But Polly was grateful that Alice was interested in the wedding, even if Piran wasn't, and the blue outfit was decided upon then and there and taken back to the studio for the necessary alterations.
'I shan't need anything else,' Polly declared as they waited for a taxi to take them back to Hammersmith. She had insisted upon paying for her wedding dress herself and she didn't dare tot up how little remained in her bank account. 'Piran bought me—I mean, I bought quite a lot of things in Paris. As we're going straight to Piran's home in Dorset after the wedding I can put everything together then, and see what else I shall need for a country life.'
'Yes, of course,' Alice agreed, but she looked rather hard at Polly and if a taxi hadn't appeared just then Polly thought she might have asked one or two awkward questions.
That was yesterday, and Alice had been as good as her word. She had worked on the alterations to the suit most of the afternoon and by this morning it was finished, except for a slight adjustment to the hem. Now she scrambled to her feet and drew back, examining her handiwork as she might have examined one of her own pictures, her eyes half closed. 'Exquisite!' she pronounced. 'It's almost the exact colour of your eyes, Polly, and that always has a magnetic effect. Take it off carefully now and I'll make some coffee for us. Piran and Jules should be in before long.' Piran had taken Jules out early this morning to show him the Houses of Parliament and the Changing of the Guard.
The phone rang as Polly was easing out of the blue skirt. Alice went across the studio to answer it. 'Yes? Oh hullo, Piran—yes—yes, Polly's here, would you like to speak to her?—Oh—O.K. then, we'll see you later on.'
She replaced the receiver slowly and thoughtfully and came back across the studio. 'Piran,' she said. 'Just to say that they won't be back until later. He's taking Jules to the Barbican for lunch and then on to a concert for young people there this afternoon.'
'That'll be nice for them,' said Polly, stepping into her pants. She had an ache inside that she couldn't quite analyse. Perhaps it was foolish, but she was beginning to feel left out—almost redundant. The three of them had had such fun in Paris. They had been almost like a family. And now—now—Piran hadn't even bothered to speak to her on the phone. She turned her head away quickly, biting her lip.
Alice gathered up the blue skirt and draped it over her arm. She stood looking at Polly's back for a moment, then she said in her gruff, rather abrupt way, 'You are happy about this marriage, aren't you, Polly?'
Polly pulled her sweater over her head, smothering her reply. 'Oh yes, of course I am.'
Alice stood for a moment longer, frowning. Then she collected the coffee tray from the kitchen and set it on the table before the fire.
'Sit down, Polly.' She poured coffee into two china mugs and passed a cup to Polly, who had flopped down on the white rug, her legs curled under her. 'My dear child, it's quite clear there's something bothering you, and if it isn't merely pre-wedding nerves—which I'm pretty sure it isn't—don't you think you'd better tell me what it is? I've watched you and Piran since you arrived and I get a rather odd feeling about this marriage.' Suddenly her gruff voice became softer and she went on more slowly, 'You know, Polly, Piran's very dear to me, I was with him and his brother for a long time after their parents both died abroad. I know him pretty well—I know about his first marriage too, and what a tragedy that was! I must say it was quite a facer when he turned up and announced that he was going to marry again; frankly, I never expected him to.'
She watched Polly's face as she went on calmly, 'This isn't idle curiosity, Polly. You've told me that you haven't any family of your own, and I feel there might be some way I could help. There, I've said my say, now you can tell me to mind my own business, if you so choose.'
Polly turned a grateful face up to the older woman. She had a warm feeling that she had found a friend— perhaps the first real friend that she could remember having. 'It is your business. You're Piran's nearest relative—he's told me that, and I guess that he thinks the world of you. I'm sure you understand him much better than I do., Has he told you how—how it ail began?'
Alice shook her head. 'Not a word, and of course I haven't asked him. One doesn't question Piran. If he wants to tell you something then he does, otherwise—' she spread out her hands with a shrug.
'He hasn't mentioned that we met in Paris, only a little more than a week ago?'
