Now and Always

by Andrea Blake

  When Jennifer got home at half-past six, her mother told her that Suzanne had telephoned from the store to say that she would not be back for supper as she was dining with Conrad Dawson.

  “I also had a call from Maggie Fletcher. She wants me to go to the cinema with her tonight. Do you mind, dear?” Louise asked uncertainly.

  “Of course I don’t mind, silly. Why ever should I? Is Colonel Fletcher going too?”

  “No, he’s working on their kitchen tonight. But Maggie is calling for me in the car, and I expect we shall go back there for coffee afterwards.”

  Miss Fletcher arrived shortly before seven.

  “Have a lovely time, darling. I shall be in bed long before you come home, I expect. Don’t forget to lock up, will you?” Louise gave Jennifer a hug, then hurried away to join her friend in the car.

  As there was plenty of time before Neal arrived, Jennifer washed the tea things, then carefully pinned up her hair while her bath was running. She was careful not to have the water too hot, and after she had soaked for ten minutes, she pulled out the plug and turned the cold tap full on. When she climbed out she was shivering, but a brisk rub with a large bath sheet soon made her warm again, and she felt fresh and invigorated ... ready to dance all night.

  At a quarter past eight, having checked that she had put everything she would need in her new gold kid evening bag, and with her mother’s sable jacket over her arm, she went downstairs to wait for Neal.

  The jacket had been Guy Alvery’s last present to Louise, but she had never worn it during her second marriage. Now, although it had been airing near an open window in one of the attics since Monday, a slight aroma of mothballs still clung to it. But the style of the jacket had not dated and the fur had lost none of its rich dark sheen. Slipping it on for a few moments earlier, Jennifer had snuggled her cheek against the softness of the collar and felt sure that, even with a faint redolence of camphor, it would be the most beautiful wrap at the Ball.

  She was sipping a glass of sherry, excitement mounting inside her, when she heard the Lancia turn in at the gate. She ran to open the front door.

  Neal parked the car with the nearside door close to the step because there was a light drizzle falling. He was wearing a dark overcoat with a white silk scarf tucked into the collar.

  “Hello, Neal.” Jennifer felt suddenly shy of him. “Would you like a drink before we start?”

  He followed her into the drawing-room where she poured him a glass of sherry. As she gave it to him, the expression in his eyes made her heart leap.

  “You look lovely, Jenny,” he said softly.

  “Thank you.” Her voice came out in a whisper, and her hands trembled a little as she picked up her own glass.

  “I couldn’t bring you flowers as I didn’t know what you would be wearing, but I saw this today and I thought it was rather your style.” He took a small box out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  Jennifer removed the lid and drew in a sharp breath of delight. The box contained one of the most exquisite bracelets she had ever seen. It was a narrow hoop of gold, finely engraved with a pattern of twining leaves and flowers, and the centre of each flower was set alternately with pearls and turquoises.

  “You don’t have to wear it tonight. I thought it would go with that outfit you were wearing at the Fletchers’ party.”

  “Of course I’ll wear it tonight—it’s beautiful. Oh, Neal, what can I say?”

  “When you look at me like that you don’t have to say anything. Here, let me fix the catch for you.” The bracelet opened on a concealed hinge and he clasped it round her wrist and fastened the safety catch. “Yes, I think it does go with that dress, too,” he said judiciously. “Shall we go now? Have you a wrap?”

  As he helped her to put on the sable jacket, Jennifer felt dizzy with happiness. Surely he would not have given her the bracelet, or said ‘You look lovely, Jenny,’ in that special tone of voice, if he was not beginning to feel the way she felt about him.

  The Press Ball was being held at the Annersley Rooms on the other side of town. As it was still raining when they arrived, Neal gave Jennifer her ticket and suggested that she should wait for him in the foyer. It might take him a little time to park the car.

