by Lilian Peake
“Ewan darling,” Gayle heard Carla whisper, “je t’aime, Ewan my love, oh, je t’aime.” Which endearments were followed by a prolonged ecstatic sigh “Kiss me, Ewan,” the murmur reached Gayle’s unhappy ears, “hold me, never let me go.” Since there was yet another long silence, Gayle assumed that Ewan had needed no further encouragement from his beloved and was obliging to the best of his ability.
Gayle clenched her hands on the rail. Pierre unclasped them and pulled her round to face him “You are so sweet, Gayle, so innocent, so ingenue...” Then, in a gruff voice, “You ‘ let me, a too-experienced, if not complete debauched Frenchman, kiss you? You will give me the pleasure—which perhaps come my way never again—of holding a beautiful, untouched young woman in my arms?”
There was a sharp, angry movement in the doorway of the next room, but Pierre was not diverted from his course. His arms rested lightly round the girl he was holding—she offered no resistance, he had asked so charmingly—and his lips were tender and considerate. He lifted his head. “I was gentle enough? You enjoyed it?”
Gayle nodded, but she had not taken the pleasure from the embrace which it seemed her companion had. Although her back was to the other doorway, she knew, she felt they were being watched. As Pierre let her go, she turned nervously, expecting Carla, but Ewan was standing there, leaning against the wall and staring out over the lake. That he had been a witness to the kiss Gayle had no doubt, but he did not move his head nor any part of him to betray that he had done so.
“Come, little Gayle,” Pierre whispered, “here there are too many people. Take me into your bedroom, little one. Tonight I would follow you anywhere. Lead me to heaven, cherie...”
Pierre turned as they entered the room and with an elaborate movement closed the balcony doors and bolted them. The curtains swished and were still. Uncertainly Gayle looked at him. Surely he did not really expect...
But he put her hand to his Ups. “Goodnight, little one. Sleep deeply and may you enjoy your dreams.”
He left the room so silently that even Gayle would not have known he had gone if she had not watched the door close behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gayle breakfasted early, but not early enough to miss Ewan and Carla. As she watched them, their obvious intimacy hurt the eyes like staring at a bright light. Had they enjoyed their night together? The answer was there for interested eyes to see.
Once, towards the end of the meal, Ewan’s gaze was torn from his beloved’s face to rest on the girl across the room. Gayle felt she should smile—he did after all employ her—and in return an eyebrow moved upwards. When his smile came in response, it was distorted by cynicism and derision. In what category, she wondered angrily, was he placing her? His taunting look gave the answer. As she made for the door, head high, steps firm and measured, she knew he was watching.
On the balcony outside her room, Gayle looked about her with heavy eyes. The beauty of the lake and mountains was eclipsed by the sadness of her mood. How could she have allowed herself to fall in love with Ewan Pascall? A man so out of her reach that even a handful of foam had more substance than her dreams of him. A man not only engaged, but who had as his fiancée a woman of beauty and poise. When Carla became his wife she would not only fit with ease and rightness into the background of his gracious home, but also be accepted without question by the social circles in which he and—equally important—his mother, moved.
Gayle’s attention was attracted by cries and laughter from the swimming pool. It was early, there was nothing else to do. She would change into her swimsuit and try to drown her unhappiness beneath the surface of that shimmering blue water.
Fearfully, at the entrance, Gayle looked round. No sign of a tall lithe man with critical eyes and cold expression. Ewan must be elsewhere, in his fiancée’s stimulating company. He would no doubt stay with her until she went to the rehearsal and perhaps even go with her to watch.
Gayle threw aside her wrap and tiptoed to the steps, trod down them and sat dangling her legs. Someone else came to stand impatiently behind her, forcing her to plunge in. The water was warm and she twisted on to her back to float.
She remembered how Ewan had helped her yesterday, had swum with her on top of him and then had kissed her. All his kisses, she reflected, had no meaning. They had been passing fancies prompted not even by desire, let alone any other deep motion. They were prompted, probably, by no more than a wish to annoy and torment.
