Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  When she came back she saw a taxi at the gate and Greg turned from it to give her a quick, searching look. Sara slid her hand through his arm and leaned on him, sighing. 'Panic over, darling. Lucy jumped to mad conclusions just because I fainted. I am not in the family way, nor do I expect to be.'

  Greg swore. 'Hell's bells,' he muttered through his teeth. 'I flew back like a madman. Lucy made it sound urgent. I thought you were at death's door. I thought Rawdon had got what he wanted after all and you were carrying the can.'

  She flushed hotly. 'Well, forget it. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't know what Lucy was up to. Don't be angry with her. She's quite petrified now she knows what she's done.'

  Greg's face changed. 'Is she? Poor silly darling!' He walked away up the path and opened the door, halting suddenly. Sara came in behind him and col­lided with him. Lucy was walking down the stairs with her hands full of sheaves of paper, her face white.

  Greg turned to stone Sara looked at the papers Lucy was holding and felt her stomach clench in horror. Lucy had found the sketches Greg had crone of her. She was staring at Greg with enormous, in­credulous eyes.

  Sara dosed the door, trying to think. What on earth could anyone say? Lucy slowly held the sketches out to Greg, who didn't move. He was looking at the wall, his face blank.

  One of the sketches floated away across the hall. Sara saw words scribbled across the foot of it, saw Lucy in a gesture of pensive grief, her face drawn with careful observation, and saw too the words written under it, knew that Lucy must have read them too, and that there could no longer be any doubt that Lucy knew how Greg felt.

  She hurriedly turned and went into her own flat, leaving them alone.

  My love, my love, Greg had written, and Sara was flushing deeply, remembering the words, She felt shocked at having read them. She shouldn't have done it: it was like spying. Greg would hate this. He would be sick and angry and self-hating when he realised that Lucy had seen his sketches, read his passionate words of love.

  They had to deal with this themselves. Greg wouldn't thank her for having seen any of it. He would resent it.

  She heard nothing from the hall, but she care­fully withdrew into her own bedroom with the door shut just in case she might hear something, She put on her transistor and kept busy tidying her chest of drawers, playing music loudly to drown any sounds from outside. Oh, Greg, she thought, my poor Greg. What must he be going through? Even her own grief over Nick was paling into insignifi­cance. In all probability, Greg had just lost Lucy for good. The revelation of how he felt would put an end to any chance for the future because Greg, once exposed, was going to run and keep running. He wasn't going to be able to go on seeing Lucy, knowing that she knew how he felt and couldn't respond. What was going to happen now?

  She was so busy that she didn't realise anyone was in the room until she felt Lucy behind her, and looked quickly, searchingly at her.

  Lucy sat down on her bed and twined her fingers in her lap. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'You're joking!'

  Lucy looked up, her face flushed. 'Did you know?'

  Sara nodded, watching her. What had happened between her and Greg out there in the hall? Had Greg gone oil" to lick his wounds in privacy upstairs? What had all this done to him?

  'I'm so staggered,' Lucy said suddenly. 'I had no idea—not a suspicion. When I saw those sketches I was curious, of course, and flattered, because they're so good. I stood there looking through them and it slowly dawned on me. I couldn't take it in at first, and then I heard you coming in and I came down and Greg looked at me, and I was sure.'

  'I don't think we should be talking about it,' Sara said, Greg would hate it if he knew Lucy was discussing it with her. He would be outraged.

  'I've got to talk to someone!' Lucy sounded dis­traught, her eyes wide and still oddly shocked. 'I've thought for so long that it was you and Greg. Every­body did. I wondered why you never married him. The two of you seemed so devoted and there was never any talk of anybody else for either of you, although, heaven knows, plenty of women have chased Greg over the last few years—he's so attrac­tive. It wasn't surprising. But he never even looked at anybody else and I thought it was because of you.'

  Sara saw that she had no option but to let Lucy talk it out. She sat down beside her and took Lucy's nervously twisting fingers into her hands. 'What did you say to Greg just now?'

  'What could I say? I barely said a word.'

