He turned away just then; she heard his quick footsteps in the adjoining room, and a moment's silence. Silence, that was, except for the agitated hammering of her heart against her ribcage, then the slamming of the outside door. For a long time she just stood there, enduring her misery, then she slumped into a chair and wept.
It was a particular twist of malicious fate which brought a telephone call from her mother later that afternoon, her tone of resignation somehow much more frightening than her more usual dramatic diagnoses as she described the small lump on her neck and the doctor's insistence on immediate investigation.
'So I'm wondering, Leigh, if you can possibly come down and keep Daddy company for a few days. Anyway, here he is now to have a word.'
And of course there was nothing to consider; she had no choice but to go home when the outlook was so fraught.
She could never explain afterwards why she was so devious with Patrick when she told him about it—most likely she was still smarting from his decision and wanted to get back at him. In any event, her deliberately casual explanation elicited only lofty disdain, coupled with what she interpreted as insincere insistence that of course she must go since her mother was ill, both of which increased her simmering indignation.
On the second day of her visit to Great Whencote the result of the biopsy brought overwhelming relief. The lump was a benign cyst and was scheduled for removal within the next month.
'Thank heaven for that.' Her father put down the telephone and turned to his daughter with an uncharacteristic grin. 'It's been such a worry. And now-----' he crossed the room and put an arm round Leigh's shoulder, squeezed it in an unusual demonstration of emotion '—now there's nothing to prevent you going back to Oxford and that young man you're so fond of.'
'Father.' She couldn't quite control the colour which rose so suddenly in her cheeks, and she grinned in acknowledgement. 'I don't have to dash away. I'll wait as long as you need me.'
'Well, what I'm saying is, now that the pressure is off, there's no reason why you should stay here right now. I know there will be lots going on back at college, and your mother and I can manage perfectly well now we know there's nothing serious. And, as well...' He hesitated, then went on, 'Your mother is inclined to fuss about her health. To be honest, she's not altogether cut out to be a vicar's wife. As you know, I was teaching in a prep school when we met, and I think that life might have suited her best. What I want you to know, Leigh, is that you mustn't be too ready to drop everything when she rings with some complaint or other. You have your own life and I don't want that to be sacrificed to us. You understand what I'm trying to tell you?'
'Yes, I think so.' He hadn't used the word hypochondriac, but she knew what he meant. On impulse she reached up and kissed his cheek. 'And thank you, Dad. Only, I want you to promise that if things ever get really serious you'll call me. I'll stay now, in any case.'
She made the deliberate decision to let her anger with Patrick, and maybe even his with her, cool down for a few days. It might be good for both of them to miss each other and for them— for him especially—to reflect on the unfairness of his decision and how adversely it was bound to affect both their lives.
Looking back on it afterwards, she was stunned by her own self-assurance. Crass self-delusion was a more apt description, she decided, for certainly then she had been wholly confident that things could be mended in line with her own inclinations.
But, unbelievably, that had been the end.
Now, lying in bed in Strasbourg, Leigh turned restlessly, unwilling to relive the final agony of that time. Right up to the end she had believed, had even prayed for him to come to her and say that he had changed his mind. But as the days had passed she'd found her convictions shaken. The London job had begun to lose a little of its glossy image and it had been an immense effort to stick to her decision. If he had come dashing up to Gloucester in an attempt at persuasion she was by no means convinced of how she would have reacted.
Then with relief, at last, she'd travelled back to Oxford, her mind fizzing with all kinds of contingency plans, had gone up to the flat and... found that he had gone. A friendly, civilised little note had assured her that there was no need to hurry to vacate since the rent was paid for three full months ahead, that his date had been brought forward and that he had just enough time to see his family before setting off for New York and the briefing by the aid organisation. All very friendly and entirely soul-destroying, especially the part assuring her that j he would always have the happiest memories of the time they had spent together. There was certainly no sign that he was sharing any of her anguish, no indication that he was even missing her.
Twice, pride in tatters, she lifted the telephone in the flat to ring him at his home. Twice she replaced the receiver as she struggled to find the right words for such an occasion, not for the first time doubting the practical use of all her years of study. Each time her courage failed. She couldn't bring herself to do what her instinct demanded, to speak to him, beg him to find a place for her on his team. Anything, she wanted to say. I don't care what it is so long as we can be together.
Then, at last, she considered she was word-perfect. She dialled the number and found herself talking to his sister, Grainne, who was more than willing to have a long chat, and who told her it was such a pity that she hadn't called just a few hours earlier since Patrick was due to be taking off from Shannon about now for his journey to the States.
Her only choice then, she realised, was to find his address and write to him. It might be possible to join the project a little later, and in the meantime, though the idea was much less cheering than she would have imagined earlier, she could gain a few months' experience in the Commons job. Perhaps it was a moment for independence, if only to demonstrate that she could manage on her own. Anyway, she thought, trying to make a virtue out of necessity, this way would be less humiliating, less frantic.