Grasping the handrail, she turned on to her front. I’ll try to swim, she decided. And try she did, but every time she found the courage to leave the rail, her body betrayed her and had her floundering and gasping and grasping the rail again.
Her skin prickled and she turned on to her back, only to find herself staring mutinously into two sardonic eyes.
“You don’t learn very quickly, do you? It’s plain you need more lessons. Shall I join you?”
“No, thank you. I’d—I’d rather sink to the bottom than have you down here with me.” She turned on to her front again, kicking her legs but clinging to the rail.
“Say that again, young woman,” the words came at her like pebbles flung by an angry hand, “and I’ll be down there beside you before you know what’s happening. And what’s more, my hand will administer enough punishment to make you remember it—and me—for some hours to come. In that position you’re not only inviting trouble, you would have no means of protecting yourself from it if it came your way. You’d be at my mercy.”
She said defiantly, “You’re not dressed for swimming, so—”
”No?” His fingers moved and his shirt was flung off, exposing the dark hair and formidable muscle.
“B-but you’re in trousers—”
”They’re drip-dry.”
“I’ll—I’ll come out.”
“Yes, I thought you might.” The shirt was retrieved and pulled on, but left unbuttoned.
Dripping and a little chilled—the atmosphere was warm enough, but Ewan’s presence brought a touch of ice into it. Gayle climbed the steps and with both hands pulled her wet hair away from her face. Ewan picked up a towel. “Yours?” She nodded. He wound it round her and began to rub her dry.
“No, no, you can’t do that.” She wriggled and tried to tug it from him.
“Another challenge? Say that again, and I’ll not only rub you down but accompany you to your bedroom and finish the job there in private—and comfort. And,” his voice lowered, “with not even this scanty swimsuit to come between us.” Another tug on the towel went unheeded. His hands moved from her shoulders to wander on a leisurely journey all around her to her waist. As they inched down and down again, she struggled this time with a ferocity which nearly had the towel in half. But still he would not let it go.
“So coy, little one,” he taunted, “sweet ... ingenuous ... innocent?” Pierre’s words, but spoken by this man with grating sarcasm. He straightened, the towel still in his possession. “Tell me, did you enjoy your nuit l’amour? Did you find heaven in Pierre’s loving arms? When did he creep out of your room? In the early hours?”
“I was as happy with him,” she lied with desperation, “as you were all night in your fiancée’s embrace.”
“Ah, but there’s a difference. Carla wears my ring. One is allowed to enjoy the company of one’s fiancée, surely, whatever the time of day. Tell me,” he flung the towel over his shoulder and rested his hands on his hips, “did you pay in advance for that dress Hirondelle’s going to design for you? And did he extract from you the most he could get, initiating you at the same time into the wonders of modern love—sex without strings, obligation or responsibility?”
He studied her face and drawled, “Yes, you look as though you’ve had a busy night. I’m sure there’s not much more I could teach you now.”
Gayle snatched the towel from him and turned to run, but his hand on her shoulder jerked her round to face him. “I’ll give you that drink I promised you yesterday.”
“No, thank y
ou. I’d rather die of thirst than accept any drink from you. Anyway, if that’s what you think of me, it would be better if you gave me poison, wouldn’t it?” She ran off, making slow progress as her wet feet slid and slipped on the tiles. He called after her imperiously,
“Miss Stuart!” His hands were in his pockets, his shirt flapped open, revealing the toughness of his body. His eyes, as authoritative as his voice, commanded her to return and stand in front of him. He had changed in a few seconds from sarcastic, unsparing critic to autocratic, dictatorial employer. “Be in the hotel lounge at three o’clock prompt. I’ll collect you and take you to Hirondelle’s salon for the fashion show.”
“Yes, Mr. Pascall.”
His eyes made an exploratory journey over her bare flesh and lingered momentarily on her covered portions as if his imagination were presenting him with interesting ideas. Gayle wished she had had the sense to wind the towel round her. She could not go—he had in the space of a few seconds reduced her from his equal to his paid subordinate—so she had no alternative but to tolerate his lingering, if slightly insulting gaze.