  Sara flinched. Greg, my poor Greg, she thought.

  'To think I brought, him back because I thought you were having his baby! And I said such cruel things to him. I suppose I should have realised then that it mattered to me what Greg did. I was angry with him, shocked, and I let him see it.'

  Sara looked at her quickly. In soft tentative tones she asked: 'It mattered to you, then?'

  'More than I realised,' Lucy said, her pale, deli­cate face wry. She hesitated. 'I didn't know what to say to him just now. It's too soon. Far too soon.' She got up hurriedly. 'I think I'll see to the dinner.'

  Sara stated after her retreating back. Lucy was doing what she always did in times of distress, running off to her kitchen, plunging into the activ­ity she knew best and felt safest with, alarmed and wary, like a shy animal.

  Sara dared not go to Greg to comfort him; he wouldn't thank her for it. She sat and waited and an hour later Greg tapped on her door and came into the room. The stared at each other in silence. His face was normal, cool, but there were faint blue shadows under his eyes and Sara saw a hint of iron restraint about his sensitive mouth,

  'I'm going back to France,’ Greg said at last.

  Sara nodded, not answering, watching him with­out showing any sign of reaction.

  'While I'm away, get her out of here,' he said evenly. 'I couldn't live under the same roof, with her.'

  Sara felt herself wince at the clipped way that that was said. Greg was torn to pieces under that quiet exterior.

  She took a risk because at that moment she would have taken any risk to see Greg's carefully controlled face lighten even a little.

  'She was jealous when she thought I was carrying your baby,' she said, and Greg stiffened.

  His eyes stayed on the floor, then rose and Sara met them directly, her face expressionless.

  He didn't say anything for a long moment, then he said huskily, 'She seemed very angry when she talked to me on the phone. She sounded furious.'

  'She was,' Sara bit her lower lip. 'She said it was too soon, she needs time to think,'

  'She didn't say that to me,' Greg muttered. 'She didn't say a word, she just stood there, holding those damned sketches. I've burnt them,’ he added vici­ously. 'Watched them turn to ashes. I wish I'd done it years ago.'

  'Oh, Greg!' She was horrified, remembering the beauty of them. 'Oh, how could you?'

  He gave a hard laugh. 'So easily.' He moved away to the window and stared out. 'With all this, I'd forgotten what brought me back. What made you faint, Sara? Have you been ill?'

  'It was nothing,' she said, 'I'd been to a party and maybe I'd had too much to drink.'

  Greg swung and looked at her. 'You don't lie very well,' he said, but then he smiled. 'I won't press you for answers you don't want to give. If you do need me, you know where I am, and I'll always come if you want me.'

  'I know that,' she said, and said a good deal more with her smile. Greg nodded and went out, leaving her sitting on her bed with a blank pale face. She had often wondered how Greg could go on year after year loving Lucy so hopelessly and never seeming able to break free, and now she knew because she loved Nick the same way. There was a difference, of course. She could have Nick if she was ready to accept the sort of affair he wanted, bat she had no intention of doing that. While she was away from him she thought calmly and sanely about it all. It was only when she was with him, when the lure of his smile was having its effect on her, that she lost all touch with common sense. All she had to do was stay out of his company and above all out of his arms.
r />   CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jeremy drove her back to Suffolk next day, spent a few hours at the house, and left again for London. He was rather subdued, making her suspect that the party had been a hectic one after she left. Jeremy had the look of someone still recovering slowly from an appalling hangover.

  She finished her painting on the following Wed­nesday. The Colonel clumped in front of it at her invitation and showed considerable surprise. 'Very good,' he said roughly. 'Very good indeed.'

  Sara was pleased. She had tried to use the subtle colours, the soft pale washes which gave a romantic light to the Suffolk landscape and which might create the same effect as the watercolours he loved.

  When it was framed and hung it would, not look out of place among his other paintings.

  She said goodbye to the Colonel with a real sense of regret. They had got on very well together once she could discount his curt little barks of con­versation and see the shy man beneath.

