Not to Be Trusted

by Jessica Ayre

  She opened it and looked at the picture inside—a strong face with its direct gaze. Her mother would want her to say yes to the project. 'Never let yourself be bullied,' she would have muttered. Poor dear Mother!

  Lynda's mother had died the preceding year, without knowing about, or at least without showing the extent of her illness. She had been composed to the end, overseeing all the work on the farm, charting milk production, tending to the house. Lynda had not been with her at the last. It had all happened so suddenly and by the time her sister had reached her at art school, it was all over.

  Lynda regretted this. She would have liked to have asked her mother certain things: about their father who was never mentioned since his death, about the source of her mother's continuing strength.

  She looked away from the picture. No good musing now. She must have some food—she suddenly realised she hadn't eaten all day—and get to the drawing board. She pulled a pair of old, freshly washed jeans over her slender hips, put on an equally dated floppy sweater and walked into Tricia's tiny but tidy kitchen. An omelette would do, and some ham, perhaps.

  As she beat the eggs, the memory of Paul Overton's chilling 'Miss Harrow' came back to her, his insistence on the project being done well, and she shivered a little. Perhaps she wasn't up to it. It would be far easier to say no now, disappointing Mr Dunlop a little, perhaps. Better that, though, than to have to live through the embarrassment of Paul Overton's contempt.

  But no, she wouldn't allow herself to be bullied. She swallowed her food hastily and went to her desk, closing the door of her room behind her. Tricia knew this to be a signal that she didn't want to be disturbed.

  The telephone startled her out of her Georgian setting. She rushed automatically to answer it, but then slowed her pace, knowing it would be for Tricia in any case.

  'Hello,' a man's voice drawled into the telephone. 'It's your friend from the lift. Can I buy you a quick drink?'

  It took Lynda a second or two to realise it was for her: Robert Sylvester.

  'Forgotten me already?' he queried.

  'No, no. I simply didn't recognise you. Don't think I can take the time off for a drink,' Lynda answered. 'By the way, how did you get my number?'

  'Tricia's number,' he corrected her, and chuckled. 'Come on, I'll see you're safely tucked into bed at the requisite hour.'

  'All right,' Lynda acquiesced. She wouldn't do much work now anyway and a little lighthearted banter would be all to the good. It would clear her mind for the morning.

  Robert appeared in under ten minutes. Lynda had just had time to pull on a slightly less tatty sweater and a pair of boots.

  'I live just a few streets away,' he explained.

  It occurred to her that he hadn't even asked her for the address. 'You know this place well?' she queried.

  He laughed a little oddly. 'Tricia's an old friend.' Something in the way he said it made Lynda pull back a little.

  I only ever seem to inherit hand-me-downs, she thought, and then wondered at the speed with which she had coupled herself with Robert.

  But his easy manner reassured her.

  'I think I'll treat you to a place country girls never see,' he said as he slid into the seat of a sleek new car. They raced along until Lynda quite lost herself in the maze of turns and narrow streets.

  'Here we are. I think you'll enjoy this.' Robert ushered her down a few stairs and with a mock bow opened the door for her. She looked into a large softly-lit room with what seemed innumerable intimate alcoves.

  A bar stretched along one entire length. Bright posters and photographs littered the walls and mirrors discreetly placed between them reflected passing faces. Behind the hum of voices she could make out the sound of a sultry blues.

  The place seemed entirely filled with people, some sitting at tables with chequered cloths, others lounging at the bar or perched on high stools. Catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror, Lynda suddenly grew aware of how plainly she was dressed in comparison to the elegant or outlandish women who dotted the room.

  Robert must have sensed her thought, for he whispered in her ear, 'You look lovely,' as he guided her towards a miraculously, free table. She noticed that people greeted him from various quarters.

  'You seem to know a great many people here?' she queried when they sat down.

  'It's my club,' he explained. 'Mostly journalists, writers, some publishers and theatre people. Food's good too. Would you like some?'

  Lynda declined. 'A drink, though, a single drink,' she emphasised, 'would be nice.' She settled back into the comfortable chair.

