'Am I?' His eyes gleamed.
'Like a man contemplating murder,' she said lightly.
'Funny,' he said, 'that's what I am doing.' His smile widened. 'Next time I see him I'll cut his throat!'
Clare looked startled, taken aback. 'Oh!' She had thought he was brooding over Rowena and all the time he had been thinking about Luke Murry.
Macey's eyes narrowed speculatively. 'What did you think I was thinking about?'
'I wasn't sure.'
He looked down at her hand and she took it away, flushing. 'Put it back, I like it,' he said with a quick, amused smile.
Clare gave him a dry glance. 'What did Rowena think of the play?'
His face changed again, the frown returning. 'She liked it,' he said shortly.
'You don't seem overjoyed.' Tell me, Macey, she thought, watching him. She couldn't let him know she was aware of Rowena's plans, but she wanted Macey to confide in her, although she realised that that would make his decision far more difficult.
'I've got something on my mind.' He said that in a curt, low voice with his head turned away from her.
She sighed. Macey glanced at her and their eyes met. Clare gave him a brief smile, a faint tenderness in her green eyes. Her affection for Macey made her dislike seeing him torn like this—she didn't want to make it any harder for him, if she could help it.
The great white blocks of Nice hotels shimmered in the sunshine. Holidaymakers wandered along in gay, casual clothes, their feet thrust into beach sandals, that leisurely air about them as they contemplated the sea and the crowded restaurants and shops. It took them some time to park the car and then they wandered around, too, in no hurry to find somewhere to eat.
In the end they found a busy, noisy little place where they ate bouillabaisse, the rich fish stew which is only to be eaten on the Mediterranean where the particular mixture of fish used in it can be caught daily, fish unlike any Clare had ever eaten in England, with unfamiliar names and exotic appearance. It was fun identifying them, asking the cheerful proprietor the names of those they did not know. The fish were cooked whole in olive oil flavoured with saffron and herbs, but the strong flavour of garlic dominated the dish, and the meal was served in an unusual way too, the fish in one dish and the strongly flavoured liquid in which it had been cooked served on its own, poured over slices of new French bread, the whole meal given a final touch by the addition of a bowl of aioli, the garlic-flavoured mayonnaise made in and characteristic of the south of France.
Clare and Macey lingered over it, attracting some attention from the other tables which were full of local fishermen whose usual idea of tourists did not fit these new companions. Catching some muttered comments, Macey gave them a cheerful grin and shouted a rude comment in French which made them begin to laugh. Within a quarter of an hour he was exchanging ribald jokes with them. Macey had an amazing ability to meet people on their own ground. He was a chameleon, taking colour from his surroundings. Clare listened and smiled, slapping a couple of the younger men when they grew rather too interested in her. Macey turned and bellowed a crude threat at them. Clare felt her cheeks grow pink at the language, but the fishermen laughed and from then on she was left alone.
It had not been the sort of meal you bolt down and walk away from in a hurry. They stayed for several hours, drinking Pernod, the deceptively strong aniseed drink. It had a tang which hit the bloodstream deceptively and Clare's head began to whirl after two large glasses of it. She was flushed and sleepy when Macey finally steered her back to the car.
'Eating out with you can be an ordeal,' she complained as he slid her into the front seat.
'Didn't you enjoy the bouillabaisse?' Macey looked at her in surprise.
'Loved it,' she said drowsily. 'But I didn't love getting my bottom pinched or my knee squeezed.'
He grinned. 'They got my point, though. If they know it's "hands off" they don't need telling twice.'
She lay back, lids lowered. 'All the same, I'll want danger money if we go down there again.'
He laughed at her, patting her knee. 'You shouldn't be so seductive. Can you blame them? In those jeans you're a temptation to any man, especially if his veins are full of Pernod.' He started the car. 'I sometimes think sophistication is a mistake. Those boys saw something they fancied and just reached out for it. It's the basic male instinct and they haven't had to learn to damp it down.'
'Time they did, then,' she said, yawning. 'My God, that Pernod is strong stuff! My head's going round. I feel like going to bed.'