And there was little doubt that, but for a chance meeting with Deborah Fleetham in the supermarket, one day the letter would have been sent.
For Debbie had news which she was more than anxious to impart. It was about her friend who was a nurse at the John Radcliffe. 'You must remember Gillian. You would have met her at my twenty-first—the tall blonde with the marvellous figure. I thought you might have heard...' The wide, knowing eyes were eager for Leigh's reaction. 'She's off to Bangladesh with Patrick Cavour; they must be in New York by this time. It's all so exciting and romantic, don't you think?'
Only she never did hear what Leigh thought, for Leigh remembered very suddenly about an urgent message, turning away quickly so that Deborah would not see the tell-tale brilliance in her eyes.
Unhappiness she had expected, had been prepared for, in a way, but the physical pain had come as a total shock, she recalled now. She had lost weight, become exhausted with the sheer effort of trying to carry on as usual. It was an experience she remembered with something close to terror, and one she had no intention of repeating.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN the tall figure swung his briefcase on to the seat beside her, Leigh, preparing for a much needed rest, glanced up in reproach at his intrusion into what she had been hoping was her space, registered someone stowing a grip in the overhead locker, then had to do a swift retake. Her eyes widened in dismay and shock, but the embossed initials on the brown document case, PJC, merely confirmed the message that her brain was determined to reject. Damn. Damn. Damn. Nervous irritation was loud in her voice before she had the wit to attempt a disguise.
'What on earth are you doing here?' No use hoping the shrewish note would be missed.
'Much the same as you, I expect.' If Patrick Cavour was rattled by her manner then he was much too cool and experienced an operator to let it show. But still, she could detect wariness in the way his eyes swept over her before he settled into his seat, wariness and something she liked even less—detachment verging towards dislike, or possibly just disapproval. Whatever, it was quite enough to have he
r nerves screaming as, from the corner of her eye, she saw the long fingers dangerously close, searching for the safety buckle and... She caught a whiff of the distinctive cologne which made the years simply evaporate. Unexpected tears stung; she found herself holding her breath, fascinated by the smooth brown skin, the scatter of dark hair across the knuckles, the heavy gold watch beneath the dazzling white cuff...
'Flying to Paris.' The words brought her from her musings. 'On business.'
Oh, no. Metaphorically Leigh closed her eyes. Surely it couldn't be? It mustn't be... Please God, she began to pray, but without much hope.
'And of course-----' the sugary sweetness, the blatant sarcasm, owing so much to sheer terror, were very much misguided, and she regretted them almost immediately '—it is mere coincidence that you happen to find yourself in the seat next to mine.'
'No.' His voice lowered conspiratorially as the plane's engines fired. 'I had to bribe Air France— what do you think?' She had been forced to incline her head to catch his words and now pulled back, stung and humiliated, her blazing cheeks indicating how much.
If I were to tell you what I really think... But this time the words were held back and she even found herself smiling ruefully, wondering why she had made it so easy for him... The smile faded; she must be careful—it would be dangerous to allow herself to mellow.
Resolutely she turned her face towards the runway lights now flashing past, her mind focusing instead on the dream, back last night with a vengeance, torturing her with all its blatant erotic images. Sighing shakily with more than a hint of anguish, she pressed her eyes closed, willing sleep...
'Can I persuade you to have a drink?' Naturally, he would choose the exact minute when she might have drifted off, but he was impervious to her look of reproof, and when she saw the attendant with the drinks trolley waiting for the order there was no choice but to try to look bright and intelligent.
'What? Oh, no, thanks.'
'Oh, go on.' His manner was benign, very nearly indulgent. 'To show you're not going to continue with this silly pretence that you don't remember me. After all, it's not so very long since we were-----'
'All right.' It seemed sensible to cut him off before he became specific, especially with the stewardess finding the conversation so intriguing, and apart from that she had had time to reflect on her behaviour the other night. What had seemed clever then, under the influence of shock and more champagne than was good for her, was, in the cold light of morning, merely childish. 'I admit, I knew you at once. You haven't changed all that much.' And only for the better, a treacherous internal voice was determined to observe.
'Thanks,' he said drily. 'Am I right, then, in presuming that an armistice has been declared?'
Her slender raised eyebrow must have been taken for agreement; she heard him order wine as she reached for her handbag. 'You must let me pay,' she said touchily.
'Forget it. You're not costing me a sou.' Something about the offhand way he spoke was wounding. 'It'll all go on my expenses.'
'And of course we all know how lavish they can be.'
'Well-----' he gave her a slanted sideways glance
'—if you're talking about the Strasbourg set-up, you'll know more about those than I do. And if you insist-----' now there was a touch of impatience in his tone '—you can pay next time.'
There is not going to be a next time, she thought as she sipped the cool white wine appreciatively. Then the import of what he had said percolated. 'And why should I know more about these things than you do? Surely someone in your position...?'
'My position?' When he turned to her there was more in his expression than in the words themselves, enough certainly to make her heart behave in a silly rushing way that she could only deplore. 'But tell me, Leigh, what exactly is "my position" as you see it?'
