It would give her something to listen to, and something else to look at, because it was hard to sit alone in your own drawing room with a strange man without looking at him. He was tall and lean, dark crescent-shaped eyebrows, aquiline nose, slightly sunken cheeks. If he had been wearing a black cloak, scarlet-lined, over that dark suit, he would have made a chillingly saturnine Dracula. He had the mouth for it too, strong and sensual, and that was when she switched on the TV.
She found herself with a choice between football, a heavily slanted political programme, and an old Western, and stayed with the movie. Guns were blazing away when her father came into the room and asked, 'Is anybody watching this?
'I'm a Clint Eastwood fan,' said Charlotte. 'I didn't know that,' said her father. He turned off the television, apologising for delaying dinner, and hoped that Charlotte had been entertaining the guest.
'Yes indeed,' said Saul Laurenson, and she thought, A circus act and a strip-tease, what more could you ask? This was part of her duties, providing the womanly touch in her father's home, and usually she enjoyed it. But Saul Laurenson made her feel clumsy and stupid, so that she could hardly dish up without clattering spoons and she only just avoided spilling her wine, fingering the stem of her glass.
Aunt Lucy ate with them in the evenings if it was only Charlotte and her father, or if the guests were old friends. But tonight she came in and left the food, and Georgy edged in with her, realised the stranger was still here, yelped and shot off; and for the first time Charlotte felt a real affinity with him. That was what she would have liked to do—yelp and run.
It was a sultry evening. It would have been nice if they could have opened the windows wide, but that would have brought the moths fluttering in, and Saul Laurenson certainly seemed cool enough. Charlotte had to admit that he was a striking man, but just looking at him made her feel uncomfortable.
She found it almost impossible to join in the conversation. He and her father seemed to know each other well, although she had never heard of him before. It wasn't 'shop' talk, it was mostly about local properties that were for sale. It seemed that Laurenson was considering buying a house round here.
Her father tried to draw her into the talk. 'You know the black-and-white house down by the river in Tiddington,' he'd say. 'That's coming on the market.' But apart from saying, 'I think I know the one you mean. It seems very attractive,' she was struck dumb, and she knew it was because she was scared of making a fool of herself again if she opened her mouth.
He was so maddeningly superior. Oh, he sounded amusing and charming, there was nothing patronising about his manner, but she would have staked her life that he was expecting her to behave like an idiot. He waited for her to speak, when her father addressed her, and the words died on her lips. All through the meal she offered no more than a murmur or a brief sentence. She never said anything informative or funny or even half-way bright.
And she knew that her father was disappointed in her. He thought she was sulking. She never had sulked, but nothing had ever been denied her before, and she had a headache building up. That was another rare occurrence for her. It must be something to do with the thunder in the air, but the back of her neck was stiff and tender and sharp little darts were stabbing her eyes. So that from time to time she looked away from the table, and the two men seated there, trying to still the mounting tempo of pain.
It didn't help much and, as Lucy brought in the dessert, Charlotte said, 'Would it be terribly rude if I said goodnight to you both, but I do have this splitting headache?' Her father looked surprised, he probably didn't believe her, and she muttered apologetically, 'It's true—I do. I think there's going to be a storm.'
Outside the dining room Aunt Lucy said, 'You do look a bit washed out,' and Charlotte fanned herself with her hand.
'That was one of the worst meals I have ever sat through. Oh, not your cooking, love, the food was delicious, but Mr Saul Laurenson gives me acute indigestion!' 'That's a pity,' said Aunt Lucy. 'Because he'll be spoiling your breakfast as well. He's staying the night.'
'Nobody told me.' But her father had told Aunt Lucy and there was always a guest room ready, and although the Blue Boar was only five miles away it was never wise to drive and drink. But Charlotte wanted him out of the house. She said, 'Well, I'll have my breakfast in the kitchen. Have you got any aspirins?'
The aspirins stopped it getting worse. She lay on her bed, fully dressed with her eyes closed, trying to relax for a while. She imagined herself at the theatre, watching Jeremy. She had seen several rehearsals and she had a good memory, she could remember most of the script, so she went over Jeremy's speeches in her head, and then she daydreamed herself going back to his flat with him, walking hand in hand through the warm dark night.
