by Lilian Peake
It was impossible to make notes while her fingers shook so badly, while her mind tried to take in the fact that, when this series of shows was over and her contract with Pierre Hirondelle had expired, Carla Grierson would become the wife of Ewan Pascall, the man now sitting—with a surprisingly unmoved and slightly cynical expression—at her side.
His dark head turned, and his sardonic eyes rested on Gayle. “What’s wrong? Hand run out of steam?”
Gayle looked at him quickly and then stared at the jumbled words in her notebook. She must not let him read the thoughts which her unhappy eyes would reveal.
The burst of applause made it unnecessary to reply. It went on and on. Pierre bowed and bowed again. Carla, radiant, flushed, more beautiful now than ever, inclined her head. Her eyes sought out those of Ewan Pascall, the man whose wife she was soon to become. At last Ewan smiled and stood up. Carla ran to him and a kiss passed between them, gentle, light, but with a message undoubtedly hidden deep within its kernel. I love you, they must have told each other, while the delighted audience looked on.
Pierre took Carla’s hand and led her up the stairs. The Hirondelle fashion show was over. A vendeuse, raising her voice above the clamour, asked everyone to keep their seats until the models had changed and the doors to the room where the reception and buffet meal were to be held was unlocked.
Gayle stayed silent, busying herself with trivialities, putting away her notebook, her pen, touching her nose with powder and her lips with colour. Anything, she thought, rather than make small talk with the man she loved but who patently did not love her. He had eyes for no woman except the one he was going to marry. And who could blame him?
“What’s the matter?” the mocking voice asked. “Upset because the man you spent the night with failed to recognise you next day?”
Her head swung round to encounter the sardonic smile. “I think,” she said, dismayed to discover how the deep-down anger she was experiencing—anger with events, with Carla and most of all with Ewan Pascall for being the unattainable object of her love—would not be subdued, “you should apologise for that groundless, slanderous accusation!”
“My dear girl,” lazily he stretched out his legs, “it was neither an accusation nor a slander. It was an innocent question.”
“There was no innocence about it and you know it! You’re smearing my reputation, my name—”
An eyebrow flicked up and down. “Are you going to sue me, because if so, you’ll need witnesses. Shall I say it louder,” he looked around, “so that our worthy neighbours can hear? Then you would have a better chance in a court of law. But why bother to waste your money on legal proceedings? Just tell me the amount of damages you have in mind and I’ll contact my bank manager straight away. The money shall be yours within a few days.”
Involuntarily her hand rose, as if longing to make contact with his cheek. “If only,” she muttered, “there were not so many people, if only we were alone—”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Chérie, leetle one, ma petite, ma belle,” he gave a derisive but excellent imitation of Pierre’s English and French accents, “if we were alone, I can assure you that, wearing that dress as you are,” his eyes rested languidly where the plunge of the neckline ended, “you would not be allowed to do much talking. My mouth would be holding yours in bondage.”
A flush crept over her neck and coloured her cheeks. Ewan watched, a smile matching the taunt in his eyes. “So you can still blush? You surprise me. After last night—“
Gayle rose and walked away, but at that moment the doors to the hall in which the reception was to be held were flung open. Bewildered by the crush of people, she turned back and sought shelter at Ewan’s side.
“It’s no good pretending,” he whispered, putting his arm round her, “as I’ve said before, you just can’t do without me, can you?”
The evening passed slowly. Gayle was not in the mood for the laughter and the jokes, the introductions and the fashion talk. Ewan stayed with her for much of the time, passing her food and drink, but as he was acquainted with so many of the guests—Gayle assumed he had met them at events he had attended when trailing across the Continent behind his fiancée—he was often engaged in lengthy conversations which excluded her. Once during the evening, Gayle glanced around and her eyes met Pierre’s. He pushed his way through the crowd and took her hands.
“Sweet child,” he murmured, “you look so elegant, so exquisite, so belle. Beneath the innocence there is, after all, the sophistication.”
