Follow a Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

She turned to face her mother, still flushed. Mrs.

  Caulfield looked dazed.

  “What was all that about?” asked her mother.

  “Someone I met in Greece, asking me to Paris for the

  weekend.” Kate kissed her quickly. “Must fly or I’ll be late.”

  “Kate!” her mother called after her, protesting, but she

  was gone.

  Mrs. Caulfield shut the door with a bang. Visits to

  Greece, trips to Paris for the weekend with strange

  Frenchmen! What was happening to her daughter?

  When Kate got home, she asked her about Jean-Paul,

  and Kate told her enough to set her mind partially at rest.

  Kate could see that she was still longing to ask questions

  about Marc Lillitos, but, since Kate obstinately set her face

  against discussing the subject, there was little her mother

  could do but accept the fact.

  Kate managed to book a seat to Paris, very early on the

  Saturday, and wrote to Jean-Paul’s Paris address giving the

  time of arrival.

  She was curious about his invitation. Why did he want to

  see her again? He had no interest in her, she was sure of

  that. But if so, what was his reason for inviting her?

  She left for London on the Friday after school and spent

  the Friday night in a small hotel near London Airport. Her

  flight to Paris arrived on time and she came through

  Customs, carrying her light overnight bag, to find Jean-

  Paul patiently awaiting her.

  He took her bag, smiling. “I am glad to see you again,

  cherie!”

  She glanced at him oddly. Suddenly she had a suspicion

  that he was up to something, but what?

  They went directly to the apartment of his friends, to

  leave her bag there, and Kate liked the friendly English

  couple on sight. Henry Murray was short, sturdy with

  brown eyes and a quiet smile. His wife, Clare, had a French

  elegance coupled with British informality. She chattered

  easily to Kate, as she showed her to her room.

  “It’s nice to have someone to talk to now and then. Have

  you known Jean-Paul long? I like him a lot, but he is a bit

  deep, isn’t he? Doesn’t give away much. I wish you could

  stay longer than one night, but I suppose you’ve got a job,

  like the rest of us. Although my job is Sacha. You’ll meet

  him tomorrow morning, I expect. He’s a demon—four years

  old and knows everything! Of course, we christened him

  Stephen, but everyone calls him Sacha, I don’t know why.

  What lovely hair you’ve got. Do you mind my saying that? I

  hope the bed is comfortable. I do hate a lumpy bed, don’t

  you?”

  Kate was kept busy just nodding or shaking her head.

  She did not even try to get a word in edgeways.

  After a cup of strong French coffee, Jean-Paul took her

  out to lunch at an expensive and luxurious restaurant,

  where she ate a shrimp omelette with green salad, and

  frothy zabaglione. Afterwards they walked through the

  shopping streets, Jean-Paul patiently amused as she

  studied the windows with rapture. He took her on a

  lightning tour, in his little red sports car, round the famous

  landmarks, then drove her back to the Murray apartment

  to change.

  Clare Murray greeted them cheerfully, carrying a small

  boy whose freckled face bore traces of jam and butter.

  “Hallo, can’t stop. Sacha has disgraced himself again—

  more food on the outside of his face than the inside! Help

  yourselves to a chair. I’ll see you later.”

  Kate laughed. Jean-Paul stared after Clare with awe.

  “She always talks like that,” he confided. “And when she

  speaks French, ma foi! It is ten times worse. French is a

  much faster language than English, of course!”

  He left for his own apartment and Kate went to her room

  to change for dinner before the concert. She had not yet

  managed to discover why Jean-Paul had invited her. He

  had not mentioned Pallas, or Marc, or anything but the

  merest polite small talk. Yet she still felt that he had

  invited her here for a specific reason.

  She wore her white voile dress, as it was now her best

  dress, and Clare Murray admired it volubly.

  Jean-Paul arrived on time, kissed Clare Murray’s hand

  and took Kate off with him to dinner.

  “Why did you ask me to come to Paris?” she asked, over

  their coffee, having decided it was time to be brutally

  frank.

  Jean-Paul’s hand hesitated as he lit his cigarette. Then he

  smiled at her. “I wanted to see you again.”

  “Will Pallas be there tonight?” she asked flatly.

  He flushed. “ I ... I do not know,” he murmured without

  meeting her eyes.

  “Jean-Paul!” she reproached him. “It was a good idea for

  you to make her jealous, but not yet! You really must be

  more patient. I thought you agreed that you might try

  again in a few years?”

  He smoked nervously, rather red around the ears.

  “Well,” he began, “you see, Kate, I met her last week, by

  chance. She was at a party. Pyrakis was talking about you

  to Marc, and Pallas kept looking at me. She made a joke

  about you and me! But she was not really laughing, you

  know? And I thought she seemed ...” he shrugged

  deprecatingly, “well, I thought ...”

  “She was jealous!” Kate finished the sentence for him.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Kate, I am afraid she will meet

  someone else at this Conservatoire. She will forget me. I

  cannot wait!”

