One Who Kisses

by Marjorie Lewty

  Then Piran drew her forward. 'Puis-je vous presenter ma fiancée, Mademoiselle West, monsieur?' he said formally, and Polly found her hand grasped in Monsieur Jacabo's dry fingers, while he expressed himself delighted to make her acquaintance. Jules, also, was introduced, and then they all repaired to a tiny room at the back of the shop, where Monsieur Jacabo produced several boxes with velvet linings, in which were lovingly arranged a selection of the most beautiful antique jewellery that Polly had ever seen. None of the rings, Monsieur Jacabo explained, was less than a hundred years old, and some of them considerably more.

  Piran smiled lovingly at her and pushed a box towards her. 'One of these, perhaps, mon amour?'

  It was absurd, she thought crossly, there was absolutely no need for all this play-acting. Surely they could have gone to some inexpensive jeweller's and bought a ring—even an imitation stone would have filled the bill. It was only to be hers for a few days and she wasn't likely to be meeting anybody who could tell the difference.

  But Piran evidently wanted it done this way, so she might as well choose something which it would be a pleasure to wear—even temporarily. She touched one ring gently. It was a poem of small sapphires and diamonds in a delicate scroll setting that enhanced the beauty of the stones. 'That's really lovely,' she said, and Piran nodded agreement. 'Let's see if it fits.'

  He picked up her left hand and slipped the ring on her fingers, and Polly felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She couldn't meet his eyes but fixed her gaze upon her finger, where the ring fitted perfectly. 'A good choice,' Piran said quietly, and went on holding her hand in his for a few more moments before he let it go and proceeded to the business side of the deal with Monsieur Jacabo. A few minutes later they left the shop, followed by the elderly man's good wishes.

  The Galeries Lafayette was very like any large department store in London, only perhaps a little more exotic. Piran and Jules accompanied Polly to the gown department, where a vendeuse appeared immediately, smilingly obliging and interested. Polly noticed how many sidelong glances were cast in Piran's direction and wondered with amusement whether she would have been as well served if she had arrived alone, in her modest chain-store dress.

  'I feel like Cinderella before the ball,' she whispered to Jules, perched on a slim, gold chair.

  'I know that story,' he said importantly. 'Cind'rella married the prince and they lived happily ever after.'

  Polly couldn't resist glancing at Piran as he murmured, 'A fairy story, of course,' his dark eyes mocking.

  Polly would normally have lingered over her choice of clothes. She was so accustomed to looking at the price-tag on everything before she even tried it on that what seemed to her Piran's reckless extravagance put her head in a whirl. His approach to anything that he liked seemed to be, 'That suits you very well—we'll have it.'

  'You're spending far too much money,' she hissed at him as the vendeuse approached again with an armful of gossamer evening dresses. 'And I'm not likely to need one of those anyway.' But she couldn't help a longing glance towards the lovely, floating things of chiffon and lace and silk in their subtle colours.

  'Oh, you never know,' he replied airily. 'I just might decide to take you out to the Opera one evening.' He glanced towards Jules. 'Would you let me take Mademoiselle Polly out, Jules? If I asked Madame Arnot to keep an eye on you?' He added as an aside to Polly. 'Madame Arnot is the concierge—a good soul.'

  'Of course I would not mind,' Jules replied in a very dignified, grown-up voice. 'I often have stayed alone, you understand.'

  'Yes,' his uncle said. His mouth was grim although his voice remained gentle. 'I understand, Jules. I understand very well.'

  Within an hour their shopping was completed. Polly couldn't remember all that had been bought, but it included a lightweight sand-coloured safari suit for travelling, a woollen suit in a misty blue for colder days when they got back to England, a couple of pairs of stylish pants (no more jeans!) and a selection of tops. Most exciting of all, a gorgeous evening gown of white, flowing net, with a deep gathered froth of lace outlining the low-cut oval neckline. Piran chose it, as he chose all the other clothes, regarding each item critically as she emerged from the fitting room. It was certainly not the first time he had bought clothes for a girl, although his motives on this occasion might be rather exceptional.

  After a while Polly stopped protesting about the amount of money he was spending, which seemed to her totally unnecessary. After all, she told herself, he could no doubt afford to amuse himself in this way. He certainly gave the impression of being rich.