'A week?' Alice's voice rose by several tones. 'You mean—you've known each other a week and you're going to get married tomorrow?'
Polly smiled ruefully. 'Crazy, isn't it?' She smiled wryly. 'Well, if Piran hasn't told you how it all happened then I think I'd better.'
Alice picked up the blue skirt and threaded a needle. 'I think, my dear child, that you had,' she said.
Every single detail, from the first moment that Madame Brunet had yanked Jules up into the coach, was engraved on Polly's memory. Even so, it wasn't easy to find all the right words, and there were bits that had to be left out, if she were to keep some semblance of self-respect. Alice sat quietly sewing and sipping her coffee while the recital continued, and when it was finished she was silent for a long time.
She oversewed the final stitch and patted the hem. 'There! That's done,' she said, and hung it over the back of the chair.
There was another silence, so long that Polly began to think that she was to have no response to her story, but then Alice lifted her head, looked hard at her, and said, 'So—this is what used to be known as a marriage of convenience? In the words of a song that was a hit in my young days—"A fine romance, with no kisses"?'
Polly felt her cheeks go pink and leaned nearer to the fire. 'You could say that.'
'And Piran has made a point of being bluntly honest—telling you that he isn't in love with you? That he needs you to be a sort of glorified nanny-governess for Jules? And so that he can produce a credible family when he applies for legal guardianship of Jules?'
Polly nodded.
'But of course you're in love with him, Polly?'
Polly gasped. 'Why should you think—'
The older woman leaned forward and patted her shoulder. 'Why else would you be marrying him, my dear?' she said matter-of-factly. 'Not for security— you're young and attractive and accustomed to standing on your own feet. Not even for Jules's sake, although I can see that you're very fond of him and he of you. So—?'
Polly pulled a wry face. 'I can see it wouldn't be any use trying to take you in, so—yes, I'm in love with him.' There was an odd relief in admitting it in so many words.
'Hm.' Alice finished her coffee and put down the mug. 'I don't suppose you realise just what you're taking on, do you, my child?'
'Does anyone, ever, when they get married?' Alice smiled. 'Intelligent and practical as well as pretty! I hope Piran recognises the value of his bargain. But seriously, Polly, it's a big gamble for you. His first marriage was a continuing trauma—enough to put any man off for life. Bianca was—well, she was a raving beauty. Dark, exotic—Italian blood somewhere, I think. He met her in Monte Carlo and they fell passionately in love and married almost immediately. Then he brought her back to live in a quiet Dorset village and expected her to get on with amusing herself while he shut himself up to write his books. Naturally, Bianca was not amused. After a time she seemed to get almost frenetic—she'd go off for days and he'd never know where she was—London, Paris, New York even. Anywhere that would pander to her almost unbalanced need for frivolity and distraction. She brought her trendy friends to the house and they nearly drove Piran crazy. In short, the marriage was going on the rocks. Then it appeared that they were going to have a child.'
'Oh!' Polly breathed a sigh, clasping her hands round her knees, her blue eyes wide. So much about Piran was being made understandable at last.
'In due course a son was born,' Alice went on. 'Piran was ecstatic. I think he imagined that Bianca would settle down now to being a mother. But not on your life! Instead, she seemed to get wilder than ever. I suppose she felt s
he was finally trapped, I don't know. When the little boy was about six months old Piran came to see me to say she had asked for a divorce. He was terribly upset.'
There was a long silence. So long that at last Polly asked gently, 'And did they—get a divorce, I mean?'
Alice shook her grey head. 'They didn't have to. I heard afterwards what happened. One day the nurse that Bianca had engaged to look after the child gave notice and left on the spot. There was a scene with Piran—Bianca expected him to look after the baby while she went off to a party. The child was cutting some teeth and was fretful. Piran had a deadline for a book, and he refused to take over. In a temper, Bianca took out the car and the child with her. She crashed into a tree, and they were both killed.'
Polly sat numbly silent, not able to think of anything to say, trying to take in all that she had just heard.