  Kate said soberly, “But is it right to use me as bait?”

  He looked at her apologetically. “You are angry with me?

  I do not find it easy to talk to most girls, but you are

  different. I thought you would not resent it.”

  She sighed. “Well, I don’t, as a matter of fact, but I do

  feel you’re trying to rush things. Why don’t you just start

  dating Pallas and go on from there? Take her to concerts,

  not me.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette. “I am afraid she will

  refuse,” he said simply.

  “You’re far too self-deprecating. You’re an attractive

  man.”

  They discussed it as they drove to the concert, but Kate

  saw that nothing would make Jean-Paul brave enough to

  expose himself to Pallas’s tongue. His formal education had

  made him shy and backward with the other sex.

  The concert was extremely enjoyable. Kate had never

  heard Pyrakis play so well. She sat beside Jean-Paul,

  listening intently and remembering the day she had heard

  Pyrakis play just for her and Marc. It seemed light years

  away now.

  As they drifted out afterwards she caught a glimpse of a

  dark head. Her heart thudded harshly and she stumbled

  slightly, clutching at Jean-Paul’s hand.

  So it was that when she came face to face with Pallas and

  Marc, she was hand in hand with Jean-Paul.

  Pallas gave them a cold nod. Marc’s glittering grey gaze

  rested on the linked hands, then rose and looked at Kate,

  contempt an
d anger in his face.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Pallas spoke first, breaking the silence which seemed to

  lock them all together.

  “Hallo, Kate—I didn’t expect to see you in Paris!” Then

  she bit her lower lip, flushing, as if she would like to

  recall the words.

  “The concert was very exciting, wasn’t it?” Kate said

  with artificial enthusiasm. She felt Jean-Paul’s fingers

  growing cold against her own, but he held on tightly, as

  though afraid to let go.

  “Marvellous! How’s Sam?” Pallas smiled sweetly. “I do

  miss him terribly, you know! And he misses me, I know,

  from his letters.”

  Kate blinked. She had asked Sam only the other day if

  he had heard from Pallas and he had said he had not.

  She knew her brother too well to doubt his word. He

  would never write to a girl unless she wrote to him first.

  She smiled, however. “Oh, yes, I expect he does! But he’s

  back at college now, of course.” She did not add, as she

  could have done, that Sam was dating two entirely

  different beauty queens, one a redhead, the other a

  statuesque blonde with a Swedish accent and strong

  Women’s Lib views of the world.

  It interested her that Pallas was refusing to look at

  Jean-Paul. He might have been invisible for all the notice

  she took of him.

  Pallas looked sideways at Marc, who was standing

  silently listening, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  “Well,” she said, laughing rather falsely, “we must go,

  Kate. See you some time.”

  Hating herself, yet unable to help it, Kate let her eyes

  flicker over Marc’s dark, rigid face. Their eyes met. Hers

  shrank and fell before the look in his. Then he and

  Pallas had vanished and she was walking out of the

  theatre with Jean-Paul.

  They drove along the riverside slowly, neither in a

  mood for talking. Kate hardly noticed where they drove

  after that. By common consent they seemed to drift on in

  the red sports car, through street after silent street.

  When the car stopped Jean-Paul looked up at the

  narrow house, then at her, with surprise. “Oh, I am so

  sorry, Kate—I have brought you to my own apartment

  by mistake.” He grimaced. “And it is an error, I assure

  you, not a trick.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure it is, Jean-Paul.” Then she

  looked at her watch and gasped in horror. “Good

  heavens, look at the time! It’s two o’clock! What will the

  Murrays think? I haven’t got a key. I’ll have to knock

  them up.”

  He exclaimed apologetically, “It is my fault! I forgot

  the time! I am so sorry. But look, come in for a cup of

  chocolate before you go. I am too tired to think properly

  but too depressed to think of sleep The Murrays will

  understand. After all, one is not in Paris for nothing!

  They will make assumptions, yes, but charitable ones!”

  She hesitated. She did not suspect him of any ulterior

  motive, but she was wary of all men at the moment.

  Then she shrugged. Why not? She, too, was too

  depressed for sleep.

  She followed Jean-Paul up into the old-fashioned lift

  and they whined slowly upwards, coming to a stop with a

  shudder of machinery. He unlocked a door along the dark

  corridor and stood back to let her enter.

  It was an elegant apartment, very obviously that of a

  man, yet furnished, she suspected, with the help of

  Marie-Louise. The curtains and carpets were of a

  traditional French Empire style. There were delicate

  pieces of porcelain along the white and gold mantelshelf.

  But the furniture was solid and masculine and fitted

  oddly with the more feminine furnishings.

  Jean-Paul gestured her to take a seat, but she said

  that she would help him make the chocolate. He led her

  into the tiny kitchen and they companionably heated the

  milk, talking very little.

  “You were right, Kate,” he sighed. “She barely looked

  at me. Well, I am finished after this. I shall ask Marc for

  a job elsewhere—in England, perhaps.”