  'Expect you'll be seeing Jeremy again,' he mut­tered, his eyes sly. 'Hope so. Glad you two get on.'

  Sara hoped he wasn't matchmaking. She had no real interest in his son except that Jeremy was good company when he was in a lighthearted mood, but she didn't tell the Colonel that.

  She had no further commissions for landscapes, but a publisher friend of Greg's rang her to ask if she was interested in doing six small plates for a book they were bringing out. Sara never refused work if she could help it, so she accepted and was sent the manuscript to read. Some of the drawings would need to contain birds which she would not find in her own garden, so she strolled along a few days later to London Zoo to find them in the great aviary.

  The spring sunshine was quite hot out of the wind. She sprawled on the grass eating an orange in between drawings, watching a flamingo in the lake scooping delicately into a clump of dark reeds. The incredibly fine legs stalked away with the grace of a duchess at a garden party, the pale pink plum­age ruffling slightly.

  Sara heard voices coming along the path, recog­nised one suddenly, her heart leaping into her mouth.

  She couldn't help looking. She tried to stop her eyes from moving in that direction, but she was help­less to control them.

  Nick was shepherding a trio of small boys in short trousers and crisp blue shirts who were running ahead, laughing. There was a woman with them, her smooth dark hair beautifully coiffured around her bland face. She was talking now, her hand on Nick's arm, and Sara recognised her. It was his sister Judith, and from the tone of her voice she was lecturing Nick about something, although Sara was too shaken by the sight of him to hear a word she said.

  Nick was listening with an irritable face, his brows black across those beautiful blue eyes.

  His eyes wandered, stopped dead as he caught sight of Sara. His face changed and his body stiff­ened, he stopped walking and just stared at her. His sister's mouth rounded in the middle of a sentence, she gazed at Nick blankly, seeing his expression, then her head turned and Sara hurriedly looked down at her hands, plucking grass nervously, aware that her face was flaming.

  She heard Nick walking over towards her and be­came aware that his sister had gone on ahead, her feet moving crisply. Sara heard her calling the little boys, scolding them for running ahead.

  Nick's black shoes were within her angle of vision, but she didn't look up. He stood above her without speaking, but she was aware of his eyes riveted on her.

  The silence seemed to elongate. She was too ner­vous to speak, her throat dry. His anger the last time they met had been so violent that she was frightened to look at him. She had the odd feeling that Nick didn't know what to say, either, yet he didn't go away, just stood there, looking down at her.

  Suddenly he sat down on the grass beside her and at that she did look up, stealing a glance at him.

  He picked a blade of grass, twirled it in his hand. 'I'm escorting my sister and her brats. What are you doing here?'

  'Working.'

  The monosyllable took all her nerve. It came out dry and flat.

  Nick leaned over and picked up her sketchpad, flicking over the pages.

  'Very good,' he said, and Sara took the pad away from him, closing it with a snap. She did not want him sitting there exchanging trite remarks with her.

  'When I've put my sister and the boys into a taxi, will you have lunch with me?'

  She shook her head, the vivid strands fluttering in the wind. Nick drew a long breath.

  'Do I have to beg?'

  She looked up then, her face almost shocked, and met his restless eyes. 'I've got to talk to you,' he said huskily.

  'We've got nothing to talk about.'

  'I have,' he said through his teeth.

  'What?'

  'The mess you're making of your life,' he said with a rasp which held a mixture of emotions, rage and bitterness and a sort of pleading.

  Sara looked away again, turning her head aside. Nick leaned forward again, speaking quickly, 'Who did you have in your flat that night? Some other artist? Someone Halliday doesn't know about? Can't you sleep alone?'

  She clamped her lips together, refusing to answer,

  'Don't you know what you're doing to yourself? Someone has to make you see it. If you go on like this, you'll destroy yourself.' His voice was low and harsh, filled, with contempt, and it hurt her. 'How many others have there been? Do you even remem­ber?' His hand came down on her wrist, gripped so hard she felt it biting into her flesh and gasped at the pain. 'Can you even remember their faces, let alone their names?'

