by Anne Mather
Realising she was allowing herself to sink into a state of depression, Antonia got up from her chair and carried her cup into the kitchen. Then, flexing her aching shoulders, she walked into the tiny bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Turning on the bath taps, she squeezed some scented bath gel into the water, and then turned back into the bedroom to find herself some clean underwear.
Ten minutes later she was soaking in the deliciously perfumed water, feeling the tensions she had been experiencing easing out of her. Even the uncertain weather beyond her windows, that sent raindrops pattering against the pane, no longer had the power to depress her, and she relaxed lazily, allowing her thoughts to drift.
Perhaps she should go to the party, she mused reflectively. After all, she had been invited, and she didn’t want to offend Celia. She was a nice girl, and she hoped she would be happy. No doubt this young man of hers—what was his name? Reed … Gallagher? No doubt, he was capable of supporting her in the manner to which she was accustomed. Celia would never be expected to do her own housework, or look after her own children, not unless she wanted to, of course. Antonia already knew that Mrs Francis paid a twice-weekly visit to the apartment upstairs: Just to give the place the once-over! as she put it; and whenever there was to be a party, the catering van from a very exclusive establishment was generally to be seen outside.
The water was cooling by the time she got out of the bath, and after drying herself vigorously to restore her circulation, Antonia slipped on the pink towelling bathrobe her mother had bought for her at Christmas. Her hair needed drying, and collecting the hand-drier from the cupboard, Antonia seated herself in front of the dressing-table mirror. Removing the towel she had wound around her head while she got dry, she surveyed her reflection wryly. At least, she had no problems about what to do with her hair, she thought, tugging a brush through the damp strands. Shoulder-length and straight, it defied any attempt she made to put curl into it; and although once she had gone so far as to try perming, the result had been so awful, she had never tried again.
Dry, the toffee-brown ends tipped silkily against her shoulders. Combed from a centre parting, the two shining swathes framed the oval contours of her face, a feathery fringe brushing eyebrows that were several shades darker. Examining her skin for any unsightly blemish, Antonia had to admit that the polluted air of London had done nothing to mar it. Hazel eyes, which could look green in some lights, looked back at her from between her lashes, their slightly elongated shape giving her face a mildly interesting look. She was not beautiful; she knew that. Although she had good bone structure, her mouth was too wide, the lower lip too full. In the early days of their relationship, Simon used to say she had a sexy face, but she had long since dismissed any claims he made. Simon had wanted to get her into bed, and he had succeeded. The result had been Susie, and the rest was history.
Abandoning this particular train of thought, Antonia got up from the mirror and expelled her breath heavily. What was she going to do? she asked herself. Go to the party; or consign herself to another night of self-recrimination? She was becoming far too morose and introspective, she thought; and dull, painfully dull! Just because she had had one bad experience, she was allowing its aftermath to colour her whole outlook on life. All right, so she didn’t want to get involved ever again. She didn’t have to. She could still enjoy a party, with no strings attached.
The problem of what she was going to wear if she did go loomed next on her horizon. What did one wear to an informal party of this kind? She could wear jeans, she supposed, or cotton trousers; but as she wasn’t absolutely sure how informal informal was, she decided it would be safer to stick with a skirt.
The fitted wardrobe easily accommodated her clothes with room to spare. One advantage of not leading a hectic social life was that one had less reason to buy expensive outfits, and Antonia’s needs were not extensive. She generally wore a suit or a tailored dress to the office, and casual wear at other times. In consequence, what choice she had was limited, and she doubted there was anything to completely suit her purpose.
A pretty green batiste dress was appealing, but it seemed too summery for an April evening. A cotton two-piece was discarded for similar reasons, and the dark brown corded trouser suit, which always looked good, was dismissed on two counts: it was too warm to wear indoors, and it didn’t have a skirt.
Sighing, Antonia eventually pulled out the only item she might regard as wearable. It was a cream shirt-waisted dress, with full sleeves and a narrow skirt, that ended just above her knees. Made of Thai silk, she had bought it in a sale in Newcastle the previous January, and since then, she had simply not had an occasion to wear it. Even in the sale, it had not been cheap, and her mother had thought her quite mad to spend her money on one item when she might have had two. Now, however, Antonia knew it was exactly what she was looking for, and stripping off the bathrobe, she put it on.
She had never realised how flattering the colour was, she thought, lifting her hair out of the neckline and turning this way and that. The low vee in front drew attention to the enticing swell of her breasts, and for once she did not deplore their fullness. Since having Susie, her breasts had become heavier, and she had seen no advantages in the contrast they posed to the narrowness of her waist. Now, however, she saw that the dusky hollow just visible above the buttons of the dress was not unappealing, and her lips parted a little wryly at her unwarranted enthusiasm. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She wasn’t going to the party in the hope of attracting some man. Nevertheless, there was a certain satisfaction to be found in knowing she was looking her best, and she was still woman enough not to want Celia to go on feeling sorry for her.
