by Jessica Ayre
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Harrow.' His voice when it came startled her.
Lynda whirled round to face him. Her mouth dropped as she took in his attire. For some reason she had not imagined Paul greeting her in pyjamas and deep green woollen dressing gown, hair more ruffled than ever and looking for all the world as if he had just crept out of some dark cave. He chuckled huskily at her surprise.
'I guess I should also apologise for my state of undress, but as Mr Dunlop may have told you, I've been in bed with flu.'
He coughed, a little too selfconsciously, Lynda thought. The dark circles under his bright eyes, the pallor of his skin suggested the after-effects of a late night debauch rather than flu. She chased the insidious thought from her mind.
'I've brought the drawings,' she said.
'Good, good. But won't you sit down and have some coffee first. I've asked Mrs Sparks to make a pot.'
Lynda sat down at one end of the sofa towards which he pointed her and watched as he bent to light a fire. His movements were sure and skilful. A dancing flame immediately leapt from the logs. He turned, caught her watching him and threw her a long glance through heavy lashes.
'It will take the chill out of the air,' he said, pausing over the word 'chill' and making it resonant with possibility. She cast her eyes down, searching her mind for some suitable comment.
'This is a lovely house,' she said, heartened by the sight of Mrs Sparks carrying a tray.
'Yes, it's at last beginning to feel like home. I've been here some three years now.'
Mrs Sparks deposited the tray on the coffee table and withdrew as Paul thanked her. He sat down next to Lynda and poured steaming coffee into porcelain mugs for them both, then relaxed into the depths of the sofa.
'That's better,' he said, gratefully draining his cup. He leaned towards her to offer a second cup and she found herself noticing the dark curly hair at his throat, the taut muscles of his neck. His fingers grazed her arm as he poured her more coffee and she flinched, almost upsetting her cup.
'Miss Harrow,' she could see the fever points above the pallor in his cheeks now, 'Lyn-da,' he stressed her name and there was anger in his voice. 'Would you stop behaving as if I were some monster about to attack you!' He paused, stretching back into the sofa. 'I'm a sick man and I'm feeling far too dreadful to make a pass even if you were Greta Garbo and encouraged it.' He gave her an ironical glance.
Lynda's stomach tensed painfully. She fought an impulse to flee. Instead she finished her coffee in a hurried gulp, and carefully placed the cup on the table. She tried to control the quiver in her voice.
'I'd better leave you to get well in peace, then,' she said, standing up.
'Calm down, woman! You're here to show me some drawings, remember?' he growled. Lynda could feel the blood rising to her face and her ears tingling. She had completely forgotten the drawings. Now she glanced round the room, trying to hide her embarrassment. The portfolio stood balanced against a large mahogany bookcase and she was glad to be able to turn her back on Paul in order to fetch it.
He moved to clear the table and make some space. She didn't dare meet his eyes as she slowly unzipped the large black case. But just as she was about to place the drawings on the table, Mrs Sparks opened the door.
'Telephone for you from Paris, Mr Overton.'
Paul grimaced and glanced at his watch. He turned to her.
'This may take some time. Why don't you leave the drawings here and I'll ring you about them later, or perhaps simply see you tomorrow at the office.' He nodded a hurried goodbye before she could reply and brusquely left the room.
Mrs Sparks shook her head. 'He should be in bed, that man, not traipsing about!'
Lynda asked to be shown to the washroom before leaving. Still bemoaning Paul's refusal to be a model patient, Mrs Sparks led her along the corridor and up a few stairs. She opened a door and switched on a light to reveal a large bathroom with a sunken semi-circular tub. One entire wall was covered by a mirror which gave off a soft golden hue.
Lynda felt as if she had wandered on to the set of some Hollywood production. She washed her hands and flushed face with the fragrant creamy soap and as she dried herself noticed a long silken negligee reflected in the mirror. She wiped the reflection from her mind and quickly left the room, feeling like a trespasser on intimate territory.
