Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  After he had passed a ‘Parking’ sign, which directed cars to park to the side of the house, he hesitated. He was nervous and had arrived early deliberately, preferring to walk into a room with few people than arrive late and be appraised by fifty or a hundred pairs of judgemental eyes. The front door was ajar. Assuming the guests were expected to just walk in, he did so, and followed the sound of classical music to the large drawing room. There were only two other people in the room; an urbane-looking man in his mid-to late thirties and a young woman some ten years younger, with becomingly-flushed cheeks and long, flowing lustrous blonde hair. They were seated, chatting companionably on a settee, and failed to notice his arrival.

  It was a large room, about thirty by forty feet and divided by panelled folding doors in the centre which were currently folded back. A long run of old-fashioned French windows opened on to a flagged terrace that ran the length of the room. Although the intention had clearly been to cool the air, it was still oppressive. Rafferty loosened the collar of his new silk shirt, conscious he was sweating like a builder's labourer instead of perspiring lightly like the well-educated professional gentleman he professed to be. Every so often, in the distance, he could hear a clap of thunder, but it came no nearer and neither did any much-needed rain.

  The interior of the room echoed the old-fashioned aspect provided by the French windows. It seemed stuck in a time-warp: all faded grandeur of worn, silk-covered sofas and amateur-looking water colours. It didn't seem to match Caroline Durward's business-like style. The sofas were placed either side of the almost baronial fireplace and more sofas lined the wall opposite the windows.

  In the nearest corner Rafferty could just hear a grandfather clock solemnly tick away the seconds. It provided a tympanic accompaniment to the Bach or Mozart or whatever it was that was playing on the invisible sound system.

  The other two people still hadn't noticed him and, tired of his department store mannequin take-off, Rafferty stepped forward into their line of vision. The pair broke off their conversation and stared at him. He wondered whether he should have knocked and waited outside. But he was here now and, after paying five hundred pounds for the privilege, he didn't see why he should stand on ceremony. But, like an owl hunting in daylight, he felt out of his element and he asked uncertainly, ‘This is the venue for the Made in Heaven house party?’

  The man's eyes narrowed momentarily, swept him from head to toe as if he thought that Rafferty in his borrowed suit didn't quite cut the mustard, but then he smiled and said, ‘Yes. That's right. Do come in and make yourself at home.’ He nodded at the attractive young woman by his side. ‘This is Jenny Warburton. She and I were just getting acquainted. I'm Guy Cranston, one of the partners in the agency.’

  Jenny gave him a tentative, uncertain smile, which Rafferty returned before he introduced himself. ‘Jo-Nigel Blythe.’ Good start, Rafferty. Better go easy on the booze or God knows what else you'll nearly let slip.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Nigel. Let me get you a drink. Wine all right? Red or white?’

  Guy Cranston bustled over to a well-stocked sideboard with a concealed fridge at the far end of the room and brought Rafferty his wine. ‘I'd better get the nibbles organized,’ Cranston remarked as he headed back to the sideboard.

  Quickly, he laid out a dozen large dishes, emptied crisps and nuts and other assorted nibbles into them and then re-joined them.

  Another half-dozen people arrived in a rush. Rafferty recognised Isobel, the agency receptionist amongst them, though, as yet, there was no sign of Caroline Durward and Simon Farnell.

  Isobel came over. ‘Glad you could make it,’ she said.

  Although the welcoming comment was presumably meant for both him and Jenny, Rafferty couldn't help but be aware that Isobel's smile was for him alone.

  ‘Where's Caroline?’ she asked Guy. ‘It's not like her to be late for her own party.’

  Guy shrugged, excused himself and moved over to greet the newcomers, leaving Rafferty and Jenny Warburton with Isobel.

  Isobel laughed. ‘Honestly, men! You'd think he'd have a clue as to his own wife's whereabouts.’

  Beside him, Jenny, who seemed even more nervous than Rafferty, slopped her wine. Although she seemed embarrassed by her clumsiness it heartened Rafferty to think he wasn't alone in his nervous anticipation of the evening ahead.

  Isobel sighed. ‘I suppose that means that until Caroline gets here I'll have to act as hostess. I'll see you later,’ she said and went to mingle.

