Enemy From the Past

by Lilian Peake

  ‘Well then—’

  ‘Emma’s alone, Gerry,’ she reminded him. ‘Anyway, thanks for the thought. And for the meal. I’ve enjoyed it very much.’

  Gerry shrugged and watched her walk along the path and up the steps to the front door. She opened the door, turned and waved and went in. There were voices in the living-room, low, intense. No one had heard her. Voices? she thought. If Emma’s alone, then who … A moment later, she heard Patrick saying,

  ‘I left the others because I wanted to get back to you. I knew Rosa would be out. I just wanted you to myself, Emma. Darling, please …’

  There was a long silence, and it did not take much imagination to picture Patrick stopping Emma’s protests with a kiss. So, Rosalind thought, I’ve miscalculated in returning early. Swiftly she opened the front door, closing it quietly behind her. She hoped Gerry had not gone far.

  It seemed he had walked so slowly, so—disconsolately, judging by the droop of his shoulders, that he was almost within calling distance. A few seconds more of running and Rosalind called his name. He turned and walked towards her.

  ‘Gerry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘your idea of seeing a film—I’d like that very much.’

  He did not question her change of mind. He just accepted his good luck and a broad smile brought a light to his eyes.

  For the second time that evening Gerry took Rosalind home. Glancing at the house to make sure there would be no one watching—although, she reflected, why she should even feel a tinge of guilt in view of Slade’s liking for Nedra’s company, she did not know—she bent forward and kissed Gerry on the mouth.

  His response was to put his arms round her waist and pull her close with the unmistakable intention of kissing her back, but she pushed at his chest. He let her go at once. ‘Just testing,’ he said with a grin and, raising his hand, walked away.

  Rosalind went in, removed her coat and crept up the stairs. She did not want to disturb whoever might be sleeping. It was not excessively late and she was convinced Slade was still out with Nedra. But on reaching the top of the stairs, she saw with dismay that his door was open and he was filling the doorway. His robe was loosely tied, his hair damp as if he had recently showered.

  For a few seconds they stared at each other. He broke the silence, speaking quietly. ‘You look horrified to see me.’

  She was shaking her head to contradict him when she realised that her feelings, however she might try to disguise them, might well be written large on her face.

  ‘I—I thought you’d still be out with Nedra.’ She spoke quietly, too.

  He looked towards the closed doors and said, ‘Come into my room.’

  As she crossed the darkened landing a door opened—Patrick’s. Rosalind, thinking her brother was going to the bathroom, stared unbelieving. It was Emma’s door he aimed for, tapped on, eyes down, waiting. Slade pulled Rosalind out of sight, preventing her with his body from seeing the outcome of her brother’s action. Through the silence she heard Emma whisper, ‘Oh, darling, what’s wrong?’

  Patrick’s voice came back. ‘For heaven’s sake, love, let me in. You’re my angel, my—’

  ‘Love,’ came Emma’s voice again, ‘come in.’

  Slade closed the door and leant against it. ‘We saw nothing, heard nothing. Understand?’

  Tears rose, but she fought them back. ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘A bitch, a spiteful bitch.’

  The attack was so unexpected, she stared.

  ‘A meal with Gerry, you told me,’ Slade went on. ‘A meal doesn’t take—’ he looked at his watch, ‘from five-thirty to eleven-thirty. Where have you been, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Eating. Seeing a film. What’s wrong with that? You were out with Nedra.’ She took up a hairbrush from a shelf and started pulling at the hairs which were entangled with the bristles—Slade’s hairs, a rich, dark brown. She felt like rolling them into, a ball, taking them and putting them into an envelope.

  One day, when he had gone, when Nedra or some other woman had ‘got’ him, that would be all she had left of him.

  ‘After all,’ she said, ‘you could have gone to her apartment, even stayed there overnight.’ A pause. How much would she be giving away if she went on? Nevertheless she said, ‘She’s sworn to get you for herself. She’s juicy enough bait for any man. Why should you be different?’

  ‘I’m no different, except that I don’t have a price tag. No one “gets” me.’ Not even your wife; she almost said. ‘I happen to be choosy about the women I—enjoy myself with.’ A significant pause. ‘Who I kiss.’

