by Jessica Ayre
He looked at her hard. 'I didn't say that's what I wanted to do, did I?' He seemed to be about to lecture her again. 'As far as I'm concerned you can have another go. This isn't a college, you know. It's a tough racket and you have to be able to take criticism.' He caught himself at his own sententiousness and smiled. 'Well, sleep on it, anyhow. I'll give you a ring tomorrow.'
Lynda pulled on her shoes and got up to leave, feeling herself dismissed.
'I'll get you a taxi,' Paul offered.
She shook her head. 'The air will do me good.'
He moved to gather her drawings, but she shook her head again.
Paul shrugged his shoulders and saw her to the door. 'Sleep on it, remember?'
Lynda raced down the stairs, almost colliding with a tall redhead who had just emerged from a white sports car. They eyed each other briefly and Lynda dashed off, hair streaming out from the yellow ribbon, tears once again rushing to her eyes. She slowed her pace when she reached the other end of the square and took a deep breath. Then she walked randomly, not quite sure of her bearings. Finally she hailed a taxi and gave her home address. There was no point in going back to the office in this state. The only thing she wanted now was to be alone in her room, to cry silently into her pillow.
That was how Tricia found her when she came in after work that evening—fully clothed, sprawled out on her bed, head buried in a soggy pillow from which muffled sobbing emerged.
'What is it, Lynda? What's happened?'
Lynda raised a tear-stained face and tried a quivering smile.
'It's all right. I'm just being silly,' but the tears continued to pour down.
Tricia searched Lynda's face. 'Is it bad news from home? Or is it the ogre who's done this to you?'
Lynda couldn't bring herself to answer.
'Wait a minute, I'll get you something to make you feel better.'
Tricia went out of the room, only to come back almost instantly with a large glass of brandy and a cool moist face cloth. She raised Lynda's head and made her drink, then wiped her face with the cloth. She waited for Lynda to compose herself. Then she asked, 'Do you want to talk about it?'
Lynda shrugged her shoulders. 'There isn't much to say. Paul Overton thinks the work on the project isn't good enough. And the trouble is, he's right. I think I'm suffering from wounded vanity.' She managed a crooked smile.
'Was he foul to you?'
Lynda grimaced. 'A little.' But then the sensation of Paul's breath in her hair came back to her. 'No, not really. Finally he was kind,' she swallowed hard as she said it.
Tricia raised her eyebrows. 'Kind? I find that hard to believe. Look at you!'
'I'm all right now. I just don't know whether I should begin on all that work again or give up.' She looked up at Tricia. 'He is a perfectionist, isn't he?'
'So they all say. You wouldn't think he'd have time to be with that Vanessa of his.'
Lynda stilled an involuntary shudder. 'No, you wouldn't,' she said bitterly, gazing down at her hands. Then she got up a little shakily, realising that the brandy had gone straight to her head.
'I'll fix some dinner, shall I?' Tricia offered.
Lynda nodded her thanks and sat down in front of the telly. On the coffee table yesterday's paper lay open, vaunting the image of Paul Overton and Vanessa. On an impulse, Lynda crumpled it up and walked across the room to throw it in the waste bin.
'There,' she thought. 'That's that,' and she switched on the television with unaccustomed aggression, making herself focus so rigorously on the image that the sound of Tricia's voice startled her.
'Lynda, it's the telephone for you. Didn't you hear it?' Lynda shook her head. 'Not someone I recognise,' Tricia gave her a knowing glance. 'Another admirer, I suspect.'
Lynda didn't immediately recognise the voice at the other end of the line, but when she did, her words tripped out and tumbled over each other.
'David, it's been so long since I heard you! Where are you? Are you in London? When can I see you?'
'No,' she could hear him chuckle at her eagerness, 'I'm at home. But I'll be in London next weekend.'
She pushed away her momentary disappointment. How wonderful it would have been to see David right now, feel his solid strength, talk about her fears…
'Will you stay at the flat? We can put you up on the sofa.'
David paused. 'I thought it might be better if I stayed with an old friend. I don't want to put you out.'