  Rafferty felt Jenny glance uncertainly at him. She seemed even more ill-at-ease now they had been left alone. She shot a look towards the door as if considering making a bolt for it. Rafferty felt an old-fashioned and chivalric instinct rise in his breast. Jenny was younger than him by about a decade, he guessed and seemed shy. To head off the anticipated bolt and to clamp down on his own urge to do the same, he tried to put her at her ease. ‘Have you been to many of these dating agency parties?’ he asked. ‘This is my first,’ he admitted.

  She gave him a strained smile. ‘Funnily enough, it's my first, too.’

  From her tone of voice, it sounded very much as if it might also be her last. Rafferty hoped not. ‘I nearly chickened out,’ he confided. As an ice-breaker, it wasn't exactly up there with the best one-liners of all time, but at least, her smile when it came, was wider this time. Rafferty felt things were improving, because her smile revealed delicious dimples in her cheeks. They matched the one in his chin. To his astonishment, she went on to gently tease him.

  ‘You know what they say about faint hearts. But, having said that, I think I'll go.’ She looked around the now crowded room as if searching for somewhere to put her untouched glass of wine. ‘Somehow, I didn't expect such a crush.’

  The smile quickly faded as if she felt intimidated by the occasion, the size of the room and the number of guests. Perhaps, like Rafferty, she was striving too hard for the cool sophistication of the other guests, the female ones at least, who, with their curiously expressionless faces, seemed cool to the point of catalepsy

  Rafferty, unwilling to be abandoned so soon, pleaded with her not to desert him. ‘You're the only person I've had a chance to chat to. And seeing as we're both novices at this perhaps we should stick together.’

  Her previous air of being ready to take flight slowly faded, though she still seemed ill-at-ease. After studying him for a few moments, she took a tentative sip of her wine, raised her chin a notch and said, ‘perhaps you're right. It would be cowardly to just run away.’ She directed another dimpled smile at him. ‘So, Nigel, tell me what made you join the agency?’

  Rafferty shrugged. ‘The usual reasons, I suppose. Never seem to meet anyone I click with and little time to look. Loneliness, too, I suppose,’ he told her a little shamefacedly. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I suppose you could say I came here expecting to meet the man of my dreams.’

  He tipped back the last of his wine, in his nervousness forgetting his earlier good intentions to go steady on the alcohol. ‘What do you say I get us another drink, then you can tell me about your dream partner and I'll tell you about mine.’

  She hesitated only a moment, then said, ‘Why not? If you get the drinks I'll find us a couple of seats over there.” She nodded at a small alcove.

  When Rafferty returned with the drinks he found Guy Cranston occupying the seat Jenny had kept for Rafferty. He had his arm round the back of her chair and to Rafferty's irritation, looked set for the evening.

  While at the bar, Rafferty had seen Caroline Durward and Simon Farnell arrive in a rush together, wearing matching expressions of annoyance. Seeing Rafferty, Caroline had come across to say hello and had ticked him off on her clipboard list. Now she was eyeing their little group frowningly from across the room. Rafferty guessed that, as one of the agency partners, Guy was expected to share the mingling and drawing-people-out duties, not home in on the girl that Rafferty considered the most attractive in the room.

  From her expre
ssion, Jenny didn't welcome Guy's over-familiar attentions. Rafferty butted in and handed Jenny her wine. ‘My seat, I think,’ he said pointedly to Guy, damned if he was going to let him monopolise Jenny. He willed Guy to clear off.

  Guy took the hint with reasonable grace. ‘I'll leave you two to get better acquainted. Adieu, Jenny, till we meet again.’

  Her ‘Goodbye Guy,’ was as pointed as Rafferty's.

  Amazed, but delighted that Jenny should make clear she preferred his company to the far more suave and sophisticated-appearing Guy Cranston, Rafferty sat down. ‘Persistent chap,’ he said. ‘Suppose you've got to expect a few like that at these affairs. Though you'd think, as a partner, he'd know better.’

  ‘Forget him,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘I intend to. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?’