'All right, dear?' Mrs Sparks looked at her with some concern. 'You're not coming down with this wretched flu as well?'
Lynda shook her head and managed a 'No, no, I'm fine,' and what she hoped was a polite thank-you. She was relieved to have the door of Paul Overton's house close behind her and grateful for the crisp freshness of the open air.
A walk, she decided, would do her good. She had been cooped up far too much these last days. Striding briskly through the square, she tried to erase the memory of her humiliation. It was the way in which Paul seemed to expect her to do the wrong thing which made her so intensely uncomfortable. She must try to behave in a more composed fashion next time.
In any case, she reassured herself, the drawings were good, and finally it was irrelevant how Paul Overton made her feel. The mighty Paul Overton with his arrogant ways and sunken bathtubs! She smiled to herself as she imagined how Tricia would respond to her description of her morning's outing.
But Tricia had her own news when she came in that evening. She burst into the flat with uncustomary clamour, nearly shouting. Lynda rushed out from the kitchen where she had been slicing mushrooms for a Bolognese sauce, but her fear that something terrible had happened was allayed when she saw a wide smile on Tricia's face.
'Have you seen the evening paper?'
Lynda shook her head.
'Well, just have a look at this!'
Lynda put her knife down on the table and took the paper from Tricia. A large photograph of Paul Overton confronted her. He looked more rugged than she remembered him in life, his cheekbones and strong jaw more pronounced, his shoulders broader. He was embracing a strikingly attractive woman with a dimly familiar face framed by masses of hair. She was looking up at him with a seductive smile.
Lynda could feel herself blanch, but she made an effort to meet Tricia's smile with one of her own.
'Have you read the caption?'
Lynda read: 'Brilliant young architect, Paul Overton of Dunlop Associates, and ravishing musical comedy actress Vanessa Tarn, have been much seen together in and about London of late. A reliable source tells us that wedding bells are in the offing.'
Lynda glanced briefly at the rest of the diary entry and then handed the paper back to Tricia, whose eyes were sparkling with a humorous malice.
'Serves Mr High-and-Mighty right! That little vamp won't give him a moment's peace—she's had more men for breakfast than I've had toast. But maybe the brilliant young architect of Dunlop Associates can handle her. What do you think, Lynda? They do seem to have been together for some time now.'
Lynda averted her gaze from Tricia and looked down at the paper. 'Well, they make a handsome couple.' It was all she could think to say. A vision of Vanessa Tarn clothed in the silky negligee she had seen at Paul Overton's house had suddenly blotted out everything else. She chased the image away and it was immediately replaced by a picture of Paul tautly bent over the fire. Then, like the postcard sequences in a children's viewfinder, her mind clicked through the morning's images: the house, Paul Overton in his rough-woven dressing gown Paul pouring coffee…
'I hope they're very happy together,' she said with an edge of bitterness that made Tricia look at her curiously.
Lynda forced a laugh. 'I'm getting to sound quite as nasty as you! Come on, let's get some dinner and I can tell you about my momentous visit to the Overton house.'
Lynda woke feeling refreshed and with a resolution on her lips. She would treat Paul Overton with absolutely cool professionalism. There was really no need for her to behave like a frightened little girl, and he was right, she had acted like one. After all, they were equals, wo
rking together on the same project. True, he was more experienced than she was, but she was learning, and undoubtedly she could learn from him.
Lynda fingered the locket round her neck, smiled, then got up briskly, washed and dressed with more care than usual. Stockings, high heels, a simple skirt of a richly autumnal rust and a matching sweater. She swept her hair back and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck with a yellow ribbon. Her small mirror smiled back at her. She would do.
Seeing the bright morning sunshine streaming through the window, she decided to walk to the office. The crisp morning air made her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle. By the time she reached the office building and ran for the lift, she was ready to confront anything, anyone.
'Why, hello there, beautiful!' Lynda looked up to meet Robert staring at her appreciatively. 'My lucky day,' he continued, 'just the two of us in the lift.' And he grazed her cheek lightly with his lips.
