The Paper Marriage

by Flora Kidd

  in the hall was dim and it was an intimate moment as he took her slim foot in his big broad hand and slid the shoe into place.

  “It fits, so it must be yours,” he murmured with a queer note of satisfaction in his voice.

  “I have its fellow here,” she said with a laugh, showing him the other shoe before putting it on her left foot. “Which part of South America?” she asked.

  “Venezuela.”

  Her breath caught sharply in her throat.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was born there and I’ve lived there nearly all my life. Now I work there. You know what’s said about people who take off their shoes all the time?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “It’s said that they’re fiddle-footed, unable to stay in one place for long. Are you like that?”

  “I’ve lived in this city all my life.”

  “Have you never had any desire to roam?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, thinking of the times she had wanted to go with her father when he had gone abroad to live and work for long periods of time. “But I’ve only managed holidays in Europe so far. South America fascinates me. I’d like to go there.”

  She had intended to stand up and walk down the stairs and go back to the room to find Gwen, but he had sat down on the second stair, slightly to one side so that he could turn and look at her. His move had blocked the way and had brought him uncomfortably close.

  “I’m trying to remember your name,” he said, and as she would have told him, he held up a hand to stop her. “No, don’t tell me. It’ll come. It’s something to do with water, cool and refreshing. Not fountain or stream.” He was now pushing at his creased forehead with the blunt-ended fingers of one hand. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! It’s Brooke, with an ‘e’.”

  “How do you know? Surely that extra-sensory perception which you attribute to your Celtic forebears doesn’t inform you of the names of strangers,” she remarked mockingly.

  “I asked Dennis about you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “You stood out in that mob in there like a flame amongst black coals. Also I thought I’d seen a photo of you on a desk in an office in Caracas.”

  Again she drew a sharp breath.

  “You knew my father?” she asked.

  “I’ve met him.”

  “What is your work?”

  “At present I manage the department of exploration drilling in a Venezuelan mining company. We drill to make sure that the fold structure of the land in a certain area is just as the geologist says it is; to find out if there’s iron ore present and how thick the veins of ore are. We drill out long cores of rock and lay them in wooden boxes and make the assessment of the ore on the site. It’s a pretty wild job and often done in wild places.”

  “By wild men,” said Brooke slowly. “I know. I’ve heard my father talk about exploration drillers. He says that like lumberjacks they’re a breed apart. Have you been a driller?”

  “Yes. And my father was one before me. He’s Welsh and was born in South Wales. He comes from mining stock. He still has his Welsh accent. I’ve been told that I speak like him at times, but I can speak with a Spanish accent too, if you’d prefer it, senoritdl” he added with a grin.

  “I’d rather you explained why your father decided to go to Venezuela?”

  “Oh, he’s pretty shrewd, businesswise. After drilling in various places he had a hunch that his skills and experience would be needed in Venezuela as the steel companies began to run out of raw materials. He emigrated there like many other Europeans did and he started his own drilling company. He jumped on the band-wagon at the right time and was very successful. Now his company includes many other aspects of mining and also manufactures drills. The actual drilling is just a part of a much bigger operation.”

  “I see. He must be a very formidable person,” said Brooke, who was beginning to think that of the man who was talking to her.

  “He is. Very,” was the rather dry reply.

  He was staring at her. His gaze wasn’t exactly personal, but neither was it impersonal. The smoky colour of his eyes made them difficult to read, giving the impression that he was cold and unemotional. She felt as if he was assessing her like a core of rock

  and she had a great desire to look away from that penetrating gaze. But if she did he might think she was afraid of him, so she looked back frankly, her blue eyes steady between their gold-tipped brown lashes.

  “They say that you hoped to marry, but the fellow walked out on you,” he said abruptly.

  Inwardly shaken by the bluntness of his attack, she returned his gaze coldly.

  “They?” she drawled.

  He jerked his head in the direction of the room they had just left. “The people in there,” he said curtly.

  “You listen to gossip?” she accused superciliously.

  “Guilty,” he replied with a grin. “I wanted to know if you’re attached or not.”

  “Attached?”

  “Married, engaged, going steady, whatever you like to call it,” he said with a touch of impatience.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you want to know?”

  He shrugged his bulky shoulders.

  “Just wanted to know. I’ve a hired car outside. Let me take you home now,” he said, in the same abrupt manner.

  For all his abruptness Brooke sensed a change in him. He had come to a conclusion about her. He probably thought that because of what he had heard about her and Kevin he could make an easy conquest. She stood up. He followed her example and they faced each other, their eyes almost on a level because she was standing a few inches higher than he was.

  “No,” she said simply and clearly.

  “Scared?” he scoffed.

  She was scared. Scared of his brute strength, scared of the way he had looked at her.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Of what?”

  “Of you.”

  He laughed.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s how I like my women to be.”

  “I’m not your woman or any other man’s woman. I belong to myself. I’m a person in my own right,” she stated furiously.

  His eyebrows slanted mockingly and he put his tongue in his cheek.

