by Flora Kidd
'But ... he might not come back to me when he's finished his assignment,' muttered Jessica. 'I can't be sure he'll come to me now. You see, he wasn't very pleased with me last night and he left this morning without telling me where he was going, without saying goodbye.'
'I know he did. And I was very annoyed with him for leaving without speaking to you. He came to see me before he rushed off to the airport. He said you were so fast asleep he didn't have the heart to disturb you. He'd overslept and was afraid he'd miss the plane. He asked me to explain to you and to tell you he'll contact you as soon as he can. He'll be returning as soon as he and Bruce have enough information and pictures to finish the series of articles. That won't be until after Christmas.' Ashley paused, then added, 'You could stay here until he comes if you like. You're very welcome to stay.'
'Oh no. It's lovely here, I like the house, the island and the people, but I must go back to Beechfield now that I'm well enough. I want to go back to do my own work. I have a job, too, as a furniture designer,' Jessica replied.
'Yes, I know, and I fully appreciate your desire to return to work. But you'll stay another week, please. It will give us time to get to know each other better, and I think it's time I got to know you, Jessica.'
'Thank you, I'd like to stay with you,' replied Jessica sincerely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK later Jessica left St Martin, seen off at Juliana airport by Ashley. In the early morning of the next day she arrived at Heathrow and was met by her mother.
'You're looking so much better!' exclaimed Anthea. 'But you must put a coat on before we go out to the car. It's freezing outside—an unexpected cold spell.'
Trees, fields and hedges were all rimed with frost that sparkled under the rays of a pale yellow sun. Looking out of the car window while her mother drove, Jessica felt as if she had been away for years instead of only three weeks. Then she remembered that before she had gone to the Caribbean she hadn't really been in Buckinghamshire or Beechfield; not so as to know she was, anyway. She had been in limbo, because that was what living without a memory in hospital had been like.
Six whole months had gone by since she had set out for Wales to see Alun, and in that time she had changed. Then she had been uncertain and vulnerable, easily influenced by what other people had said about Alun, because she hadn't known about herself. She hadn't known what it was she wanted from life or from him. Now she knew, and she was prepared to be patient with him, to wait for him to come back to her and, when he came, to tell him how she felt.
She had had a wonderful week staying at King's Fancy with Ashley. Cool and casual, Ashley had made an ideal companion, taking her to visit other New Yorkers who owned luxurious hideaway villas; one a well-known jazz musician who lived at a place called Oyster Cove; another a TV producer and another who was the author of several best-selling books, some of which had been made into successful films. And everywhere they had visited Ashley had introduced her merely as a young friend of hers from England.
'No one has to know about our relationship,' she had said. 'After all, none of them know that Alun is my son. It's none of their business. I don't ask if the younger people who are staying at their villas are their children or their grandchildren, nor do I want to know. Personal privacy is something that is very sacred to me. It was to Huw, too. I hope, Jessica, you will respect it too and not tell anyone in England I'm Alun's mother.'
'Not even my mother?' Jessica had asked.
'Not even your mother. Can you do it?'
'Yes, I promise.'
She glanced now sideways at Anthea. She would never tell her because she knew that Anthea would be shocked to learn that Alun had been born illegitimately. And never in a million years would Anthea understand Ashley. Giving up her child, letting him grow up half-wild among the Welsh mountains supervised in his formative years by a reclusive sheepfarmer-poet, would be beyond Anthea's comprehension. Conventional to her back-bone, she would disapprove strongly of Ashley's life-style. She probably disapproved of Alun's too, and wished her daughter had never married him.
The house in Beechfield looked just the same as always, its red brick glowing softly in the winter sunshine, the roses in the front garden still blooming in spite of the pinch of frost.
'I expect you'll want to rest today,' said Anthea as she made tea in the kitchen. 'I'll be going to work as usual. Okay?'
'I'll come to the factory with you. It's time I found out just exactly what job Arthur Lithgow wants me to do. Mother, have you seen anything of Chris Pollet lately?'