'You wouldn't be. But we'll talk about it when you arrive. How is everyone?' They exchanged a few more words and Lynda came away from the telephone beaming.
'Well, who was that? You look a new woman!'
Lynda laughed happily. 'My dearest and oldest friend.' As she said it, the truth of the words came home to her.
Tricia placed two bowls and a plateful of gingery fried pork and Chinese vegetables on the table. In between large spoonfuls of food Lynda found herself talking rapidly and delightedly about David, the many moments they had shared. 'You'll love him, Tricia,' she said finally.
'I'd love any man who could raise that kind of enthusiasm from me,' Tricia chuckled. 'Why have you been keeping him hidden for so long?'
'Oh, it's not like that,' Lynda suddenly caught Tricia's sense. 'Not like that at all.'
'Are you quite sure?' Tricia asked with her worldly woman look.
Was she? Lynda thought of David's warmth, the comfort of his presence, and she was filled with a longing to be with him. But she avoided Tricia's gaze and stood up.
'That was delicious thanks. I'll do the dishes and clear up. And thanks. For everything…'
'Are you sure you're all right now?'
Lynda nodded.
'I'm supposed to be going out for a drink with…' Tricia paused, 'Robert. We're going to clear up our misunderstandings,' she added quickly.
'Oh, I am pleased, Tricia,' Lynda said. But the pang that went through her made her not altogether sure she was.
'I just hope I come back pleased,' Tricia said wryly, as she swung her jacket over her shoulders and walked out the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
For the next few days Lynda kept a low profile. She went into the office obediently, got on with small jobs and avoided seeing Mr Dunlop or thinking about the stately homes project. Paul neither came into the office nor rang. She guessed he was waiting for her to make up her mind, but she felt drained, unable to confront the issue, as if she hoped some external circumstance would resolve it for her once and for all.
Then on Friday morning, Paul's voice came on the telephone. There was no preliminary greeting, no identification, simply a curt, 'I gather you've given up.'
His anger held a bitter edge of contempt. It made her blood rise and without thinking, she answered coolly, 'What makes you think that?'
There was a tense silence in which she could feel the receiver growing hot in her hand. She had a fleeting image of Paul flinging a well-stuffed cushion across his study, and she held back a nervous giggle.
'Miss Harrow, will you kindly stop playing around. This is not a game.' The controlled rage in his voice made him enunciate with slow distinctness. Each word seemed to bear a veiled threat.
Lynda countered it. 'You did, I believe, say you would contact me. I didn't want to intrude on you in your illness.' She paused, as surprised at her own audacity as he was, or so his silence seemed to convey.
'Paul?' she stilled the tremor in her voice as she said his name, softly now. 'I will do it—at least, I'll have another go. If you still want me to, that is…'
She waited for reassurance. None came, only a gruff, 'Right, then. We start tomorrow. One of our clients wants to meet the designer on the project. It means a day with him in his country home. And bring a change of clothes—there's a party in the evening. I'll pick you up at ten.'
He rang off without waiting for a reply.
For a moment, Lynda felt herself reeling under the impact. Now she was in for it! How would she face Paul, let alone a wealthy client, for a
full day? She got up a little shakily. She had to move, somehow rid herself of the cloud of anxiety she could feel descending.
It was too early for lunch, so she walked unsteadily towards the ladies, splashed cold water on her face and gazed at herself sternly in the mirror. 'Lynda Harrow,' she pronounced to herself in Paul's voice, 'stop playing games and get to work.'
She made herself smile confidently, marched back to her desk and took out the stately homes folder. As she opened it, every word of criticism Paul had uttered about her drawings came back to her mind. She took a deep breath. Here I go, she said encouragingly to herself.
On Saturday morning Lynda woke early and with a sense of bubbling excitement. She bathed and washed her hair quickly, smiling as she reflected on her own gleeful energy.
'Little country girl's big day out,' David would have said with a touch of wicked irony in his voice.
And she replied to his image, 'Well, I might as well make the best of it. It may never happen again.'
