by Anne Weale
When she had flung herself at him, while saying goodbye, it had been like a schoolgirl hugging a much-loved big brother. But when he had kissed her, her lips had parted under his as softly and invitingly as those of a practised seductress.
It was easy, when she was with him, to forget the rules he had made for himself as soon as he’d known what he wanted to do with his life. The first and most important rule was—no entanglements.
It was also easy to forget she was the sister of a girl with whom he had been entangled.
For Cressy, the flight to Gatwick seemed to pass in a flash. As soon as she reached the baggage retrieval hall she separated a trolley from several long lines of them. It would save her carrying her rollbag from the carousel to the top of the escalator leading down to the railway platforms.
As she emerged onto the concourse, where people waiting to meet friends and relations were held back by barriers, to her astonishment she saw her father standing there.
‘Dad! What are you doing here? Is anything wrong? Not Maggie...?’
‘Everyone’s fine, Cressy.’ Paul Vale leaned across the barrier to kiss her.
They separated and rejoined on his side of the barrier. As he took charge of the trolley she said, ‘How did you know I was coming?’
‘We had a phone call from a friend of yours. He didn’t give his name. He thought it was late for you to be on the train to Victoria by yourself. He seemed to think there might be lager louts travelling with you and making a nuisance of themselves. Is he an elderly man? He didn’t sound it.’
‘He isn’t, but he’s half-Spanish and very chivalrous. Also, he thinks I’m still wet behind the ears. I’m sorry he made you feel you had to drag yourself out here. Rather a chore at the end of a long hard day.’
‘It’s not that far,’ said her father. ‘The drive back will give us a chance to talk about Kate in more detail than we could on the phone.’
As they made their way to the short-stay car park, where Mr Vale had left his opulent beige BMW, Cressy thought about Nicolas not giving her father his name.
She remembered her sister saying, ‘Don’t ever breathe his name to anyone in this family.’
Clearly Nicolas knew that he was persona non grata. But why? What could he have done to make himself still unacceptable all these years later?
CHAPTER NINE
BEFORE she went to bed, Cressy spent half an hour alone with Maggie in her small private sitting room.
‘Something’s happened to you,’ said the housekeeper. ‘You’re not the same as you were four days ago.’ She gave Cressy a searching look over the top of the half-glasses she wore for sewing. ‘You’ve met someone special, is that it?’
‘Oh, Maggie, what makes you say that?’ Cressy said, smiling.
‘I’ve known you since you were in your playpen. You had just the same look about you the December you were going to be given a bicycle for Christmas. And later, when you were fifteen and made a prefect at school. You’ve always had a glow in your eyes whenever something good’s happened. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with a Spaniard?’
‘A half-Spaniard. But he’s never going to fall in love with me. He could have anyone he wants.’
‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll have you. You’re worth ten of the flibbertigibbets I see strutting about, dressed up like tarts, looking so pleased with themselves.’ Maggie was a forthright critic of current fashions.
Putting aside her needlework, she leaned back in her comfortable chair. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you marrying a foreigner, even if he’s only half-foreign. Marriage is difficult enough without any extra complications like different religions and so on.’
‘Well, don’t lose any sleep over it, darling, because it’s most unlikely he’ll ever ask me.’
‘If he wants you, and he knows his own mind, he’ll propose to you,’ said Maggie firmly. ‘If he only wants you to live with him, then he doesn’t know his own mind and you’re better off by yourself.’
Cressy had heard Maggie speak on this subject before, as had Anna and Frances. They dismissed her ideas as outdated.
Cressy said, ‘He’s a man who knows his own mind. If he loved me, I’m sure he would marry me. But he doesn’t...not yet...if ever. I’m tired. I must go to bed. It’s been a long day.’
They exchanged a hug and a kiss. Then Cressy went up the stairs to the room which must once have been slept in by an overworked, underpaid servant. Then it would have had a bare floor, no heating and a washstand without running water. Now it was cosily carpeted and attractively furnished with a shower room en suite. But she found herself missing the bedroom at Ca’n Llorenc, with its glorious view of the mountains. Here there was only an enlarged skylight.
Toeing off her loafers, she stretched on the bed and dialled Nicolas’s number. His answering machine was operating. She said, ‘Nicolas, it’s Cressy. I’m just ringing to tell you I’m home. It was a lovely surprise to find Dad waiting to meet me. But you needn’t have worried about—’
Her message was interrupted by Nicolas coming on the line.
‘Hello. How’s the weather in London?’
‘Not raining, but not like Majorca. I was just going to say you needn’t have worried about me, but it was nice that you did.’
‘Even though Mallorca is upgrading its image, some of the south coast resorts still attract the type of youth who’s harmless enough when he’s sober but can be a pain when he’s thanked up on alcohol. I didn’t like the idea of your having to spend forty minutes in a train full of young louts.’
‘Thanks to your call, I didn’t. I talked over my plan with Dad and he thinks it’s a good one. He’s even talking of visiting the island himself, to redesign Kate’s cottage. He thinks any plan would need to be submitted through a local architect but that he could save Kate money by having the donkey-work done in his office.’