  As they were on their way out of the store, having made arrangements for their purchases to be delivered to the apartment, she found out the reason for her impression. They were passing through the book department and Jules hung back, his small face eager as his eyes passed over the rows and rows of books.

  Polly put a hand on Piran's arm. 'Do stop and let him browse for a bit,' she pleaded. 'Books are his thing, you know. I've found out that about him already.'

  For some reason Piran didn't look too pleased. He turned his back on the two of them and retired to the far corner of the department, where he appeared to be engaged in searching for some particular book. Polly stayed with Jules, amused at the rapt expression on his face as he pored over the display on the stand, most of which must have been far beyond his comprehension. Her own eyes wandered over the paperbacks. She would buy something popular, she thought, which would make easy reading and help to improve her French.

  Then her eye caught an island-stand in the centre of the department, each shelf displaying the same paperback. The cover picture was of a great black bird with spread wings and claws extended. Rather frightening, Polly thought, not her sort of light reading at all. But something about the book made her go closer to see the title.

  She read: Le Grand Corbeau. And scrawled below, blackly, the signature, Piran St Just.

  Polly's heart gave an odd lurch. Of course—that was why his name had been vaguely familiar to her from the beginning! Piran St Just, best-selling author, whose thrillers and suspense stories seemed always to be among the top ten. She glanced over at his back. She had an idea that he, too, had seen the stand and hoped that neither she nor Jules would notice it. She walked over and stood beside him.

  'Le Grand Corbeau,' she said thoughtfully, slanting a glance up at him. 'Does that translate as The Raven?'

  'Oh, you've seen it, have you?' he growled out of the side of his mouth, peering back over his shoulder as if he were a character in one of his own spy stories. 'Well, don't mention it to my nephew; he probably wouldn't approve of my style in fiction. And anyway, he's too young. My books are definitely for adults only.'

  'Very interesting!' Polly murmured, her eyes dancing. She walked away and collected Jules, who was clutching one slim volume on stained glass windows. He looked up at Polly, his eyes huge. 'Do you think mon oncle would buy it for me?' he asked in a small, timid voice.

  'Oh, I should think so. Let's go and ask him.'

  Piran turned as they approached, a wary expression on his face. Polly said with a grin, 'Jules has excellent taste in literature, it seems. He wonders if he might have this book?'

  Piran paid for it hastily and hustled them both out of the shop. 'Are we going back to the apartment for lunch? Jules and I are getting hungry,' Polly enquired as they stepped into the sunshine again.

  Piran suggested they should find a likely-looking restaurant for lunch and then do some sightseeing afterwards. 'I thought we might try the Pompidou Centre. If young Jules is going to be an architect he should see some really modern stuff as well as the ancient buildings.'

  Polly passed the afternoon in a delicious haze. The Pompidou Centre, or Beaubourg, as the Parisians affectionately called it, was the most extraordinary building she had ever seen. Everything that is normally concealed inside a building was here frankly displayed on the outside. And not only displayed but emphasised in bright colours. Piran took them first to the east si
de, where enormous pipes rose vertically from bottom to top, coloured according to their uses— green for water, yellow for electricity and blue for air-conditioning, with here and there bright red slabs that were part of the lift shafts.

  Jules-stared, fascinated, while his uncle explained how President Pompidou had decided to build a Centre for the arts of the present time, and how a great competition was arranged, in which hundreds of architects from many different countries took part.

  On the opposite side of the building a glass tunnel rose across the outside like a giant caterpillar, and inside this was the main escalator.

  They entered the building and came into an enormous open space on the ground floor, that Piran called the Forum. Jules would have lingered round the bookstalls, but Piran guided them towards the entrance to the escalator. 'Come along, Jules,' he urged. 'We'll go up to the top and look over the roofs of Paris. Don't be frightened, it's quite safe.'

  Jules threw back his head and stuck out his small chin. 'I'm not frightened,' he said stoutly.

  'I expect I shall be,' Polly laughed. 'I don't much care for heights.'

