Green Lightning

by Anne Mather

  'Is something wrong?'

  The man had seated her in an empty chair, and was presently assisting her to put on a salmon pink overall. 'Oh—no. No.' Helen met his reflected gaze in the mirror unhappily. 'It's just—well, I'm not sure about this, you see. I don't know whether I want my hair cut.'

  The man smiled. 'Your mother was very certain.'

  'My mother—oh! No, she's not my mother.' Helen coloured in amusement, wondering what Angela would have to say to that. 'She—er—she's just a—a friend of my uncle's, that's all. She thinks she knows what's best for me.'

  'I see.' The man frowned and came round the side of the chair to look at her. 'Then let me show you something, will you? Wait here. I will not be a moment.' He lifted a hand. 'One moment, please.'

  When he came back, he was carrying a dark wig, almost the same colour as Helen's hair. But unlike her hair, it was short and straight, exactly styled in the way Angela had directed.

  'Give me a moment to secure your hair in a knot—so,' he declared, twisting her own hair into a corkscrew. 'Now, we slip the wig on like this. Just there. Now we see an impression of what your—uncle's friend is expecting.'

  Helen gasped. Until that moment she had not realised how much hair contributed to a person's appearance. Shorn of the dancing mass of curls, her features looked different altogether, and she didn't like the alteration, she didn't like it at all.

  'You see, your face is not thin and angular like your friend's,' explained Ricardo. 'Your features are fuller, younger; time enough for such severe styles when you are older. For now, I would suggest you allow me to trim the ends, to give the hair a little style, perhaps. To make it short would be sacrilege. It is beautiful hair. You should enjoy it.'

  'Yes.'

  Helen nodded, although she suspected he was actually saying that as she was more generously built than Angela, she needed all the help she could get. Remembering Angela's remarks at breakfast, she couldn't help but agree with him, viewing her own voluptuous curves with some distaste. Nevertheless, if wearing her hair long assisted in distracting attention from her disadvantages, the last thing she should do was have it cut. With a sense of hurt indignation, she guessed Angela Patterson had known this, and her nails dug into her palms at the realisation that without Ricardo's sensitivity, she could have ended up looking fat and frumpish.

  When the older girl returned some fifty minutes later, Helen was seated in the waiting room, flicking through a magazine. She had never felt so relieved about anything in her life, and even Angela's burst of impatience could not disturb her.

  'It has been cut, madam,' Ricardo averred, in answer to her irate enquiry. 'But the young lady did not wish me to cut it short, and I had to agree. It would have been unsuitable.'

  Angela's lips tightened. 'What have you done with it, then?'

  'Oh, I have cut away the split ends, shortened it a little, so that it can be worn without becoming tangled, washed it, had it blown dry. A comprehensive job, I can assure you.'

  'Don't you think it looks nice, Miss Patterson?' asked Helen politely, unable to resist the small dig, and Angela gave her a frosty look.

  'For the moment,' she conceded, and Helen was aware of the threat in her voice. 'Come along now. Ormerod will be waiting.' Her eyes flicked back to Ricardo. 'I'll tell Mr Heathcliffe you'll be sending your bill.'

  Ricardo inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the implied criticism, but as Helen followed Angela out of the salon, her nerves were taut. Once again she was remembering what Heath had said that morning, and she prayed that her recalcitrance would not arouse his anger.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Helen was in bed when Heath came home. She couldn't see the lights of his car, but she could hear the sulky purr of its engine as he cruised round to the garage, and she wondered with a sense of bitterness who he had spent the evening with.

  When she and Angela had arrived back at Matlock Edge late that afternoon she had learned that Mrs Gittens had had a phone call from Heath, saying would not back for dinner. His reason was a business meeting in Leeds, but Helen had heard that excuse before. Nevertheless, she did get a certain satisfaction out of witnessing Angela's disappointment when she came down to find only two places set at the table.

  'Does your uncle often dine out?' she asked, adjusting the shoulder strap of the elegant black sheath she was wearing, and Helen shrugged.

  'Sometimes,' she conceded, not prepared to admit how often Heath was absent from the dinner table, and Angela made an annoyed grimace as she resignedly took her place.