When she left her flat at eight-thirty to climb the stairs to the apartment upstairs, she joined several other young people, evidently with the same destination. But they were not on their own, as she was. They were in groups of two or three, all laughing and talking together, with the easy cameraderie of long practice. They cast faintly speculative glances in Antonia’s direction—not unfriendly actually, but not specially kind—and one or two of the young men eyed her with a more than passing interest. But generally they all regarded her with some curiosity, and Antonia became increasingly convinced she should not have come. Perhaps if she turned round now, she thought, having reached the first floor landing where the buzz of music and conversation coming through the open door of the apartment was quite overpowering. Who would notice? she asked herself. Who would care? But the realisation that she would have to run the gauntlet of several more people climbing the stairs behind her drove her on, and because she had no alternative, she was obliged to take the plunge.
At least, what she was wearing was acceptable, she mused, with some relief. Although it was raining outside, it was not a cold evening, and she had seen one or two girls wearing dresses similar to her own. There were girls in trousers, but not as many as she might have expected, and the men’s clothes reflected their girlfriends’ casual tastes.
It soon became apparent that the apartment Celia and her friend occupied was approximately twice the size of Antonia’s. Unlike the floor below, which was divided into two flats—the other being occupied by the caretaker and his wife—the first floor was given over entirely to the apartment leased by the two girls. Halting on the threshold of a warmly lit entrance hall, Antonia was immediately impressed by an atmosphere redolent with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, Havana tobacco, and fine wines; and she didn’t need to see the banks of flowers or feel her feet sinking into the Persian carpet to know that everything Mrs Francis had hinted must be true.
Ahead of her, the young men and girls who had preceded her up the stairs were soon absorbed into the welcoming surge of people swelling through the matching doors that gave access to the living room. The amplified projection of the song that was presently topping the popular music charts made any formal introductions impossible, and the couple behind Antonia were compelling her to move forward. Almost without h
er own volition, she was propelled through the doors, and was soon engulfed by that noisy jostling throng.
The room was literally full of people, spilling over the arms of brocade-covered sofas and squashy leather armchairs on to stools and bean-filled cushions, and even the floor. The living room was large by anybody’s standards, but although Antonia had heard of its silk-hung walls and high moulded ceilings from Mrs Francis, it was difficult to appreciate its elegance tonight. The rhythm emanating from the hi-fi system and its accompanying speakers created a constant vibration, and the smoke from more than a dozen cheroots and cigarettes was sending a hazy cloud drifting irresistibly upwards. Those people who had just arrived, or perhaps those who simply preferred to circulate, made up the relaxed gathering that swelled from the entrance into the middle of the floor; and Antonia found herself a part of that gathering; anxious, and decidedly not relaxed. Where was Celia? she wondered, turning on heels that were a little higher than she usually wore. Surely she had to be here somewhere! But where?
‘Are you looking for somebody in particular, or will I do?’ enquired an attractive male voice close to her ear, and Antonia swung round with incautious haste to face the questioner. Incautious, because her heel caught in the shaggy pile of the carpet, and had her inquisitor not been there to grab at, she might easily have disgraced herself completely and landed at his feet.
Instead, she clutched rather wildly for his arm, her grappling fingers barely registering the subtle softness of his suede-covered sleeve. As she struggled to disentangle her heel from its infuriating cohesion with the carpet, she was scarcely aware of him using his free hand to help her regain her balance until, in doing so, he brought her up against the lean hardness of his body. Then, as her heel came loose, she was able to look up at him, and the humorous gleam in his grey eyes made her quickly put some space between them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, colouring hotly as she apprehended what had happened. ‘I caught my heel …’
‘I know.’ The amused grey eyes were regarding her with frank appreciation. ‘But I guess I was responsible. I did attract your attention.’
‘It was you …’
‘… who spoke to you? Yes, it was.’ He smiled, his lips parting to reveal even white teeth. ‘You looked—lost. I wanted to help you.’
‘Not bring me to my knees?’ countered Antonia wryly, the humour of the situation restoring her composure. ‘Well—thank you, anyway. I’m all right.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ But he did not move away as she had expected. Instead, he collected two long-stemmed glasses of a beige, bubbling liquid, from a tray being held by a passing waiter, and handed one to her. ‘Be my guest!’
Antonia took the glass reluctantly, but a surreptitious glance about her assured her that their exchange was not attracting any unnecessary attention. On the contrary, the music and the buzz of conversation was going on as before, and it was only in her mind that she and this man who had rescued her from instant ignominy had isolated themselves from the rest.
Licking an errant drop of champagne—for that was what it was, she realised—from her lips, she cast covert eyes in his direction. Disconcertingly, he was watching her, but that didn’t prevent her hastily averted gaze from noticing how attractive he was. Straight dark hair, rather longer than was fashionable; a lean, narrow-boned face; skin that still bore the tan of a winter holiday; even without the fact that he could look down at her from the advantage of at least three inches, notwithstanding her high heels, he was a disturbing man. But it was his eyes that really disrupted her carefully composed indifference; grey, as she already knew, they were fringed by thick straight lashes, that gave a wholly sensual appeal to an otherwise ascetically handsome face.