‘You can tell him I know a local architect who would handle the formalities for him. You should be in bed, asleep.’
‘That’s where I’ll be any minute.’
She half expected him to say something he knew would make her blush, but he didn’t. Perhaps it was only she who was thinking about their being in bed together.
‘Goodnight, Cressy. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, Nicolas.’
She kept the receiver to her ear until she heard him replacing his. The sound of his voice was still with her when she turned out the light.
When the woman who ran Distress Signal had heard Cressy’s explanation of why she wanted to be taken off the register for the rest of the summer and perhaps longer, she said, ‘We shall be very sorry to lose you, but this is a case where the old saying “charity begins at home” is applicable. Of course you must put your great-aunt’s needs first. If and when you want to come back, we’ll always be delighted to have you, my dear.’
Her understanding relieved Cressy’s mind of one concern. However, she was prevented from going to see Frances about the other, far more important concern, by the fact that Frances was attending an out-of-town conference.
Although Cressy had plenty to occupy her, the day seemed a long one. She knew why. Every day would seem long until she was back on the island.
That night she took Maggie to the early-evening showing at a West End cinema and then they had supper at an Italian place in Soho.
By lunchtime the following day Cressy would have been ready to return to the island had it not been for wanting to talk to Frances when she came back to London.
After lunch she went to see the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. When she returned to the house, Maggie was on the watch for her.
‘There’s a message for you. He asked for me by name, but he didn’t leave his name. You’re to ring this number as soon as possible.’
The number she had written down had the central London code in front of it. Puzzled, Cressy went up to her bedroom and dialled.
It rang eight times before a voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘You remember our hosts at the party...Chris and Alice?’
‘Of course.’
‘They run a private jet. I saw Chris in Pollensa yesterday. He mentioned they were coming over, and I scrounged a lift. Are you free for dinner tonight?’
‘With the three of you?’
‘No, with me. Just the two of us.’
‘I’d love to. Where?’
‘Scotts, in Mount Street. Have you been there?’
‘No.’
‘Good. You’ll enjoy it all the more. It’s my favourite restaurant for special occasions.’
‘Is this a special occasion?’
‘It will be the first time we’ve dined together in London.’
The sound and tone of his voice made her head swim. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Also, there’s something I want to discuss with you. Is seven-thirty all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘I’ll see you there.’ After a pause, he added, ‘I’ve missed you, Cressy,’ and rang off.
Cressy sat very still, taking it in. He was here in London. He was taking her out to dinner. In less than three hours they would be together. What was more, he had missed her. Nicolas had missed her!
Suddenly she knew what it was to be a firework—one moment you were a dull-looking package of combustible materials, then someone ignited your fuse and you were soaring skywards to explode in a great flower of lights. That was exactly how she felt—suspended in space, shimmering.
The illusion was brief, abruptly brought to an end by the panic-stricken thought, ‘What am I going to wear?’
She rushed down to confer with Maggie, an unfailing source of advice and practical suggestions.
‘Maggie, have you ever heard of Scotts...a restaurant in Mount Street?’
‘I believe it’s very fashionable. I remember that during and after the war all sorts of famous people went there. Sir Winston Churchill...Marlene Dietrich. I seem to remember that Sir Laurence Olivier took Marilyn Monroe to dinner there, when she was married to that nice-looking playwright. I liked the look of him. Pity she didn’t stay married to him.’
When Maggie started talking about the past, it was sometimes hard to bring her back to the present.
Cressy said urgently, ‘I’m going there tonight...to Scotts. What should I wear? Will it be terribly elegant?’
‘Is there anywhere terribly elegant left?’ said Maggie with a sniff. ‘When your father took me out to dinner on my sixtieth birthday I wasn’t at all impressed by the standard of dress. I remember when—’
‘Yes, yes, darling, I know it’s all gone to pot. But even so, Scotts must be smarter than the place we went to last night.’
‘I should hope so. That was very scruffsville,’ said Maggie disapprovingly. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘Where did you pick up a word like “scruffsville”?’
‘From the paper, I suppose. I’m not as old-fashioned as you think. But I only use slang when it’s appropriate. Who’s taking you to Scotts? The man with the nice voice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he the one you’re in love with?’
‘Yes, but keep it under your hat, darling. I don’t want anyone else to know.’
‘Have I ever passed on private things?’
Cressy shook her head. ‘I’d trust you with my darkest secret.’
‘If he’s followed you here from his island, it looks to me as if you might soon have some news you won’t want to keep secret. From what I hear, Scotts is the sort of restaurant a man might choose if he’s planning to pop the question,’ said Maggie. ‘In which case you must look your best for him. I’ll come upstairs and go through your wardrobe with you. If there’s nothing suitable in it, we might put an outfit together from some of your mother’s things. She won’t mind you borrowing from her, although if you want her permission I have the fax number of her hotel in Manchester.’
‘Let’s sort out something first, and then I must wash my hair and have a bath and do my nails.’
By six forty-five she was ready.
