by Ann Charlton
'I'm thinking about it,' she told him. If he thought she would return to her old relationship with Michael he could honourably forget anything he promised Sam.
'He's not here today,' he pointed out. 'Is he worth thinking about?'
'I've thought so for a long time. I told you I don't shrug off love so easily.'
'So he's had his fling and might marry you after all?'
'We haven't got that far.'
'How far have you got?'
She looked down, hiding her lack of interest in Michael, 'We'll just have to wait and see.'
Locke threw down the remainder of his drink and got up.
'I have to fly back shortly. Goodbye for now, Dru.'
'For now? You won't have to interrupt your schedule to check on me. I told you—'
'We'll be seeing each other. Sam altered his will. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was stubborn as a mule.' He reached for the door. 'He willed his house to us. Jointly. Next time I come up we'll have to talk about it.' He scribbled on a card. 'Here's my number. Ring me whenever you need me.'
Next time… the words and the card got her through the sad days afterwards—got her through the small family gathering for her twenty-third birthday at which Barry warned her and Gillian questioned her about Locke. Her sister remained dissatisfied with Dru's repeated assurances that she barely knew him— that he had been at Sea Winds and was Sam's friend.
A few days later a reporter showed up on her doorstep, materialising out of the garden as she parked her car under the four storey block of flats. She managed to bluff him into thinking he had the wrong name when he asked her if she'd recently spent a holiday with Locke Matthews. It wasn't difficult. One look at her and the man was sceptical about her credentials as a Matthews mistress. She phoned Barry, then Gillian, and got their assurance that they had not spoken to the press and would not in future. Desmond McGinley rather stiffly said the same. He mentioned the will with disapproval but grandly declined to contest it.
After much nail biting and examination of her motives, she phoned Locke. It concerned him, she rationalised and he should know that people were asking questions. But deep down she admitted that she wanted to hear his voice; The admission made her abrupt and self-conscious when she got an answer.
'A reporter was here asking if I spent a holiday with you,' she said accusingly.
'What did you tell him?' He sounded amused. She could almost picture the smile and the matching glints in his green eyes.
'It isn't amusing, Locke. You might be accustomed to people nosing about in your—affairs, but I'm not. I told him of course I'd been with you… and I would tell him all about it if only the Earl of Lichfield wasn't waiting to photograph me wearing the Rothschild jewels—' He chuckled.
'It isn't funny. If this rumour gets around my friends are bound to hear about it.'
'Worried that Pennington might take exception?'
She hesitated. 'Well, it wouldn't look good, would it?'
'Has he changed his mind about you then?'
'Could be. It's none of your business. What I want to know is how that man knew my name and where I lived.'
His voice grew faint as if he'd moved away from the mouthpiece.
'—always very resourceful,' he said vaguely.
'Well if you get the chance, kindly scotch the rumour will you? I have no wish to be tangled up in the sordid tales about your tedious affairs and secret marriages.'
'That's what I've been missing,' he said.
'What?'
'A taste of lemon.'
Her name appeared in conjunction with Locke's and all hell broke loose. Her workmates, still seeing her as Michael's jilted girl, alternately plagued her with questions and stared unbelievingly at the ordinary exterior that had been hiding a mistress of Mr Wonderful himself. Michael looked at her as if she'd been to Mars and back. It must have been a shock to see his reject apparently snapped up by a connoisseur. Reporters phoned her at all hours and waited at the flat to photograph her going to and coming from work. If she'd been gorgeous it wouldn't have lasted, she thought darkly. But she was ordinary and it made a much more intriguing story.
In frustration she phoned Locke.
'I can't stand this!' she shouted at him. 'Can't you do something? Tell them that you're nicely tied up with half a dozen nubile mistresses—tell them you don't have a taste for catalogue clerks. Not that I'll be one for long the way things are going.'
'Trouble?' he said with sympathy.
'You might say that. My boss isn't thrilled with my "notoriety". Neither are the tenants where I live. I could be out on my ear by the end of the month. And all because of you.'