  “One of those, are you? A freed female, a liberated woman,” he jibed. “All right, have it your own way. Good night, Brooke. I’ll be seeing you.”

  He walked away, a big man moving lightly on his feet, and disappeared into the thronged noisy room.

  She told herself that she wasn’t in a panic, but it took her all her time not to run from the house immediately. Forcing herself to be calm, she returned to the big room, found Gwen and Dennis, made her excuses and farewells. Slipping into her coat, she left the house and was half way along the road before she remembered that she had gone there by taxi. Fortunately the rain had stopped, so she continued to walk to the nearest bus stop.

  The bus which came eventually could only take her part way to her destination, but it took her out of danger and she didn’t mind walking the rest of the way across the dark silent park to the house where she lived. Even so, by the time she reached her rooms she was cold. She made hot chocolate, hoping it would help her to stop shivering and would also help her to sleep. But sleep stayed away a long time and she lay awake thinking, not of Kevin, wondering as always when - she would hear from him, but of Owen Meredith who had known her father in Venezuela.

  She met Owen again three days later in a corridor in the hospital. They were going in opposite directions, she moving with long-legged grace on her way to the cafeteria for a tea-break, he moving with that strangely light step for such a hefty man.

  “You work here?” His voice lilted in surprise as he stopped in front of her, effectively blocking the way.

  “You are Megan’s father,” she replied, not as surprised as he.

  “Correct. How is it that you know her?”

  “I’m a physiotherapist
. I exercise her every day.”

  “The thin lady with the sunset-coloured hair and the violet eyes,” he murmured musingly. “I’d have recognized you from her description of you if it hadn’t been for the word ‘thin’.” His smoky gaze flickered over her. “You’re not thin,” he added.

  To her annoyance she felt betraying colour flaming in her pale face.

  She wished she hadn’t stopped to talk to him.

  “I’ve no time to listen to dubious compliments,” she retorted coolly, and began to walk away down the green and cream, antiseptic corridor. He moved into step beside her, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the shiny tiled floor-covering.

  “Was it dubious? And was it a compliment?” he asked aggravatingly. “I thought I was just stating a matter of fact. You’re not fat, but by no stretch of the imagination could anyone call you thin. Pleasantly plump, I would say. If you’ve no time to talk with me now, come and have dinner tonight at the hotel where I’m staying.”

  Brooke was having difficulty in not showing her irritation at his remarks. It wouldn’t do for her to have a slanging match with the father of a patient.

  “Won’t you be visiting Megan this evening?” she replied, still cool. “I’ve visited her today and I’m now on my way to see Streater, the orthopaedic man, to find out what his opinion is of her chances of walking properly again.”

  “Oh, her chances are very good,” burst out Brooke, then bit her lip. It wasn’t her place to offer opinions instead of the specialist in charge of the case. But her patient’s father had noticed the slip and he cocked an infuriating eyebrow at her.

  “I’ll call for you at your place about seven o’clock,” he said softly. “Obviously you have opinions too.”

  “No!” She spoke vehemently. He was too quick for her, and he had no right to assume that she would dine with him.

  “Still scared?” he scoffed.

  They had reached the swing doors which led to a flight of stairs. Hand on one of the doors, ready to push it open and make her escape, she turned to look at him.

  “Terrified,” she murmured mockingly.

  He laughed and she pushed on the door, but before she could go through it, he caught her by the arm.

  “Please come and have dinner with me,” he persisted. “Then you can tell me what you know about Megan. You see her every day. She talks to you. You must know how she feels and what sort of progress she’s making. You probably know more about her than anyone else here does. Certainly you must know more than Streater.”

  Oh, he was a clever devil. He couldn’t have made a better appeal to her, and he’d done it without having to lower the banner of his pride. She did know more than anyone else about the little girl. She knew how Megan loved her father, this big rather bull-like man who had just invited her out to dinner. She knew the child’s fears and worries almost as well as she knew the X-ray plates which showed where the bones had been broken in the small body and where the nerves were pinched in the vertebrae.

  She hesitated and stared up at his face. In the cruel harsh light of the corridor she could see lines she hadn’t noticed in the dim light of the Thomases’ house. Here he looked more worldly-wise, tougher than teak, and all sorts of warnings flashed through her mind. Dared she go to dinner with him?

  “Don’t call for me,” she said, not wanting him to know where she lived. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  “All right. I’m staying at the Atlantic Towers on Chapel Street. Meet me in the foyer at seven-thirty,” he replied crisply, and released her arm.

  “I’ll be there,” she promised, and fled through the door.

  She was half an hour late arriving at the big new hotel. Rain, a damp chilly drizzle, moving in off the Irish Sea up the wide estuary of the river, blurred the lights which scintillated in the towering mass of concrete which gave the hotel its name. It was a night to stay in and curl up on a settee with a book, or to watch the good play being shown on the television that night. Brooke had been tempted to do both and leave Owen Meredith to cool his heels in the foyer of the hotel.