  Very soon, Rafferty found himself telling her his life history - or rather Jerry's Nigel Blythe life story. She didn't flinch when he revealed the estate agent bit. Though he couldn't be entirely truthful given the many lies he had already told, he managed to slip in a few pieces of more personal information. He was surprised to find how much they had in common; they were both interested in history and architecture and, in spite of the age difference, they both liked the same music. They seemed to share similar ideas about a lot of things.

  Their little alcove was in a corner, well tucked away from the main throng. More people had now arrived and the hubbub of talk rose as the drink went down; the cultured talk of the middle classes at play. He caught brief snatches of conversation - which, for all Rafferty knew to the contrary, sounded like knowledgeable references to Mahler and Leonard Bernstein, the latest books which had been well-reviewed in the broadsheets, the latest play that was wowing them in the West End theatres. Rafferty, with only his fading knowledge of Sixties and Seventies pop music to help him keep his end up would have felt out of it but for Jenny. They might have been quite alone. Rafferty found himself wishing they were.

  Unfortunately, their little idyll was brought to an abrupt close as Simon Farnell swooped towards them. ‘Now, now, what's this? We can't have you hiding yourselves away.’ He gestured back towards the door. ‘Caroline's sent me to tell you to mingle, dears. So come along.’

  Simon took hold of Rafferty's arm in a vice-like grip and led him to a small mixed group. He introduced him and then left him to make conversation.

  After a while, the conversation being the mix as before and above his head, Rafferty glanced round, looking for Jenny. He couldn't see her. Instead, his gaze was caught and held by Isobel, the agency receptionist. Isobel had removed the concealing wrap in which she had arrived. She was dressed to kill in a little black number; sleeveless, strapless and almost bodice-less, her bosom swelled out in lush, white curves. Few of the men could take their eyes off her, Rafferty included. She gave him a ‘come hither’ smile. Beside him, the man whom Simon Farnell had introduced as Dr Lancelot Bliss, the well-known TV Doctor, nudged Rafferty and murmured in his ear.

  ‘Look, but don't touch is the best advice there, old man. Isobel's determined to get some poor fool up the aisle – the richer the better. She's had her eye on Guy, but as he said, she's all right to bed, but not to wed. Anyway, he wouldn't waste himself on Isobel even if he wasn't already married to Caroline, especially with the funds his late first wife left him.’

  Rafferty was astonished to find himself the confidant of gossip; it seemed singularly inappropriate from a medical man, though the inappropriateness of his behaviour didn't seem to trouble the doctor. But then the well-known Bliss had presented his TV Doctor show for a number of years. No doubt mixing with the lovies, their behaviour had rubbed off.

  Clearly, Dr Lancelot Bliss and loviedom were as natural a pairing as rock stars and hard drugs. In creating his stir he held centre-stage; a place that was obviously his preferred location. Rafferty had already noticed the little attention-seeking gestures. Every minute or so, Bliss would let his thick, straight dark hair flop engagingly onto his forehead and just as regularly he swept it back. The gesture drew attention to both the shining thickness of the hair and the beauty of his hands, which were long, slender and artistic. His clothes were from the dressing-up-box of the born show-off. The suit, though appearing plain at first glance, was a three-piece rather than a two-piece, the waistcoat and jacket silk-lined in a bright peacock blue at odds with the outward look of conservative sobriety. He even wore a fob-watch, an expensive bauble of exquisite beauty and workmanship.

  Bliss broke into his thoughts. ‘Isobel's father made several disastrous investments when she was around twelve and lost most of their money. Then, in the way of these things, the good money chased the bad. Guy Cranston let this out a few weeks ago after a few drinks too many.’

  Rafferty was surprised. Guy Cranston didn't seem the type to turn garrulous with drink.

  ‘Her mother persuaded Guy to offer her the agency job in the hope she'd snare a rich husband. So if you've got a few shekels, dear boy, take care. They're on the brink of losing the house - Latimer Court in Suffolk. Beautiful place, or it was – needs a fortune spending on it now. You've got to give it to Isobel. You'd never guess the family's problems from looking at her. She does rich very well.’

  Rafferty said, ‘Thanks for the tip. I'll steer well clear.’