“After the fashion show there will be a reception, which will continue for some hours. Would you please be appropriately clothed?”
“Of course,” sourly, “did you think I’d appear like this?”
He said narrowly, “I’ll overlook that remark. You have, I take it, brought a suitable gown?”
“Yes, Mr. Pascall. I bought the best Pascall and Son could offer which, since it was ordered in your fiancée’s time, is very good, and very expensive, indeed.”
His brows drew together. “I get the message. If you think you’re knocking me, let me disabuse you. You’re knocking Pascall’s entire management. If you disagree with Pascall policy, you know what to do—find another job.”
“Yes, Mr. Pascall.” This conversation, in these surroundings and, Gayle thought, glancing down at herself, in these clothes—if such a name could be given to two such minute pieces of material—was ridiculous.
How could he treat her so unfeelingly When he had her almost literally at his mercy? “But haven’t you forgotten something, Mr. Pascall?” she asked steadily. “I’m on my way out. I’m working my notice, and in just over a month I’ll be gone from under your feet.” Her eyes flashed. “And that will please you, won’t it, Mr. Pascall?”
“That particular month, Miss Stuart,” he drawled, “will, as far as I’m concerned, be absolute hell.”
“And for me, Mr. Pascall,” she responded, her lip trembling, “it will be absolute purgatory!”
This time she escaped and he did not call her back.
Gayle rose from the wicker chair in which she had been sitting, awaiting Ewan’s arrival. As he approached she stood stiffly, one arm at her side, the other supporting her handbag. She was displaying for his inspection the dress she had chosen to wear.
She brought a smile to her lips. “Am I ‘appropriately clothed’, Mr. Pascall?” There was a note of provocation in her tone.
“Ewan’s the name.” He scowled, inspecting her.
Gayle knew she looked good. Who could fail to look—and to be—attractive, she had thought in her room, in such a dress.. The skirt was scarlet velvet and hung in sweeping folds to touch the floor. The top was quilted and embroidered in a multitude of flower designs. There were touches of red velvet in the sleeves, too, beneath the embroidery which spilled over from the tightly-fitting top. But the most telling touch of all was the curved neckline which plunged suddenly and uncaringly in a buttonless opening almost to the waist.
She waited, holding her breath, for his approval. But it did not come. Instead, the frown deepened. Gayle explained, almost sulkily, “It was your fiancée’s choice when she was the buyer of dresses. It was so expensive it didn’t sell, so it was marked down. I always admired it so.” Her voice wavered under his condemning silence.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it’s got Carla all over it. The dress is beautiful. That I can’t deny, but the girl wearing it—“
”Is not,” she finished. “All right, so you don’t like me in it.” She swung round, hiding her disappointment by a forced spurt of anger. “I’ll go and change.”
His hand shot out to catch her. “No, you won’t. There isn’t time. But what on earth possessed you to try to imitate Carla? With her sophistication and good looks, she can get away with it, but you—”
Gayle’s lip trembled. “So I’m plain, I’m ugly, I’m ungainly...”
He twitched her wrist. “Be quiet, girl! You’re nothing of the sort. But it hardly becomes you to strain to emulate a professional model. What are you trying to do—force cher Pierre to look at you with professional as well as lecherous eyes and offer you a job as one of his model girls?”
“Will you,” she muttered, “stop flinging insults at me? I’ll go and put on the oldest dress I can find. You’ve completely destroyed any confidence I had, but you’re so insensitive you wouldn’t understand. Anyway,” she rushed on, “I only put it on to please you because you said you wanted me ‘appropriately dressed.’ “
He looked at her thoughtfully, then, “I think a truce is called for, Miss Stuart. Just lean on me,” he offered her his arm which she accepted gladly, “and I’ll give you all the confidence you need. To me this is just another dress show, despite the exotic background. I’ve seen so many, having trailed round half the world with Carla, I shall be bored stiff. But it’s as well I’m here this time.” His arm slipped to her waist. “Regard me as a prop, a walking stick, your protector, whatever you like, but never let anyone say I failed you in your moment of need.”