  But in the end she was too entranced to be alarmed as the escalator took them upwards inside its glass tube, and at each landing (giving access to the different floors inside the building) they could pause and savour the incredible view spread out below, the buildings appearing smaller and smaller as they neared the top.

  Here they remained, looking down across Paris, and at the square immediately below, where all sorts of sideshows seemed to be taking place, each one surrounded by its own little group of spectators.

  Inside the building again they made their way through galleries and museums. Polly was inclined to quicken her steps now, as she saw Jules looking more and more weary, but determined not to show it. He would have stayed for hours in the special children's library, but she whispered to Piran, 'I think we should get him away now, he's had enough excitement for one day.'

  He nodded, grinning. 'I'm sure you're right, Nanny,' he said, and Polly pulled a face at him, telling herself to take the name in good part. But all the way back to the apartment in the taxi she found herself wishing that somehow she could be more than just a temporary nanny to Jules, and a—a—what was she to Piran? Just a very ordinary girl who happened, at the moment, to be useful to him. Keep remembering that, Polly, and don't get ideas in your mind above your station, she told herself, with a wry attempt at humour.

  They arrived home as the light was fading, tired and happy. Like a family party after a successful outing, Polly thought with a little pang as she slumped down and kicked off her pumps.

  'Ooh, that was hard on the feet,' she sighed. 'But what a fabulous place! It was fun, I enjoyed it so much.'

  Piran had bought wine while they were out. He stood now with a bottle in one hand and a corkscrew in the other, looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. 'Your eyes are shining like diamonds,' he said softly. And then spoilt it by adding, 'You look like a little girl who's been given a treat.'

  'It was a treat,' she said. 'But I'm not a little girl.'

  His only response to that was a wry lift of the eyebrow. Then he put a glass in her hand. 'Try this, I think you'll like it.'

  Wretched man! Polly fumed to herself as she prepared a meal. Nothing would persuade him to take her seriously.

  But at least he noticed the work she had put in this morning. As they sat at table he looked around with an appreciative eye. 'You've managed to freshen up this place considerably,' he said. 'It looks almost like a home. Flowers on the table, even.' He sniffed the yellow button chrysanthemums that Polly had bought at the market this morning.

  'Jules helped a lot,' Polly said. 'We really cleaned out the kitchen between us, didn't we, Jules?'

  The boy's dark eyes were bright. 'I scrubbed the sink,' he piped up, and Piran complimented him gravely.

  Afterwards Polly made coffee and warmed milk for Jules and they all sat around and looked at Jules's book and Piran promised to take him to see some stained glass windows next day.

  'The boy really hasn't been anywhere or seen anything, apparently,' he said in disgust to Polly, when Jules had been tucked up in bed. 'He was too young when Maurice was alive—anyway, he hardly remembers his father. It amazes me how good his English is. It's almost as if he wants to remember.' They were in the kitchen and he was leaning against the door-post watching Polly wash up the supper things. As he spoke he took a dish out of her hands and dried it vigorously. Perhaps not so chauvinist after all! Polly liked a man who would help with the washing-up.

  'But all that is going to change,' he mused on, piling up plates as he dried them. 'He's got a good mind and he's going to be given every opportunity to use it.'

  Polly put the last plate on the draining board and wrung out the dishcloth. She turned and looked at him. 'You'd do anything to get Jules into your care, wouldn't you? Anything at all?'

  He nodded and she thought she had never seen such determination in anyone's face before. 'Anything at all,' he said.

  Polly was to remember that in the days that lay ahead.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That night Polly slept in the second bed in Jules's room. This morning she had hung the wet mattress over a chair beside the open window and it had dried in the sun. A good deal of searching had disclosed some clean sheets, and she now had her nightdress and toilet things, and felt much more civilised.

  To her relief Jules slept through the night, with no return of his asthma, and Polly herself slept soundly too and wakened to see the sun stealing between the curtains. Jules was still fast asleep and she threw her nylon wrap round her and tiptoed across the lobby to the bathroom. The room that Piran was sleeping in led off the big living-room, but no sound came from either direction. This time she was very careful with the controls and managed to take a cool, refreshing shower. Back in the bedroom she dressed quickly in the blue cotton dress. She brushed her hair carefully but put no make-up on. It was no use trying to persuade herself that Piran would notice what she looked like, she told herself severely. She was a young girl who was useful to him at the moment, and that was the extent of his interest in her. Everything he had done, even buying the lovely ring and all those clothes (which would be delivered today, she supposed) was merely part of his plan to get Jules for himself. But she couldn't help feeling a little surge of excitement at the prospect of the day ahead.

