by Amanda Doyle
He grinned.
‘It’s a nice compliment, Miss Bentmore, but no, all the same. The Accounts Department keeps me quite busy enough without a directorship thrown in, and I’m glad to have Chad as my boss, to look after more general policy. I suppose you think it strange that I call him that? Well, it’s simple, really—everybody does.’
‘Everybody?’
‘Everybody. He’s at the top of the pyramid, of course, and we’ve the greatest respect and affection for him, so don’t be misled. Chad is just another name for Boss, you know, with us. It’s not a familiarity, so to speak.’ He shrugged half-apologetically. You’ll see what I mean in time. No doubt you will be calling him Chad yourself soon.’
‘I?’
‘You. Same as the rest of us. Like I said, everybody does, and everybody includes you too, doesn’t it, eh?’
He swung the car into a wide circular driveway, and pulled up beside a sky-high white building. It had extensive lawns, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a nine-hole golf course, and a vastly-windowed convex front.
Rennie could scarcely do more than gaze at these fabulous precincts.
‘It’s a beautiful hotel, isn’t it? It reminds me of the Bahamas.’
‘Not a hotel, a motel. Don’t you have them much m England? Like America, Australia’s got her share.’ He came around and opened her door. ‘I think you’ll be quite comfortable. Chad said just to go ahead and order anything you like for yourself or the kid. He also suggested that you might like to rest this afternoon, and have an early night. You’re quite free to explore the city, of course, if you feel up to it.’
‘Thank you. And thank you, too, for meeting us, Mr. Krantz.’
‘Don’t mention it. ’Bye, then, Miss Bentmore.’
‘Goodbye.’
Their rooms were near the top, with a magnificent view. They consisted of a bedroom with twin divans, a tiny bathroom, a spacious sitting-room and a small entrance vestibule with a built-in coat-stand and hat-rack.
The floor above was taken up with restaurants, snack and cocktail bars, hairdressing salons, and an open-air viewing terrace. At ground level, Rennie found a breakfast-room which also served light midday meals. After lunch and some excited exploration on Magda’s part, they both had a sleep, and then went out for a walk in the spacious grounds.
Later, Rennie showered and washed her hair in preparation for her evening with Keith. She had had no difficulty in hiring a sitter to keep an eye on Magda in her absence, in case the little girl should wake up and find herself in a strange room and become frightened. Rennie had both explained to the child and met the person who would be on duty, a kind, quiet woman whose husband was one of the night porters in the building. She had little doubt that Magda would sleep, however, after the long and wearisome flight. She herself was desperately tired, too. Had it not been for Keith, she knew that she would thankfully have gone to bed, but instead she was filled with a delicious and nostalgic anticipation at the thought of an evening to be spent in his company.
She dressed that night with her customary professional care, in a simple, high-necked, long-sleeved dress of emerald silk jersey. It was dramatic in that it was virtually backless, revealing Rennie’s slender, honey-tanned shoulder-blades, the faint line of her spine, to a tantalizing point just below the waist. It was utterly correct and yet unquestionably seductive, and Rennie knew instinctively that Keith could not fail to be impressed.
He was!
Darkly handsome in dinner jacket and immaculately knotted black tie, he simply stood in the doorway and stared. Then he came over to where she waited and put his hands, up, carefully, one on either side of her face, and ran them down gently, as though she were a fragile Dresden figurine, to rest them finally, lightly, upon her silken-clad shoulders.
‘Rennie!’ His gaze devoured her soberly. ‘I believe I’d forgotten how indescribably lovely you are!’
Forgotten? Ah, Keith. How could he have forgotten so easily, so quickly, so effortlessly, when she had tried so hard to forget him, and had failed so miserably? Keith, at his most tactless.
‘Shall we go?’ He took up her wrap and placed it over her shoulders. ‘Is the child asleep?’
‘Yes, absolutely sound. She’s tired out, poor little sweet.’
Rennie went through from the vestibule where they had been standing, to announce her departure to the sitter.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as they went down in the lift to the ground floor.