'Poor Dru. I'm sorry.'
'You're not, you heel, are you? You're just glad it's taking the attention off you and the politician's wife—'
He didn't sound so lazily amused after that.
'Anything else I told the media would only make it worse, believe me,' he snapped. 'And that story about Dorothy and me was all conjecture as I told you.'
'Anything else—anything else? What have you said then?'
'For Pete's sake, Dru, it's a figure of speech. I've given out more statements to the press than you've had hot dinners. Calm down.'
'All right. I'm sorry. Naturally you wouldn't admit you'd been romping on the sand with me. It wouldn't exactly add to your image would it?'
'Don't talk like that.' There was a pause after the sharp words. Then: 'Have you been down to the beach since—'
Her throat tightened. It seemed just yesterday since she'd waved goodbye to Sam and driven away. 'No—I haven't—'
'Dru—' he said on a low, charged note of understanding, '—go there this weekend and I'll fly up. We have to discuss Sam's place anyway.'
'The reporters will follow you,' she said weakly. 'And me.'
'I'll give them a false trail to follow. Borrow someone else's car and cover your hair. That mop of yours is a giveaway…'
It was cold when she arrived at Sea Winds on Saturday. Seagulls circled over the beach, conditioned perhaps to appear for the early breakfasts Sam had provided for so long. Dru took her bag into the flat, then went on to the dunes, looking over at the grove of coast cottonwoods and the shadowed outline of Sam's house. What time would Locke come? She felt a leap in spirits at the thought of seeing him again. She would have to hold herself together. He knew she was fed up with the publicity but he must not see her depression. Whatever promises Sam had forced on him must appear unnecessary. It wasn't until she reached the trees that Dru saw Sam's open door, Her memory danced backwards. It was a reprieve. Any moment Sam would walk out, a piece of driftwood in one hand, a knife in the other and he would sit on the steps. 'Aaagh,' he would say. She hurried forward, logic warring with the wish. When a figure appeared in the shadowy interior she said, 'Sam?'
At the base of the steps she stopped. Locke came out, a newspaper in one hand and sympathy in his eyes.
'I thought—' she swallowed, gave a childish laugh. 'For one minute I thought you were Sam and it was all a dream. Isn't that the silliest—' her voice broke. Locke dropped the newspaper and came down to her, took her in his arms and rocked her.
'Dru, baby—' he murmured as she cried into his shoulder. When at last she calmed, she looked up and saw that look of compassion again. Pity.
'I should have brought Michael down with me,' she said, pushing him away.
'Dru—don't—'
'What—what do you mean?'
'His engagement notice was in the paper this morning with a photograph. I saw it just before you came. Why didn't you tell me there was no chance of him coming back to you. Was it pride, Dru?'
The tears flooded up again and he wouldn't know they were because she had no defence against him any longer. Michael could have a harem and she wouldn't care. But Locke would think she was spineless and heartbroken and she tried to tell him, but he hugged her and the words were muffled into his shirt.
'Darling Dru—' he muttered, 'Don't w
aste your love on him.' He was looking down into her eyes, she was gazing into his when the white glare of the camera turned their heads.
'Lovely morning, Mr Matthews,' said the reporter who'd first spoken to Dru outside her flat. 'Sorry I won't make you look as good as Lichfield, Miss Winters—' he grinned. 'Have I got the name right? It is Winters with an "s"?' Locke pulled her close against his side.
'No. It's Matthews with a double "t". Mrs Matthews.'
And less than a week later, it was. Mrs Matthews. Locke had let her storm and rant about it in Sam's house. Then when she ran out of words he simply said, 'I need you, Dru.'
Need. For her the word had a potency second only to one other. He needed her he said to save him from teeny-bopper fans and the press' endless speculations on who was in his bed. She needed him, he said now that Michael and Sam were lost to her.
'Did you promise Sam to look out for me?' she demanded.
'I didn't promise to marry you.' He grinned. 'But with your gift for words you'd be a riot in the part.'