  'Tell me about yourself, then, Miss Lynda Harrow.' Robert put his elbows solidly on the table and looked her in the eyes.

  She demurred, 'Not much to tell.'

  But he drew her out and soon Lynda was happily recounting childhood escapades, her nights in the tree house; the death of her favourite cow; her early passion for sketching.

  'You're especially lovely when you smile,' Robert interrupted her, and she thanked him with a warm one. Then over his head she noticed a familiar face coming towards them.

  'Oh no!' she exclaimed, her smile fading. 'Look who's here!' She braced herself for the encounter.

  'Hello, Robert,' said Paul Overton. 'Good evening, Miss Harrow, I see you've wisely decided not to think over the project too hard. Or is it that you do your best work in crowded, dimly lit rooms?'

  'Much like you, I imagine,' Lynda responded, surprised at her own audacity.

  He gave her a quizzical look, then bade them both a pleasant evening.

  'Small place, London,' Robert offered, to cheer her. 'Either that, or he's shadowing us. Do you think he's nurturing a hidden passion for you?'

  Lynda couldn't quite bring a smile to her lips.

  'Could we go now, Robert? Please. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.'

  She was hardly aware of the drive home. She only emerged from her reverie when she felt Robert's lips brushing her hair as she fumbled for her door key.

  'Mmm,' he murmured, and gave her hand a large squeeze. Then in his best brogue, 'Lassies like you needn't worry too much about the Paul Overtons of this world.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lynda woke the next morning with a sense of panic. She had been walking, then stumbling and running through dark corridors raw with the smell of vegetation, yet enclosed. One corridor led inexorably to another. The promise of an exit was never fulfilled and she knew she could not turn back. Behind her an unidentifiable presence loomed, gave chase. Just as it was about to pounce, she fell through an opening and awoke with an abrupt start.

  She lay still for a moment, trying to wipe the bitter taste of fear from her mouth. An image of Paul Overton's disapproving face came clearly to her mind. There was something both austere and sensual in those wide eyes, those prominent cheekbones, the slant of the hard jaw. She shuddered a little and pulled the blankets up to her chin, trying to think sensible thoughts.

  Yes, she would go to Mr Dunlop and put the case honestly to him. She wanted to work on the project, have a go at least. But it would be difficult if Paul Overton was watching her every step, criticising her at every turn, waiting for her to fail. Perhaps if she could have a week away from the office to work from home, do some necessary background research, it might be easier. Didn't Mr Dunlop agree?

  The sound of Tricia grinding coffee beans stirred her from her planned scenario. It must be late. She washed and dressed hastily, choosing a simple green dress with a small white collar from her wardrobe. Tricia had said the dress made her look serious, studious, and she felt she needed that seriousness today.

  As an afterthought, she pulled her thick glossy hair back into a low bun and pinned it loosely into place.

  'There,' she thought, looking at herself quickly in the mirror. 'Couldn't look any more determinedly serious that that!'

  Tricia handed her a cup of steaming coffee as she came into the kitchen and eyed her with interest.

  'You were out lat
e last night…' she led expectantly.

  Lynda had quite forgotten her visit to Robert's club and she replied absently, 'Oh yes, Robert took me out for a drink.' She noticed Tricia stiffen slightly and look away with a just audible, 'Fast worker, that one!' Then she turned a forced smile on Lynda. 'Rather nice, isn't he?'

  'Yes, very,' Lynda answered, unwilling to put her mind to the question of Robert or what seemed to be Tricia's surprising discomfiture when she had so much else to think of.

  'We'd better get going,' Tricia suggested. 'It's getting late.'

  Mr Dunlop accepted Lynda's proposition amicably. Her reasoning, he said, was sound, and he waved her off with an encouraging, 'I'm sure Paul will be convinced once he's seen your drawings. I'll arrange a meeting for next Monday.'