  The cloakroom was full of women and girls queuing to give their wraps to the attendants or waiting for a place at one of the dressing tables. Some were in short skirts, some in long formal ball gowns. Some wore dresses which had probably not cost very much but which suited their wearers to perfection. Some wore dresses which might have cost thirty or forty guineas in Whittakers’ Model Room, but which were much less becoming, or spoiled by the wrong jewellery. Retouching her lipstick with the aid of her compact mirror, Jennifer was happily conscious that her own dress was the nicest she had seen so far.

  She had been waiting in the foyer for only a few moments when Neal emerged from the men’s cloakroom. Suzanne had been right when she had said he looked ‘superb’ in evening kit. He had not yet lost his summer tan, and the whiteness of his dress shirt accentuated the bronze of his face and hands.

  “Most of the people here are in parties, but we’ll have a table to ourselves,” he told her, tucking her hand through his arm as they went up the stairs to the ballroom.

  As soon as they had been shown to their table and Neal had had a word with one of the wine waiters, he said, “Shall we dance?”

  The band was playing a waltz and, for a moment, as she went into his arms, Jennifer was afraid that she might have forgotten the steps that, unbeknown to her stepfather, she had learned several years ago. Her mother had insisted on her taking dancing lessons the year she had been sixteen. But since then she had had little opportunity to practise, and now she was terribly afraid that this wonderful evening might be ruined by her inability to follow Neal properly, particularly if he tried any of the more difficult variations. But by the time they were halfway round the floor, she had begun to relax again. He held her close to him and guided her so skilfully that, even if she had never had a lesson in her life, she would have been able to follow his lead.

  There was a bottle of champagne waiting for them when they returned to the table.

  “Oh, Neal, I feel like Cinderella,” Jennifer said dreamily, when she had taken her first sip of the sparkling wine.

  “But you don’t have to go home at midnight,” he reminded her. He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “In a way I’m grateful to Wilfred for keeping you virtually under lock and key all those years.”

  “Grateful?” she said, mystified.

  “If you had had the freedom most girls have, you might have become blasée and spoilt by now. I don’t mean that I agree with Wilfred’s narrow views, but I think there’s a danger of girls growing up too fast nowadays. Take a look round”—he glanced at some of the nearby tables—“and you see kids who can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen taking all this for granted. They don’t feel like Cinderellas. The other day I heard one of our typists saying that she had turned down a date with a boy because he hadn’t got a car, and the last time she had been out with him they had sat in the cheaper seats at the cinema.”

  “All girls aren’t like that, Neal.”

  “Perhaps not, but very few are like you, Jenny,” he said gravely. “Anyway, if it hadn’t been for Wilfred, you would not be living in Midchester now. Shall we dance again?”

  At ten o’clock a cold supper was served, and the M.C. stepped up to the microphone to thank all the local trades-people who had donated prizes for the raffle and the spot dances.

  Jennifer was finishing her Peach Melba when Neal suddenly rose to his feet with the cold look on his face which she had hoped never to see again. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she saw Suzanne and Conrad Dawson coming towards them.

  “Surprise, surprise! In spite of all the tickets being sold, I managed to charm the chairman of the Ball committee into letting us join in the fun,” Suzanne said gaily. “May we share your table, or are we madly de tro
p?”

  Neal did not reply, but stopped a passing waiter with a request for two more chairs.

  “Oh, good, we’re just in time for the cabaret,” Suzanne said, as the main lights dimmed and a spot-lamp threw a pool of brilliance round the microphone.

  There was loud and prolonged applause when the M.C. announced that the guest star this year was a popular television singing personality.

  “With more personality than voice,” Conrad Dawson murmured dryly to Jennifer, as he sat down next to her.

  But as the singer made her entrance. Jennifer’s eyes were on Suzanne. The older girl was wearing a skin-tight sheath of white silk jersey with a startlingly low décolletage, a dress only just saved from vulgarity by the slender perfection of her figure. Round her neck was a collar of glowing paste emeralds, and a matching bracelet, encircled one arm above the elbow.

  ‘She planned this,’ Jennifer thought. ‘She must have telephoned Mr. Dawson in London and asked him to bring a dinner jacket, or else persuaded him to hire one from Moss Brothers this afternoon.’