'Oh, you've remembered him, have you?' said Anthea, looking rather uncomfortable.
'Of course I have. I've remembered everything. I've remembered that he was interested in helping us when we were in such a bind about the bank foreclosing.'
'Was he? You didn't tell me that.'
'I know I didn't. He ... well, he had certain conditions I would have had to meet, and I wasn't sure whether I could.'
'So that was why he was so cool when I met him one day at a furniture manufacturers' association meeting,' remarked Anthea, frowning into her teacup.
'When was that? When did you see him?' asked Jessica.
'About two weeks ago. He asked after you and I told him you were on holiday in the Caribbean. He was surprised and wanted to know when you'd be returning to work. You know, Jessica, I never cared much for your association with him,' her mother went on. 'I've always felt that he isn't as straightforward as he likes to seem. By the way, where's Alun? Why hasn't he come back with you?'
'He's in New Guinea, on an assignment. He'll be home in the New Year.'
'What do you mean by home? Do you mean he'll go back to Wales? Or will he be coming here?'
'He'll be coming here or wherever I am,' said Jessica positively. That was something else she had learned, she thought, to be and to behave positively. Everything was much more likely to work out the way you wanted it to be if you took a positive attitude to life.
'Then should I assume you're together again?' asked Anthea. 'No more living apart except when he's away on assignment, of course.'
'Yes, you can assume that.'
'I'm glad. I like Alun—I felt a soft spot for him when your father used to rant about him having seduced you. I've always felt that in spite of his strange way of living, fundamentally he's a strong person who would come through in a crisis. And he did. He came when he heard you were in a mess and he took over, took you away for a holiday, gave you the support you needed to recover completely. I hope you're going to stay married to him, Jess.'
'I'm going to try,' Jessica whispered. 'It ... it's really up to him now whether he wants to stay married to me.'
Returning to work at the furniture factory was much easier than she had anticipated it would be. Although now a subsidiary of Lithgows, Martin and Son Ltd hadn't been changed. The same people were working there who had been working there when her father had died and no one had been taken on in her position in the design department. Within a few days she was settled in and feeling as if she had never been away.
The days grew shorter and darker. Christmas came and went with the usual office parties, neighbourhood parties, gift-giving, and Christmas Day spent quietly at home with Anthea. Jessica received a card from Ashley with a note in it saying that Alun's assignment was successful and on schedule. She heard nothing from him, and as the time went by, the year changing, the days lengthening, January giving way to February, with no word of his return the old doubts and fears began to clamour in her mind.
Suppose he didn't come back to her? Suppose he had returned already and had gone straight to Wales, to Mavis Owen and her plans for starting an adventure school? Suppose he hadn't forgiven her for pretending her memory hadn't returned while they had stayed together in St Martin? Suppose he didn't want to be married to her any longer? Suppose, suppose . . . she was nearly out of her mind with suppositions and had to make a determined effort to close her mind to them.
At the beginning of Februa
ry she moved out of her mother's house and into a pleasant flat in one of Beechfield's few high-rise buildings. She moved as much to get away from her mother's influence as to give herself something to do furnishing the flat, pretending to herself that she had to make a home for Alun to come back to. She had been in the flat a week when she ran into Chris Pollet at a nearby shopping centre.
'It's good to see you again, Jess,' he said warmly, shaking her hand. 'I can see you're fully recovered now. That was quite a scare you gave your mother.'
'Oh, you know about the accident?'
'Of course. I sent you flowers, but I guess you didn't notice them. You were in a coma for a while, weren't you?'
'Yes, but. . . .' She frowned in puzzlement. 'Why didn't you come to visit me when I was getting better; when I was out of the coma?'
'Well now, that's a long story,' he replied with a wry curve to his mouth. 'For one thing, your mother was very protective of you, wouldn't let me come near you.' He glanced around at the shopping precinct. 'Look, we can't talk here. How about dinner tonight?'