  Her anger and hurt drove her to reckless reaction. She slapped him across the face so hard that her hand stung, and Nick jerked back, a hoarse sound coining from him. His eyes glittered at her, so angry that she thought for a moment he was going to hit her back.

  The sound of running footsteps woke them both out of the appalled silence between them and Nick sprang to his feet as one of his nephews raced up to them. Sara sat, flushed and trembling, watching as Nick walked away with the child clasping his hand. Her eyes moved ahead and saw his sister standing at the end of the path, her face betraying shock and surprise.

  She had seen that slap, Sara thought. She had seen Nick's almost manic reaction, the checked movement of his hand as he lifted it to hit her back. What on earth must she be thinking?

  Hurriedly Sara gathered together her things and raced to the exit of the zoo, afraid that Nick would come back, urgent to get out of the place before she saw him again. She caught a taxi outside and went home to a silent flat. Lucy had moved into her own place a few days ago and Greg was still in France. Sara had the place to herself for the moment, and she was glad of the privacy. She spent a long time that evening crying like a fool, crouched on her bed. Nick's contempt had bitten into her, en­raged her. Hypocrite, she thought. He's tried often enough to persuade me into bed, yet he talks in that high-minded way about what he suspects I do with others! Who does he think he is? She put her hands over her hot eyes. Why on earth hadn't she tried again to make him believe that there were no others? That his view of her was wildly wrong? When she decided to let him go on believing she was Greg's lover it hadn't meant much to her. She had not then realised she was in love with him. Now she wished to heaven she had insisted that Nick listen, believe her. His scathing view of her was painful and degrading.

  She sat up later, drinking black coffee, and knew she had to make a last effort to make him believe her.

  He had once invited her to see his bank. It would make a neutral territory on which they might meet without the flare-up of sexual attraction which had bedevilled every meeting they ever. had. On his own ground she might get him to listen soberly, believe her. She recognised what he might think, the conclusions he might draw about her desire to clear herself with him, but. she could not go on like this, knowing how he despised her.

  When she drove into London the mild afternoon sunshine glittered on car metal and office windows in the crowded city streets. She had not rung to make an appointment with Nick. She wa
s goirg to take a chance that he would be there and further that he would see her. It was a gamble, a game of Russian roulette she was playing with her life. If Nick wasn't there she would take it that she was not meant to tell him the truth.

  She looked up at the minaret-like shadow of the Post Office Tower framed between rabbit-hutch office buildings, a darker blue than the sky, and marvelled at how rapidly the silhouette had be­come part of the London skyscape.

  Joining the thick lines of cars making their way inch by inch, she sighed at the long delays. At cer­tain times of day these streets were solidly blocked with traffic and today she was in no mood for sitting in a traffic jam. They moved at a snail's pace while she drummed her fingers on the wheel, but at last she was in Lazreth Square, parking in one of the spaces around the tree-embellished gardens. As she climbed out of her car she remembered suddenly

  Rob's nostalgic memories of the square and sighed, her face sombre.

  Built in the nineteenth century, their four sides made up of terraces of tall, balconied houses with flat frontages, the squares had a characteristic ele­gance which was the lasting legacy of the period. The central gardens gave them a magic no other London streets possessed. They brought nature into man's working world, reflecting the seasons day by day. In spring their trees burst into bud, the leaves uncoiling inch by inch like bright, curled little hands; in summer a whispering sea of leaves moved on the branches. The paths were criss-crossed with blue-black shadows which shifted in every wind. At lunch times, office workers came in to eat their sandwiches on the benches under the trees, throw­ing crusts to the grey London sparrows which hop­ped and chirped, dodging the pigeons who fought them for the bread.

  Sara crossed the road and walked up the level, shallow whitewashed steps. As she passed under the portico, supported by smoothly stuccoed columns, a man in a dark brown livery ornamented by polished silver buttons sprang forward to open the door for her.

  'Afternoon, miss,' he said politely, 'May I help you ?'

  'I want to see Mr. Rawdon,' Sara said, hoping her nervousness did not show in her face or voice.