She felt like hitting him then. He made it sound like he was offering her a role in a slapstick comedy. But his tone was serious when he went on:
'Marry me, Dru. We were friends here, we can stay friends—'
'What about—sex?'
He laughed at her bluntness, came and took her by the shoulders. 'By all means, if you want us to—'
She spun away. 'No—I mean. I don't know—'
'Nothing need change between us until you want it to. In time you'll forget Pennington—'
Poor Michael was already a memory. But she didn't say that. If Locke had said he loved her—if he had made his proposal less of a commonsense arrangement, then she might have told him. But pride would not let her show that for her it was not just a matter of need, but love. Why start off with a disadvantage like that?
Locke had so much on his side already. Even her own decision had been made as soon as she heard him say 'Mrs Matthews'. A stupid decision. A crazy, idiotic decision that cut across all her caution and commonsense. She could rave all day and it would make no difference.
'All right. I'll marry you,' she said masking her emotion in a rush of words. 'You realise everyone will think you've gone mad. The beauty and the beast they'll call us. No prizes for guessing which one is which.'
'Don't be stupid.'
'I'm being stupid agreeing to marry you. But I'll never get a more handsome offer will I?' He frowned. 'Having second thoughts already, Locke? Want to go out and call off the reporter? He's probably hanging about in the bushes hoping for some erotic honeymoon shots—'
'Dru—' he said on a warning note.
'It won't do me any harm. I can always sell my story to the Sunday papers—I almost married the Ransome Man—no, better still—I was held to Ransome—'
'My God you're a—' He grabbed her arm and swung her to him, looked fiercely down at her then laughed.
'Wait until I let you loose on them,' he laughed some more. As if she was a Dobermann Pinscher he planned to sic on his harriers. She cringed at the prospect ahead of her. His world was alien, peopled with the beautiful and the talented.
'I need you Dru,' he said again and he might as well have snapped handcuffs on her.
'I'll come quietly,' she said.
CHAPTER SIX
Her life was plunged into chaos. She resigned from the department and packed up her belongings in the flat. It was Sam who had reminded her that she'd once been the girl to take risks before the accident made her long for security. Well here I am, Sam, she thought— as she signed autographs for people who had scarcely paid her any attention but were now reminding her not to forget them and stay in touch—here I am taking the biggest risk of all.
Gillian got leave to travel with Dru to Sydney for the wedding. Her sister had adjusted to the fact that this farthest of all far-out men had been snaffled by the character of the family and not the beauty, but was frankly dubious about it. Barry was to fly down the next day with his family, to give her away. He was dubious too. That made three of them, Dru thought.
Their Sydney hotel was all mirrors, chandeliers and soaring vestibule and snooty desk personnel whose superiority vanished on hearing Dru's name.
'Instant grovel,' Gillian murmured in the elevator. 'Your intended has clout.'
'Locke's brother organised everything.'
'Hmm. I wonder if he looks like Locke. Two gorgeous Matthews men. No wonder the girls downstairs want to make friends.'
The suite was ankle deep in carpet, knee deep in flowers. Gillian read the names on some, 'I thought this was all going to be kept quiet? Some of these are from people in the States.'
Gifts arrived, telegrams and cablegrams—and dresses for Dru to try on, sent from a discreet little Double Bay boutique. The hotel management sent someone regularly to ask if she needed anything. Fruit and wine in lavish supply.
'I suppose this is what you get if you pay enough…' Dru looked around at the alien territory of wealth.
'Cynical but true. I'm glad to see you still have two feet on the ground.'
Dru began to think that those two feet should run as fast as possible in a northwards direction. Her short phone conversation with Locke had done nothing to quell the rising panic. He couldn't come to her because that would only bring the press down on her all the sooner, he said. But he would send Eric to tell her about the arrangements for the wedding.
