by Anne Hampton
Greta stood on the patio clad in briefs and a top that was merely two triangles covering her breasts. Her skin was a glorious deep amber, gleaming in the sun, her shoulders sloped in a way which, thought Christine, must be a sort of erotic temptation to any man.
Greta turned on realising she was no longer alone. ‘You,’ she remarked briefly.
‘David and Martha are having a party and they told me to tell you you’re invited.’
‘I hope you didn’t accept for me,’ snapped Greta with the accustomed frown which Christine knew so well.
‘I did, as a matter of fact. You used to like their parties.’
‘I’m not in a party mood,’ returned Greta in loose and edgy tones. ‘You’d no right to accept on my behalf and so you can just get out of it the best way you can.’ She swung around and again Christine was staring at her back. Greta was looking out over the white-sanded beach to the sea, aquamarine and glittering in the afternoon sunlight. A yacht rode the waves gracefully, its white sails fluttering in the breeze. The horizon was dark beneath a cloudless sky of azure blue and all was so quiet and peaceful that it seemed impossible that friction and dislike could exist—and yet they did. Greta had not even tried to hide her dislike of Christine and yesterday, after watching her and Steve laughing together, she asked Christine if she didn’t mind taking on another girl’s castoff. Christine had flinched and it had been very difficult not to retaliate in some hateful way which, she knew, she would regret afterwards, if only because she had lowered her pride. She managed to refrain but the look she had cast at Greta had left that girl in no doubt as to what Christine thought about her.
The atmosphere was always electric, more especially when Arthur was there because he had angrily told the couple to stop being stupid and to give the marriage a fair trial. Greta resented any mention of what she should or should not do, while Steve, usually possessed of a fair share of self-confidence, seemed to shrink into himself when in the old man’s company. Christine wondered when they would leave. It would seem that they must go back to their home, if only to sort everything out, but Steve had hinted that he might go and stay with his parents. They were away on holiday at present and so Steve was granted a respite, but he was gravely perturbed because his mother had always adored Greta. As for Greta’s immediate plans—she had been noncommittal when her father had asked her what they were.
‘What shall you do tonight, then?’ Christine wanted to know.
‘I suppose Steve’s going to the party?’
‘He might,’ quietly and with a touch of hesitation. ‘Have a nice time,’ returned Greta sarcastically. She swung around again and there was a sneering edge to her voice when she spoke. ‘Don’t you both wish Steve were free?’
‘Don’t say such things! You ought to take your father’s advice and try to make something of the marriage.’
‘Who are you trying to deceive?’ The sneer was on Greta’s lips now. ‘You must have talked about us— Steve and me. And you both wish he were free.’
‘I asked what you were going to do tonight?’
‘It has nothing to do with you.’ ‘It’s lonely here on your own,’ began Christine. She wondered why she should trouble herself about any loneliness which Greta might feel. ‘Father’s going to be out—’
‘I know; he told me.’
‘Well, then?’
‘I shan’t be lonely, and in any case, it has nothing to do with you. I’ve just told you so.’ Again Greta turned her back. Christine’s mouth set and she left the patio without another word.
Steve was in the sitting room as she entered. He had been over to visit a friend and Christine was surprised to see him back so soon.
‘It was becoming too much of a strain,’ he offered before Christine could voice the question that came instantly to her mind. ‘Trying to be cheerful, to appear the happy husband. Richard’s not a fool, and added to that, he never did like Greta; so I’d like to bet he’s already guessed something’s wrong.’
‘You’ll have to tell people,’ began Christine tentatively, her thoughts speeding to his mother, who would be heartbroken at this turn of events, ‘It’s bound to leak out soon.’
He glanced at her. ‘You’re thinking of Mother?’ ‘And others, Steve. This is a small island, remember.’
‘Perhaps Arthur’s already given a few hints.’ His voice was low, his mouth sagging at the corners, ‘If only I could put the clock back!’