  Helen had not bothered to dress up for the meal. In the blouse and skirt she had worn to go to Manchester, she felt drab and uninteresting, and aware of Angela's eyes upon her, she avoided eating any of the fattening foods Mrs Gittens put before her.

  A spicy fish soup was followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, but Helen avoided the roast potatoes, which were her favourite. She concentrated instead on the broccoli, carrots and runner beans that accompanied them, drawing a troubled comment from Mrs Gittens when she came to clear the plates.

  'What's the matter, lass?' she demanded. 'Are you sickening for something? It's not like you to be off your food, and I remember well you didn't eat your eggs this morning.'

  Helen avoided Angela's eyes. 'I ate lunch, didn't I?'

  'Lunch was salad,' declared Mrs Gittens. 'Rabbit's food. A young lass can't survive on lettuce and green beans. Come on now, Cook's made a rhubarb crumble for dessert. You'll enjoy that, won't you?'

  Helen's mouth watered. 'Could I just have cheese and crackers?' she asked uncomfortably. 'Honestly, Mrs Gittens, I'm not hungry. I'll have some fruit later on, but it's too hot to eat stodgy puddings.'

  'Huh!' Mrs Gittens plainly didn't believe her, and it didn't help to feel Angela Patterson's knowing eyes scorning her efforts. She couldn't wait for Mrs Gittens to leave the room to mock the younger girl's insistence, allowing her hand to slide suggestively over her slender figure with real enjoyment.

  'So you've taken my words to heart,' she remarked, cradling her wine glass between her two palms and surveying Helen over the rim. 'Not before time, I'd say.'

  'I knew you would,' responded Helen tensely, wishing she could tell her how she really felt, and Angela allowed a derisive laugh to escape her.

  'I've never had a problem with my weight,' she declared smugly. 'I've been a size ten since I was sixteen. Being a size fourteen can be so limiting. So many of the most attractive garments aren't made in the larger sizes.'

  'I wouldn't exactly call a size fourteen large!' retorted Helen, despising herself for arguing, but indignant at Angela's deliberate attempt to provoke her. 'Mrs Gittens in a size twenty, and I know friends of mine who have to buy size sixteen in pants.'

  Angela's lips twisted. 'Suit yourself. But you have to admit, designers do tend to favour the slimmer figure. Don't worry about it. You can't help it. Some of us just have a fatty problem.'

  'I don't have a fatty problem!' exclaimed Helen, unable to prevent the angry retort. 'My skin's clear, and I never get pimples!'

  Angela smiled. 'Then why are you dieting?' she asked, in silken tones, and Helen had no polite response to give her.

  Now, lying in bed, listening to the steady drone of Heath's motor, Helen wished she dared get out of bed and go and meet him, as she used to when she was younger. Often on nights when she couldn't sleep, she had tiptoed down the stairs at the sound of the front door closing, giggling conspiratorially when Heath raised his fingers to his lips. But since the incident at the pool, she had not attempted to leave her room, and she kicked the sheet aside frustratedly at the realisation that those days were gone for ever.

  Unwanted, the memory of what had happened that morning returned to torment her. Heath had been so angry, she reflected miserably. He had acted as if it had all been her fault, and yet when he had kissed her, she had been unable to free herself, even had she wanted to. It was as if he had wanted to punish her, and punish himself at the same time, but i
nexperienced as she was, she knew it had all got out of his control. She touched her lips tentatively, aware of a certain sensual enjoyment when she did so. It was strange—in the past two days she had received two very different kinds of kisses, but she knew instinctively that in spite of Miles' aggression, Heath's had been the most dangerous.

  A hollow thud announced the closing of the outer door, and Helen listened tensely for Heath's footsteps up the stairs. Although Matlock Edge was a large house, the stairs were old, and years of experience had alerted her to their every creak. He didn't come upstairs immediately, and she guessed he had gone into the kitchen to get himself a drink of milk. She used to share that drink with him, perched on a corner of the kitchen table, eyes sparkling at the unexpected treat …

  With a dejected sniff, Helen rolled over on to her stomach, uncaring that the absence of the sheet meant that her buttocks were exposed to the air. It was too hot to wear a nightdress, even if Mrs Gittens did cluck reprovingly about young ladies and modesty, and she buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could sleep.