The flat was nothing special. It was over a fish and chip shop and he shared it with another actor, and once he had said, 'Wouldn't it be fantastic if I could be coming home to you at nights? If we had a little place, the two of us.'
They had only been talking nonsense, but sometimes since then Charlotte had seen apartments or small houses advertised, or passed For Sale notices, and thought, I wish I was the kind of girl who could just move in like that and set up home with a man. Some day she might, but right now it was all dreaming.
She gave Jeremy time to get back to the flat, then she rang him and he answered at once. 'Any sign of the fangs?' he asked.
'I'm thinking of going in for a blood count in the morning. He drains me.'
'You know, I find that hard to believe.'
Charlotte was a vivid personality, an extrovert. Saul Laurenson was the first man she had met who had given her an inferiority complex, but now she said wistfully, 'I wish you could get over here for an hour or two. Believe it or not, I'm in urgent need of support.'
If she drove away someone in the house would probably hear her car, or she would have gone before now. 'I'm on my way,' said Jeremy, 'but how's your old man going to receive me?'
'Don't come to the house. Drive down the track and park on the verge and walk over to the patio. I'll be waiting for you.'
'On my way,' he said again.
Charlotte left Georgy in her bedroom, where he slept on the rug beside her bed. She could do without him panicking at shadows in the garden, and she crept down the back stairs and out of the house. The other dogs were in the kitchen. So, probably, was Aunt Lucy. The men were most likely in the drawing room where her father would be puffing away on a cigar, although his old friend and doctor had warned him to cut down his smoking. 'If it's reached the stage where a man can't enjoy a quiet cigar,' her father would say, 'we've reached a pretty pass,' and Dr Buckston would sigh and shake his head as her father cut the end off another Havana.
Charlotte wondered what they were talking about and hurried until the trees shielded her from the drawing room windows, because she was suddenly scared that Saul Laurenson might be standing where he could see the lawns, and pick out her white dress in the moonlight. She didn't feel safe until she was well into the trees.
Then she sat in the little summerhouse, waiting for Jeremy, and it was all very romantic. This had probably happened to other girls in her family, and to girls who had worked in the house in the old days. Sometimes the moon made everything bright as day, including the marble hound-dog and the lumpy little concrete peke. At other time when clouds hid the moon the night was shadowed and mysterious.
She heard the sound of the car engine and went to meet Jeremy across the field, running because she really did need his reassurance. The force of her greeting flattered and surprised him. He wrapped his arms around her, and asked, 'Hey, what is all this? You're really shaken, aren't you?'
He looked very like the hero of a romance, tall, and handsome, and she said, 'I'm just so glad to see you. I'm not shaken, I just had to get away.'
They walked back to the little summerhouse, arms around each other's waists, and Jeremy told her how the performance had gone tonight. The girl playing Phoebe had fluffed her lines a
gain, but he had carried on, getting round the impasse, and Charlotte said, 'Oh, you're so clever, you're far and away the best they've got.'
He agreed with her. 'Bless you,' he said. 'But what about this man, what's he been doing to my girl?'
'Nothing at all, but when he looks at me I want to do a Georgy and run.'
Jeremy cupped her face with his hands, looking down at her. 'You're not usually so impressionable. You don't fancy him, do you?'
She gave a muted shriek. 'Never in a million years!'
'That's all right, then. Oh God, you're so beautiful.' His voice throbbed, just like it did on the stage, and he started kissing her. As his lips feathered across her cheekbones, and she felt herself melting deliriously, she suddenly wondered how Saul Laurenson would make love.
She had no idea where that thought came from, but it acted like cold water on her emotional responses, so that she kissed Jeremy back pretty briskly and then said, 'I was thinking it might not be a bad idea if you came along for a meal. On Sunday perhaps, if you've nothing else on. I know my father's going to like you once he gets to know you and over Aunt Lucy's cooking he's usually in a mellow mood.'