She looked away, unable to bear the sight of his distress. That he was no longer in love with Greta was plain, but that he was deeply touched and upset was equally plain. His whole life had been turned upside down and Christine supposed his anxiety could also stem from the fact that his prestige would suffer, for everyone must regard him as stupid to have gone into marriage and, within six months, be having a divorce.
‘Christine,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, my dear . . .’ She wanted to go to him, to fling her arms around him, offering the comfort which he craved. But something seemed to be preventing her from following this very natural impulse . . . something that baffled her because Luke stood like an invincible barrier just as if he were controlling her by sheer physical compulsion.
‘Don’t go headlong into something you’re likely to regret. . . .’ His words rang in her head. She could see his forbidding countenance and those tawny eyes . . . accusing eyes. . . .
‘Are you going to the party tonight?’ She spoke merely to break the silence and frowned when Steve shook his head.
‘I don’t think so, Christine.’ He managed a thin smile. ‘How about you and me going off somewhere to dine?’
‘Wherever we go it’ll be common knowledge by this time tomorrow,’ she pointed out sensibly. ‘We’re known in all the restaurants.’
‘We could go to my home. There’ll be the servants, but they’ll not gossip.’
His home ... A few hours alone with him. Every quivering nerve in her body yearned for an interlude like that. Yet she heard herself say, ‘It wouldn’t be right, Steve, and in any case I’ve promised Martha that I’ll be at her party.’
‘You could phone her, as I shall.’
Again temptation loomed . . . and again there was Luke. . . . Sudden anger stormed into her mind. Luke! He had no right to be troubling her like this—just because he had thought fit to proffer that stem warning! She would not be influenced by him or anything he had said, or would say in the future!
‘Yes,’ she agreed, rather in the manner of one burning her boats irrevocably, ‘I’ll dine with you at your house.’
‘I’ll go and arrange everything,’ he said, ‘and come back for you later.’
She was in an evening gown of pale mauve taffeta trimmed with tiny pearl beads at the neck and waist. She regarded herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. The dress made her look older, more sophisticated. She was eager for Steve to come and fetch her. ‘You’re going to a barbecue party in that?’
It was the disbelieving voice of Greta that caused Christine to wheel about, her heart giving an uncomfortable little jerk. She coloured, saw her sister’s eyes narrow and said swiftly, ‘Why not? I like long dresses.’ ‘Not for a barbecue, you don’t. In any case, that’s far too formal. Just where are you going, Christine?’
‘To—to Martha’s party.’
‘You’re a total failure as a liar,’ sneered Greta coming into the bedroom and standing just inside the door. ‘You’re going out with my husband, aren’t you?’
‘I—I—’
‘You rotten little snake in the grass! I always suspected that you had a crush on him and would have stolen him from me if you could! Well, miss, you’re not going!’
Christine had been almost cowering under the onslaught but now she straightened up to her full height and her eyes flashed fire. ‘And who’s to stop me going?’ she demanded wrathfully.
‘I shall stop you.’ Greta’s voice was dangerously soft, her advance slow and threatening. Christine stood her ground, her shoulders erect, her eyes sparkling
with challenge, ‘I’ll tear that dress off your back!’
‘Try it!’ But in spite of her confident words Christine felt the colour drain from her face. She was alone in the house with Greta, but for the servants, and she knew she would never call out if Greta should carry out her threat, or attempt to do so.
‘You are not going out with my husband!’
‘This is a dog-in-the-manger attitude,’ flashed Christine. ‘You don’t want to go out with him yourself and yet you can’t bear to think he’s going out with someone else!’
Greta stopped very close to Christine, her eyes glittering in the most frightening way. That she was being held firmly in the grip of a violent emotion was plain, and with a flashback of memory Christine was seeing her as she had behaved a few years ago when she had been in an argument with her father. She had become hysterical and then aggressive, actually making an attack on him, and Christine had watched, terrified, as Arthur had gripped Greta’s hands and held them to her sides. There had been a fearful struggle, with Greta seeming to have acquired abnormal strength. At last her father had slapped her and she had fled, screaming, to her room.