  The sound of Heath's footsteps coming along the corridor caused her to shuffle a little more deter­minedly against the pillow, and then she froze into immobility when her door was suddenly opened. A shaft of light from the hall outside cast its brief illumination across the bed, and her breathing almost stopped. But then the light disappeared, the door closed again, and she expelled her breath weakly at the realisation that he had gone.

  The next morning, it all seemed like a dream, but she knew it wasn't, rationalising what had happened with the realisation that Heath had probably looked in on her hundreds of times over the past fourteen years. After all, she was generally asleep when he came home, and she only hoped he thought that last night, and did not bring up the embarrassing subject of her nudity. It was already a bone of contention between them, and she could imagine the mileage Angela Patterson would get from such a juicy piece of gossip.

  Nevertheless, she couldn't prevent the wave of colour that swept up her cheeks when he came into the morning room to find her already at the breakfast table, and it didn't help when he seated himself opposite her and regarded her with quiet intensity.

  'I'm sorry,' he said, startling her still further, and she looked up at him quickly, before resuming her concentration on the slice of toast on her plate.

  'Sorry?' she mumbled, helping herself to marmalade. 'I don't know what you mean. You're often late for breakfast. As you can see, Miss Patterson hasn't even put in an appearance yet.'

  'I wasn't talking about breakfast, and you know it,' he declared heavily. 'Helen, stop pretending you're going to eat that slice of bread! You've already spread two lots of marmalade on it, and it looks positively revolting. Just put your knife down and look at me. I promise it won't hurt at all.'

  Helen wiped her fingers on her napkin without speaking, then unwillingly lifted her chin. 'I didn't know you were going to come into my room,' she muttered uncomfortably. 'It was such a hot night, I couldn't get to sleep with the covers on.'

  Heath's thick lashes narrowed the green eyes. 'You were awake last night?'

  Helen sighed. 'Yes.'

  'You didn't say anything.'

  Helen caught her breath. 'No.' She moved her shoulders helplessly. 'What would you have had me say? Goodnight, Heath?'

  'Why not?'

  'Why not?' Helen shook her head. 'And I suppose you would have done the same.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, if I'd come into your bedroom and found you in the raw, you'd have just said goodnight, just like that!'

  Heath bent his head. 'We're not talking about me.'

  'No.' Helen sounded bitter.

  'We're not even talking about last night,' he added flatly. 'It was what happened yesterday morning I was apologising for. I'm sorry. After reflection, I realise it was my fault, not yours.'

  Helen expelled her breath weakly. 'It was nobody's fault! I know I'm not the first girl you've kissed; and I don't expect I'll be the last.'

  Heath stifled an oath. 'Helen, you're not a girl like that. Not just any girl. You're my niece.' He thrust a piece of cutlery savagely aside. 'I want thrashing, not you.'

  Helen moistened her lips uncertainly. 'Heath, we're not related—'

  His green eyes flashed. 'Aren't we?'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'I know what you're saying,' he amended grimly. 'However, I consider you are my niece, Helen. Anything else would be totally unacceptable.' He uttered a harsh laugh. 'Can you imagine what my mother would say if I told her what had happened?'

  Helen's nails dug into the damask tablecloth. 'Well, I'm not sorry,' she declared tensely, looking away from his brooding air of hostility, and Heath thrust back his chair in angry rejection.

  'Then you should be,' he exclaimed bleakly. 'I can only assume this relationship you've been having with young Ormerod has given you a taste for melodrama. Just don't try your wiles on me, Helen. I may still change my mind about that finishing school.'

  'Oh, stop threatening me with that!' Helen burst out heatedly. 'It's not fair. Everything I say, everything I do, you're always holding that over my head. If you want to send me to Geneva, then send me. It's getting to the point when I don't care any more. Just stop giving me ultimatums!'

  Heath's mouth compressed. 'Do you mean that?' he asked tersely, and Helen's balloon of confidence exploded.

  'Yes! No! I don't know,' she answered unsteadily. 'Oh, leave me alone, can't you? I can't think straight any more.'

  'As you wish.'

  Heath would have left the room then, but the appearance of Mrs Gittens with a fresh pot of coffee forestalled him. 'Here we are,' she said busily. 'Your bacon and kidneys are on the way. Are you sure you wouldn't like some orange juice as well? Or maybe some cornflakes with strawberries?'