'I'd like that. Where?'
'There's a nice little place out at Winkleford, The Waggoner's Arms, really old. Parts of it Elizabethan, they say. They just have a few tables and the food is superb. Are you still living in Wordsworth Close? Shall I pick you up from there, say, about seven?'
'No, I'm living here, in the town,' Jessica told him. 'Six-fourteen Beechfield Towers.'
'On your own?' His grey glance was sharp and wary.
'At the moment, yes,' she replied coolly. 'I'll be waiting for you in the entrance hall to the building at seven. See you later.'
As always when she returned to the flat she opened her mailbox on the ground floor hopefully; hoping to find a letter or a card from Alun. But there were only bills.
Oh, why did she bother? she wondered as she let herself into the flat. He didn't care for her. If he did he would do everything he could to keep in touch with her somehow, either through the magazine's headquarters in New York, or through his mother.
Maybe she was wasting her time being faithful to him, waiting for him, hoping that their problem was resolved and that they were going to live happily ever after. Maybe she would be better off divorcing him and marrying someone else; someone like Chris Pollet. Maybe she just wasn't suited to the sort of marriage Alun wanted, an open affair in which they were both free to come and go as they pleased; free to go out with or even have an affair with someone else. Maybe she should never have married him in the first place.
What was marriage but commitment legalised? she argued with herself as she changed her clothes, putting on a red woollen dress, very plain and severely tailored, flattering her slim figure. So how could marriage ever be open? Commitment meant promising to be loyal and faithful to the person you liked living with, liked being with; the person you loved. It meant putting that other person before yourself. Well, she had tried to do that, hadn't she? But had Alun?
Wearing a straight black woollen coat over her dress, a silk scarf tucked into its neckline, and high-heeled shiny black boots, she was waiting for Chris when he entered. He looked really pleased to see her again, his broad face smiling.
'You look different somehow,' he said. 'More sure of yourself. Is it permitted to kiss you in greeting?'
'I think so,' she laughed, offering him a cheek. The brief embrace over, she tucked a hand through the crook of his arm and they walked to the door. 'You know, I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy myself this evening. I haven't been invited out to dinner for ages.'
Soon they were driving along wet lanes into the countryside. Winkleford was a tiny village situated at a crossroads; a cluster of old cottages around a tall-towered Norman church. Opposite to the church on the other side of the village green was the inn, its stone walls glowing warmly in the lamplight, rose-coloured light slanting out from its mullioned windows.
Inside the same rose-coloured light shone on dark wooden panelling, on small round tables and old Windsor chairs. A fire flickered in a huge stone fireplace.
'This is nice,' said Jessica appreciatively as after taking off her coat she sat down at the table to which they had been led by the hostess. 'How long have they been serving meals here?'
'They opened the dining room at the beginning of July,' replied Chris. 'They had a good summer. Of course the weather helped. It was a real scorcher, wasn't it?'
'I don't know.. ..' she whispered. 'I ... I wasn't here.'
'God, I'm sorry,' he said sincerely. 'I'd forgotten how badly injured you were. The accident happened when you were coming back from Wales, didn't it? What were you doing there?'
'I ... I went to see Alun. Don't you remember? You suggested I contacted him, so I went to see him.'
He didn't say anything immediately because a waitress, dressed in country clothes of a past era, long cotton gingham gown in blue and white check, with a mob cap on her head, brought them the menus and offered to bring them cocktails. When she had gone Chris said, 'I remember suggesting that you got in touch with him about a divorce, but I don't remember suggesting that you should go and see him.' He paused, frowning at the menu. 'Did you ask him ... about a divorce?'
'Yes, and . . . and he said I could go ahead and divorce him if I wanted to. I ... I was late leaving his place and had to drive all night to get back because I knew that the bank would foreclose if Mother and I didn't come up with some plan. I phoned you from Dolgellau to tell you I'd decided to agree to your conditions if you would save Martin and Son Ltd. But you weren't there. You didn't answer.'