And now she appeared to be on the verge of a similar outbreak and Christine, no longer brave and defiant, was darting glances at the door, assessing her chance of getting through it to the safety of the corridor and the hall.
Greta moved again and Christine swung an arm to ward her off, using all her strength. The action took Greta by surprise, and in the fleeting moment when she was off balance and trying to regain it Christine had raced past her and was out of the room. But as she reached the hall she tripped over the hem of her dress and crashed, headlong, to the floor. It was at that moment, with Greta almost upon her, and screaming out imprecations, that the front door opened and Luke stood there, his tawny eyes widening in bewilderment. But his reaction was swift in that he was stooping to pick Christine up within seconds of his entering the house.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ he demanded of Greta.
‘She—that thing—’ Greta pointed, her face blue with fury at being prevented from carrying out her intended assault. ‘That—viper! She’s made a date with my husband! I’d have marked her face if you hadn’t come in! And what are you doing here anyway?’ she shouted. ‘Walking in as if you own the place!’
‘The door was ajar. I’d been ringing and had no answer—’ He stopped, frowning heavily. He glanced down at the girl he had rescued, taking in the evening dress and dainty shoes. ‘You were going out with Steve?’ He seemed to be affording her a sort of cool attention, his accents smooth so that nothing could be gathered as regards his inner thoughts about this situation.
‘I am going out with Steve,’ answered Christine unsteadily. She shuddered against Luke’s hard body, every nerve rioting.
‘They’re having an affair!’ shouted Greta, her hands clenching and unclenching in fury. ‘She wanted him right from the first!’
‘Luke . . . please take me to Steve’s house.’ Christine knew full well how Luke would feel but she cherished the vague hope that he would do as she asked.
‘Why are you here?’ demanded Greta in quivering tones, ‘I’ve asked you once! Why don’t you answer me!’
‘I came to take Christine to the party.’
‘Martha’s and David’s?’ Christine looked up into a face of unsmiling disapproval. ‘You’re invited too?’ She had thought he was still away.
‘Why the surprise?’ returned Luke coldly. ‘They’re my friends, so you ought to have known I’d be invited.’ Again he glanced at her attire. ‘You’d better go and change into something more suitable to a barbecue,’ he said and released her. His eyes were on Greta as he added softly, ‘Either you stay here with me while I wait for Christine, or I accompany her to her room. Take your choice.’
So cool, and yet the firmness was apparent, and after a small hesitation, Greta flung at him, ‘Go up with her! I’m not staying here, in your company, a moment longer!’
Christine turned to Luke as he entered her bedroom close on her heels, ‘I’ve made a date with Steve. We’re dining at his house.’
‘You’re going to the barbecue with me.’ Walking over to a chair, Luke sat down, hitching up a trouser leg and leaning back comfortably against the dainty satin upholstery.
‘But I’ve made the date!’
‘Which you ought not to have done. It’s a date you’re not going to keep, Christine, so forget it!’
Anger brought tears flooding into her eyes. ‘You can’t dictate to me!’ she cried, ‘I’m my own mistress and I’m nearly nineteen! I won’t be dictated to by you or anyone else!’ She paused, but what she was hoping for she did not know. She ought to be conversant enough with Luke’s firmness by now. Yes, the compression of the mouth and the narrowing of those tawny eyes. The flexing of the jaw and rigidity of the face as a whole. ‘Luke,’ she pleaded, ‘take me to Steve. We want to be together—’
‘If you don’t get a move on,’ broke in Luke, glancing at his watch, ‘it’s going to be half over before we get there.’
‘I—’ She pouted, then stamped her foot. ‘I’ve phoned Martha to say I can’t come!’
‘That doesn’t matter. She’ll be delighted that you made it after all.’