  Under his lashes, Rafferty let his gaze rest on Isobel, who was being very touchy-feely with a man of Mediterranean appearance. She threw back her head and laughed, displaying her long, white neck and rounded bosom to advantage. Isobel was dressed in what Rafferty presumed must be designer gear. And though there wasn't much of it, the scrap of material was clearly not ‘off-the-peg’ and had presumably cost as much as his borrowed and ill-fitting suit. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. If she was wearing the last of her family's money as an ‘investment’ she hid it well. Rafferty would never have guessed her to be desperate. In spite of the indiscretion about Darius's little drugs business that Rafferty remembered, it seemed Isobel could be discreet when it mattered to her.

  ‘As I said, Guy only gave her the job as a favour to her mother; he knew the family through his late wife. Though I think Guy's rather regretting it now. He says Isobel's becoming a pest, always ringing him, telling him she loves him. She's set her cap there all right.’

  Between all the introductions, the wine and Lancelot Bliss's gossip, Rafferty lost the thread, forgot he was meant to be a smooth, sophisticated, urban professional, and blurted out, ‘but I thought you said he was married to Caroline?’

  Lancelot stared at him as if astonished that his confidant should have turned out to be a naive provincial. ‘Usual thing, Nigel,’ he explained with a patronising air that was reminiscent of Rafferty's cousin. ‘Caro and Guy have what you might call a semi-detached marriage. It seems to work okay for them. But keep it under your hat. It wouldn't do for it to get out, not in their line of work. Some clients might feel let down. It's what made Isobel think she might be in with a chance of turning Guy from semi-detached to detached and available.’

  Rafferty raised what he hoped was a sophisticated eyebrow to enquire, ‘And how did Caroline take that?’

  ‘Didn't turn a hair of that immaculately groomed head, though I believe Isobel has since felt the nip of Jack Frost. Caroline keeps Guy on a long leash and lets him roam. That way he always comes back. Caro knows her man. Guy loves ‘em and leaves ‘em. But I imagine he finds marriage to Caroline way too convenient to leave her. It keeps him safe from the predatory Isobels of this world, do you see?’

  Rafferty did see, though the seeing deflated him a little. If Lancelot Bliss was to be believed, the agency wasn't immune from the lying, cheating and betrayal so prevalent elsewhere. Perhaps he'd wasted his money paying for what was already so freely available. But then he remembered Jenny Warburton. The memory gave him a warm glow that had nothing to do with the sultry weather.

  ‘Poor Isobel, one has to feel rather sorry for her. Because she has not only that costly designer outfit on her back, she's got he
r family perched there as well.’

  Lancelot plucked another glass of wine – his sixth by Rafferty's counting – from a passing waiter and knocked half of it back. It served to make him even more garrulous. ‘So if Isobel finally gets the message that Guy's giving her, she'll be man-hunting elsewhere with even more desperation.’

  From Rafferty's other side, a man he recalled being introduced as Ralph Dryden, commented, ‘Poor girl's deluded. Didn't you say her father suffered from a similar affliction, Lance?’

  Bliss nodded. ‘Runs in the family, according to Guy. He told me her father's convinced he's the next Richard Branson. Considering he apparently gets involved in one idiotic money-losing scheme after another, his delusions must be of the certifiable variety.’ He looked at Ralph and added, ‘Still, we all know what they say about a fool and his money.’ For some reason this comment caused Ralph Dryden's plump face to flush hotly.

  Whether Ralph had become unwisely entangled with Isobel, Rafferty didn't know. But of one thing he was sure – dressed as she was, Isobel looked no man's idea of a suitable girl to take home to mother, never mind marry. She looked strictly mistress material. Jenny, on the other hand, although like Caroline and a number of the other women, dressed in a sleeveless little black number with a hint of cleavage, still managed to give off a demure air. It had appealed to him from the moment he had met her.

  Lancelot Bliss must have exhausted his gossip for he fell silent. Now Ralph Dryden, drawled loudly in Rafferty's other ear.

  ‘So what is it you do, anyway, Nigel?’

  ‘Property,’ Rafferty answered as briefly as politeness permitted. But his interrogator probed further.

  ‘What area? Only I'm in a similar line myself. My firm designed and built Elmhurst Heights, the new apartment development by the docks.’