  Then she had thought of the little girl with the fair curly hair and the big china-blue saucer-like eyes who had been a different person during the past two days because her father had at last come to see her; and then she had thought of her own father, lost somewhere in the wilds of Venezuela where Owen Meredith lived and worked, and she knew she had to go and meet him to tell him more about his own child and possibly to learn more about her own father.

  When she stepped into the warmth of the foyer it was eight o’clock and Owen wasn’t there. The clerk at the reception desk telephoned his room and then paged him. When he came at last

  Brooke’s heart sank a little because his face was set in taut lines. He was angry and made no attempt to hide his anger.

  “You’re late,” he accused abruptly, without greeting her in any way whatsoever. Immediately her hackles rose.

  “I know,” she replied serenely, looking him in the eye.

  “You were going to stand me up,” he said.

  “How did you guess?” she replied sweetly.

  His eyes narrowed unpleasantly, but he didn’t retaliate. Instead he put a hand under her elbow and urged her forward towards the dining room.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, “let’s go and eat. I’m ravenous. I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach, which hasn’t done me any good at all, so there’s no knowing what I’ll say or do. Let me give you a tip for the future. Never keep me waiting. It doesn’t improve my temper.”

  She was tempted to remark that she didn’t envisage any future for herself in which he would appear, but she held her tongue because they were being shown to a table by the head waiter, who helped her to remove her coat before she sat down. Owen sat opposite her and at once ordered sherry for her and whisky for himself.

  Across the table he caught her glance of haughty surprise. He had ordered without consulting her. He grinned suddenly.

  “No manners, have I?” he said. “My mother is always telling me that. Glynis used to have a go at me too.”

  “Glynis?” she queried, slightly mollified by the way he admitted his shortcomings, quite frankly and without apology.

  “Megan’s mother,” he said curtly, and began to peer at the menu which had been handed to him. “Better hurry and choose what you want to eat before I order that for you too. Choose what you like. I can afford it.”

  Hiding a smile, she studied the menu, made her selection, and told the hovering waiter. The sherry arrived and she sipped some while Owen gave his order. When the waiter had gone she said,

  “Was Megan’s mother Welsh too?”

  “Yes, although her people live on the Wirral. She and Megan had been living there for over two years before the accident. She couldn’t stand Venezuela. I came over to see them and I was hoping to persuade her to go back with me. Then the crash happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. What else could she say?

  He didn’t reply. He drank off his whisky, then picked up a fork and began to draw lines with it on the tablecloth. Memory of what lay behind him in the past made his face morose.

  “Megan likes you,” he announced with that disconcerting abruptness. “She says you’re kind and sympathetic.”

  “She thinks the world of you,” she replied softly, consolingly. “She’s been quite a different person since you came.”

  He looked up suddenly. The expression in his eyes surprised her. Scepticism made them a hard cold grey.

  “How can she think the world of me? She hardly knows me,” he countered. “She was five when Glynis brought her here, almost two and a half years ago, and before that—”

  He broke off because the wine waiter had come.

  This time Owen consulted Brooke about the wine. He did so with his tongue in his cheek and a glimmer of mockery in his eyes. Refusing to be intimidated by those signs of derision, she told him which wines she preferred and watched the mockery fade and a glint of respect t
ake its place.

  The wine ordered, he went back to his line-drawing, having forgotten apparently what he had been going to tell her, so she reopened the conversation by saying,

  “Even so, Megan adores you. And I can understand why, because although I’ve never seen much of my father over the years I still think he’s a wonderful person. He was always going abroad and I’d have loved to have gone with him, but he always insisted that I stay at home, get a good education and some sort of qualification so that when I grew up I would be independent.”

  “Which you are, from all accounts,” he remarked dryly. “Your father is a very wise man. What about your mother? Where is she?”

  “She was a teacher. Unfortunately her heart wasn’t good. She died suddenly three years ago.”

  “Any other relatives?” The question was sharp, interested, as was the sudden under-browed glance of the grey eyes.

  “No, none. Both my parents were only children.”

  “That helps,” he said enigmatically. “Tell me, what makes you think Megan thinks the world of me?”

  “Ever since I’ve known her she has talked about you, wondering when you’d come to see her.”

  His mouth twisted derisively.

  “Then you must be sick to death of one Owen Meredith,” he said. “No, not really. She didn’t talk about you in detail, just went on about what you’d do together when you came.”

  “I came when I could,” he said with a touch of grimness. “How long have you been exercising her?”

  “Seven weeks.”

  “How is she doing? Will she ever walk properly?”

  Again they were interrupted by the arrival of the waiters bringing food. When they had gone Brooke picked up a fork and dipped it into her shrimp cocktail.

  “She’ll walk quite well, given time,” she replied slowly.

  “How much time?” he rapped, picking up a spoon.

  “Another six months, possibly nine.”

  “And I’m here for three weeks, seven days of which have already gone,” he said savagely. “I want to take her back to Caracas with me when I return.”

  “But that isn’t possible. She still needs treatment, special exercises every day,” she objected hotly as she saw the removal of her favourite patient looming and realized how fond she had become of Megan. She had done the unforgivable, grown fond of a patient. “You can’t take her with you,” she said weakly.