  Immediately after the cabaret, Suzanne swept the architect off to dance with her, and Neal also rose to partner Jennifer. He made no reference to the others, and his expression was controlled again. But she knew he was angry, and instinctively she tightened her fingers on his hand for a moment. He glanced down at her, then smiled and returned the pressure of her fingers. Suddenly Jennifer no longer cared that Suzanne had gatecrashed on them. As long as she was here, in Neal’s arms, nothing could mar her happiness.

  She did not even mind when Neal asked Suzanne to dance, for she had a feeling that, before they returned to the table, Suzanne was going to regret her intrusion.

  “Would you mind if we sat this one out, Miss Alvery? To be honest, I’m not much good at dancing and I don’t want to ruin those very pretty shoes of yours,” Conrad Dawson said, with a twinkle. “I hope you aren’t annoyed at our turning up like this,” he went on. “Suzanne said that Neal had intended to invite us along, but hadn’t been able to get the extra tickets. However, I’m beginning to think you would have preferred to be on your own.”

  “Not at all,” Jennifer said untruthfully.

  The architect turned his head to watch the dancers and, as Neal and Suzanne came into view, he said, “Poor Suzanne. She never knows when she’s beaten.” Before Jennifer could ask him to explain this rather odd remark, someone said, “Good evening, Miss Alvery.”

  It was Tony Anderson.

  “Would you mind if I had this dance with Miss Alvery, sir?” he asked Dawson.

  “By all means,” the architect said readily.

  Then, as Jennifer started to protest, “You go ahead and enjoy yourself, Miss Alvery. There’s no need to sit out with me.”

  Tony had taken her hand—with a grip considerably firmer than it might appear to an onlooker—and Jennifer knew she would have a struggle to disengage it. She did not want Conrad to see what had happened and perhaps to say something which would lead to a scene. So she let Tony lead her on to the floor.

  “Do you have to use brute force on all your partners?” she said icily.

  “I’m sorry about that, but I had to have one dance with you,” he said.

  Somewhat to her surprise, he made no attempt to hold her close, nor did he grin as if he did not believe her aloofness was genuine.

  “Miss Alvery, is there something about me which you honestly can’t stand?” he asked her.

  Jennifer hesitated, and he went on quickly, “Because if there is—if you really can’t stick the sight of me—I’ll give up annoying you.”

  “It isn’t like that exactly,” she said awkwardly.

  “You mean you just don’t like my approach?”

  “No, I don’t,” she answered candidly.

  “Well, look, couldn’t we start again? Couldn’t you give me a second chance ... a chance to prove I’m not such a bad type really?” he suggested coaxingly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson, but you don’t seem to understand that I ... I already have all the friends I want. My time is entirely booked up.”

  “I see. That’s that, then. Never mind, it’s nice to know you don’t actually find me repulsive.”

  The music ended. Tony escorted her back to the table, thanked her for dancing with him, bowed to Conrad Dawson, and went away.

  “Who was that?” Neal asked her, coming back with Suzanne.

  “Oh, one of our customers,” Jennifer said casually.

  The Ball did not end till one o’clock, but soon after midnight Neal said, “As Jennifer has a heavy day tomorrow I’ll take her home now, if you’ll excuse us?”

  “We’ll come with you,” Suzanne said instantly. “Poor Con is beginning to droop, and I’m quite tired myself. Come on, Jennifer, let’s go and get our wraps.”

  Jennifer could not help deriving a certain satisfaction from seeing the covetous gleam in Suzanne’s tawny eyes when she saw the sable jacket.

  Both men had brought their cars round to the front entrance when the girls left the cloakroom and crossed to the foyer doors.

  “I may as well go with you two. There’s no point in taking Con out of his way,” Suzanne said, climbing into the Lancia.

  Short of bluntly ordering her out, there was nothing Neal could do, Jennifer realised. But her spirits plummeted. For the past hour she had been looking forward to the drive home alone with him.

  After they had said goodnight to Conrad Dawson, none of them spoke, although Suzanne hummed the melody of the tune the band had been playing when they left the Ball.

