.
“Oh, yes, that must be it. Tell me, are you related to the Hampshire Flemings? Modeling seems to be quite the most popular hobby for debs these days. I’m afraid we had nothing so exciting to do with ourselves when I came out, but of course, that was ages ago.” She gave an exaggerated sigh.
“No, I’m one of the Liverpool Flemings and I model for a living, not a hobby,” Andrea said coolly. She had taken an immediate dislike to Mrs. Cassell.
“Oh ... Liverpool?” The inflection suggested that Liverpool was something one did not refer to in public.
“Well, I must fly back to my party. Lovely to see you again, Justin darling. You must dine with us soon. Goodbye, Miss Fleming.”
With an arch glance at Justin and an artificial smile for Andrea she disappeared into the crush.
“Let me assure you that Mrs. Cassell is not typical of my friends,” Justin said sardonically when she was out of earshot. “As a matter of fact I only know her through her brother, who belongs to my club, but I suppose she wanted to find out who you were.”
“So I gathered,” Andrea said dryly, trying to dismiss the encounter with the casualness it deserved. But women of that type—archsnobs who spent their lives retailing snippets of malicious gossip to each other—always infuriated her.
At that point the bell rang and they returned to their seats for the third act.
As they left the theater, Justin asked her if she would like to end the evening at a nightclub.
“I would love to, but I have a very busy day tomorrow. I think I ought to go home,” she said reluctantly.
He did not try to persuade her to change her mind and they drove back to the apartment. Andrea was surprised to find how much she had enjoyed herself, for while she had anticipated that the dinner and the play would be excellent, she had not expected to find Justin such a companionable escort.
“I have enjoyed myself. Thank you very much,” she said as the car slid gently to the curbside outside her door.
He switched off th
e engine and she tensed, wondering if he would try to kiss her. But instead he got out and came around to open the door for her.
“May I take you to the theater again next week?” he asked as they crossed the sidewalk. “The show at the Coliseum is supposed to be very amusing, if you haven’t seen it already?”
“No, I would like to.”
“On Monday at the same time, then?”
“That would be lovely.”
He held out his hand. “Good night, Andrea.”
“Good night, Justin.”
Jill was sitting up in bed trimming a hat when she came in.
“Did the champagne flow? Where did you have dinner? What was the play like?” she demanded eagerly, tossing the hat aside.
Andrea laughed. “No champagne, but some wonderful wines. The Jersey Club. Marvelous,” she said, shrugging off her coat.
“So you enjoyed it?”
“Yes. More than I expected.”
“What about driving home? Did he pounce?”
“I don’t think I ought to satisfy your morbid curiosity,” Andrea said solemnly. Then, because Jill looked so comically disappointed, she said, “No, my poppet, he behaved with the utmost propriety.”
“Honestly?” Jill asked in astonishment. “Well, one can’t judge by appearances, but he always strikes me as being a terrific wolf.”
“He seems to have a horrid fascination for you,” Andrea said teasingly.
“Yes, I suppose he has. I mean, one can’t help wondering what it would be like to have a man like that making violent love to one.”
“Probably very dull.” Andrea took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe.
“Oh, no, I’m sure it would be tremendously thrilling in a rather frightening way. He looks as if he might be quite savage.”
“You mean he’s the kind of man who locks the door on you and snarls, ‘Come here, wench’?” Andrea suggested, managing to keep her voice steady.
“Yes, I think he is,” Jill said seriously.
“Oh, Jilly, you romantic little idiot!” Andrea sat down on the bed and laughed until her eyes began to water.