by Joy Wodhams
“Mum? I'll be home later. Can you heat up your dinner? - Yes, I'll have eaten – Well, actually I'm with Rod.” Gabriella held the phone away from her ear. “Really, Mum, it's only a meal, don't read too much – Look, I won't be late – Yes, I know you'll be all right. Bye, Mum.”
She put the phone down with a sigh. Rod certainly had one fan. Her mother was already planning the wedding.
Good smells were drifting into the room from a door at the far end. She wandered towards it, finding Rod looking very large and almost domesticated in the small kitchen.
“Like pasta?” he asked. “Tagliatelle alla Romana, my speciality.”
She wondered how many women he had cooked it for.
“There's some salad in the fridge. Oil and vinegar on the shelf. Cutlery in that drawer.” He followed er to the table with glasses and a bottle of red wine. “Right, ten more minutes.” He slipped a CD into the player and switched it on before returning to the kitchen.
She sat in one of the big feather cushioned armchairs, warmed by the fire, soothed by the heart-stirring melodies of Saint-Saens' Organ Symphony. She was surprised to find herself strangely contented and relaxed. She could almost say she was enjoying herself. Of course, it was only the warm comfortable room, the music …
She woke to the touch of a hand against her hair and opened her eyes to see Rod bending over her.
“It seemed a shame to wake you,” he said., “but I haven't found a way to stop pasta glueing itself together if it's kept waiting.”
“Sorry.” Her cheeks warmed. How long had she slept? How long had he stood there watching her? “It looks good,” she said, stumbling to the table. “Do you enjoy cooking?”
“Sometimes. Just simple things, but most nights I eat out.”
I'm sure you do. Gabriella pictured a gaggle of girlfriends all vying to cook intimate dinners for him.
“Now tell me about Bernard,” Rod demanded when they had finished eating.
“He's an accountant.”
“Yes?”
“We've known each other two years.”
“What's he like?”
She toyed with the last of her coffee, avoiding his intent gaze. “He's – very nice. Quiet. Very dependable. We like the same things. Concerts, walking -”
“Have you slept with him?”
“That's none of your business!”
“Well, when are you planning to marry?”
“We – haven't exactly fixed a date yet. Bernard still has to qualify, but -”
Rod leaned back in his chair. “It sounds as if I'd be doing you a favour by taking you away from him.”
“My God, you're arrogant! How can you possibly judge -?”
“Your eyes don't light up when you talk about him. You don't find him physically attractive – and if you really are planning to marry him, it's for all the wrong reasons.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Shared interests, dependability, country walks – you're looking for a safe haven, not a marriage. What are you frightened of, Gabriella?”
She stared at him and her eyes filled with tears. They came without warning and she turned her head sharply, appalled that he had seen any chink in her armour.
“Hey!” He was on his feet, moving swiftly to her side, guiding her to the big chair beside the fire. “Here, take my handkerchief.” He sat on the arm of the chair and pulled her to him, dabbing with a large gentle hand at her wet eyes.
The embrace felt kind, brotherly. She sighed and let her head droop against his chest. She could hear the slow beat of his heart and the soothing noises his mouth made against her hair. The faint hiss of the gas logs was the only other sound in the room. She sighed again. This might not be the Rod she was accustomed to but he was, oh, so comforting.
“Better?” he asked, tipping her chin gently to his gaze.
She nodded. Reluctantly her eyes met his, seeing a softness in their dark depths that she could almost believe was tenderness.
“Don't marry him, Gabriella. You'd be making a great mistake.”
“I still couldn't marry you.”
“Why not? Am I really such a demon?”
Was he? She searched his face, aware only of tenderness and concern, and wondered if she could, after all, have misjudged him. Confused, she found herself unresisting as he lowered his mouth to hers.
His lips were warm and soft, demanding no more than she was prepared to give, but as they brushed and caressed her own she herself began to exert pressure and her hands involuntarily reached to the thick dark hair, bringing him yet closer. Still cupping her chin, he stroked a thumb across her lips, parting them, and she gave herself up to a melting sensuality that she had not been aware she possessed.
It was Rod who pulled away.
“I hate to break this up,” he murmured, “but I have to go out in an hour and we still have to talk.”
“Talk?” she repeated, dazed.
“About our marriage. About Englands.”
Englands. You bastard!, she whispered silently. The kiss had meant nothing to him.
“Of course,” she said aloud, moving away from him, smoothing her dishevelled hair. She wished that she could palm her hot cheeks but would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had shaken her. “I told you earlier,” she said when at last she had her voice and body under control, “I'm not going to marry you and nothing you say will persuade me otherwise. Or did you think,” she added with a bleak glance, “that a kiss would do the trick?”
“Not at all. But I do believe you've no real intention of marrying your Bernard, and I think you're basically quite a sensible person. You must see the advantages for all concerned if we agree to the terms of Ben's Will and you marry me.”
He waited. “Five years, Gabriella. That's all.”
Five years of Rod. He was ruthless, unscrupulous, he used sex to get his own way, and the tenderness she had seen in his eyes was just another ploy to bend her to his will. Well, she had had few illusions about him before. Now she had none. And that was good, because never again would he be able to get beneath her guard.
Last night she had made her decision. This morning she had reversed it. Was it really just cold feet as Rod had suggested? She thought of the future if she didn't agree to the marriage. Her mother lonely and in pain, waiting interminably to be called into hospital. The burden of debts that never seemed to decrease. Herself alone. Because Rod was right, of course. She couldn't marry Bernard. Not now.
“Very well,,” she said at last. “Let's talk.”
****
Her mother was already in bed when she got home but Gabriella could hear radio voices coming from her room. She popped her head around the door.