'So you see, Polly,' Alice went on finally, 'that you're taking on quite a formidable job. And, my dear—' she shook her head with a wry smile '—if you're building up any romantic hope that Piran's going to discover that he's fallen in love with you, I'd advise you to forget it. I know my godson fairly well and he's grown a very hard shell over his emotions. Also—and this is as important as you care to regard it—I've got a shrewd idea that he's been taking his women where he found them, if you know what I mean. If that sounds cruel, it's because I like you, and I'm afraid you're going to be badly hurt if you expect too much. Couldn't you suggest to Piran that you wait for a while before taking the drastic step of getting married?'
Polly stared into the fire, watching a log gradually turn from glowing red to dead grey ash. At last she shook her head. 'Thank you for telling me,' she said, 'but I can't back out now.' She looked up at Alice with a twisted little smile. 'We'll get married tomorrow and I'll just have to take my chance, won't I?'
'Now to work.' Piran opened his briefcase beside him on the seat of the first-class carriage and took out a large ring-folder equipped with a thick pad of paper. His eyes fixed on the top sheet of paper, covered with black scribbles, he took a gold Biro from his pocket and unscrewed the top thoughtfully.
Then he seemed to become aware of Polly, sitting opposite him, with Jules beside her in the otherwise empty carriage—Jules looking very spruce in his new grey shorts and white shirt, with the little black bow tie.
'You O.K.?' he said absently.
Polly fixed a smile on her lips, reminding herself that this wasn't a real honeymoon that they were embarking upon. 'We're fine, aren't we, Jules?' she said cheerfully, putting an arm round the little boy, who was beginning to look very sleepy. It had been a long and exciting day for him already.
It had been a long day for Polly too, and the whole day, from the moment she got out of bed this morning after an almost sleepless night, had had a hazy unreality about it.
The ceremony itself, in spite of the flowers that Piran had produced for Alice and herself and in spite of the potted plants and the stiff vase of chrysanthemums adorning the mahogany table in the registrar's office, had had a dry, businesslike flavour, so that Polly couldn't take in the fact that she and this tall, elegant individual standing beside her, this almost-a-stranger, were actually being made man and wife. The fact that it was merely a legal contract was abundantly clear to her.
She drew Jules closer, so that he leaned comfortably against her, and saw his eyes begin to droop. It would pass the time if she could sleep too.
'How long is the journey?' she asked Piran.
'Hm?' He raised his eyes from the writing pad, staring blankly at her. 'What did you say?' he added irritably.
'I asked how long the journey would take,' repeated Polly, wishing she hadn't spoken in the first place.
'About two hours, we're due at Wareham at seven forty-something.' He looked pointedly at the pile of glossy magazines on her lap, where he had tossed them when they boarded the train at Waterloo. 'Can you amuse yourself for that time?' There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
'I expect so,' said Polly. 'Do I have to ask your permission to speak to you?' He could take that as a joke—or not, as he wished.
He didn't take it as a joke. He ran his fingers through his dark, rough hair in an exasperated fashion. 'Oh, my God, we're not back to that again, are we?' Before Polly could think of a reply he went on, 'Now look, Polly, I'm a writer, you know. My time's valuable, you must understand that. When I say I'm going to work, I mean just that. Work—and no interruptions. Understood?' He lowered his head to his work again.
Polly glanced down at Jules. His head had sagged against her and he was fast asleep. So she didn't have to be careful what she said to Piran, did she?
She looked at him now, sitting opposite in the new dark grey suit and white shirt he had bought for the occasion of his wedding. She hadn't seen him wearing a suit before and it seemed to make him a complete stranger. An elegant, disturbingly handsome stranger. But an intimidating stranger, just as he had been the first time she set eyes on him. She looked at the heavy eyelids, the hard line of his mouth, and a sudden fear wriggled deep inside her. If she let him walk all over her, then she was lost.
She smiled sweetly. 'I take it the honeymoon is over?'