‘Do you like it?’ he enquired lazily, and Antonia controlled her colour with difficulty.
‘Like what?’ she asked, rather too sharply for politeness.
‘Why—the champagne, of course,’ he replied smoothly, and Antonia concentrated on the wine in her glass to avoid his knowing gaze.
‘It’s—very nice,’ she answered, determinedly taking another sip. It was infuriating, but he was making her feel as gauche as a schoolgirl, and she had to remind herself that she was a divorcee with a six-year-old daughter.
‘You’re different from what I expected,’ he remarked suddenly, surprising her into looking at him again. ‘Cee said you were shy and rather ordinary. But you’re not. Though I suppose another female might not realise it.’
Antonia caught her breath. ‘Has she been discussing me with her friends? Is that why she invited me here? To satisfy their curiosity?’
Her voice had risen slightly as she spoke, and the man beside her expelled his breath a little impatiently. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he told her evenly. ‘And if you knew Cee, you wouldn’t accuse her of it. She’s not like that.’
‘She told you, didn’t she?’ asked Antonia hotly, her eyes sparkling with resentment. His words seemed to confirm all her worst imaginings, and she thought how right she had been to have doubts about coming here. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’
‘Where are you going?’
His hand circling her wrist was the final humiliation, and she was on the point of threatening to throw the remainder of her champagne in his face if he didn’t release her, when another hand touched her shoulder.
‘Darling,’ exclaimed Celia, as Antonia was abruptly released. ‘You’ve met my downstairs neighbour already. Antonia,’ the other girl circled them to slide a possessive arm over the man’s sleeve, ‘what do you think of this Irish rogue who’s asked me to be his wife?”
CHAPTER TWO
ANTONIA’S office adjoined that of Martin Fenwick’s. It wasn’t much of an office really, just a desk and a chair and a filing cabinet, in a room large enough to accommodate them and her, but at least it offered her some privacy. And her work was interesting.
Seven years ago, when she had had to give up all thoughts of a career to have Susie, she had been in the second year of a sociology degree at Durham university. Working with people and for the community had always interested her, and her intention had been to try and get a job in some branch of the social services. But Simon’s advent into her life had interrupted her plans, and afterwards, when she had found it necessary to look for work, her qualifications were sadly limited. Of course, had she had the money, she could have returned to university as a mature student and taken up her studies again, but that was out of the question with Susie to support. Instead, she had applied for any job that had offered the chance of working in a similar field, and in spite of its disadvantages in terms of distance, she had been delighted to accept her present position.
The institute, where she worked as Assistant to the Director, was an independently operated youth training establishment, offering skills in various manual trades, as well as academic qualifications. Courses in book-keeping and accountancy, shorthand and typewriting, competed with mechanical engineering and carpentry, and the students were encouraged to try more than one course before deciding on the one that suited them best.
Antonia considered herself very fortunate to have been offered the post, and she felt she owed a debt to her past tutor at Durham for giving her his backing and support. Without the reference he had been able to supply, she felt sure she would not have been so lucky, and the doubts she had had about leaving the north of England had been stifled by the faith he had had in her.
To her relief Mr Fenwick, who had been absent the previous week due to an apparently seasonal attack of lumbago, was back at work on Monday morning, and Antonia was able to return to her own duties. Her experience at the job had not yet equipped her to handle all the hundred and one little problems that could occur in the course of a working week, and there were several outstanding difficulties she was going to have to discuss with him when he had the time.
But to begin with, the institute’s director had enough to do handling the enormous backlog of mail, which had required his personal at
tention, and Antonia spent most of Monday morning trying to catch up on her own duties.
Even so, she did not find it easy to apply herself to practical matters. It wasn’t that her work was difficult or anything. It was simply that her mind kept drifting away from what she was doing, and several times she found herself staring into space, totally detached from her surroundings.
It was the remembrance of Saturday night that was troubling her, of course. The party, which she had not wanted to attend, and which was now lodged painfully in her memory. Just thinking of that scene in Celia’s living room caused Antonia’s face to flood with colour, and it still amazed her that she had stayed so long when all she had really wanted to do was escape.
She should have made her apologies as soon as a decent interval had elapsed, she thought, and hurried back to her own apartment. Certainly, Celia’s flatmate, the Honourable Elizabeth, Liz, Ashford, had thought so. It had soon become apparent that the other occupant of the first floor apartment did not share her friend’s enthusiasm to mix with their neighbours, and her greeting had been distant, to say the least. The other female guests seemed to take their lead from her, and regarded Antonia with something less than cordiality, and it was left to Celia and the male contingent to try and put her at her ease.
That it hadn’t worked was mainly due to Antonia’s own behaviour. She had not come to the party to be propositioned, and she was not used to finding herself the centre of attraction. Besides, if she was honest she would admit that the awareness of Reed Gallagher in the background, watching her embarrassed attempts to break free of her admirers, had coloured her attitude towards them, and what might have been an amusing situation turned into a trial of nerves.