  She turned on him. ‘I kissed Gerry because he’s been so sweet tonight. He—’ She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t tell him how she had returned early and then had been discreet, withdrawn from the house and gone out again. ‘He likes me—quite a lot. It hurts to lose as he’s done. But that’s something you wouldn’t know about. You never lose—you make quite sure of that. Look how unscrupulously you went about making me your wife.’

  He took the brush from her. She thought that as his hand came out, he was going to touch her and the tingling started even before contact was made. When contact did not come, the disappointment was acute.

  ‘Anyway, you took Nedra out. So why am I spiteful? Why did you call me names?’

  ‘For kissing Gerry Alton, to spite me for taking out another woman.’

  Wearily she shook her head. ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’

  He ignored the statement. ‘Didn’t I kiss you enough this afternoon? Did you have to go to another man to get full satisfaction?’

  She whispered, her body sagging from waist and shoulder with fatigue, ‘Patrick doesn’t speak to Emma like that and they’re not even married. Why do you have to be so nasty to me?’

  ‘I could have said something similar to you eight years ago.’

  ‘There it is again—that grudge you bear. All those years ago you said, For you there’ll be no escape. Well, I didn’t escape. You caught me, hauled me out of the water and here I am, living a life of misery—with you!’

  Slade’s hands plunged into his silk robe pockets. It opened slightly at the top, revealing the dark hairs, part of the broad chest. He was wearing nothing beneath it. ‘Maybe,’ he said, his eyes narrow, ‘one day I’ll throw you back into the water and you’ll be free to swim away from me. Or watch me walk away from you.’

  To go from him or for him to go from her. Either would hurt beyond toleration. Rosalind opened the door. With her head she indicated Emma’s room. ‘They’re happy. Patrick doesn’t bear Emma any grudge.’

  ‘Emma hasn’t sworn to hate Patrick until the day she dies, as you’ve sworn to hate me.’ Horrified that he kept repeating her impetuous words, she stared at him. He went on, ‘The difference between you and Emma is that Emma has a heart.’

  ‘The difference between you and Patrick,’ Rosalind responded, her voice thick with tears, ‘is that Patrick loves Emma.’

  ‘And I don’t love you.’ It might have been intended as a question, but it was uttered as an indisputable fact.

  ‘Love?’ she hit back. ‘You? You haven’t got an ounce of unselfish love in you, not for anyone, and most certainly not for me.’

  She walked with slow, tired steps to her room.

  ‘Rosalind?’ Slade’s voice called to her from inside his bedroom as she made for the top of the stairs the following morning.

  ‘Her Master’s Voice,’ said Emma impishly, coming brightly from her room. Involuntarily, Rosalind looked behind her friend. ‘No, dear, Patrick’s not here. We know you both saw him come to my room last night, but he didn’t stay long. We just had a little cuddle, then he went.’

  Slade, at his door, looked sceptical. ‘You’re trying to kid us into believing he actually resisted your magnetic charms?’

  ‘Don’t get sarcastic with me, brother “dear,’ Emma replied mildly. ‘And yes, I do expect you to believe me.’

  ‘I believe her,’ Rosalind said promptly, and found
Emma’s hand gently squeezing her arm.

  ‘Thanks, pal,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what got into you two last night? Did you really expect Patrick and me to make love against a background of mud-slinging?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ snapped Slade, and went back into his bedroom.

  Emma shrugged, smiled, and went downstairs.

  ‘Did you want me?’ asked Rosalind, at Slade’s door.

  ‘Want you, my darling? I always want you, all day and all night.’

  He had turned his sarcasm on to her. She swung away indignantly, but he called her back. ‘This packing—it’s a mess. Can you help?’

  She peered into his case. ‘You’re right. What did you do before you had a wife?’

  His eyes grew veiled. ‘Ask no leading questions, and you’ll get no unpalatable answers.’

  She jerked round to the door. ‘Pack the case yourself.’

  He was there in front of her, his hands gripping her hips. ‘I’m going away for a couple of nights. How much will you miss your husband?’ His smile was approaching a grin.

