Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  "We'd have to be blind not to notice it," Gillian said. "Just because most of us are drop-outs it doesn't mean we've got no feelings. Our trouble is that we care too much. That's why so many of us run away." The girl gave her pillow a thump and looked at Nicola. "Loving Barnaby will only bring you trouble. He's interested in you because he wants to know what makes you tick. But don't confuse it with love."

  Unwilling to tell Gillian that Barnaby did not consider her to be in need of treatment, and that she was sure his interest was personal, not medical, she turned away without replying.

  "I'm not denying he's fond of you," Gillian went on, "but you're still asking for trouble if you go on running after him. He'll never be serious about you."

  Nicola climbed into bed. "Let's change the subject."

  "Now I've made you angry," Gillian said miserably.

  "No, you haven't," Nicky said firmly. "But whatever you say, you won't make me change. Barnaby's the only man I've ever loved."

  "What about the other one?" Gillian's thin face was studiedly indifferent. "The old codger Joanna said she saw you with?"

  At no time had Nicola known a greater urge to be truthful. Sharing a room with Gillian she had grown extremely fond of the girl, sensing the gentleness in her that the harsh years of her childhood had not been able to eradicate. Born in a Birmingham slum, with a mother who had not wanted her and a succession of "fathers" who had treated her as a drudge, she had come to Barnaby through the efforts of a probation officer, and had already been at the hostel six months, though she was only now beginning to benefit from it.

  "Marty's not my boy-friend," Nicola said carefully. "He's very special in my life, Gillian, but not in that way. One day I'll tell you the whole story."

  "There's no need. You know what Barnaby says - your past doesn't matter as long as your present is strong."

  "People can't forget their past so easily."

  "Who said it was easy?" Gillian reached out and switched off the lamp. "Fall in love with someone else, Nicky. It'll be far better for you."

  Nicola thought of this with irony as she watched Barnaby dash through his breakfast the next morning. The kitchen was crammed with people and precedence was given to those who had daily jobs and had to be out of the hostel at a given time. Pouring tea and cutting bread, she thought longingly of the times when she had breakfasted in bed: of the dainty tray with the bone china, the wafer-thin toast and the crisp bacon. But here she was acting waitress at eight o'clock in the morning - and all because of a brown-haired man who treated her most of the time as if she were a child.

  "When will you be back tonight, Barnaby?" Frank asked, strolling into the kitchen.

  "About seven. It's the end-of-the-month clinic day. That means I'll be busier than usual."

  With a wave of his hand Barnaby went out, and as his steps receded Frank winked at Nicola. "Had to find out how much time we've got to do his room."

  "The covers and curtains are made," Gillian said, "and Carole's upstairs putting on the rufflette tape."

  "Then we'll get cracking with the paint," Frank replied, directing his glance to the two bearded young men who had just come through the door.

  "Not till we've had breakfast," one of them protested.

  "Be quick about it, then. And stoke up on tea, because we won't be stopping till lunchtime."

  For the rest of the day the activity centred on Barnaby's sitting room, and Nicola enjoyed seeing its metamorphosis. As though by magic the dingy walls were erased by large plastic rollers dipped in pale green paint; the tall windows softened by warm orange drapes and the high ceiling minimised by deep pelmets.

  "This little lot must have cost Joanna more than thirty pounds," Frank commented. "She must really be stuck on Barnaby to spend that much."

  "She can afford it," Carole said. "Her father's a bank manager and she earns quite a lot herself."

  This elicited several comments on the value of a bank manager for a father-in-law, though Nicola paid them little attention, her mind busy with the new facts she had gleaned about Joanna's background. From Gillian she had already learned that Joanna lived with her parents in Harrow, though when the weather was bad she would spend the night at the hostel. She knew too that Barnaby occasionally spent weekends with Joanna's family, and that his mother - now dead - had been at school with Joanna's mother.

  "I've a feeling the two mums were hoping for a happy end-ing when they got Joanna to work here," Gillian had expounded. "But if he'd fallen for her, I think he'd have married her by now. It certainly isn't for want of her trying!"

  These words recurred to Nicola as she watched Carole and Gillian place the new covers on the settee, and she forced them quickly from her mind, saying the first thing that came into her head. "Can't anything be done about that loose spring on the settee?"

  "Not without running the risk of the whole thing falling to pieces," Carole answered, tweaking a fold of orange material into place. "We'll order our new lot of furniture from Harrods," she added in pseudo-upper-class tones. "They give better service than the Portobello market — which is where this one came from."

  Feeling she had been put in her place, Nicola fell silent. The last thing in the world she wanted was to denigrate the effort everyone was making to improve Barnaby's sitting room, and she knew a pang of guilt as she realised how easy it would have been for her to have transformed the room. One phone call would have brought a host of people running who, in a matter of hours, could have turned the room into a Robert Adam bower, a neo-Georgian library or a French Empire drawing-room of magnificent opulence. It required no effort: just money.

  Money. The very thought of how it might harm her relationship with Barnaby threatened to destroy the happiness that had filled her since she had woken up this morning. It's ridiculous for me to go on like this, she decided. I must tell him the truth and be done with it. But it was his birthday party this evening and there might not be a chance of catching him alone. Tomorrow at the latest, she vowed, and determined that nothing would dissuade her.

