An Image of You

by Liz Fielding

  George unlocked her bedroom door. She wasn’t quite as gullible as her father seemed to believe, she thought grimly. Her room was her refuge, inviolate, pristine, untouched by whatever disorder took over the rest of the house.

  She stared for a moment in horror as she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. It was fierce and reviving and afterwards she wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped into a wrap and went to examine her wardrobe, wondering just what would be appropriate for two weeks working in East Africa.

  Her hand fell on the skirt she had worn to the beauty contest demonstration. A group of them had got in with tickets, pretending to be genuine spectators, and they wanted to look as if they belonged. They had decided on the role of models, hoping to attract attention. George had made the effort to look as stunning as possible, had secretly enjoyed it. She had worn a short black suede skirt and matching knee-high boots and she’d bought a cream silk shirt especially for the occasion. Then, because she was a perfectionist, even in the art of protesting, she had paid an unaccustomed visit to a hair salon, leaving after what seemed like hours, with her long hair a sleek gold curve over her shoulder. The final touch had been a professional make-up session. ‘I want to look sexy,’ she had told the girl tentatively, and she had been slightly shocked by the woman who had looked back from her mirror. Her violet eyes had looked sultry and twice their normal size, and her full mouth wider than she remembered.

  Quite heady with the attention she had attracted when she arrived at the Albert Hall, she had played the vamp for all she was worth. And then Lukas had taken his seat among the judges and glanced around at the crowd. She had been in the front, her bag of flour concealed in the black suede fringed bag she had carried with her.

  His eyes had fastened upon her with open appreciation as he took in every detail of her appearance in a slow and deliberate appraisal that made her blush to the roots of her beautifully coiffured hair. It was that look, the speculative lift of an eyebrow, that had made him her special target for the night. If he hadn’t been so attractive she could have coped. But she found her eyes continually drawn to the magnificent black-clad shoulders, fascinated by the way his hair curled into his neck. Hoping and yet dreading that he would look at her again. And he had looked.

  They had had to sit through the early rounds. As the girls had paraded in their national costumes and evening dresses Lukas had given her rather more attention than the contestants. She would have thought he was trying to pick her up if he had so much as smiled, but he hadn’t. He had just stared. Well, she had shown him. That long moment when they were waiting for the result, when the television cameras had nothing special to look at, that was when they had struck with their bags of flour and soot.

  But Lukas hadn’t been a passive victim. He had grabbed a handful of her blouse and hung on despite her struggles until the buttons had given way. Instead of leaving it behind, and beating a retreat in her bra, she had tried to wrest it from him. Her efforts to cover herself had given him a second chance, and he had not wasted it. With one swift movement he had his arm around her waist, turned her over his knee and lifted that skirt. She shuddered at the recollection of his hand slapping her backside with considerable enthusiasm. Then, in the general pandemonium as the others had been arrested, Lukas had dodged the law and carried her backstage under his arm.

  His black hair had been full of the flour she had dumped on him and as he shook his head a cloud of it rose around him and then descended over them both, coating his beautifully cut dinner-jacket. Her satisfaction had been short-lived.

  ‘Are you going to scram, or do you want some more?’ he demanded, as he finally handed her the treacherous blouse.

  Scarlet, she struggled into it, clutching it around her. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me to be arrested with my friends?’

  His eyes were like slate. ‘Because, Miss Feminist, I prefer not to be the butt of the tabloids. I didn’t duck out here to save you. If it was personal publicity you wanted, you should have thrown your flour at someone else. I’m going to clean up. That’s the way out.’ He pointed down the corridor. Trembling with rage and frustration, she raised her hand to slap him.

  ‘Mr Lukas, sir, is that one of the trouble-makers?’ A security guard had appeared behind her and she whirled round, but Lukas anticipated her intention of giving herself up and was too quick for her. His arm slipped around her waist and before she could protest he had pulled her close, holding her effortlessly.

  ‘No. A friend, she’s just leaving. Perhaps you would escort her safely to the rear exit? Just in case there are any more hooligans about.’ She struggled angrily to free herself, but Lukas had no intention of letting her go so easily. Instead he bent swiftly over her and, realising his intent, she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that what she couldn’t see wasn’t happening. The first touch of his lips destroyed that illusion. This was reality with a vengeance. She had never been kissed to such effect before, or by anyone with the ability to turn her bones to putty. When at last Lukas had finished with her, she was too shaken to protest at his cavalier treatment. She merely sighed. He stared at her for a moment, his cool grey eyes shaded by unbelievably long lashes. ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ he murmured finally, releasing her. ‘Here, you’d better have this.’ He slipped his jacket around her shoulders. Then louder, for the security guard, ‘I’ll see you later,’ he drawled before disappearing in the direction of the dressing-rooms. ‘Keep the bed warm, sweetheart.’ And she had had to endure the sly smirk of the security man all the way to the exit.

  George touched her lips in an involuntary gesture as she remembered that kiss. There was no reason to believe that among the hundreds of women who passed before his camera lens he would remember her, but it might be a good idea to disguise herself a little. Nothing obvious, just enough to avoid jogging his memory. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be taking that suede skirt with her.

  Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door to his ring and George had the grace to laugh. ‘Don’t look like that, Henry,’ she begged.

  ‘You took me back a bit, miss. I thought for a moment I’d come to the wrong house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a suit before.’

  ‘And very uncomfortable it is too. If this is what is meant by turning over a new leaf, I shall be glad when it’s spring.’

  Henry took her bags and led the way down to the car. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re away, shall I?’

  ‘Some of my friends are stopping there at the moment.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘They’re not as bad as they look, really. But I’ve left some things for Miss Bishop in the hall; I’d be glad if you’d pick them up tomorrow. Did Bishop ask you about a camera?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s in the boot. The receipts are in an envelope, for Customs.’

  * * *

  ‘Jambo, memsahib. Anything to declare?’ George looked at the cheerful face, and gave herself a mental shake. She had slept the night away as the 747 had crossed Europe and half the length of Africa. She had missed a breathtaking sunrise over Sudan and left unopened the paperbacks she had bought at the airport. She had woken to steaming coffee and croissants, wishing heartily she had worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her now sadly crumpled suit.

  The formalities of Customs took no time at all and soon George was being whisked towards Nairobi in a rackety Peugeot taxi decorated with red plush and gold fringes. She hardly had time for more than a glimpse of scrubby bush and distant hills before they were in the city, speeding along a dual carriageway lined with trees and parks, and punctuated by roundabouts dense with sculptured and exotic plant life.

  On arrival at the Norfolk she was greeted by a vast Masai porter, six and a half feet if he was an inch.

  ‘Jambo, memsahib.’

  ‘Jambo,’ George replied, quickly getting her tongue around the unive
rsal greeting and received a brilliant smile in return.

  The receptionist too was welcoming. ‘I’ve put you in one of the cottages, Miss Bainbridge, just through Reception, facing the garden. If you can fill in the registration form, please.’

  ‘Of course. Am I in time for some breakfast?’

  The receptionist checked her watch. ‘Oh, yes. Another hour.’

  ‘Great. I’m starving.’ She signed the form and handed it to the girl.

  ‘Your bags have been taken to your cottage. It’s number three. Here’s the key.’

  George picked up the bag from the desk and turned to go. Then, with a sudden tremor, she stopped.

  The tall figure seemed to fill the doorway. Cool grey eyes swept the small reception area, impatiently dismissing the airline staff and American tourists eager to be off on safari. Lukas headed for the desk, totally oblivious of the head-turning ripple that marked his progress across the room.

  George watched his progress with apprehension. She remembered only too well that arrogant, hackle-raising assurance that was making the prickles stir on the nape of her neck.

  Ridiculously she wished she’d had time to make herself look a bit more presentable. Her hair was everywhere, and she cursed her stupid suit to perdition. At least he would never connect the seductively dressed girl he had placed over his knee with this crumpled mess. But she grabbed the plain tinted spectacles from her bag and placed them on her nose as an extra precaution.

  ‘I’m looking for George Bainbridge. He should have arrived this morning. Could you page him for me, please?’ The receptionist stared, then giggled.

  Lukas had been polite enough, but now he drew straight brows into a frown. Speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were slow-witted, or could not speak English, he tried again.

  ‘I am Lukas. He is expecting me.’ The girl looked at George and collapsed into speechless giggles, hiding the broad whiteness of her smile behind long brown fingers. He turned to follow her gaze and George could no longer postpone the moment. She firmly squashed the butterflies that were beating a tattoo in her abdomen and stepped forward.

  ‘I think you must be looking for me, Mr Lukas. I am Georgette Bainbridge,’ she said coolly. She extended her hand with a confidence she was far from feeling and trusted that he would not notice the slight tremor that seemed, quite suddenly, to have invaded her entire body.

  For a long moment he stared at her. She shifted uncomfortably under his hard, unbelieving gaze. ‘Everyone calls me George …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly and she dropped her hand. He was obviously in no mood to take it.

  His eyes travelled slowly from the toes of the plain black calf shoes, taking in the crumpled grey tailored suit and the white silk scarf that she had knotted so flippantly about her throat the night before, but which she was now aware looked merely rather sad. She had completed her transformation with a severe bun, from which wisps of hair were untidily escaping, and large tinted spectacles that were left over from the time she had suffered from an unsightly eye infection. The effect she had strived for was efficient and businesslike. But after sleeping in her clothes she looked anything but.

  George was not unused to men weighing her up, assessing the possibilities, had seen Lukas do it himself. But he showed no such interest on this occasion. The curve of his mouth showed nothing but distaste and under his breath he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘Oh, my dear God. What on earth have I done to deserve this?’

  Stung, George was about to tell him. She opened her mouth, then remembered her father’s words: ‘Keep Mr Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ She wouldn’t allow this wretched man to ruin her plans. She swallowed and instead forced a smile to her lips and said a little breathlessly,

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived. I was going to have breakfast. Will you join me, Mr Lukas?’

  ‘Not Mr. Just Lukas.’ His eyes, dark and intense under thick black brows, snapped with irritation. ‘If you must eat, we’d better get on with it.’