  Lynda spent the rest of the day in the architectural library looking through books on stately homes. She decided to concentrate on the first two interiors: one a Georgian home, another a neo-Gothic castle. Her ability to range between tasteful opulence and theatrical grandeur should, she thought, impress the mighty Paul Overton. She went home satisfied that her ideas were beginning to take shape.

  Checking for the post, she found a thick letter addressed to her. She recognised the handwriting at once—David, David Brewster. It occurred to her that this was the first letter she'd had from him since she had started on her new job.

  She was filled with a warm glow and she rushed up the stairs eager for news. David was her older brother in everything but name. They had grown up together on neighbouring farms, ridden together over the dales, her hair streaming in the wind as she urged her mare to catch up with his.

  As children they had played elaborate pranks on their respective families, conjured up visible ghosts, dug up unburied ancient treasure. During the time they were both away at college, they would meet in holidays and recount their lives to each other in breathless detail.

  It was David who in those years taught her to listen to music, who played endless records to her, commenting on movements, tone, pitch, or simply sat down at his old piano and improvised for her while she sketched whatever was at hand.

  Everyone had always assumed they would marry, though she and David had never mentioned it between themselves. There had been tense moments in recent years when, as they sat huddled together on the sofa looking at a musical score, their fingers had suddenly met. Or once when her horse had stumbled and David had insisted on carrying her to the nearest shelter, she had closed her eyes momentarily and felt his strong arms grasp her with a new meaning. But they had glossed over such moments with jokes or stories about their college lives. Glossed over more on her side then on his, she had to admit.

  Then, in the brief meeting they had had just before she had come to London, he had taken her hand, looked at her solemnly and given her a long warm kiss. It was like a promise. But he had said only, 'I'll write.'

  David was the only man her mother had ever talked of with warm approval. He had been with her at the end and the knowledge of this assuaged Lynda's own remorse. On his return from agricultural college, David had begun to help her mother out with the farm as well as working with his own father. In her will Lynda's mother had specified that David should oversee the farm until such time as he and her own children had decided differently. The two of them had obviously talked the matter through before her death.

  Lynda sat down on the sofa and pictured David, his sandy hair and sturdy body, his large hands bringing out delicate tones from the old piano as he furrowed his brow in concentration. If only he were sitting opposite her now and she could pour out her worries into his sympathetic ear!

  She tore open the letter eagerly.

  'Dearest Lynda,' he began as always, 'I imagine that in your conquest of London you haven't had much time to spare for thoughts of us.' He then regaled her with news about old Mr Grout, the local eccentric; Mrs Peabody in the village store; his recent passion for playing Liszt; the death of Brand, his favourite horse. There was only one personal note.

  'I shall be coming to London soon. I hope you can make time for me.'

  Of course she could make time for David. She was overcome with a longing for the ease she felt in his presence, their rambling conversations. Only a little pinprick of doubt disturbed her joy at the thought of his being here. How would Tricia respond to him? Or Paul Overton? She scolded herself for her own disloyalty. David was worth a hundred of them.

  Lynda made herself some sandwiches and heated the remains of the morning coffee, allowing herself a few moments in which to bask in the memory of those long rides through forests, across fields. She could all but feel the soft rain on her cheeks; all but smell the fresh moist earth.

  Tricia's small tidy kitchen with its gleaming appliances seemed coldly aseptic when she compared it with the clutter of the kitchen at home. The old deeply grooved refectory table piled high with jars of freshly made jam; the well worn curtains framing a view of gently rolling hills which she could look out on every time it was her turn to do the washing up.

  'Stop it, Lynda,' she said out loud. She would drown under this wave of nostalgia if she allowed it to continue and find herself scuttling home, her tail between her legs. She quickly drank her coffee and munched sandwiches. She had set herself the evening task of looking through books on period furniture to prepare for tomorrow's drawing.

  She worked assiduously for the next few days, going out only once for a trip to the furniture museum. She was rather pleased at her own efforts. She had prepared the Georgian lobby and dining room and she felt the pastel decorative hues she had chosen, the elegantly unobtrusive furnishings, struck just the right note of unceremonious good taste. On the third day, as she sat down to the drawing board, the telephone rang.