  Immediately lunch was finished she set off to meet Marty. It was hard to believe it was already a week since she had seen him, and it was only as she turned the corner of the road that she remembered they had not arranged a specific meeting place. She ran back a few steps to make sure his car was not outside the hostel, but apart from a few vans and a bike the road was empty, and she meandered along the pavement, anticipating every car to be her godfather's. But none stopped, and she turned into the Kings Road and headed for the bookshop.

  The assistant recognised her as she came in and went to fetch the book. It had been wrapped in splendid gold paper and he handed it to her with a flourish. "Mr. Martin was in a moment ago enquiring for you," he said. "He asked me to say that if you came in, would you wait here for him."

  Nicola breathed a sigh of relief, and resting the book on the counter, stared through the window. She was aware of the young man watching her with curiosity, and knew he was trying to guess her relationship with the upright, handsome man with his clipped moustache and dark hair still only slightly sprinkled with grey. A smile tugged at her lips. In the past few weeks she had seen herself through so many different eyes that she was well aware what picture the assistant had formed.

  A blue Rover went slowly past and she waved at its driver, then picked up her package and ran out.

  "How's my working girl?" George Martin enquired, smiling at her as she clambered in beside him.

  "Still working."

  "For how much longer?"

  "I'm going to tell Barnaby the truth tonight - if I can."

  "Why the doubt?"

  "Because it's his birthday and I might not see him alone."

  Marty glanced at the package. "You'll be giving him that, I presume?"

  't "Yes."

  "If you're not supposed to have any money how are you supposed to have bought such an expensive book?"

  "Oh, lord," groaned Nicola, "I never thought of that. I'll think of some
thing," she added quickly.

  "I'm sure you will," her godfather said drily. "You've never disappointed me on that score yet!"

  She laughed. "I must have been a dreadful trial to you."

  "Why talk in the past? You're not likely to change."

  "I'll be Barnaby's responsibility once I'm married to him."

  George Martin drew the car to a stop in a quiet turning. "You're very confident he will, aren't you? But then you've never had reason to doubt your ability to get any man you wanted. Being Nicola Rosten has given you an overwhelming choice."

  "You're rather belittling my charms," she said, hurt by the remark.

  "I'm trying to warn you that Dr. Grayson may not be such a willing pawn as all the other men you've known."

  "He loves me. That's why I'm confident." She held out her hand. "Where are all the papers I have to sign?"

  Taking the hint, George Martin lifted a briefcase from the back of the car, and for the next hour Nicola was busy perusing a mass of documents and penning her signature to them. Until today she had always signed everything without question, but now she asked several pertinent ones and point-blank refused to sign the last contract handed to her.

  "I don't want us to deal with this company," she said, tapping the page with her fingernail. "They underpay their labour and can undercut every other decent firm because of it."

  Her godfather looked astonished. "Who told you that?"

  "One of the boys at the hostel. He's worked for them."

  "In South America?" There was surprise in the clipped voice.

  "Frank's been round the world," she replied with a slight smile. "You don't need money to travel if you work your way."

  Her godfather gave an exclamation, but she stared at him implacably. "Surely there are other companies we can deal with?"

  "Of course. But this price is far below everyone else's."

  "It won't affect our profits if we pay a bit more. But when you return the contract I want you to tell them why."

  "Is your interest in Rosten affairs temporary or likely to continue?" asked Marty.

  "That depends on Barnaby."

  Her godfather swallowed, but took the document from her in silence and put it back into his case. "Can we expert you home tomorrow?"

  "Providing I manage to talk to Barnaby by then. But I'll make it as quick as I can." She half-turned and clutched Marty's arm. "I suddenly feel frightened. What do you think he'll say when he finds out?"

  George Martin hesitated. Never one to lie to her, he was obviously not going to do so now. "I don't know him, my dear, so I can't say. But if he loves you - as you tell me he does - I'm sure things will work out."

  "I hope so," she gulped, and with a little sob flung her arms round his neck, hugged him and then opened the car door, this time careful to make sure there was no white Renault in sight.

  Holding the large package against her chest, Nicola hurried into the hostel and up to her room. Carefully she slid it under the eiderdown on her bed, knowing it would remain there undetected until she gave it to Barnaby later that evening. What a pity she had not told him the truth about herself before tonight. Had she done so they could have spent his birthday in more luxurious surroundings: a celebration party that could also have served to introduce him to her friends, or a quiet dinner a deux in a penthouse restaurant that gave a breathtaking view of London. But because the truth had not been told she and Barnaby must celebrate his birthday with strong tea, weak coffee and shop-bought pastry.

  Barnaby returned from the hospital later than usual. From the basement window of the kitchen his car could be heard gliding to a stop outside the front gate, and silently everyone trooped to the bottom of the stairs and listened as he entered the hall and cross the floor to his sitting room.

  "I wish I could see his face when he goes in," Frank whispered.

  "I wonder if he'll notice the curtains," Carole muttered.

  There was the sound of a door opening, and a loud exclamation followed by a long silence.