‘There’s a plushy joint I know up at the Cross. We’ll make for there.’
King’s Gross was obviously to Sydney what Soho was to London, the vital night-heart of the great city, a mixture of theatreland and eating houses, snooker dives and discotheques, a burgeoning complex of international establishments.
Up past the Alamein Fountain, the lights were scintillating and the crowds were jostling. Music thudded from a narrow opening, and dim figures moved behind bamboo blinds. Drivers darted from illegally waiting cars to grab a paper at the all-night magazine stall and scurried back to their vehicles while the cab’s meter-clock ticked on. A long-haired youth lounged in a doorway, playing a tin whistle to attract people to the stall which his mini-skirted girl-friend was running. It had leather goods and basketware, and a few cheaper ornaments. The rivals over the road were countering the tin whistle with a badly-played bouzouki—they wore leather clothes themselves, and were superior about their cheap rings and tawdry bangles. A muted glow from a cafe reflected glass-topped tables inside—a passing glimpse of Chianti bottles and candlelit benches and a fat, black-garbed woman lifting snaky tendrils of pasta from a cauldron right in front of the customers’ gaze. Under an awning incense was selling and joss sticks changed hands with ritualistic earnestness. Smouldering peace symbols of the hippie brigade. ‘The laugh of your fife,’ a man yelled suggestively with monotonous regularity as he stood beside a lurid poster and beckoned passers-by invitingly to partake of the hidden thrills awaiting them down a steep wooden stair. In a poorly-lit window a Mexican was busy pounding beans. From inside, the musty smell of frijoles fought with the garlicky onslaught of a pizza-house across the street. A sidewalk artist sketched with speed, crouching beside his dirty chalks and sliding his eyes at the upturned hat that lay a discreet distance away, just far enough to give the public time to realize that they were in the presence of a pavement Picasso. Taxis queued outside the theatres, spilling out their extravagantly elegant cargoes. A delicatessen was doing a roaring trade in Continental sausage, and two inebriates rolled out of a neighbouring wine-bar and whistled at a group of cabaret girls who were about to report for their evening stint at something that called itself the Parrot Place.
It seemed to Rennie that all the world and his wife were there. Italian, French, Spanish, Greek, Japanese, Chinese, Hungarian, Indian—all were there in a chaotic, mingling, seething mass of humanity, from the elite society teenster and the famous entertainer to the scruffiest vagrant, the housewife on a birthday treat.
It was almost incredible, after making her way with Keith through the pulsing throng outside, to find herself suddenly in a peaceful atmosphere of subdued luxury.
Shaded lights played up the elegance of the understated decor; waiters, black-jacketed, perceptive, hovered quietly about the tiny, intimate alcoves, or bore trays aloft amongst the small cluster of central tables. On a recessed platform a man’s fingers tinkled over the mellow keys of a baby grand, phrasing nostalgic fragments of popular melodies of the past and present with a discreet softness that did not intrude upon the diners’ conversation.
Rennie was ushered to a soft, leather-padded seat and presented with a small but absurdly exotic menu.
Her eyes met her escort’s over the tiny oblong of snowy damask that separated them.
‘Just like I said, Rennie? Like old times?’ Keith suggested softly, and Rennie thought her heart might melt away with the pure, exquisite pain that she experienced at his look.
He gave the waiter her order,
then his own, chose a wine, offered her a cigarette.
‘No? You still don’t smoke?’ He took one himself, lit it, inhaled. ‘Now tell me, Rennie, what have you been doing these past two years?’
‘Oh, this and that.’ She brushed aside the heartache, the loneliness, the anguish over little Magda, in a single pat phrase. ‘And you, Keith? You didn’t marry.’
He raised an amused brow.
‘Now, what makes you think that?’ At Rennie’s startled face, he laughed outright. ‘No, I’m only teasing you, Rennie. You are quite right. I didn’t marry.’
He drew on the cigarette between his fingers, eyeing her consideringly through the faint haze of smoke.
‘I suppose I was subconsciously waiting,’ he told her at length, ‘for this very moment in time. For the moment, my sweet, when you would walk right back into my existence, free of encumbrances!’