  'Lynda Harrow?' She didn't quite recognise the voice, but the emphatic r's immediately signalled the caller's identity.

  'Yes,' she tried to sound nonchalant.

  'This is Paul Overton. Mr Dunlop told me you'd started on the project and I thought it might be useful for you to have a look at one of the homes. I'm going out there now.'

  'Yes, it would be useful.' His quiet, polite tone threw her a little off balance. She had never heard it before.

  'Good. I'll have to pick you up immediately—it's a little way out of London. Would fifteen minutes be all right?'

  Lynda gave him the address. 'I'll wait downstairs,' she offered. 'See you then.'

  She stilled her nervousness. No time to change really, but she brushed her hair, quickly applied some blusher and some pale lipstick and then pulled her new fox-grey cord jacket out of the wardrobe. With a little twinge of guilt she went into Tricia's room to give herself a hurried once-over in the full-length mirror. A slender image confronted her and looked at her unfamiliarly from dark eyes. Drab, she reflected with a sinking feeling, except for the gleaming dark hair. Nothing like the striking women in Robert's club. She noticed a silk fuchsia scarf lying on Tricia's chair and impulsively tied it round her neck. Yes, her blues and greys now took on a special allure. The effect was right.

  She rushed down the stairs and opened the front door just as a bright expanse of car pulled up and Paul Overton's long lithe body sprang from the driver's seat. His elegantly cut suit accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. Under it, she could make out the texture of a deep blue silk shirt, like his eyes. A pleasant smile sat unexpectedly on his face.

  'Good timing, Miss Harrow. I'm so glad you could make it.'

  She turned her eyes away as he looked her up and down.

  'I'm sorry, I didn't have time to change,' she apologised, lying a little, trying to avert the possibility of criticism. He eyed her quizzically as she slid on to cushioned leather.

  'Don't worry, Miss Harrow, there won't be any lords or ladies present. The house is quite empty at the moment.' He displayed a set of large keys and firmly shut her door.

  His formal use of her name still rankled. I must do something about it, Lynda thought, and stop belike a skittish adolescent!
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br />   The car pulled smoothly away from the kerb. Not quite daring to turn towards him, Lynda stared straight ahead.

  'You might, you know, Mr Overton, call me Lynda, like the others do.' She could tell by his sidelong glance that she had not achieved the lightness of tone she had aimed for.

  'Yes, of course. Lyn-da, Lyn-da.' He said it twice as if trying to memorise it, and still her own name sounded strange to her ears.

  'Well, Lyn-da, do tell me what you've been doing on the project. And do please call me Paul,' he added as an afterthought.

  She tried hard not to suspect a patronising note in his voice and began at first clumsily and then with growing facility to describe her ideas. When she first thought to notice their whereabouts, they were already amidst rolling countryside. A soft late summer light immersed hills and trees in a golden haze.

  'It's so beautiful!' Lynda heard herself exclaim involuntarily.

  'Yes, and we're almost there.'

  He swung the car through a break in what seemed an extensive stone wall and manoeuvred slowly along a drive banked by graceful willows. Through the trees Lynda could make out expanses of lush green occasionally broken by the deeper shade of clumps of rhododendrons and thickets.

  Then suddenly, in the distance, she saw the house, and gasped despite herself. Paul stopped the car and they got out. In front of them, set at the top of a gently rounded hill, stood a superb Georgian house. Its columned facade gleamed white. The sun bounced off an entire section of glazed wall behind which she could make out what looked like miniature orange trees. At the base of the hill opposite, a graceful white wooden footbridge curved over a pool of unrippled water.

  'It's exquisite,' she murmured.

  Paul took her arm to lead her back to the car. She drew away abruptly, jarred by his touch. Then realising how foolish her response must seem, she mumbled, 'Sorry, you surprised me.'

  He gave her a cool look from somewhere in the depths of his blue eyes, then reaching into his pocket pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. Lynda accepted, hoping her embarrassment would pass, took a long draw at the harsh tobacco and blew out the smoke—too quickly.