'So do I,' said Macey, and something in his voice made her stiffen, shaken awake at once. She kept her lids down, but she was conscious of him watching her as he drove out of Nice. The sun was very hot on one side of her face, the heat intensified by the glass in the car window. She had lowered the side window and a breeze rushed over her skin. Slowly heat and the effects of the drink made her fall into a light sleep.
She woke up when Macey touched her. Lifting her eyes, blinking, she looked up at him and he smiled at her with tenderness. 'Home, my lady,' he teased.
She struggled out of the car and into the villa, the coolness of the interior striking her so deliciously that she stood there, breathing the quiet air, her eyes closed.
A movement startled her and she opened her eyes and saw Ray standing in the sitting-room, watching her.
'Oh, hello,' she said, shaken into wary watchfulness.
'Hello.' Ray's voice was dry and very cool. The thick cloudy dark hair hung round her face, brushing her slender shoulders. She was wearing a simple white shirt and trousers, her pale skin faintly sun-touched at the throat.
Macey walked in and stopped short. Clare saw the hostility in his face as he took in Ray's presence. She also saw the brief look Ray gave him and almost winced at what she saw in Ray's dark eyes.
'What do you want?' Macey asked so coldly that Clare looked at him in disapproval.
'It's lovely to see her, isn't it? Ray, can I offer you a drink? We've been drinking far too much over lunch, so I'm going to make us some coffee, but we can offer you a choice.'
'Coffee will be fine,' said Ray with her eyes on the floor.
'I'll make it,' Macey muttered.
'No,' Clare said sharply, 'I will. Stay and talk to Ray.'
She went out and closed the door. Why had Ray come; to plead with Macey or to tell him she did not want the part? Clare couldn't guess. Ray was ambitious; she must want the part. But she was in love with Macey and wouldn't want to be forced on him by her aunt. Clare began to make coffee, shrugging. It was none of her business.
She didn't hurry, giving Ray as much time as she could to say whatever she had come to say. When she carried the tray into the sitting-room Macey was shouting. 'Tell her from me she can forget the whole damned thing!'
He cut the words off as Clare came into the room. She caught Ray's glance, her face paler than ever, her lips looking as though she had been biting them.
Clare assumed a cheerful smile. 'Cream, Ray?' She laid the tray down on the coffee table and became very busy with the heavy pot, her head bent as she poured coffee into the small cups.
Macey muttered something and went out of the room. Ray turned as if she was going too, and Clare said quickly: 'Your coffee.'
She felt Ray's hesitation and held out the cup. 'Cream? Sugar?' Ray's slender hand slowly extended.
'I'll take it black,' she said in a low, husky voice.
Clare sat down and gestured to a chair beside her. Ray slowly sat down too.
'What's going on?' Clare asked, sipping her coffee. 'Rowena is up to something, isn't she?'
'He hasn't told you?' Ray looked surprised and then her lips twisted wryly. 'I should have guessed he wouldn't. Macey has a lot of integrity, though Rowena doesn't see that. All her integrity goes into her work. Outside that, she'd sell her own mother if events suggested it. She can't see that Macey isn't cut from her cloth.'
'Drink your coffee before it gets cold,' Clare told her.
Ray
looked at her with hostile impatience. 'Don't talk to me as if I were three years old!'
The hostility was born of quite another cause, but Clare let that pass. She drank her own coffee and Ray slowly began to sip hers, her dark head bent.
'Rowena wants Macey to give me the lead,' she said huskily after a moment.
Luke Murry had told the truth. That surprised Clare. She asked herself again why he had told her. What motive had he had?
'I didn't come to try to persuade him,' Ray explained in quick, hasty speech. 'I came to tell him I didn't even want the part. Rowena may not see it, but it's obvious he wrote the part for you. I'm not so desperate for jobs that I need to use blackmail to get them. Rowena had no right to ask him. She hadn't consulted me. I only found out after Macey had gone.'
Clare finished her coffee and poured herself some more, took Ray's cup and poured her another.
'He didn't believe me,' said Ray, and to Clare's horror she saw bright, unshed tears at the back of Ray's eyes. 'He's furious with me.' Her voice was thick and husky.