“Innocence, Monsieur Hirondelle?” The mocking question came from Ewan.
“Oui, Monsieur Pascall, innocence. So rare these days and therefore to be much prized!”
Ewan gave a short derisive laugh. “Miss Stuart is an engaged woman, Monsieur Hirondelle. Has she not told you?” His eyes narrowed. “For some reason she seems to keep it a dark secret, but she has a young man she intends to marry—at least, so I’ve been told.”
“She has told me, have you not, Gayle? The boy next door? He is handsome and gallant and very devoted, eh?”
Gayle found it unbelievably difficult to recall Mel—his face, his manner, anything about him. “Not handsome, Pierre,” she answered shyly, “but good and unselfish and—and—”
Frantically she searched for another word to describe the young man whose features and importance had receded into the darkness at the back of her mind.
“And everything a young and ardent lover should be? Pierre added.
Gayle nearly laughed at the romantic description of her boy-friend, but she said, with simplicity, “We get on well together.”
Pierre squeezed her hands. “You liked my designs? You will buy one and sell it to your customers?”
Gayle sought Ewan’s eyes, but he gave her no guidance. “I—I thought of buying three, Pierre, but,” again she looked uncertainly at Ewan, “I don’t know whether—”
”Your employer will approve?” Pierre finished for her. “Ask him, Gayle,” he whispered loudly, “he is there at your side.”
“Well, I — I only have a limited amount of money...”
“You want three, Gayle?” Ewan cut in curtly. “Then buy three. I told you about my plans to conduct an experiment. If you need more money allocated to you, then come and ask me. I might even give you what you want.”
Pierre laughed delightedly. “For myself I am so pleased. Three of my gowns transported back to England. For you, Gayle, I am pleased also. Your takings will increase. You see, I know all about it, Carla has told me. And,” with a sly smile at Ewan, “you have a considerate employer, he will give you everything you want.”
Gayle shook her head, but Pierre laughed again. He pulled her close and kissed her delicately on the cheek. “I wish you all the luck—and love—in the world, sweet Gayle.” With a lift of the hand, he left them.
Gayle turned back to find that she was alone. Ewan had moved away. He had sought other companions, more exhilarating conversation. As Gayle watched, he moved from group to group, making his way, it seemed, towards his fiancée. When he reached Carla’s side, she put down her drink, locked her arms round his neck and kissed him.
At which point Gayle turned away, sickened and despairing, to seek the solace of the view from the window. The house was perched on the side of a hill and below, sparkling red-gold in the evening sun. Lake Geneva spread into the far distance.
Tomorrow, Gayle reminded herself, she was going home and all this would fade like a dream. In the two days she had spent in that beautiful Swiss town she had come to know Ewan Pascall more intimately than would have been possible if she had never come away, if they had never left the orthodox and protocol-ridden atmosphere of Pascall’s department store.
She had—hadn’t she?—moved just a little closer to him? But to what end? None at all, except perhaps nearer to the inevitable parting of the ways. One month to go. What then?
“Wrapped around like a blanket with that solitude you love?” A hand passed lightly acros
s her back, reached her hip and rested. She shivered. “Not cold,” the voice asked mockingly, “with such a heat-insulated, heart-insulated covering as you’ve clothed yourself in?”
Her eyes rose to meet his. What if she told him, the touch of you sets me on fire? He would laugh, of course. He would think, ‘Poor kid, I’m sorry for you, but I’m strictly for Carla, the beautiful, the accomplished, not for Gayle the dumb, the plain one, an expendable failed member of my staff.”
He moved to stand in front of her and ran a finger down her cheek. “So thoughtful? Forlorn? Those sad eyes are trying to tell me something.”
Gayle closed them and turned sightlessly towards the view. “A drink?” Ewan asked. She shook her head. “Right.” He swallowed his, put the glass aside and said, “Get your wrap.”
“Why? Is it time to go?”
“Yes, leetle one,” he laughed into her eyes, “it’s time to go. At least, we are going. The others will stay on here for hours.”
“Carla?”