'Well, I'm prepared to put myself out.' Jeremy grinned, in disarmingly boyish fashion. 'It matters to you, doesn't it?'
'Him liking you? Of course it does, I'd hate to hurt him.'
'Look, sweetheart,' he stroked the tumbling waves of her hair, 'suppose we don't win him round—rich men with gorgeous daughters can be very pigheaded—and suppose we did decide to give marriage a try, how do you think he'd react in the long run?'
This was the first time they had spoken of marriage. It thrilled her, hearing Jeremy say the word, but at the same time she didn't take the blatant hint because this was all supposing. And they would win her father round, so there was no need to rush into anything. She said, 'Come to lunch on Sunday and let's start from there.'
'It's a date.' He drew her close and kissed her again, and she kissed him too and thought how much she loved him and how beautiful it was out here. Then she heard Tria barking and coming closer and stiffened in Jeremy's embrace.
'The dogs are out.'
'So?' he said. 'You do mean your household pets, don't you?'
'Tria and Wilbur. But my father's probably strolling around with them—he often does. I don't want him finding you here. I said I had a headache and I was going to bed.'
'Heck, no,' Jeremy agreed, and looked around for some concealment. The obvious thing to do was to hide between the trees, but Charlotte added, 'I'd better walk back to the house with him. The dogs are going to make for me, they'll find me, and I can always say I came out for a breath of air, but he isn't going to leave me here without getting suspicious.'
'What if the dogs make for me?'
The barking was getting nearer all the time. She said, 'You'd better go, I'll see you lunchtime tomorrow. They wouldn't hurt you, they're two old softies, but it might be awkward.'
'It would.' Jeremy went without kissing her goodbye, although he did whisper, 'I love you,' as he hurried off. That was the sensible thing to do, it was what she had suggested herself, so it was unreasonable of her to feel that he could hardly have moved faster if Tria and Wilbur had been a couple of bloodhounds.
She stayed where she was until the two retrievers came with swishing tails into the clearing of the patio, then she walked out of the summerhouse towards them as they bounded up. 'Hello, you two,' she said.
Clouds were partly obscuring the moon, but her father was with the dogs. She couldn't hear him, but she could see the shape of a man through the trees, and suddenly it went darker still and a little cold breeze touched her, and she called, 'Father?'
It had been lovely down here, as safe as the house, and Tria and Wilbur were snuffling carefree, but as Saul Laurenson stepped out Charlotte's heart missed a couple of beats. He seemed to be part of the darkness, and he moved like a panther. He was alone, her father wasn't behind him, and her heart was making up for lost beats and going so fast and hard that she could feel it thumping inside her. She thought, I shall choke. She thought, If he touches me I shall run screaming all the way back to the house.
'Headache better?' he enquired.
'What?' She had been in two minds whether to dodge past him and make a break for it without saying a word. That was how he panicked her, and what a fool she would have been if she had. 'Much better, thank you,' she said, her voice clipped but controlled.
The cloud floated clear and moonlight streamed down, and she was conscious of her own dishevelment. Her hair was falling all over the place, for one thing, and one of her shoulder straps had slipped and she was breathing fast. The sound of a car engine starting up was loud in the silence, and Saul Laurenson said gravely, 'Surprising what the night air can do.'
He knew she hadn't been out here alone. He thought that headache had been an excuse, which it had, although it had been real enough and if she didn't get away from him it would be back in full force. She said, 'Isn't it?' and called to the dogs and almost ran back to the house.
Where was her father? Not only did Saul Laurenson have the run of the house, he had the run of the gardens too, it seemed, and he had chosen just that moment to stroll in the direction of the patio and make her look a fool for the third time. He certainly had a talent for being where she didn't want him to be, and as soon as she woke next morning she thought, Today I'm keeping out of his way.
He had stayed the night, but of course he would be leaving after breakfast, and when she got her father alone she would explain. It had never happened before, she always got on well with people, so she could surely say, 'Just this once, just this man—I don't want to be around if he's coming here again.'