Keith’s voice was satirical, almost suave.
It was part of his attraction far Rennie that she never quite knew where she was with him. She, in her turn, had always tried to play the game lightly, to keep him guessing as to the extent of her feelings for him. It was this that had saved her face so admirably at that devastating time when they had had the row over Magda, and parted in consequence.
Rennie’s only consolation had been that Keith was not aware of either the depth of her emotions or the capacity he had for inflicting hurt upon her. He could have had no idea how vulnerable she was, and how miserable in the ensuing months. He could have had no idea, either, that something inside Rennie had frozen in self-defence, and had remained numb and cold within her ever since. Nor, she hoped, could he guess that, right now, that something was beginning to thaw at his very proximity, spreading an agreeable warmth right through her being.
She wished that he hadn’t added that little bit about encumbrances, just then.
It disappointed her vaguely that Keith had never understood her own viewpoint about Magda, and that he had been unable to accept responsibility for the little orphaned girl, as well as for Rennie, in an open-hearted and generous manner.
Faint signs of tarnish on her shining idol?
Well, maybe. But Rennie realized that there were doubtless many men—and very nice men, at that—who found themselves virtually unable to recognize or love any child but their own. They, too, would have acted in precisely the same way as Keith, she supposed, without regarding themselves as in any way lacking in normally affectionate paternal qualities.
Still, it would have been nice if Keith had been one of the other ones. The few. The loving-and-giving, rather than the loving-and-demanding.
Funny to think that, if Keith had been one of those ones, she would not have had to bring Magda to Australia at all. She would not have had a lengthy telegraphic battle with that tyrannical Chalford Sandasen. She would not have received that outwardly respectful, but subtly scarifying letter from that eminent firm of lawyers. She would not have had to wave forlornly to Viv from the wrong side of Emigration Control, nor sit cramped-up and tense in the rear of a big jet plane, trying to keep an apprehensive little child amused and occupied through a long, wearying journey from one hemisphere to the other.
Instead, she would have been in Fez, posing against a background of mosques and minarets in some elegantly floating spring creation, for the cover of a world-renowned glossy magazine.
She would not have run into Keith at all.
‘I’ve never regarded her as an encumbrance, Keith,' she reminded him rather wistfully.
‘No, you haven’t. I know that, Rennie. It was all on my side, and I’m quite prepared to admit it. I actually admired you for the stand you took, if you want the truth, but I can’t say I’m sorry to learn that you’ll soon be swinging clear of that particular responsibility, all the same. I can’t pretend, and won’t pretend, that Magda could ever have meant a thing to me, and I certainly wasn’t going to share you with anyone, even with a child. She’s in a bit of mess, isn’t she, by the way, with all those scars? D’you think it will have been worth it? I hardly dared to look.’ He shrugged. ‘That sort of thing rather sickens me, actually. I prefer my physical specimens unblemished—preferably slim and blonde and twenty-three, into the bargain!’
Oddly, Rennie found that she could not smile, although his attempt at levity was obvious.
‘The surgeon assured me that the marks will disappear in time. She’s so young that there’s a very good chance of almost complete recovery, cosmetically speaking. Poor little mite! She’s been so good and patient through it all that I only hope he’s right!’
Keith ground out his cigarette, got up and came around to her chair.
‘Let’s forget it all tonight, anyway, Rennie. Let’s dance, shall we?’
She rose obediently, and they made their way amongst the tables to a balcony that opened off the far end of the room, and where an orchestra had already played a couple of numbers.
Held in his arms, Rennie forgot her weariness and the tiny feeling of vexation that had just now been niggling at her, lost in the magic of his nearness.
Keith drew her close, and together they kept time to the music in that classic, almost stationary, ‘nightclub’ form of dancing which goes with dim lights, too small a floor, and too many people. He put his head down so that his cheek brushed her own, and she was happy just to stay that way, revelling in the moment, unable to prevent a warm tide of emotion from flooding through her.
It was well after midnight when Keith took her back to the Eucalypt Grove, and even then it was at Rennie’s own insistence.