Lynda gave him a wide smile.
'Don't!' he clutched his hands dramatically to his chest. 'You'll break my heart!' Then as the lift stopped, he asked, 'How about wasting one of your busy evenings on me this week?'
'I might be able to manage just one' Lynda bantered back.
'Saturday?'
'Fine.'
'Pick you up at seven. Perhaps I can arrange for some theatre tickets.' He gave her hand a parting squeeze and they walked off in opposite directions.
Lynda walked into the office and swiftly looked round. No, Paul wasn't there yet. She gave a small sigh of relief and hurried to her desk to prepare for an eleven o'clock meeting with a possible new client. It was a small job, but the kind she liked—a private house conversion. The family were to be away in California for a year and wanted the work carried out in their absence.
Her client was announced promptly at eleven and Lynda took him off into the small meeting space reserved for such occasions. They chatted about the kind of interior he wanted, the finances available. Lynda showed him a range of wallpapers, fabrics, floor coverings, and noted down specifications. Just as they were about to arrange a second meeting, the telephone rang. Lynda started. She realised it might be for her, but she had never had a call in the meeting room before. She excused herself and picked up the receiver.
The telephonist's voice queried, 'Miss Harrow? I have a call for you from Paul Overton.'
Lynda braced herself, remembering her morning's resolution.
'Lynda Harrow?' His voice sounded hoarse.
'Yes, Paul.' She made herself say his name.
'I'm still chained to the house. Can you come over now to discuss these drawings?'
She demurred, 'I'm in the middle of a meeting.'
'Well, get it over with quickly. This is important.'
Lynda resented his peremptory tone, but she controlled herself and replied coolly, 'As soon as I can. Goodbye, Paul.' She hung up before he had a chance to say any more.
She deliberately paced her meeting with her client, making sure she wasn't hurrying things. Then, having ushered him out herself, she went to fetch her bag and tidy up before setting off. The Tube would do today. Let Paul stew a little. He should know better than to bully like that!
She covered the few blocks from the Tube station quickly enough, slowing herself as she crossed the square to catch her breath and collect her wits. Then, smoothing her hair, she pressed Paul Overton's large brass bell and waited for Mrs Sparks' cheerful face.
Instead Paul himself opened the door and loomed over her.
'Well, you have taken your time,' he said, scowling a little.
She rallied to it quietly, 'I came as quickly as I could.'
He was dressed today—a thick black polo-neck sweater and a pair of worn hip-hugging jeans. His face was pale under the taut brown skin and his eyes seemed even more deeply set. He stood back to let her in and as she brushed past him she could feel his pent-up rage enveloping her like a hostile cloud. She resolved again not to be cowed.
'This way,' he led her past the drawing-room up some stairs into a sunny open-plan kitchen-dining area. 'I'm just cooking up a quick lunch,' he said brusquely. 'Mrs Sparks doesn't come in on Tuesdays.'
Lynda sat down at the thick-topped solid pine table in the centre of which stood a large white bowl overflowing with purple and red anemones.
Paul said nothing, but moved round the kitchen with the efficiency of an old hand, whisking eggs, tossing them into a sizzling skillet, hurriedly chopping tomatoes and cucumbers, pulling out a large French loaf from the oven. He placed two brightly flowered Italian plates, cutlery and long-stemmed glasses on the table, uncorked a bottle of wine, quickly dressed the salad, and with a minimum of gestures placed the food on the table.
Her eyes slightly lowered, Lynda watched his every step. His fixed concentration seemed to have obliterated her presence. Then, having heaped her plate with the fluffy omelette and some salad, he sat down opposite her.
'I'm not very hungry,' she heard herself say from a long distance.
'You'll be even less hungry when we're through,' he met her gaze threateningly.
She sensed he was coiled to pounce and she could feel her mouth grow dry. She took a large gulp of the wine he had poured and then another.
'How did your meeting go?' He was making a visible effort to be polite, to control the edge of his anger.