  No one breathed, no one stirred, and looking round her at the upturned anxious faces Nicola was touched in a way she had never expected. These young people genuinely cared for Barnaby, she thought tremulously, and felt her eyes blur with tears. But they had no chance to spill, for there came a sudden shout and then the clatter of steps as Barnaby rushed down the stairs.

  Everyone except Nicola ran forward to greet him, shouting congratulations as well as telling him what particular part they had played in transforming his sitting room. Watching his face, she realised how moved he was, and sensed what it meant to him to know he was the centre of such a spontaneous show of affection. Above the crowd pressing in on him their eyes met, and warmth flooded through her as though his very look was a touch.

  Dinner was more rowdy than usual, for though the food was still the ubiquitous stew, Barnaby produced several bottles of wine. It was not inexpensive Spanish as she had expected, but a pleasant French one with a good bouquet. How typical and generous it was of him, she thought. Another person might well have been satisfied to produce an indifferent wine, knowing that even the cheapest one would have been accepted with pleasure. Yet he had bought a good vintage; not sufficiently expensive to be obvious, but dear enough to show that he regarded tonight as an occasion he was sharing with friends and not patients who were dependent on him medically and financially.

  Joanna was seated on Barnaby's right. Whenever she stayed for a meal she always took her place next to him as though it were hers by right, as indeed it was if one dined in order of precedence, Nicola conceded, and wondered what Joanna would have said if she had seen her and Barnaby in the car the night before.

  Looking up, she saw the hard brown gaze fixed on her. There was a triumphant look in them that sent a chill through her body, as though Joanna was hiding something exciting. Nicola's heart pounded as she pondered its cause.

  "You're not drinking your wine." Barnaby spoke to Nicola directly for the first time that evening.

  With a guilty start she picked up the thick glass and sipped. "You can do better than that," he encouraged. "Drink it up and have some more."

  "It will make me drunk."

  "I doubt it. It will just relax you."

  "Perhaps Nicky doesn't want to relax," Joanna put in.

  "Why not?" Barnaby smiled.

  "Because it's too easy to give yourself away then."

  "I don't think Nicky's hiding any secrets."

  "You'd be surprised." Joanna's eyes slid to Nicola again. "Isn't that so?"

  "All women have secrets," Nicola smiled, marvelling at the quickness of her own response. "Mystery adds to our attraction."

  "I hate mysteries," Frank interposed, joining the conversation. "I like everything to be above board."

  "So does Barnaby," Joanna said.

  Nicola stared at her wine glass, chiding herself for being frightened by Joanna's remarks. It was only the guilt she felt at hiding her identity that made her read more into the remark than was meant. Joanna could have no idea who she really was.

  All at once Barnaby pushed back his chair and stood up. Everyone stopped speaking and he smiled at the silent faces. "I haven't commanded such attention for weeks," he said in mock seriousness. "So I'd better use it to good advantage and say that you've done a magnificent job on my sitting room. It's worthy of a full colour page in House and Garden!"

  "Joanna planned it," Frank said, "and found the cash. We only did the work."

  "I wouldn't use the word 'only"," Barnaby replied gravely. "It was a great effort. Beats me how you managed to get it done in the time." He glanced at Carole. "I take it it was you who did the covers?"

  "And Gillian," Carole replied, flushing happily. "All the others were busy with the painting."

  "Except Nicky," Joanna murmured, and looked her full in the face. "You weren't here this afternoon, were you?"

  All eyes turned on Nicola and she tinned scarlet.

  "Let's clear the dishes," Carole said ro
ughly, and she and Gillian noisily stood up.

  Everyone else took the hint and there was a general movement as the table was cleared, wine bottles removed and dishes stacked in the sink ready to be washed.

  "We've some sandwiches and cocoa for later," Tom said to Barnaby. Since his last epileptic attack he had been confined to bed and this was his first evening down.

  "If you could stay out of the living room for half an hour it would give us time to get things ready."

  "I like the way you take it for granted we aren't going to have our usual discussion tonight," Barnaby said in tones of mock disapproval.

  "We thought we'd give you the evening off!" Tom grinned.

  "Is that a treat for me or for you?" Barnaby grinned back as he went to the door. "Still, I can take a hint that I'm not wanted. I'll relax in my new sitting room till you let me join you again!"

  "Be careful not to brush against the door or the walls," Frank warned. "The paint might still be tacky."

  Barnaby nodded and glanced to where Nicola was standing. Then his eyes moved to Joanna before returning again to her. "I'll see you upstairs, then," he said, and went out.

  Surreptitiously Nicola glanced at Joanna. The girl was in conversation with a red-bearded boy who had arrived at the hostel only the day before. Nicola wondered whether she would have time to go up and give Barnaby his present now. If she delayed doing so she might not get another chance of being alone with him.

  Quietly she slipped out and ran up to her room. The package was where she had left it and she lifted it out and looked at it, then she set it down and went to the cracked mirror to comb her hair. Excitement had lent colour to her pale skin and a bright sparkle to her eyes, so that they looked more green than grey. Her mouth seemed redder and fuller too, though that was probably because nervous tension had made her bite her lips throughout the evening.