  The receptionist, having recovered from her giggles, was watching them with open fascination. Lukas glared at her and she rapidly found something of great interest on the desk in front of her.

  George, infuriated by this unpleasant greeting, forced herself to stay calm. ‘Well, I’m starving. Why don’t you go in and order for us both to save time, while I wash my hands.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Please don’t take too long, Georgette.’

  George was quite firm. ‘Not Georgette. George.’ She picked up her bag and then couldn’t resist a coy little wave. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Her reward for this performance was to hear his barely contained explosive, ‘God give me strength!’

  Under the shower she veered between fury and amusement. Lukas clearly didn’t like his women plain and untidy. Well, she didn’t like him either. But for two weeks on location, photographing in Kenya, she would put up with a lot. And her father was right. He could teach her a great deal. So, while neither of them might like it, they were stuck with each other.

  As she rifled through her bag, looking for something suitable to wear, she was almost sorry she had spent so much valuable time pressing her clothes. It would have been fun to change into something just as crumpled as her suit. She smiled wryly as she recalled that she had spent most of yesterday evening wishing she had taken more trouble with her wardrobe in recent months. Now her charity-shop bargains seemed to offer endless amusement. She slipped into a loose white T-shirt with a neck that had suffered somewhat in the wash. She had packed it to wear with her jeans, but they would be staying firmly at the bottom of her bag for the moment. Instead she pulled on a pair of well-worn green trousers that bagged at the knees, and she finished the look with an ancient pair of leather clogs that had once been expensive, but now were merely comfortable.

  George surveyed herself in the mirror. Her deep gold hair was disguised in a neat if unbecoming bun. She teased a strand loose so that it would fall untidily with very little encouragement. Perfect. Her disguise seemed to take on a life of its own. Not quite grotesque. Just awful enough not to want to be seen with. Not, that was, if you were Mr Lukas.

  Chapter Two

  Lukas was sitting facing the doorway of the dining-room. He stared distractedly into space, his long fingers playing with a spoon and totally unaware of her presence. George paused in the opening and made a point of looking short-sightedly about her until she was sure she had attracted the attention of at least half of those present. As if suddenly aware that something demanded his attention, he looked up and saw her. It was a moot point whether he actually flinched, but George was not prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. She waved enthusiastically and sailed towards him, firmly repressing the urge to try a theatrical ‘trip’. There was a limit to what she might be expected to get away with.

  ‘That’s better.’ She grinned widely from behind her spectacles, keeping her amusement at the tight line of his mouth firmly under control. ‘Have you ordered for me?’

  ‘An English breakfast. You said you were hungry. You can help yourself to fruit or cereals from the buffet.’ He carelessly waved at the laden tables in the centre of the dining-room.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as if she had only just noticed the lavish spread of tropical fruit. ‘But I don’t … That is …’ she stammered. ‘It’s all … rather strange to me,’ she ended, peering anxiously at him from behind the spectacles, wondering how she had ever managed without such a wonderful prop before. ‘Would you help me to choose?’

  Lukas sat very still for a moment, and George could see the battle between his desire to strangle her and natural good manners pass briefly across his face. Good manners won, by a very short head.

  ‘Of course.’ He dropped his napkin beside his plate and rose to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was, well over six feet, and dwarfing her own feeble five foot six. He certainly attracted a great deal of attention as he led her around the buffet, showing her
the different tropical fruits and attempting to explain the taste of papaw, mangoes, guavas and tree melons. She exclaimed loudly at these treats, feigned indecision and revelled in his embarrassment. ‘Why don’t you just try everything?’ he said finally, allowing a hint of sarcasm to harden the edge of his voice.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ George exclaimed, and helped herself to the slice of papaw she had always intended to have.

  Once he had settled her back in her seat, and served her with hot coffee, Lukas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding, Miss Bainbridge—’

  She interrupted. ‘George. All my friends call me George, Mr Lukas, and I am sure we’re going to be very good friends.’

  He declined to comment on that possibility and resumed where he had left off. ‘I was expecting a man. When Miss Bishop telexed that I should expect George Bainbridge, I naturally assumed …’

  George laughed loudly. ‘You’d be amazed how many people make that mistake, but nobody ever calls me Georgette. Daddy always wanted a son, you see. I’m afraid all he got were daughters. Henry, Max and me.’

  Lukas made a brave effort to recover from this revelation. ‘The trouble is—er—George, it’s going to cause some difficulty with the accommodation. Michael Prior was sharing a tent with me. And we don’t have any spare room in with the girls.’

  George choked on a piece of fruit and Lukas leapt up to beat on her back. Rather harder than necessary, she thought as she waved him away. ‘I’m all right. Really.’ Removing her glasses, she wiped her eyes, then sipped some coffee. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you say tent?’

  For the first time since they had met Lukas looked happy. As he resumed his seat he actually smiled. ‘Yes. Two-man tents. Didn’t Miss Bishop mention that?’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘We’re camped south of Nairobi, on the Athi River. Did you think we were shooting in Nairobi?’