‘Steve—’
‘I’ll phone him on our way out.’ He glanced around and saw the phone, ‘I’ll do it now,’ he amended and rose from the chair.
‘You can’t!’ she cried in protest. ‘I won’t let you!’
He stopped and turned to her, his face set in wrathful lines. ‘Christine, I’ve had enough! Now, do you get that dress off or do I take it off for you?’ He was towering over her in what she could only describe as a threatening and domineering manner and the tears began to flow, running unhindered on to her dress. ‘Well, answer me!’
She sagged and wept into her hands, ‘I’ll change,’ she faltered and went with dragging feet to the wardrobe. After choosing a pair of bright blue cotton pants and a short-sleeved blouse, she went into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door properly. She listened to Luke on the telephone, hearing the harsh words spoken in a slightly raised voice.
‘No, she will not be coming! Christine’s going to the party with me. Steve—keep away from her! Do you understand? I am ordering, not telling! Keep away from Christine!’ A silence followed and then, isn’t it my business? ‘And what makes you think that? It is very much my business! I shall protect her—’ Another silence after Steve had obviously interrupted. Then Christine heard, ‘From you, but from herself as well!’ The receiver was replaced and, peeping out, Christine saw Luke go over to the window and stare out through the mosquito netting. He was furious. . . . What had she done to their relationship this time? A flood of remorse mingled with a great wave of sadness and the tears came faster than before. Luke’s face was pale and rigid when at last she came from the bathroom knuckling her eyes.
‘All these tears for a man you can’t have!’ His hard eyes drilled into her. ‘Have you considered what people would say if you had your way over this?’
She was silent, wanting desperately to tell him that the tears this time were not for Steve at all but shed because of her own widening of the rift that had come between Luke and herself. She glanced into those hard eyes and tried to tell him, but his anger was causing a terrible choking sensation in her throat so that words were impossible to articulate.
‘I’m—r-ready,’ she managed at last, and after he had moved impatiently to let her know he was waiting.
In the car she again knew the desperate urge to tell him how she felt, and to tell him she was sorry, but on glancing sideways at his stem forbidding profile, her courage failed her and she remained silent. The atmosphere thickened and the pain in her heart was excruciating. She felt she would want to die if Luke cast her off altogether, if he should lose all interest in her and begin to treat her as he treated so many other women—with disinterest and often contempt should they try to attract his attention. Since
ever she had known him he had seemed not to have any interest in women, not until Clarice and that, she felt, was a superficial attachment from which he could cut adrift without the merest hint of a qualm.
No interest in women . . . But yet he had always had an interest in her, she mused. Yes, indeed, always he had been keenly interested in all she did or said. He had not once rejected her or held aloof from her at those times when she sought his tenderness or compassion. And she had now begun to realise just how patient he had always been with her, how ready to listen, to comfort, to give her affection and love. Love ... He loved her she was sure, as a big brother, of course, or a father. It was a beautiful love, selfless and sincere. Christine felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and when eventually the car was crunching to a stop beneath some flamboyant trees outside the ranch-style villa owned by David and Martha Smilley she turned impulsively and said in quivering tones that yet held the softness of a plea, ‘Luke—I’m sorry for—for— for losing my temper. There wasn’t any excuse . . .oh, Luke, don’t be angry with me! I couldn’t bear it.’
He stopped the car and switched off the engine. She felt his strong arm come around her shoulders and instinctively and with a heart bursting with gratitude she leant against him, drawing on his strength for comfort.
‘Forget it, my Chris,’ he said gently and his cool lips caressed her cheek. ‘You’re such a baby, dear. Grow up, my little girl—grow up quickly so that you can see things straight.’
‘See things straight?’ she echoed, baffled. ‘Luke, you’re talking in riddles again.’
He sighed. Trouble was, he thought, she had grown used to regarding him as a guardian or uncle, a man to lean upon and that was all.
‘One day, my Chris, you’ll not say that, because you will have left the tender years behind you,’