For a long time there was silence while she considered, then at last had to confess that she had no idea. Such had been the panic caused by his reappearance that she had not actually faced that aspect directly. Possibly she might have picked up the impression—something to do with the odd remark she had heard in the office, one or two hints from Kyle—that he had landed a job with the Irish representatives at Strasbourg. He was not an MEP himself—if he had been she was certain to have known—but... 'I'm... I'm not sure,' she confessed at last. 'Legal adviser in some capacity, I suppose.'
‘That could be claimed for anyone employed in the legal profession, but I'm certainly not 'working for any section in the parliament.'
'Oh.' It took her a moment or two to absorb the implications of this. 'Then what?'
'I've been doing some private lobbying on behalf of one of the major aid agencies.'
'Oh...' It was hard to work out why this should be such a shock—not a disappointment, but... 'So... am I to conclude you're still working in that field?'
'No.' His frown suggested that her slowness was an irritant. 'I've got my own international law practice, but because I've had experience I decided to do some of the initial approaching myself.'
This time there was no hiding from herself the fact that she was disappointed. It wasn't—surely it couldn't be—that somewhere, deep at the back of her mind, she had been cherishing the thought that his arrival in Strasbourg had been triggered off... No. Of course it wasn't that. What a relief to be able to dismiss the thought for the utter nonsense that it was.
The arrival of the stewardess with coffee and sandwiches was a diversion, and, although she and Patrick refused, the tall, willowy blonde seemed most reluctant to move on; it was only the obvious impatience of another passenger which dragged her from his side. Leigh, observing the little by-play, was quickly forced to adjust her expression of cynical amusement when he turned to make a routine enquiry about the wine.
'Fine, yes, it's fine.' But her mind wasn't on that; she was intrigued by what he had told her, and she heard her voice before she thought to curb her curiosity. 'So... international law. Does that mean you're living...?'
'Right here in Paris.' He gestured to the city lights over which they had just begun to descend. 'Been here about eighteen months now. But what about you? Are you here on business, or is it pleasure?'
'Both.' She sipped her wine, trying to decide just how far she ought to take him into her confidence. 'In fact for the last few months I've been spending as much of my time in Paris as in Strasbourg. You see, Kyle has extensive business interests and I'm trying to dovetail the two spheres. At first I was a bit reluctant to take on the additional responsibilities, but now I find I'm enjoying it. There's even the chance that the experience might come in useful if ever I decide to change jobs.'
'Oh, is there a chance of that?'
'No.' She shook her head. 'Not right now, anyway, but there are times when the political scene can be... well, I suppose boring would be the most honest description.'
'Mmm.' At least he hadn't jumped in with, I told you so. Then, 'Well, sounds like you have a busy life.'
'Well----' she felt bound to defend her boss '—it would have been, but Kyle arranged for me to have a secretary. Anna relieves me of much of the routine grind, otherwise I don't think I could cope.'
'And the pleasure?'
'What?' She stared, embarrassed by the unexpected warmth in her skin, totally thrown by the interjection.
The intense gaze missed nothing. 'You said you were here for business and pleasure. I'm asking about the pleasure.'
'Oh.' Sudden clarity was quickly followed by a sense of relief. 'Oh, that! A friend has just come to Paris to live. We shared a flat for a few months when I first came to Strasbourg and I'm planning to meet up with her again. She's married now, with a baby, so there will be lots to talk about.'
By this time they were collecting their things together, and then—it seemed automatic—they shared a trolley as they walked to the barrier with their luggage.
'I suppose you do have someone coming to pick you up?'
When the forceful dark eyes swept over her, from the top of her glea
ming head to the toes of her highly polished black boots, she felt confident, childishly so, that he would find little to criticise. She was wearing tight navy trousers topped by a Cossack-style blouse in a rich peony-coloured silk, with a very English hacking-jacket in heathery checks slung over her shoulders...
He was studying her, while she, with a throb in her stomach as then- eyes met, did exactly the same to him. He was the archetypal jet-setting lawyer. She tried to be dismissive and failed miserably. He was the land of man women of any age would look at twice and then keep on looking. When she had known him all those years ago she had grown used to seeing him in more casual gear, but now he was equally at ease in the dark business suit, snowy shirt and striped tie. Everything about him was immaculate, not a bit like Kyle, who seemed to have a permanently crumpled look...
Suddenly aware that Patrick was still watching her, now with a faintly amused look, she began, without knowing why, to shake her head. Instantly she found herself wondering if he had noticed that she had discarded the riotous hairdo in favour of the sleek look, the heavy swaths of dark hair now held back from her face by two antique silver and tortoiseshell combs which had once belonged to her great-grandmother. But then his question was being repeated, and she felt heat wash over her in an overwhelming wave...
'Sorry. I was dreaming. No, we're expected to make our own way.'
‘Then I shall drop you off.' It was a statement rather than a question.
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