  Jennifer felt certain that, when they reached Laureldene, Suzanne would stick like a limpet until Neal said goodnight.

  ‘She’s afraid he might kiss me,’ she thought.

  “I’ll stop at the gate so as not to disturb your mother,” Neal said, as they neared the house.

  “Won’t you come in for a few minutes? I expect she’ll have made some sandwiches for us.”

  “No, thanks, Jenny. Not tonight.”

  When he had stopped the car, Neal got out and came round to the pavement to help Jennifer. Suzanne climbed out unaided and stood swinging her evening purse beside them.

  “Goodnight, Jenny. Thank you for a very nice evening,” Neal said quietly.

  “Thank you, Neal. See you tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “Goodnight, Suzanne,” he said curtly. The two girls walked up to the house in silence, with Neal watching them from the gateway. When she had switched on the hall light, Jennifer turned and waved to him.

  “Would you like a hot drink, Suzanne?” she enquired coldly.

  “No—but I must talk to you, Jennifer.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow? If you don’t want a drink I think we should both get to bed.”

  “No, this is very important. I must say what I have to say tonight.”

  “Very well. We’ll go into the kitchen, or our voices may wake my mother.”

  After Jennifer had closed the kitchen door, she went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of cold milk. Suzanne lit a cigarette and moved restlessly about near the dresser.

  “Well, what is it?” Jennifer asked. “Are you going to apologise for not passing on Neal’s invitation to have supper at his flat last night?”

  “So you found out.” Suzanne shrugged her shoulders. “No, I’m not sorry for that—or for breaking up things this evening.”

  “Neal doesn’t know I could have come yesterday. But I don’t think you’ve won any ground with your tactics tonight,” Jennifer said dryly.

  Suzanne blew a smoke ring and watched it drift up to the ceiling, her golden eyes narrowed and catlike.

  “You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you? Oh, I daresay you won’t admit it—but it’s written all over you, my dear. Well, I don’t mind admitting the way I feel. I’m crazy about him, too ... and crazy is the operative word. You see, the difference between us, Jennifer, is that I know Neal. I know I’m a fool to have-got mixed up with him.”


  “What do you mean?”

  Suzanne crushed out her cigarette and unfastened the necklace of fiery green stones. “Neal is one of those men—fortunately a fairly rare species—who ought to have a warning sign tattooed on them,” she said, studying her long lacquered nails. “A sign meaning ‘Dangerous to women.’ I met him about two years ago. It wasn’t very long before I felt just as you do about him.” She closed her eyes for a second, her white teeth pressed into her lower lip. “How stupid can you get?” she said harshly. “I’d been around ... I met quite a few wolves before... but I honestly thought Neal cared for me.”

  “Suzanne, I—”

  “No, listen to me for a minute. I want you to know the facts,” Suzanne broke in vehemently. “After that it’s up to you what you do.”

  She lit a second cigarette. “Neal took me out almost every night. He gave me expensive presents. Last spring he was asked to join a house party at a villa on Ischia. He wangled an invitation for me. We had three heavenly weeks there and then we came back to England. It was then I began to suspect that he wasn’t going to ask me to marry him ... that he was just amusing himself. But I didn’t give up hope. How could I? He meant everything to me.”

  She paused and sank wearily on to a chair. “He was abroad most of the summer, and when he came back he told me quite frankly that it was all over between us. He had other fish to fry, he said. I know what he meant now. He meant you, my poor little Jennifer.”

  Jennifer went to the sink, rinsed out her glass, and put it on the draining board. Then she turned to face Suzanne again.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said composedly.

  Suzanne sprang up from the chair and began her restless pacing again. “Don’t you understand? Neal isn’t an ordinary man!” she exclaimed, in an exasperated voice. “He has a brilliant business mind. Making money ... building something out of nothing ... that’s all he really cares about. At the moment he’s putting every ounce of his ability into restoring Parkers. But he wants to have absolute control. I suppose he also wants a wife now. Not someone like me—someone who sees through him—but a girl he can mould and influence. Now do you see why he’s being so charming to you?”