His brows went up, and she saw that her small shaft had reached its mark. He looked down for a moment at the open writing pad on his knees and then, abruptly, snapped it shut. 'What had you in mind for a honeymoon?' he enquired. 'Moonlight and roses?'
She appeared to consider that. 'Sounds delightful, but—no, I don't see you as a moonlight and roses sort of bridegroom.'
He leaned back and surveyed her under lowered lids. 'What sort of a bridegroom am I then?'
Polly pursed her lips. 'When I first saw you, standing outside the coach glaring up at Madame Brunet, I thought you looked like a brigand.'
'Ah! Now we're getting somewhere, are we? You're looking for a desert sheik for a bridegroom? You think I'm the ravaging type?'
This was fooling, of course, but she had started it, so she had to go on. She appeared to consider the question, her eyes wandering over his face; the rough black hair, the bronzed skin; the stubborn chin that already was beginning to show a faint shadow.
She grinned. 'Let's say I think you're a man who has to shave twice a day.'
A look of outrage crossed his face and for a moment her stomach contracted. Was he the type to take umbrage at a little teasing?
Then a smile pulled at his long mouth. 'Damn you, Polly St Just,' he said suavely. 'You and your pinpricks—you get under my skin.'
'In the nicest possible way, I hope?' She made a great play of fluttering her long, gold-tipped lashes up at him.
'We'll have to wait and see,' he said darkly. 'And now, if you please, may I get on with a little work? If I don't catch up on schedule everyone around will suffer—you most of all, probably.'
'You have ray permission,' she said demurely, and laid her head back against the cushioned seat.
He had called her Polly St Just. It sounded odd, but it sounded exciting too. She was his wife—Mrs St Just. Somehow—she had no idea how—she had got to make the marriage work, make it a real, happy, sharing partnership. Never mind if he couldn't say, 'I'm in love with you.' Perhaps one day he would—or if he didn't she could fall back on the old cliché and persuade herself that she had enough love for two.
The train rattled along, the landscape outside the window turned from green to grey. The lights came on in the carriage. Piran's dark head was lowered over his work. Polly made an attempt to read one of the magazines, but soon she lay back and closed her eyes and the events of the day unreeled themselves before her like a colour movie. Driving to the registrar's office in a sumptuous hired car, Piran and herself on one side and Alice opposite, looking unfamiliar and most distinguished in a dress of aubergine corded silk, her grey hair persuaded into a neat coil, her long, tapering fingers for once devoid of paint stains. Jules sitting very straight beside her, silent and awed, seeming to be aware of the solemnity of the occasion. Meeting Piran's sol
icitor, Aubrey Pont, at the registrar's office—a youngish man with crinkly golden hair and a voice that held laughter lurking in it. Polly had liked him on sight.
After that the colour film became a little mixed-up, like a dream sequence. The waiting room, the scent of the rosebuds Polly was carrying and the yellow carnations in the men's buttonholes mingled with that of furniture polish and the gas fire hissing in the grate; the short address by the registrar, the process of signing, the handshakes and kisses. Then the restaurant meal with more flowers and far too much champagne for Polly's unsophisticated taste. The farewells at Waterloo Station—Alice and the nice solicitor, Aubrey, waving through the window of the first-class carriage.
The film came to an end, passing over into the present moment. The train rushed on through the darkness. Piran bent over his writing block, mental concentration in every line of his face, utterly oblivious to everything but his work. Beside Polly, Jules slept the sleep of a tired child. The train wheels beat their tattoo, saying, 'You're married—you're married—you're married—' In the monotony there seemed to be a faintly taunting sound.
Polly eased her arm round Jules, to make him more comfortable. This, she reminded herself, was what she was here for. He stirred in his sleep and cuddled closer. She rested her cheek for a moment on his soft hair, and presently she, too, slept.
They were met at Wareham station by a ginger-haired, cheery-looking young man, driving a sleek grey Mercedes.
'How's things, Joe?' Piran greeted him as together they stowed the luggage in the boot of the car. 'You and Mrs Joe got my message?'
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