Clare put the cup into Ray's hands, feeling the way the long thin fingers trembled. She was deeply embarrassed, saddened. She had known for a long time that Ray was in love with Macey, but the pain in the other woman's eyes was disturbing.
Ray suddenly put her untouched cup down and stood. 'Try to get him to believe it,' she said quickly in that deep shaking voice. 'I wouldn't take the part if he offered it to me. I've told Rowena so. She was being kind, but she doesn't realise…' Breaking off, she turned and almost ran through the open french windows and Clare stared after her with compassionate dismay.
She heard a car start and a few moments later Macey came slowly into the room. Clare looked at him and felt so angry she wanted to hit him.
'Why were you so unkind to her?' she demanded harshly, standing up. 'Macey, don't you realise Ray would never have been a party to Rowena's little plot?'
'She told you?' He looked irritated, his mouth tightening. 'She had no business to tell you anything!'
'Ray wasn't involved in it. She doesn't want the part.'
'I won't be blackmailed.' Macey's skin was flushed, his face hard. 'Whether Ray was involved or not, she was the cause of it. I had a very unpleasant interview with Rowena. I was forced to listen to things I didn't want to hear.'
Clare watched, beginning to guess. What had Rowena made him listen to? Surely to God she hadn't told him pointblank that Ray was in love with him? Surely even Rowena wouldn't have such insensitivity?
'You didn't have to be so brutal to Ray,' she said, under her breath. 'Couldn't you have been kinder, Macey? Surely you realised she was distressed when she found out what Rowena had done? She came to tell you she didn't want the part, yet far from being relieved, you were damned unkind.'
Macey's colour had deepened to an angry, burning red. 'What did you want me to do? Make love to her?'
Clare drew a shaky, shocked breath. 'Macey!'
'Oh, hell,' he muttered, turning on his heel and walking to the window. He stood there, his back to her, running a hand through his hair. 'I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, but if you interfere between people it can be a painful business. Rowena curdled my blood this morning. Did she think I was so blind I couldn't see…' He broke off, muttering under his breath. 'You ought to know by now, Clare, that we aren't responsible for what other people feel. The kindest thing I could do for Ray was pretend I didn't notice a thing. I've done that for a long time and I could have slapped Rowena's face when she kindly told me what I'd known for a good year.'
She sighed, understanding how he must have felt. 'Rowena should never have said a thing.'
'I don't want Ray's attention,' Macey said hoarsely. 'Any more than you want mine.'
Clare felt her colour running up from her throat to her hair and bit down on her lips to silence the cry of shock coming from her.
Macey gave a deep, curt laugh. 'Don't worry. I find pity intolerable whether it's given or received. I don't go on my knees begging you for what you can't give me, and I can't stomach being forced to watch Ray suffering every time she comes near me.'
'Don't, Macey,' Clare begged. 'Don't talk about her like that.'
'You started this, I didn't,' he flung back harshly. 'I've had about enough of the subject. First Rowena, then Ray, then you—my God, is it any wonder I wasn't all sweetness and light when Ray came here? I haven't loaded all my feelings on to your back, have I? I've played it the only way it can be played, as lightly as the damned comedy it is, because the only way to handle a scene like that is to do it with as much style and grace as you can muster.'
Clare felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising inside her. How typical of Macey to regard even his own emotions as though they were material for a play!
'I've no desire to play the lovesick schoolboy,' he went on roughly, staring out over the green garden, the distant roofs. 'Don't you think there were times when I could have sold my soul to tell you what I felt?'
Her back stiffened, her head lifted. She felt a faint sickness and began to say, 'Macey, please…'
'If you didn't want to listen to all this you should have minded your own business,' Macey said angrily. 'People should always mind their own business. More trouble is caused in this world by interference than any other single thing.'
'Do you think Ray's grateful to Rowena for what she did?' Clare asked him in quick, soft tones.
Macey sighed deeply. 'No, of course not. Do you think I didn't see how she felt?'
'Then why weren't you kinder?'