He smiled with the obvious intention of bringing an answering smile to her pale face. She obliged, partly to please him and partly because the slight softening of his manner did more to restore her self-confidence than all his words.
They drove in a hired car across the town to Pierre’s salon which, it seemed, was built as an extension to the Hirondelle residence, a lavishly conceived and constructed building, as extravagant outside as was its dazzling interior.
There was an overwhelming impression of polished wood. It was everywhere, in the floorboards made from pine, in the matching lacquered walls and shining ceiling. The staircase was made from pine, too; it zigzagged from first floor to lounge hall. At intervals along the walls hung exotic tapestries. Long, shimmering curtains covered floor-to-ceiling windows.
The chairs on which the visitors sat—privileged customers, representatives of the press, buyers from stores all over the world—were made in wood to match the rest of the decor. Lighting was subdued. Perfume, sprayed from tinted bottles, hung upon the air. It was Hirondelle perfume which, Gayle recognised, was worn by Carla who carried it like a seductive aura wherever she went.
Someone took Gayle’s wrap and Ewan motioned her towards the chairs. On the way a vendeuse asked for Ewan’s name and that of his companion. At first the woman pointed to a row near the centre but checked herself, having noticed that their names had been moved to the front row. As they took their places, lifting the ‘reserved’ notices before they sat down, Ewan whispered,
“At least your activities last night have done us both a good turn. We’ve obviously been promoted in the Hirondelle hierarchy and given two of the choicest seats.”
Gayle challenged Ewan’s grin with a scowl which merely had the effect of making him laugh. The chatter around them increased as more guests arrived. Music played in the background and there was a general air of expectancy. A Pierre Hirondelle dress show was a rare and cherished event in the fashion world.
The music welled out. In a moment the show would begin. But first the designer himself descended the stairs and stood halfway down, every inch the showman, the successful, suave, too-handsome star of the evening.
With a series of low bows and at last an upraised hand, he acknowledged the acclaim of the audience. As he continued on his way to the dais, he murmured, “No, no, do not applaud me yet. After the show you might hate my designs
so much you may want to throw bricks at me!” There was general but unbelieving laughter. Then there came a watching silence.
Seconds later the watchers were rewarded and as the minutes passed and girls descended the staircase, pausing, twisting and stepping down, each one seemed more beautiful than the last. Most attractive of all—hadn’t her fiancé described her as ‘breathtakingly beautiful’?— was Carla Grierson.
She enhanced all the gowns she wore. Some were brilliant greens and yellows; others splashed with extravagant patterns; halter necks, bare midriffs, necklines that plunged as deep as they dared. One misleadingly simple garment she ‘sold’ to the audience through her beauty. It was an off-the-shoulder sweater, with one arm sedately covered while the other was bare from wrist to throat. In between it moulded itself seductively over her inviting shapeliness.
Now and then Carla would twirl and pose in front of Ewan, sending him a smile in which, judging by the little-girl pout of her lips, was enclosed a kiss. Ewan did not respond in kind. He merely crossed his legs and his arms and contemplated her with a detached, withdrawn expression as if considering the clothes and mentally casting aside the girl displaying them.
Gayle made copious notes, drew lightning sketches, noted trimmings and skirt lengths, the drape and shape of sleeves, fabric types, patterns and colour trends. All the time, Pierre, speaking alternately in three or four different languages, described his designs, pointing out their individual features, original colour matchings, the placing of a pleat here and a fold there.
The climax of the show was, of course, the bridal gown. “I have,” Pierre announced, “chosen my most experienced and exquisitely beautiful model to wear this creation. I think I may be forgiven if I tell you a secret—I have her permission. My Carla is soon to be married and it is this gown she will be wearing for her wedding.”
Carla drifted down the stairs, one elegant step over the other, a bouquet in her hands, her head-piece a spray of flowers. Behind her walked two white-gowned ‘bridesmaids’. Gayle’s hand faltered and stopped.