'When did you phone?' he asked.
'Soon after six. It was a Thursday evening. You said you'd be back then.'
'I didn't get back until the Saturday. There was a strike of air-line traffic controllers. They were working to rule and flights were delayed,' he explained easily. 'By the time I did get back your mother had sold out to Lithgow.' His mouth twisted. 'Just as well she did. I couldn't have helped you out of the mess you were in, as it turned out.'
'Oh, why is that?'
'My own company ran into a spot of bother, financially speaking, and we had to cut back, sack a lot of people and re-plan our whole operation, so there was no way I could have arranged to amalgamate with Martins. But I'm glad to say we're coming out of that recession now.'
They ordered their choice of food and the waitress went away again. Chris poured wine into their glasses.
'So what are you doing now?' he asked. 'Working for Lithgow?'
'Yes. At the Martin offices.'
'How's it going?'
'Not very well.'
'Oh. Why not?'
'Arthur won't let me have any freedom to do my own thing in design,' explained Jessica. 'I have to follow the Lithgow line all the time and sometimes I feel that he's only kept me on as a sort of sop, if you know what I mean?'
'I can guess,' replied Chris with a slight but knowing grin. 'He doesn't want you going to work for another company because you just might be good at what you do. How about coming to work for Pollet's?'
She studied him across the table, wondering what lay behind his offer.
'Can you afford me?' she parried.
'I'll offer you more than Lithgow is paying you,' he retorted. 'Not much more but definitely more. Pollet's needs a new design right now to put the company at the top.'
'To beat Lithgows, you mean?'
'Exactly.' He leaned across the table. His grey eyes bored into hers. 'Come to Pollet's, Jess, and you can have all the freedom you want to design.'
She was tempted, but wary of him.
'Can I think about it?'
'Sure. Take your time. You came out to enjoy yourself, remember, so we won't talk shop any more.'
'But before we stop talking shop could I just ask you one question?' queried Jessica.
'Go ahead.'
'Would there be any conditions attached to your offer?'
'Conditions?' he scowled.
'Yes. Last time you offered something, when you
offered to amalgamate with Martins and make me your partner, you said you would only do it if ... if I divorced Alun. You said you didn't want him turning up and making claims on me. Remember?'
'Of course I remember,' he said rather irritably.
'But surely that doesn't apply now.' His glance sharpened. 'You're not telling me he's still around, are you?' He looked down at her left hand that was holding her glass. Light winked on the thick gold band on her third finger. 'Dammit, I didn't notice it before,' he muttered, then flicked her an underbrowed glance. 'You're still married to him?'
'Yes, I'm still married to him.'
'But you said you're living alone at the flat.'
'I am. He . . . Alun is away, on assignment for the magazine.'
'But you're divorcing him, aren't you? You've filed for a divorce?' Chris demanded sharply.
'No.'
'Why not?'
'I ... well, we still have to discuss it,' she faltered.
'But I thought you went to Wales to do that?'
'I did . . . but since then . . . since I got better from the accident he and I ... we've lived together for a short while.'
'I see.' He spoke through tight lips, his eyes wintry and leaned back, away from her.
'You haven't answered my question, Chris. Would you insist on my divorcing Alun if I take the job you're offering?'
He gave her a narrowed assessing stare across the table before answering slowly and thoughtfully.
'No, I wouldn't insist,' he said. 'Not this time. That make it easier for you to decide?'
'Yes,' she said, showing her relief by smiling at him. 'Much easier. Now let's stop talking shop and enjoy ourselves.'
It was just after ten o'clock when the car drew up outside the block of flats. They had been talking furniture design on the way back from the inn and before she opened the car door Jessica turned to Chris and said,
'Would you like to come up to the flat and see the drawings I've been talking about? The designs I've made for the chairs I'd like to have in the flat if only I could get them made?'
'Yes, I would,' he agreed with alacrity.