She was usually downstairs not much after Aunt Lucy. Aunt Lucy was a naturally early riser, who couldn't be persuaded to lie in. 'Best time of the day,' she'd say, bustling around at seven o'clock; which indeed it probably is in the summer, but even on dark winter mornings she was up and about. To make up for this she tended to nod in front of the TV after ten o'clock at night, but until the ten o'clock news she was indefatigable.
This morning Charlotte waited until she heard a car leave, before she came down the back stairs into the kitchen and asked, 'Is the coast clear?'
'If you mean Mr Laurenson,' said Aunt Lucy, 'that was him just now. Your father hasn't gone yet, though. I think he's waiting for you. He's sitting a long time over his breakfast, but he isn't eating much.'
Her father was still at the table, with a newspaper open, and half a cup of coffee at his elbow. The toast rack seemed untouched and he didn't usually linger over breakfast, so Charlotte said, 'Sorry I'm late.'
'You missed our guest,' said her father reproachfully.
'I know.' She poured herself coffee and wrinkled her nose and tried to make him smile. 'But after dinner I didn't much fancy having breakfast with him.'
'Whatever got into you last night?' Her father wasn't smiling, and she sat on the table's edge and took a gulp of coffee before she tried to explain.
'I don't like him. He bothers me. I seem to behave like an idiot when he's around. Did he tell you I jumped the hedge when he was driving up the track and nearly landed on his car?'
'No, he didn't tell me.' She could have made a funny story of that, and a funnier one about coming in from sunbathing and losing her bra, and usually it took hardly anything to make her father chuckle. But this morning his face was set in heavy lines, so that she instinctively went to smooth the frown from his forehead.
'I don't have to be friends with him, do I?' she wheedled, stroking his brow. 'I don't have to see him. Surely there's no reason I should be around if he comes here again.'
'Sit down,' said her father. He gestured at a chair, and Charlotte sat down abruptly because her knees started to give when he went on, 'And I'll tell you a very good reason why you and I will be seeing a very great deal of Saul Laurenson in the future.'
CHAPTER THREE
When her father said, 'Mone
y,' Charlotte wasn't surprised. She had known that Saul Laurenson's presence here had something to do with the business, but when her father went on, 'The Little Theatre isn't the only place feeling the pinch these days,' she exclaimed incredulously, 'Not us?'
'Why not us? We're in a luxury trade and luxuries are getting hit.' Colin Dunscombe's voice was heavily ironic. 'There's no divine intervention for jewellers.'
Charlotte knew nothing about the financial side of Dunscombes, but she took prosperity for granted. Their life-style had always been luxurious and there had been no sign that it was about to change. But she knew in her bones that Saul Laurenson was no ordinary man, no ordinary visitor. When he was near she felt threatened. She asked now, 'How does he come into it?'
'He's a rich man,' said her father. 'And a very astute one. We need his backing, my love, I don't want you antagonising him.'
She hadn't been the antagoniser. She was the one who had to get out of the room because he was giving her a headache. She asked, 'How long have you known him?' 'Some time.' 'But not as a personal friend. Not close. He's never been here.'
'No, but now he's interested in the business and he's considering buying a house in the Cotswolds.'
The Cotswolds covered a wide area. He might live miles away, their paths might never cross. But if he became involved in Dunscombes it could be a different matter; and if he was house-hunting here it looked as though he intended keeping an eye on any investment.
'Is he married?' She hadn't asked before, although it was a question that usually came up soon after meeting anyone, whether you were interested in the reply or not.
She could imagine him with a high fashion wife, somebody very elegant. No, she thought at once, I can't. With girl-friends, but not a wife. I don't believe he's a man who would commit himself to one woman.
'He isn't married,' said her father.
'I don't know why I asked you that. I really don't want to know anything about him.' She jumped from her perch on the table's edge and began to pace around the room, nervous as a cat in strange surroundings. 'I never met anybody before that I disliked so much, and now you tell me I've got to make up to him. You know, I don't think I can do that. I feel so edgy when I'm near him that I know if I open my mouth I shall say something idiotic.
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