She brushed her long thick hair dry until it shone with an inner brilliance. For once, her reflection in the small mirror pleased her. The large eyes were full of a liquid sparkle, the skin glowed with health. She applied a touch of gloss to her lips, and, to celebrate the specialness of the occasion, some mascara to her long curly lashes.
Only when she looked through her wardrobe did she feel a momentary anxiety. What on earth should she wear, let alone bring with her for the evening's party? She rummaged through her clothes, finally pulling on a pair of grey trousers and a silky white shirt which brought out the rich dark texture of her hair. With her cord jacket, it would have to do.
As she took her best black dress out of the wardrobe, she suddenly remembered that she had been meant to go out with Robert that evening. The dress had reminded her. Oh, my God, Lynda thought, I'd better ring him quickly!
She moved to telephone, but just then the doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch. It was exactly ten o'clock. He would be punctual, Lynda grimaced. She smoothed her shirt and opened the door.
Paul's shoulders filled the doorway. Lynda looked up to meet his eyes and a shudder ran through her. His gaze seemed to fall on her remorselessly, and she turned away, covering her nervousness with a polite, 'Come in.'
'Am I too early?' he asked, echoing her politeness.
'No, no. But I'm afraid I'm not quite ready. Can you give me a minute?'
He nodded and she moved to write a note for Tricia. Tricia would have to make her apologies to Robert. The complications this might involve suddenly occurred to her, but there was little choice.
She couldn't face phoning Robert with Paul standing over her.
She glanced at him from under her lashes as she scrawled a few lines. He was wearing a beautifully cut tawny leather jacket which hugged his broad shoulders and fell loosely over his narrow hips and trim brown trousers. As he reached for his cigarettes, she could see a pullover striped in autumnal rusts and gold over a dark green shirt.
He caught her look and returned it with a cool appraisal that made her lose track of her thoughts. Then, taking a long puff of his cigarette, he got up casually, moving from object to object in the room. Each of his movements seemed to charge the air with a current, making the atmosphere so dense that there was no air left for her to breathe.
Lynda broke the silence, seeking to regain her composure. 'I still have to get a few things. Would you like some coffee while you wait? I won't be long.' Her voice sounded oddly muffled.
'No, thanks, I've already had too much,' and without asking, he followed her into the bedroom and watched her reach for her small overnight bag.
Lynda felt awkward, cramped by his looming presence in the small room. He sat down on her unmade bed and fingered the dress she had laid out. She felt it as a caress.
'Lynda,' and he said it caressingly, gently, 'is this the dress you're taking?'
She nodded.
'Now, don't get huffy, but you know, it simply won't do.' He reached for her hand. She tried to draw it away, but his grasp was too firm and he pulled her towards the bed, making her sit next to him. She trembled slightly and forced herself to sit bolt upright. He let her hand drop, then with a sardonic gleam in his eyes, he stood up to his full height.
'Miss Harrow,' he said in a mock-businesslike tone, 'Dunlop Associates insists that its staff be suitably attired for meeting prize clients.' He smiled a wide pleasant smile that brought out the blue in his eyes. 'We are now going to buy you a dress appropriate to impressing clients. Lechery should not be discounted in these transactions.' He glanced at his watch. 'We have half an hour to play with.'
Lynda didn't quite know whether she was embarrassed at his suggestion or relieved at his change of tone. She simply allowed herself to be led.
Paul took her to a small boutique she had never been to before. Its elegance frightened her somewhat. He was completely at his ease and the shop assistants treated him familiarly. Lynda glanced at him suspiciously as he moved towards a rack which held several long dresses and deftly pulled out a creamy silk concoction with simple lines and a deep cleft at the bosom.
'Here, try that,' he said.
She obeyed, and as she pulled it over her shoulders suddenly remembered. Vanessa, of course—he must shop here with her. The thought brought back her perspective of herself. Business, is it? Well, I'll show him! Two can play at the impressing clients game.
She smoothed the dress and glanced at herself in the mirror. It was perfect. How had he known? The dress moulded the fulness of her bosom, fell gracefully over her hips, brought out the striking darkness of her hair. She walked out of the dressing room to confront him, and he eyed her critically.