‘I’ll call a taxi,’ said Maggie, looking with approval at the result of their putting their heads together.
‘No, I’ll walk,’ said Cressy. ‘It’s a lovely evening. It’s not far. Walking will calm me down. At the moment I’m sick with stage fright.’
‘If he does ask you to marry him, bring him to see me before you give him an answer. You’re a sensible girl and you’ve never done anything silly. But you’ve only known him five minutes, and being in love is like having one drink too many—it makes people do foolish things they would never do when they’re sober. I’ll know at once if he’s the right man for you.’
‘I think you’re jumping the gun. Marriage is probably the last thing on his mind. Goodnight, darling. Thanks for your help...but don’t stay up till I come in. I may be very late.’
‘Well, that’s up to you,’ said Maggie, pursing her lips. ‘You’re a grown-up woman and were never as giddy as your sisters. But I’ll say no more. You know my views on that subject. Enjoy yourself, my dear. You can tell me all about it in the morning.’
Making her way towards Mayfair by crossing The Mall not far from Buckingham Palace, and cutting across Green Park to Piccadilly, Cressy wondered if Maggie was privy to the matter Frances had hinted at. If she were, she would never disclose it.
With that thought came another—why had Nicolas arranged to meet her at Scotts rather than coming to fetch her? Was it because he wished to avoid running into other members of her family?
She put that disturbing notion to the back of her mind and concentrated on enjoying the beautiful midsummer evening.
Other people were also taking a short cut through the oasis of greenery on their way to an evening out. From the looks given her by some of those she passed, she had the uplifting feeling that tonight she looked a different person from her everyday self. She certainly felt more glamorous in the outfit found tucked away in her mother’s walk-in clothes closet.
It wasn’t the sort of thing Virginia Vale usually wore and might have been a mistake, something she should have discarded after her image consultant had redesigned her appearance to appeal to a broader section of voters. Perhaps, because they must have been very expensive, the consultant had suggested retaining the nutmeg silk top and wide-legged trousers in case an occasion came up for which they were appropriate.
Luckily Cressy had a pair of low-heeled bronze pumps, and among her mother’s collection of twenty or thirty bags she had found a small one of fudge-coloured glacé kid on a thin strap, and with a discreet gilt metal label inscribed CHARLES JOURDAN, PARIS attached to the darker leather lining. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery other than earrings which only imitated beaten gold but, worn with the expensively cut satin separates, looked as if they might be the real thing.
Turning the corner of North Audley Street, Cressy stopped short at the sight of a tall man standing on the opposite pavement, looking in the window of one of Mount Street’s expensive antique shops, close to the blue-awninged restaurant which was her destination.
As she watched him he lifted the cuff of a lightweight but elegant suit to check the time. Then he glanced in the direction of Berkeley Square before turning to catch sight of her and came striding towards her. His shirt was a dark coral-pink and his tie a lighter pink.
‘Cressy...my God...you look fabulous.’
She had put her hair up—or rather, Maggie had done it for her. There were no wispy ends, no trailing tendrils. Held at the back by an elegant version of a bull-dog clip given to her by Anna as a present from Italy, her newly washed hair was brushed to the shape of her head and held by a light mist of spray. Very sophisticated.
‘It’s not kind to sound so surprised,’ she said, laughing, holding out both hands.
Nicolas took them in his and squeezed, but gently. The force he could have exerted would
have broken her knuckles.
‘I’m only surprised to find that Queen Boudicca, as Kate calls you, can metamorphose into this glamorous vision I see before me. Is this your London look? Were you only pretending to be a simple country girl?’
She wondered what else her great-aunt had said about her, and what he had said in reply.
‘All this is borrowed finery... an attempt not to look out of place at this very chic rendezvous,’ she said with a glance at the restaurant’s façade.
‘You could never look out of place. What is that wonderful scent?’ Still holding her hands, he bent to inhale more deeply the subtle, delicious aroma from a bottle in the drawer where her mother kept a battery of perfumes.
‘It’s...’ Cressy broke off as he put his lips to her cheek, first one and then the other. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she finished, trying to match her manner to her clothes.
‘I like everything about you. I thought you knew that.’
What did other women say when men said things like this and looked at them in the way he was looking at her?
‘Am I late? I decided to walk and I may have mistimed it.’
‘You’re spot on. If I’d known it was going to be such a balmy evening, I’d have picked somewhere with a garden. But I think you’ll like it here. One can talk without being overheard, and the food is excellent.’
Releasing her hands, he shepherded her into the restaurant, its entrance lobby dominated by a huge Georgia O’Keeffe-style painting of a flower behind the reception desk.
In an alcove in the bar, while they were waiting for drinks to be brought to them, Nicolas said, ‘A few years ago, a man walked in here and asked for a dish he’d enjoyed in the Sixties. It wasn’t on the current menu and they didn’t have the ingredients, but within the hour they served it to him. Scotts is that sort of place.’
Cressy was glancing around, eager to take in every detail of an ambience familiar to him but strange and wonderful to her. All her previous dates had been pizza or pasta suppers after a movie. No one had ever wined and dined her in style before.