“Otherwise engaged. Pierre’s foremost model must stay at his side.”
“But surely she’s your fiancée, so—?”
“She would lose her job if she left him now.”
“So you’re filling in time with me?”
He propelled her a little roughly towards the cloakroom. “Get your wrap.”
“But I must say goodbye to Pierre.”
“Save your breath. I’ll do it for you. He won’t miss the thanks and the farewell handshake of an insignificant young fashion buyer from an English department store.”
So, in a few brutal words, Ewan Pascall had put her firmly in her place. With an irritable twist of the body she escaped his hold. “If that’s all you think of me—”
”That’s all you are, isn’t it?” the words were a taunt, but the face was smiling.
Gayle pulled away and ran into the cloakroom. In a few moments she was back, calculating that in the time Ewan would have to spend saying goodbye to his host, his fiancée and his acquaintances, she would be able to slip out of the building unobserved.
Ewan was nowhere to be seen, so she made a dash for the doors, pushed them open—and almost fell into two outspread, waiting arms. Stunned by the impact with which she had hit the solid male chest, she stayed where she was. As soon as she realised that, once captured, she would have no chance of making her getaway, she jerked from the sudden sanctuary—too late, because the two arms belonging to the masculine chest had her pinned securely where she was.
“I guessed as much,” Ewan’s voice wafted over her head. “I knew you would try and make a break for it, so I anticipated the event. You’re not getting away from me that easily were going for a walk.”
Gayle lifted her head from its oddly comfortable resting place against a crisp white shirt. “A walk? At this time of day? It’s getting dark.”
That, cherie, is the point.” The endearment, spoken this time without mockery, and with no intention to imitate or annoy, sounded so sweet, so sincere that Gayle’s legs felt curiously weak “We shall go for a walk in the half-light We’ll leave the car where it is and on our way down, we’ll collect it and drive back to our hotel.”
It took a few minutes to reach the gates of the Hirondelle residence Outside was the main road and leading off it a quieter road winding up the hill. Ewan lifted the wrap from Gayle’s arm and arranged it round her shoulders. “That should keep out the evening drill and protect you from the night insects.” he said.
His arm found her waist, his other hand caught hers. Her eyes, seeking his, held a question, a question which did not receive an answer.
“Where are we going?” she ventured to ask.
He smiled down at her. “Up here there’s a cafe. We’ll drink coffee and soon the moon will rise over the mountains. We shall watch it rise together. Any objections?”
“None whatever.” How could there be, when the man who would be watching beside her was Ewan Pascall? “It will be a souvenir to take back with me amongst my baggage tomorrow.”
A memory,” he took her up. “Nothing tangible, but as real to you as a pen or pencil saying ‘A present from—” He slowed their progress a little. “Have these two days meant so much to you?”
She nodded. “Why?”
“Why?” Her footsteps faltered. “Because—because it’s all been so new.”
“No other reason?”
She frowned at him. How could she tell him the truth? And why was he prying? Had she somehow given herself away?
She said lightly, as if the thought amused her, “Should there be another reason?”
“No matter.” He dismissed the subject. Obviously it was of no great importance.
The cafe was built of wood with a deeply sloping roof. Outside, circular tables, some with striped umbrellas above them, were spread out over a raised uncovered platform. From this height, and in the muted colours cast by the setting sun, the view across the lake was beyond description.
A plump young girl came out of the building to take their order. While they waited, Ewan pulled Gayle down beside him on to a bench in a secluded corner.
He took her hand and she did not attempt to withdraw it. He said, “Tomorrow, mid-morning, I’ll return with you to London. We’ll take the train from Montreux station to Geneva and catch the plane home from the airport. Understand?” He smiled down at her in the semi-darkness. She nodded. “Be ready in your room at ten-thirty sharp. I’ll collect you.”
The anticipation of sharing the return journey with him, the excitement of his nearness, the touch of his hand entwined with hers brought a hammering to her pulses and a bright daring to her eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Pascall,” she whispered. “Message received, Mr. Pascall. Your wish is my command.”