  ‘Not at all,’ she snapped untruthfully.

  The smile faded, the eyes grew flinty. He pulled her against him so hard pain shot up and down her: His arms crossed round her stiff body, his mouth sought out hers and kept it prisoner, prising it open and taking command of it as if it had become part of him. As the kiss deepened in intensity, so her body loosened, yielded and finally submitted. His hand found her thigh, her hip, the inward curve of her waist, finally resting with indisputable possession on the swell of her breast.

  Her arms, as if thinking for themselves, lifted to encompass his neck. Her lips responded, giving as well as taking, fervently saying a mute but passionate farewell. It was as if love had, for a few seconds, brought them together, binding them if only fleetingly into one.

  As Patrick’s voice called, ‘Hey there, you two sparring partners! Time’s galloping by,’ they drew apart. Slade held her gaze, and it was as though his held a message which she tried desperately but in vain to interpret. Or was it a question he was asking? She did not know.

  Confused, torn in half a dozen directions, wanting to tell him, ‘Kiss me once more’, and ‘Please don’t go’, she could find nothing to say. Looking down at the suitcase, she shook her head, then crouched to repack his clothes. He watched her deft movements as if fascinated, hands on his hips.

  When at last she straightened, he said, ‘Clever girl. Remind me to give you a pay rise.’ His crooked smile invited retaliation and she swung her fist towards his arm. He caught it and put it, palm forwards, against his lips. ‘How about another kiss instead?’ he asked softly.

  She nodded, smiling, and he enveloped her in his arms. It was, she thought hazily, how two people in love might kiss, with clinging arms and seeking lips, each drawing the other into his and her innermost selves. It was also—and the thought filled her with the pain of fear—almost as if they were saying goodbye.

  Without Slade, the day dragged. No work could tether Rosalind’s mind. It kept wandering away, wondering where Slade was, whether Nedra’s intelligence was as good as Slade believed, good enough to absorb sufficient knowledge to enable her to speak the language of the experts among whom she would find herself.

  Models, Rosalind knew, were trained to sell the clothes they displayed, not themselves. Could Nedra in a similar fashion be trained to sell, not her beauty and her eyecatching sophistication, but Compro’s expertise? Rosalind thought she could, although she hated to admit it, even to herself, but she would not let jealousy blind her to the truth.

  That evening Slade telephoned. Rosalind was first into the hall, saying a breathless, ‘Yes?’ followed by a hasty mumbling of the number.

  The voice she had so longed to hear said, ‘How’s my wife?’

  Momentarily disconcerted, Rosalind answered, ‘Your w—Oh, your—I mean, I’m fine, thanks.’

  Slade laughed. ‘Is she missing her husband?’

  ‘I—she—’ She recovered her poise, smiled to herself and said in a playful manner, ‘Her husband? Has she got one? I do believe she’s forgotten his name!’

  Some words were breathed into her ear which sounded like, ‘You little minx! I’ll—’ A pause, then, ‘I may be away a couple of nights.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosalind said dully, then, over-sweetly, ‘Is it taking longer than you anticipated?’

  ‘Is what taking longer?’

  ‘Raising our customer liaison officer’s intellect to the level at which she can learn the computer language of the electronics experts she’s mixing with?’

  ‘Quite a mouthful, Mrs Anderson. Tell me, could you do any better? Could you, even after nearly three years of being personnel officer of Compro, talk computer language? Words like “low cost hardware package market”, “bit-slice microprocessors”, “data interface”, not forgetting “floppy discs”?’

  ‘Stop!’ Rosalind cried. ‘No, and again no. And I bet Nedra doesn’t understand all that either. That’s computer programmer talk. She hasn’t been trained as a programmer.’

  ‘All the same, to date she’s won two very useful projects for the company, with at least one more half promised.’

  ‘Good for her,’ was Rosalind’s sarcastic comment, then kicking herself for revealing the extent of her jealousy. There was a brief but telling silence, then Slade said curtly,

  ‘No. Good for Compro. Changing the subject, there’s an—’ It sounded as if a hand was placed over the mouthpiece and Slade called to someone. ‘There’s an old friend of yours coming over. Would you like to speak to him?