It was Dru who answered the door for the sixth time that afternoon. A man stood there, carrying a massive arrangement of orchids. She reached for the flowers, thinking him a delivery man. His stare stopped her. The orchids quivered in his grasp and Dru took an involuntary step back. She had a strong, illogical impression of anger… a wrong one it seemed, for he smiled suddenly and she knew who he was.
'Dru—great to meet you.' He laid the flowers in her arms and kissed her on the cheek. 'I'm Eric. I hope my kid brother told you I was coming.'
He breezed in, met Gillian with warm appreciation and then walked around as he explained the wedding details. He spoke very fast as if he was used to fitting five or six weddings into a day. '—cars to take you to the church—white Rolls. The drivers are experienced bodyguards—' he informed them, and—'I've taken the liberty of choosing the hymn O Perfect Love…' The roses and carnations swayed at the draught of his passing. Lacy gypsophila bounced about as in a gale.
He was not like Locke. Yet there were fleeting similarities. Similarities that must sometimes drive Eric crazy, Dru thought. Nature had been a tease with Eric. Hair that was thick and red-brown on Locke was thin and redder on Eric. His facial bone structure was not unlike his brother's, yet the overlay of flesh was arranged too heavily for handsomeness. Eric was shorter, plumper and he had inherited the pale skin, the sandy lashes and brows of a redhead that Locke had magically avoided.
He stopped thought of something and snatched up the phone to snap out a few commands to the hotel caterer. The gypsophila trembled again as he whisked by.
It was Gillian who jotted down times and notes, Gillian who answered his questions. Dru sat in her chair, the orchids in her arms and felt oppressed by the luxury, the organisation, the pace—the very depth of the carpet beneath her feet.
'Will there be press at the wedding?' she asked. Her voice seemed to get lost among the flowers and the drapes and the carpet pile.
'We've kept the location quiet but there'll be a few. You are marrying a star, pet—so you have to expect it.'
Eric came over to her and took her hand. He looked into her face, blinked a few times. She felt the increased pressure of his fingers and again had that vague impression of anger. But he patted her captive hand and smiled. 'I'm glad for you both. And I know we're going to get along just fine, Dru. Welcome to the family.'
It was nice of him, if not entirely honest. He knew she was unsuitable. In his businessman's brain he was probably already totting up the terms of the divorce. Her voice jammed in her throat as she looked down at Eric's manicured hands hol
ding hers. A ruby glowed in one of several beautiful rings he wore. An enormous ruby. It seemed to epitomise the gap that separated her. Locke's family and friends would all be ruby people. Maybe she could back out. It wasn't too late.
But it was. Much too late. Locke's mother arrived from Adelaide and she was delighted, friendly. Not one of the ruby people at all but tea and bikkies and unconditional approval. And she said the words that kept Dru from running away, 'He has needed a girl like you for so long.'
So Dru went to the stone church by the harbour and made her responses and came away a wife. And the photographers, who numbered many more than the few Eric had predicted, and the fans who had somehow gathered, muttered and murmured about the star's unlikely new wife.'—not even pretty, really—' she heard a young girl say in indignation. As if public property like Locke had a duty to be seen only with the beautiful. The cameramen and reporters loved it. It made better news that she was ordinary. Even in her new ivory dress and jacket, with her hair re-styled and tended by the hotel hairdresser, she looked average.
The reception was a blur to Dru. Only a handful of people were there—no celebrities, just family. Irene Matthews told her some amusing stories about Lachlan's early teen acne agonies and Eric's annoyance in later years at having his girlfriends distracted by a seventeen year old, acne-free kid brother—there were toasts made and the cake cut and camera flashes from the lone photographer brought in by Eric. Barry swapped motor bike stories with Locke, Jan stared fascinated at him and their two little girls shyly hung on to her skirts and watched him too. Eric's girlfriend Vanessa pouted while he made himself especially charming to Gillian as he went around re-filling glasses. Dru's 'gift for words' for which Locke had married her, had temporarily vanished. On this day none of her fast, smart remarks were appropriate. Eric filled her glass and talked to her. Bits and pieces of it penetrated the haze around her.