His hands gripped her shoulders, her body was swung round, her chin jerked upwards—and two coffees were placed discreetly on the table.
“Lucky for you,” Ewan breathed, searching in his pocket for coins with which to pay.
By the time the girl had gone, Gayle had shifted to the end of the bench and was stirring her sugarless coffee with excessive concentration.
“A timely intervention, Miss Stuart,” her companion murmured. “Had there been no interruption the effects of such a reckless remark would have shaken you rigid. So, chérie,” his voice was a whisper now, “take warning. Unless,” his hand reached out, found her wrist and tugged her beside him again, “you intended to provoke?”
Had she? She did not know what she had intended. On such a night, with such a man beside her, it was impossible to be rational and level-headed.
“Because,” Ewan’s lips were saying, hovering within touching distance of hers, “I am provoked. I therefore ‘command’ a kiss.” He took it, lingeringly, thirstily, draining her dry and leaving her parched and craving for more.
He picked up her coffee and put it to her lips. She drank and paused. “More,” he said. “Finish it.” Like a child, she obeyed. Then he drank his own.
The shadows had deepened. The sunset, blood red, stained the sky across the hills behind the lake. The water caught the radiance of the sunglow and reflected it back. Below, in the town, lights shone a brilliant yellow, splashes of light or strung out like beads along winding streets.
The darkness was intensifying, giving greater emphasis to the clear, clean sky. Here and there a star shone palely, a white wisp of cloud turned grey.
“There,” Ewan murmured, turning Gayle’s head, “the moon is rising.”
It lifted, pearl white and full, from behind the mountains inching upwards and diagonally across the sky. As it cast its light beneath it, it touched the lying snow on the summits to a shining brilliance, and the dampness laid down by the evening mists with white luminosity.
The mountain range Les Dents du Midi towered out of the darkness, asserting its grandeur and its dominance over all the others around it, lifted by moonlight into an even greater majesty than it held in the light of day.
Somewhere, nearby
, a guitar began to play. A singer matched his voice to the soft, seductive harmonies. A love song entreating, melancholy, sad. “Gayle?” The whisper broke into her reverie. Slowly she turned her head to see the moonlight reflected in the face so near to hers, making his flesh pale, his eyes intense. He pushed aside her wrap and it fell away unheeded.
Hands settled round her throat, fingers tipped back her head and on to her lips fastened an ardent, seeking mouth. An arm cradled her body, a hand, searching, caressing, possessing, moved her to an ecstasy and a response she had never experienced in her life before.
Whether she should be in Ewan Pascall’s arms, whether he, a man soon to be married to another, should be making such passionate love to her, she did not question. The thought, in an attempt at self-justification, did flit almost unheeded through her mind. And the answer came at once.
Why not accept here and now all there is to take? Carla will have him all her life, I for just a few unforgettable moments before a bleak and empty future closes in on me.
By the time they drew apart, the moon had risen high and triumphant, the setting sun had left behind a residual glow, last reminder of a golden day. But as they sat, arms round each other, her head on his shoulder, his cheek against her hair, even the glow dampened down to sink behind the shadow of the mountains.
That same moon will rise again tomorrow, Gayle thought, but there will be no mountains for me then, no mirror of a lake shimmering with lights thrown there by the hotels and high-rise buildings around it. No path of silver across the surface of the water.
I shall be at home with my father, with Rhoda, with Mel ... She sighed, stirred and turned her face against Ewan’s shoulder. He did not speak but tightened his arm around her, lifted her hair, played with it then, suddenly, smoothed it down.
There was in the action—was she perhaps becoming too sensitive to everything about him?—a discernible resolution, the faintest hint of firmness, of a decision taken, a mind made up.
Whatever it was—and even as she wondered she thought she might have imagined it—it was sufficient to alert her senses, to put her on her guard. And then, because of an irritating prick of guilt which drew a pinpoint of blood at the back of her mind, it followed naturally that her mental defence mechanisms should be brought into play.