'Fine,' she managed, and then feeling the wine coursing through her bloodstream, she grew brave. 'But that's obviously not what we're here to talk about, so let's get it over with.'
He seemed a little taken aback by her boldness and looked at her carefully before answering, 'Soon enough, Miss Lynda Harrow. Soon enough.' He speared a large piece of omelette, chewed it deliberately and swallowed it down with some wine. They glared at each other, eating in silence. After what seemed an eternity of chewing and swallowing, Lynda pushed her half-full plate away.
'I guess I should thank you for this altogether lovely lunch. Al-to-geth-er love-ly.' She was amazed at her own insolence.
He gave her an angry look and then draining his glass pushed back his chair and stood to his full height. Lynda followed suit.
I will not be bullied. I will not be bullied, she repeated over and over to herself as she followed him out of the kitchen, up a few stairs and into what was evidently his study. She allowed herself the brief luxury of a quick glance out of the tall window which looked out on a row of immaculate gardens. Then she tensed herself for what was to come. Scattered over a deep blue velvet divan, a thick-pile carpet of the same blue and along a long mahogany table were her drawings.
'Let's start here, Lynda, with the Georgian house.' He pointed to a watercolour drawing she had executed with particular affection of what were to be the entrance hall and lobby of the house.
'Yes, yes, it's beautifully drawn, beautifully coloured.' He made a large gesture round the room. 'They all are. Perhaps you should change your field and become an artist.' He said it with a slight sneer, and Lynda's stomach lurched.
'But have you thought of what these rooms are to be used for, their function? We're building hotels which have to stand up to a lot of wear and tear, not sugary nurseries and sentimental love chambers for the very rich.'
He took her round from drawing to drawing, pinpointing details, describing where people would walk, would sit, and as he talked his voice grew less angry, more patient. Lynda began to make mental notes of what he was saying. By the time they had looked at all the drawings, he was almost pleading with her.
'And Lynda, you must remember, we're working to a budget. We won't have museum pieces at our disposal, nor will you have time to scour the auction rooms. Try to take that into account.'
She needed to sit down, but there didn't seem to be an unfilled space in the entire room. Paul took in the pallor of her face and seeing her unsteadiness, cleared the divan of drawings.
Lynda sank down into it gratefully, feeling her head spin. Closing her eyes for a moment, she leaned back into the plush cushions. She felt rather than saw him come
up to her and take her hand.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he murmured an apology. 'First I get you tipsy, then I lecture at you endlessly!'
She opened her eyes to see him leaning over her, his breath touching her hair. The rough wool of his pullover grazed her cheek. She wanted nothing more than to burst into tears and snuggle into his arms. But she drew away and made an effort to sit upright.
'No, no, you're right. Everything you say is right. I'm just too inexperienced. You were right in the first place.' She tried to stand up in order to avert her face from his, but he pulled her back down.
'Just sit here and relax for a minute. I'll get you some strong coffee.'
He left the room and Lynda leaned back into the cushions, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs under her. She shut her eyes, but that only made her head spin more violently and she opened them just in time to see a large ball of burnished fur leap up beside her and purr with exaggerated ferocity. The cat walked round and round her lap, then settled himself with sensuous ease, demanding to be stroked. She obeyed willingly, taking comfort from the long thick fur, the arch of his back as his body shaped itself to her finger strokes.
Paul walked in with a tray and poured her a large glass of mineral water and some very black coffee. 'I see you've made friends with Boris, the lout.' He gave the cat a rough pat, his fingers just brushing hers as they met in fur, and then tapped him off her lap.
'Coffee first,' he said, handing her a cup. 'Then, drink all the water.'
Lynda sipped the hot liquid and met his gaze.
'I am sorry, you know. I didn't mean to be quite so scathing. But this project is particularly important to me. And you'll have noticed that I'm not the most patient of people.' He smiled engagingly.
Lynda couldn't quite return that. She emptied her coffee cup, making a face as the grounds met her tongue. 'It's all right—I'm just not up to it, that's all. You'd better tell Mr Dunlop and go to your established firm.'