  John ‘

  ‘John Welson? Oh, I’d love to!’

  The receiver changed hands, then, ‘Rosa? John here. My, it’s good to hear your voice.’

  ‘And you, too, John. It’s seemed much longer than— how many months? Three? How are you getting on in your job? I can’t call it new any more, can I?’

  ‘Oh, fair. Not good, not bad.’

  ‘Regretting the day you quit Compro?’ she teased.

  ‘Maybe,’ was his careful answer. ‘But,’ more brightly, ‘maybe it’s you I’m missing, not Compro.’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry now you let me slip through your fingers?’

  ‘I’m breaking my heart,’ he answered melodramatically. ‘Seriously, though, why did you have to go and get married behind my back? Yes, I know you’ve got another man’s ring on your finger. Slade told me it was love at first sight.’

  Was that what Slade had been telling everyone?

  ‘Slade and I knew each other when we were kids, John.’

  ‘Which means that “first sight” was a heck of a time ago. Hm, I should have hooked you when you swam into my little pool instead of letting you slip away from me.’

  Rosalind knew he was joking, but Slade would not. She assumed, however, that Slade was not wasting his time listening to their conversation but had gone away to find Nedra, She couldn’t really blame him, she thought, if he had …

  ‘When are we going to see you again, John?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure Patrick would enjoy it as much as I would if you could come—’

  ‘How is Patrick?’ John interrupted. ‘Still a bit lonely?’

  ‘He’s found a diversion in the shape of a very nice girl called Emma. Ask Slade about her.’

  ‘I will. Must go. Your husband’s getting restive. He’s been standing here … I’ll hand over. See you some time, Rosa.’

  ‘Hope it’s not too long. Make it soon, then we can talk over—’

  ‘You’re speaking to me, Mrs Anderson.’ Slade’s voice was like a drip of icy water down her back. ‘Talk over what?’

  ‘Old times,’ she said lamely, and waited for him to speak.

  ‘I’ve decided,’ he said, ‘to hold a reception on the day after my return.’

  She said, aghast, ‘As soon as that?’

  ‘Sorry about the short notice, but it arises from this conference. Tell Patrick, will you?’

 
‘Suppose he already has appointments lined up for that day?’

  ‘It will be in the evening, so I doubt if he’ll need to cancel anything. Did I tell you we’ve been negotiating for the empty house next door to Compro? No. Well, I told Patrick to keep quiet about it until the sale was finalised. We heard this morning that the contract’s been signed and the recent owner has kindly agreed that we can take over the place as soon as we like, without waiting for completion of the sale. That’s where the reception will be held. As soon as we can get a reasonable estimate from a builder, we’ll have the place converted to offices. Right now, it’s a house.’

  ‘But,’ Rosalind protested, ‘you can’t hold an important reception in a place that’s been empty for as long as that has been. There’ll be dampness, for a start.’

  ‘None. The surveyor passed it with very few reservations. There’s a spacious sitting-room complete with wall-to-wall carpeting, plus curtains, furniture, some of it antique. There’s a good-sized kitchen, with modern equipment. We bought the lot.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Slade. Pity you have to alter it. Couldn’t you leave it as it is? It seems such a shame…’

  ‘This is business, Rosalind. And you’re a little sentimentalist.’ This in a softer tone. Her heartbeats quickened. He might have been there beside her, reaching out to hold her. ‘With regard to the reception, would you contact a good caterer, and I mean a good one. There’ll be seventy guests representing all sides of industry and commerce, some of them from overseas. I’ve called my secretary and given her a list of companies to contact. So it’s got to be good. Get it?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she said mincingly. ‘Anything else, boss?’

  ‘If I were right there, madam,’ he said between his teeth, ‘there would be plenty else. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good. Oh, and one more thing. Since Nedra’s going north after this conference, with Harry Adamson, the senior sales executive for the northern area, I want you to stand in for her at the reception.’

  ‘Do some liaising?’ she murmured, unbelievingly. ‘But I haven’t any technical knowledge. You know that.’