  She stirred the chocolate. “Be more patient,” she

  advised again. “Wait and see. Ring her in a few weeks

  and ask her out. If she refuses, don’t make a thing of it—

  wait and ask again.”

  They carried their cups through into the sitting-room

  and were just sitting down when the doorbell rang.

  “Who can it be?” Jean-Paul said, staring in surprise.

  “At two-thirty in the morning?”

  He left Kate seated on the sofa, her head back against

  the fat striped cushions. She ran her fingers wearily

  through her hair. It was very untidy. Their long drive, in

  the open-topped sports car, had whipped her blonde hair

  into a positive birds’ nest and she had not yet had time to

  comb it.

  She sipped her chocolate and choked on it as she heard

  the voice of the new arrival behind her. Spinning round,

  with a scarlet face and wide, panic-stricken eyes, she

  faced Marc.

  He was grim and furious, his eyes sparking at her.

  “Quite a surprise,” he drawled, jamming his hands into

  his pockets. “Who would have expected to see you here at

  this hour?”

  “Let me explain, Marc,” stammered Jean-Paul, very

  red.

  Marc raised a lazy, sardonic eyebrow. “Do, by all

  means. I am in the mood for fairy tales.”

  Jean-Paul looked aghast. “No, no, you misunderstand!

  It looks odd, I suppose, but truly ...”

  “Looks odd?” Marc bit off his words with a fierce snap

  of his white teeth. “You’re damned right it looks odd! Let

  me guess—Kate got locked out and had to beg a night’s

  lodging here? Or she couldn’t find a hotel in Paris ready

  to take her?” He laughed unpleasantly. “Or would it be

  more accurate to guess that this ...” he gestured around

  him, “is the hotel at which she is staying?”

  “I am staying at the apartment of Henry Murray,”

  Kate intervened in a clear, cold voice. Her own anger had

  got the better of her now. How dared Marc burst in here

  with these wicked insinuations? What right had he? Just

  because he led an irregular and immoral life it was no

  reason to imagine everyone else was as bad.

  Marc stared at her. “Henry Murray?” he repeated

  blankly.

  “We went for a drive,” she explained, “and were just

  having a drink before we went to bed.” Then her last

  words echoed in her brain and, with a feeling of hot panic,

  she added hastily, “Before I went back to the Murray

  apartment, I meant.”

  Marc’s face twitched suddenly, as though he were

  laughing at her. He looked at her slowly, his gaze

  mocking. “You need a comb. May I?” And offered her a

  comb from his inside pocket.

  She knew, from the derisive smile, that he would not

  believe her hair had got rumpled in the drive around

  Paris. He was quite determined to bel
ieve the worst.

  Jean-Paul swallowed audibly. “It is unfortunate, the

  appearance we present, Marc, but you must believe me

  that Kate and I ... we were not ... I mean, there is no ...”

  he stammered to a silence, scarlet under Marc’s sardonic,

  cynical gaze.

  Kate stood up. “Oh, never mind, Jean-Paul. Let him

  think what he likes. I’d better go back to the apartment, I

  think. Will you drive me or shall I call a taxi?”

  “At this hour?” drawled Marc. “Allow me—my car is

  outside.”

  “No, thank you,” she snapped, “I’d rather walk!”

  He took her arm in an iron grip. “Now, don’t be

  ridiculous. Why will women take these little things so

  personally? Good night, Jean-Paul. By the way, are you

  free tomorrow afternoon? My mother is in Paris for

  shopping and would like you to take tea with her and

  Pallas.”

  Jean-Paul looked at him incredulously, eyes alight.

  “Take tea? Why, yes, I should be delighted ... What hour?”

  “Three o’clock? Good. Afterwards you might take Pallas

  for a drive to Versailles. She needs some fresh air.”

  Jean-Paul clasped his hands behind his back and

  swallowed. “I ... yes ... I ...” he stuttered, visibly shaken.

  Marc looked down at Kate, his grey eyes mocking her.

  He marched her to the door and pushed her out in front of

  him. She maintained a frozen silence while they were in

  the shuddering, droning lift, but when they were out in

  the street again, she shook his arm away.

  “I’ll walk,” she announced, turning on her heel.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” snapped Marc, grabbing at her.

  He pushed her into his car and slammed the door.

  Rigid with fury, she stared straight ahead as he started

  the car. But within minutes she realised that he was not

  driving her to the Murray apartment, which was only two

  streets away from Jean-Paul’s, but was heading out of

  Paris altogether.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked him

  angrily.

  He did not answer, his face cool and remote in the dim

  interior of the car, but some minutes later he pulled up at

  the kerbside, near a small tree-lined square. The wind

  gently moved the branches of the lime trees, and their

  cool scent floated in through the open windows of the car.

  He turned, one arm along the seat, and looked at her.

  Her heart shook. It just wasn’t fair that any man should

  make one feel like this, she thought. With an effort, she