  Helen's eyes widened. It was obvious from Mrs Gittens' conversation that Heath had spoken to her before coming to the morning room, and she sighed in unwilling relief that he was not going to leave her on such a sour note.

  'Just the kidneys and bacon,' Heath was saying now, reluctantly resuming his seat and pouring himself a cup of the aromatic brew Mrs Gittens had provided, and the housekeeper turned reprovingly to Helen.

  'And how about you?' she asked, tutting at the uneaten slice of toast on her plate. 'I don't know what's wrong with you, I really don't. Off your food yesterday, and scarcely touching a bite this morning!' She shook her head. 'I've told your uncle. I said to him, I didn't know what was the matter with you. Never known you to refuse good food in the past. Always had a healthy appetite, in my experience.'

  Helen exchanged a puzzled look with Heath. Was that why he had apologised? she wondered. Had Mrs Gittens' concern about her loss of appetite led him to believe she was fretting over their encounter? With a feeling of frustration, Helen pushed the plate of toast aside and turned determinedly to the housekeeper. 'I've changed my mind,' she said. 'I will have some kidneys and bacon, after all!' arid then felt her cheeks turn scarlet, as Angela Patterson sauntered into the room.

  Helen didn't enjoy her moment of victory. Indeed, when the kidneys and bacon arrived, she had the greatest difficulty in doing justice to them, with both Heath and Angela looking on. But at least she had disconcerted him, she thought afterwards, and it had been worth Angela's scornful observation to know that Heath had been thwarted.

  Nevertheless, she waited a little tensely for Angela to tell her employer about their visit to Manchester the day before, but apart from saying that they had done a little shopping, Angela was surprisingly reticent. Perhaps she didn't want to get her into trouble, mused Helen doubtfully, but such a con­sideration did not seem characteristic.

  After breakfast, Heath excused himself, and once again Helen was left to entertain Angela. 'I think we'll spend the morning in the garden,' Angela decided, looking with some satisfaction at the weather. 'It will give us time to talk, like we did yesterday. I want to know all about your friends and relations.'
>
  'Wouldn't you like to play tennis?' suggested Helen, feeling bound to be civil after Angela's behaviour, but the other girl shook her head.

  'Tennis is too strenuous,' she exclaimed. 'We'd get all hot and sweaty. It's not at all the occupation for a hot day. No, we'll sit by the pool, as I said. Just give me time to go and change into my swimsuit.'

  Left alone, Helen hunched her shoulders uneasily. She wouldn't have minded a game of tennis. It would have helped to work off the huge breakfast she had just consumed. She knew Angela only wanted to pump her about her uncle really; about his friends and relations, not hers; and while sunbathing by the pool sounded appealing, talking about Heath right now did not.

  On impulse, she left the house through the French doors on to the patio, and circled round to the garages. As usual Miles was there, his head tucked inside the bonnet of the Land Rover, but he turned at the sound of her footsteps and grinned when he saw who it was.

  'Hi,' he said, lifting an oily hand, and Helen nodded a greeting.

  'Hi,' she answered, going towards the garage that housed the Honda. 'Don't let me interrupt you. I just feel like some fresh air. If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I've gone for a ride, will you?'

  'Is anyone likely?'

  She grimaced. 'Maybe.'

  'Heath?'

  'I don't know. He's gone to the mill, hasn't he? His car's not here.'

  'Oh, sure,' Miles made the concession. He left about half an hour ago. I thought you were supposed to be looking after the blonde bombshell.'

  Helen shrugged. 'Is that what you call her?'

  'It's what old Arnold called her,' Miles grinned. 'You must admit, she is dishy.'

  'I'm glad you think so.' Helen realised she sounded bitchy, but she couldn't help it, and Miles made the wrong interpretation.

  'Don't worry,' he said. 'I like my women with a bit more flesh upon their bones. And I like brunettes, too, particularly ones who are bouncing with sex-appeal!'

  Helen wheeled the motorbike out of the garage and swung her leg across the saddle. 'Heath's not still mad at you, is he?' she asked, suppressing the impulse to tell him she didn't care about his opinion, and Miles shrugged his shoulders.