'That'll do,' he said. 'Now try this and if it fits, keep it on.' He passed a metallic blue jump-suit to her.
Lynda tried it on, knowing that she would never have dared buy anything like this for herself. It made her feel like the heroine of a spy thriller. But the suit fitted perfectly, shimmering just a little as she moved, and she delighted in the slightly rakish air it gave her. She glanced at the price tag and groaned, 'A week's salary!' But she left it on, in keeping with orders, and emerged smiling from the dressing room.
'Good, good,' said Paul, looking her up and down. 'And it matches your jacket perfectly. Now for some evening shoes.'
The assistant brought over several pairs in her size and Lynda quickly selected a high-heeled slipper with an ankle-strap. Paul's cool gaze was beginning to make her feel like a piece of merchandise, and watching the composed set of his shoulders as he paid the bill, she grew increasingly irritated.
When the shop door had closed smoothly behind them, her eyes flashed.
'Do I get overtime seduction pay for wearing these?' she hurled at him.
He unlocked the car door and looked down at her angrily. 'Don't be silly, woman.' Then suddenly his tone was gentle. 'Relax, Lynda, will you?'
His gentleness filled her with remorse. As he manoeuvred the car through the busy streets, she said, 'I'll pay for the clothes, but it'll take me a while.'
'Just do your work well, Lynda, and that will be payment enough. It's a big contract.'
The word 'work' rang ambiguously in her ears. Was he referring to her drawings, or something else? She moved round uncomfortably in her seat.
Paul put a cassette into the car radio and the strains of Walton's Second Symphony enveloped her.
She sank deeply into the car cushions, stretching her legs luxuriously in front of her. It was one of her favourite pieces of dream music, and she let the ebb and flow of the instruments carry her where they would.
When she became aware of her surroundings once again, they were well into the countryside. She could hear Paul's voice as if from a great distance. 'Lynda, Lynda are you asleep?' He sounded irritated. 'I've been talking to you for a good five minutes, with no response!'
'I'm sorry,' she sat up abruptly.
'Well, we'll be there soon and I'd better prepare you a little. Do you want to sto
p and stretch your legs?'
She nodded, and after a few minutes he pulled off the main road into a small country lane. Then he mumbled almost under his breath, 'I can't quite resist this,' and drove along for a few more minutes until Lynda could see an old manor house nestled into the side of a gentle slope.
He stopped the car and they both got out. He pointed towards the house.
'I used to live there as a child.'
'It's idyllic,' Lynda breathed. 'You're very lucky.' She paused and turned towards him. 'Whom does it belong to now?'
He shrugged his shoulders grimly. 'Not to me, in any case.'
Lynda wasn't sure whether to pursue the topic, but she was curious now, suddenly realising she knew so little about him. 'When did you leave here?'
'When my father died. I was packed off to boarding school.' He spoke tersely as if not wishing to remember.
They walked a little more and Paul chuckled.
'Then a year later my dear dotty mum decided she was going to travel through Africa. She did, for six months, and ended up by giving all her money to various missionary centres. She came back to find that she had very little left except the house. She died a few years later. For the best, no doubt. The house went to pay off death duties. I was brought up by my grandparents mostly.' He stopped and stared wistfully into the distance, his eyes very blue in the clear light. 'Perhaps if the stately homes project comes off, I'll try to buy it back.'
Lynda wanted to ask a great many more questions, but now he quickened his pace.
'I'd better fill you in on Northrop Shaw. We should be there by now.'
As they drove the remaining miles, Paul briskly gave her details about their host. He was the acting chairman of the consortium interested in the project. It included two French, a British, an American and a German company, and Shaw himself was very keen. He needed little convincing except on small points. It was the American, Stanford Rees, who was the stumbling block and put up the greatest arguments about the scope of the project; was the most worried about budgeting. He might be there today too. Paul wasn't sure. Shaw was charming, and since his wife had left him some two years back, he was particularly susceptible to the charms of young women.