  In the living-room she pulled back the velvet curtains and stole a glance across at Piran's room. The door was open wide and through it she saw the bed just as she had tidied it up yesterday morning. A closer look showed her that the room was empty. There was only one conclusion to draw. Piran hadn't slept in the apartment last night.

  Polly's mind raced. Why hadn't he told her he wouldn't be here? If he expected her to account to him for her movements, then surely he should do the same?

  She put the cloth on the table and slammed down the plates. Presumably the wretched man would have the decency to return for breakfast. Her anger increased while she was making toast and getting out eggs for omelettes, and came to boiling point as time went on and he hadn't put in an appearance. Where, she couldn't help asking herself, had he spent the night? And with whom? The obvious answer occurred to her at once, and the picture that presented itself of Piran being entertained by some silky, sophisticated fille de joie in a perfumed Paris apartment scattered with satin cushions and littered with wine bottles and empty glasses gave her a sick feeling inside. Of course, she argued with herself, trying to blot out the picture, he might have friends in Paris, but if he had intended to stay with friends why on earth couldn't he have said so? Possibilities flitted round her head like nagging insects as she went on preparing the breakfast.

  Jules wakened and got himself washed and dressed—he was a very self-sufficient little boy for his age. He came into the kitchen and stood beside the table. 'I'm hungry,' he proclaimed. 'When can we eat?'

  'Not long now,' Polly told him. 'Your Uncle Pira
n has just gone out for a few minutes, but as soon as he comes back I'll make the omelettes.'

  'Do we have to wait for him? Couldn't I have my omelette now?'

  Polly clapped her hands together. 'You're right,' she said rather loudly, 'why should we wait for him? We will have breakfast together, Jules, you and I.' And as the butter began to sizzle in the omelette pan she felt she had struck a tiny blow for feminine independence.

  They finished breakfast and Jules retired to his room with his new book. Polly was clearing the table when Piran walked in, looking his brigand self and badly in need of a shave.

  He stared at the empty table. 'Sorry,' he yawned. 'I overslept—am I late?'

  Polly's anger had by this time given way to anxiety. For the last half-hour horrid possibilities had been suggesting themselves. Piran had gone out for cigarettes or a paper or something. He had been mugged. He had been run over. Seeing him suddenly now, unhurt, gave her a churning in the pit of her stomach and she ran to him. 'Oh, I'm so glad you've come!' she babbled. 'I thought—I thought—' She clutched his arm as if to satisfy herself that he was real.

  'Hey—steady on!' He held her a little way away, studying her face quizzically. 'What's wrong?'

  She pulled herself together immediately and stepped back, and his casual manner made her anger boil over again. Her eyes flashed blue fire at him. 'Why couldn't you have told me you were going to be away all night? I didn't know what had happened. I thought you might have been run over or injured or something. I think it was most—most inconsiderate of you!' She turned her back on him and walked across to the table. 'Do you want any breakfast?' she enquired shortly. 'Or have you already had some at—wherever you've been?'

  He was grinning widely as he joined her at the table. 'I should very much like some breakfast, Polly. If it isn't too much trouble, that is,' he added with mock humility. 'And I apologise sincerely for causing you any worry.' He sat down and stretched out his legs. 'I assure you I had every intention of occupying Madame Brunet's room again last night. The fact was that I went downstairs for a breath of air before turning in, and encountered our worthy concierge, who offered me a room in her own flat which she lets to the occasional visitor. She seemed to take it for granted that it wouldn't be seemly for you and me to share the apartment here, unchaperoned.' He chuckled. 'Contrary to our British belief, your French housewife has a very proper judgment of what is "done" and what is not "done". So, wishing to keep in her good books, I accepted gratefully.' He chuckled again. 'I can't tell you how pleased she was. You seem to have made quite an impression on her in a short time. I imagine she thought she was rescuing you from a fate worse than death.'