‘Yes, truly, Keith. I’m beginning to feel quite lightheaded. I hadn’t counted on an evening out straight after a twelve-thousand-mile non-stop journey, you know. And anyway, I mustn’t leave Magda for longer, although I’m sure she’ll sleep sounder tonight than ever in her whole life, probably. The sitter will be wondering where I am, too.’
‘Nonsense! She’s probably fast asleep over her knitting!’
‘Even so, I really must go. Please.’
‘Very well.’ He was still reluctant, but he beckoned to the waiter to bring the bill. ‘You don’t know your plans for the future yet?’
‘No. Mr. Krantz said we might be there tomorrow night, too, but we just have to wait until we are contacted, it seems.’
‘Hm, I’ll call tomorrow, then, on the off-chance. In any case, you have my address and phone number, haven’t you, Rennie?’
‘They’re safely in my bag.’ She indicated her small gold brocade evening purse.
‘Good. We mustn’t lose touch now, must we?’
There was something deliciously meaningful in the way in which Keith stressed that ‘now’.
Outside, King’s Gross had become fully awake, it seemed.
The crowds were even thicker, if that were possible, the noises louder, the cooking smells more pervasive, the lights more scintillating than they had been a few hours earlier. Night-life, in all its brash, bold, brazen gaiety, was in full swing, and would be for hours yet! Even the newspaper stall was still carrying on a buoyant trade, and around the Alamein Fountain there were more people than ever, grouped about, gazing hypnotically at the showering cascade of whispering waters.
The taxi turned down another street, passed a hamburger waggon where a man in a white overall was serving a lengthy queue that varied from men in dinner-jackets and women in theatre dress to bearded hippies and leather-booted lovelies.
‘I’ll come up with you. Have you got your key?’ Back at the motel, Keith pressed the lift button, and they soared up together to the second-top floor.
Rennie turned the key softly, and stepped into the entrance vestibule, turned.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening, Keith. Marvellous, in fact.’
‘I thought so, too. Rennie. We must do it again.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Tomorrow? I mean, tonight, of course—I’d forgotten it was so long past midnight, and time has a habit of passing too quickly when you’re aroun
d. Much too quickly.’
She hesitated.
‘I’m just not sure quite what we’re doing,’ she felt bound to remind him. ‘But I could let you know.’
‘No, I’ll phone you. Or better still, I’ll look in.’ He took her gently into his arms. ‘What luck, to meet like that at Papeete! Some instinct must have told me that there was a beautiful damsel following me, and made me turn my head. Just think, if I hadn’t looked around when I did, we wouldn’t have had this date tonight!’
‘Oh, Keith! I’m so glad you did look around!’
Rennie’s voice was husky. She knew that he was going to kiss her, knew just what Keith’s kisses could do to her. She had a half-desire to escape, to avoid that soul-searing, earth-shaking emotion that he could arouse in her, yet she could only stand there mutely, caught in the fatal web of attraction that bound her to him, waiting for the exquisite moment when his lips would find hers.
They kissed long and passionately, and it was Rennie, breathless and bewildered, who finally struggled out of Keith’s hold.
‘God, Rennie, you’re a witch!’ His voice came thickly. ‘If it wasn’t for that child, I—’
‘Hush, Keith, or you’ll wake her. Please go now,’ Rennie pleaded.
He gave her a brief, final caress.
‘She won’t be around much longer, anyway, so I guess I’ll have to be patient. Goodnight, my sweet, darling Rennie. You’re quite the nicest and most alluring little airport pick-up I’ve ever had the luck to encounter!’ He chuckled. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he whispered, and then he closed the door gently behind him, and was gone.
Rennie hung her wrap on one of the coat-hooks, turned, gave a gasp of pure fright as a shadowy figure detached itself from the lintel of the inner doorway where it had been lounging.
‘Miss Bentmore, I presume?’ drawled a deep voice from the gloom, and that same deep voice had a certain, definitely nasty overtone. ‘A touching goodnight, I must say. And you had the unutterable presumption and audacity to question my character!’