'Are you totally insensitive?' Macey's voice rose in a harsh roar. 'She was on the point of tears the whole time. If I'd shown her the slightest kindness, they'd have started, and I couldn't have dealt with it. Ray doesn't have your control, Clare.' His voice lowered, became harsh. 'You walk clear of it all, don't you? Cool and free and self-possessed. In seven years I've only ever seen you react to one man as if you really saw him.'
She did not want to talk about Luke Murry again. 'What did you say to Rowena?' she asked.
'Damn Rowena,' Macey muttered. 'You are in love with Murry, aren't you, Clare?'
'I hate him,' she said fiercely.
'Hate me like that,' Macey came back with, a bitter smile. 'Look at me the way you look at him.'
She met his eyes, trembling. 'You wouldn't want me to loathe and despise you, would you, Macey?'
He stared intently, his face changing.
'You wouldn't want me to feel sick at the thought of you laying so much as a finger on me?'
He stood there, his features taut. 'Why, Clare?' he asked in a low, rough voice. 'Why does he make you feel like that?'
She swung away, shivering. 'Don't, Macey.'
'Tell me,' he asked very quietly. 'How can I fight when I don't know what I'm fighting?'
Her lips were dry. She couldn't bring herself to tell him. It would hurt her more than she could stand if Macey ever looked at her with contempt. Macey waited, breathing carefully, all his attention fixed on her. Clare closed her eyes and then walked out of the room without answering.
CHAPTER SIX
It wasn't easy for them to re-establish contact. Macey slept for some hours and came into the kitchen while Clare was tossing salad in a large wooden bowl. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled with faint nervousness. He was flushed from sleep, his hair damp where he had showered a moment ago, his body moving with that second-nature grace.
'Rabbit food!' he said lightly. 'And I was hoping for a steak!'
'You can have one,' she assured him. 'Steak and black pepper sauce. I'm having cheese.'
'Slimming again,' commented Macey, smiling.
He stood looking out of the window at the moon which hung right above them, shimmering silvery white in the luminous grape-bloom purple of the sky.
'How about some music?' Macey moved away as though he found the sight of the moon uncomfortable. Clare knew how he felt. She had been looking at it as she worked and wishing it would go away. It brought b
ack thoughts she did not need.
Macey had found a Piaf recording. The throbbing, sultry voice breathed passionately, and Clare looked at the moon and away.
The Piaf murmur stopped dead. Macey put on another record without comment. He was right: that had not been a good choice.
What a stupid, crazy world this is, Clare thought, placing the salad bowl on the table. Macey was right— the only way to treat love was as a comedy. In her case, black farce. She put Macey's tenderised steak on the bars above the smouldering charcoal. Brushing it with butter, she caught the first smoky odour of cooking. Macey wandered back. 'Can I help?'
Clare picked up the large pepper mill and Macey moved back as the black dust drifted down over the steak. 'Not too much, darling.'
'Break an egg for me, please,' she said. 'I'll make the sauce.'
They worked in comparative harmony, talking about a friend who was rehearsing a revival of The School for Scandal, commenting on her fellow actors, reminding each other of famous performances. It was a deliberate attempt by both of them to get back to the old footing and it was hard work.
They avoided anything that could touch, however remotely, on more personal subjects. Clare wondered if she should go back to London. It would make it easier for them both.
'We do too many revivals,' Macey said, as he had often said before. 'We should be more adventurous, try out more new plays.'
It was a safe subject. Clare took it up and they fell into a lively argument on the old theme of how far tradition and heritage should be allowed to dominate the theatre. 'We mustn't throw the baby out with the bath water,' said Clare, and Macey fired back, 'Some baby!'
Moving on those well-trodden paths kept them talking, lessened the tension between them, slowly brought them back to a balanced poise. By the time they sat down to eat they were both more relaxed.
After the meal they listened to some music and then both went to bed. Clare slept better than she had the night before, worn out by all the emotional scenes she had had to bear that day.
She awoke feeling refreshed and alert, showered and went out to get some breakfast Macey was already up, swimming lazily in the pool. Clare waved to him, called, 'Early bird! Caught any worms?'
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