“Do you need anything?”
“No, dear. Well, perhaps a cup of Horlicks a little later. But darling, you're so early!” Her face registered a transparent disappointment.
“Rod had an appointment he couldn't change.”
“But you'll be seeing him again? I mean, socially?”
“Actually … I've something to tell you.”
“Yes?” said Mrs Stevens eagerly.
“Rod and I -”
“He hasn't asked you to marry him!”
Gabriella nodded with a mixture of exasperation and relief. Her mother was making it easy for her but it was hard to match her enthusiasm.
“Darling, how wonderful! A whirlwind romance And such a lovely man! But of course, I could see as soon as I met him that you were ideally suited to each other.”
“Really?” Gabriella knew her face was registering disbelief and to hide it she bent to pick up her mother's book which had slipped to the floor. She glanced at the cover, which depicted a dark haired man and a blonde woman clasped in each other's arms. The man bore a remarkable resemblance to Rod.
“Oh, you'll make such a beautiful couple at the wedding,” her mother rushed on. “But I don't think you should wear white, dear, not with your pale skin. Ivory satin and la
ce, perhaps, with pearls in your hair -”
“As a matter of fact,” Gabriella broke in, “we'd like to marry quite soon so we'd prefer not to have a big wedding. We thought – just a quiet registry office ceremony.”
“Oh darling, surely not!” You must marry in church. I've always so looked forward to seeing you walk down the aisle. And you'll remember it all your life, dear.”
Gabriella sighed. She knew it would be difficult enough to make her vows in a registry office setting. In church she would feel a dreadful hypocrite. She imagined even Rod would baulk at the prospect. But her mother would be hurt and disappointed if they refused.
“Well, we'll see,” she said weakly.
“I know why you're saying you don't want a white wedding, darling,” said her mother. “It's the money, isn't it? But we can afford it, Gabriella. When I sold my jewellery I kept back the diamond pendant. It was the most valuable piece your father ever gave me, it must be worth a small fortune now.”
Stunned, it was several seconds before Gabriella could speak. “You mean – Mum, that money would have paid for your operation!”
“Well, perhaps, dear, but I wanted you to have your Big Day when the time came. To me that was far more important.”
Gabriella had to shut her eyes. The room seemed to be swaying around her. She remembered the pendant, a magnificent four carat diamond that her father had brought back from a trip to South Africa, and she thought bitterly of the years she had struggled to keep up the mortgage on the house and to pay the bills. Of how she had agonised over her mother's poor health, constantly nagging their GP and the health authority to get her into hospital, and had sweated to squeeze even more out of her limited income to pay for home help as her mother became increasingly arthritic.Now, in desperation, she had agreed to a sham marriage to a man she couldn't abide.
And it had all been unnecessary. Because all this time her mother -her silly, romantic, stupid! mother – had herself had the means to solve their problems.
“I'll make the Horlicks,” she said. She had to leave the room. She was filled with a sick anger that she didn't dare show.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once again roses awaited her in her office. White roses. She didn't bother to read the message on the card. It hardly mattered any more, she thought bleakly, what inanities Rod thought up and who read them. Too many people already knew about the marriage.
Jenny was not yet at her desk. Gabriella dumped the roses in the wastepaper basket beside it and wrote a brief note asking her to put them in water.
She glanced through her emails and her post, skimming briefly through one or two that required her personal attention. Her eyes burned with weariness. She had scarcely slept.
If only she had told me before, she thought for the thousandth time, and wished that she still had her anger of the previous night to sustain her. But she had found it impossible to remain angry with her mother. Muddled and stupid as her priorities might seem to Gabriella, her mother had sincerely believed she was acting in Gabriella's best interests. And it had cost her dearly to hold on to that pendant when she could have used it to ease her own situation. How could Gabriella throw such a sacrifice back in her face?
All the same, she couldn't bring herself to use the money. Not for her wedding. And certainly not for her mother's operation. No, if she had to marry Rod – and it was too late to back out now – she might as well reap some of the financial benefits right away. She would see Mr Brewster and ask for a loan against Ben's estate.
She stared down at the letter she had been reading and realised that she had torn it into tiny shreds. This wouldn't do. She must pull herself together.
She picked up the production manager's report that she had tossed aside the previous afternoon and willed herself to concentrate.
Half an hour later she laid the report down with a sigh. Ironically, in the three years Rod had been with Englands his success in regaining old customers and getting new orders had only aggravated their production problems. It was becoming more and more difficult to get the goods out on time. Frank Fuller's report was a catalogue of customer complaints but he made no suggestions for improvement.
She wandered to the window and gazed out over the car park. Some of the younger men from the factory were kicking a football around in the loading area. That meant one of the machines had broken down again and the production line was held up. So much of their machinery was old, worn out.
A car, not one she recognised, turned into the car park. She wondered idly who was visiting.
She was dictating replies to the morning's letters when Jenny slipped into her office, closing the door behind her.
Mr Werner's here,” she whispered. “From Kassels.”
Gabriella frowned. “Werner? We weren't expecting him, were we?”
“No. He's awfully angry. Especially about the lads playing football!”
“Oh dear. Bad timing. Well, phone Rod. Mr Werner's his problem.”
“Rod's gone out. Sue doesn't know when he'll be back.”
Dismayed, Gabriella realised that she would have to see Werner herself and immediately. Kassels were Englands' main distributors in Europe and it wouldn't do to keep their senior partner waiting, surprise visit or not. But she didn't relish the meeting. Karl Werner was more than displeased with the firm's deliveries and had been threatening for some months to find alternative suppliers.
“I suppose you'd better bring him in,” she said, “but get Frank up here first.” The production manager was not a diplomat but at least he might have the answers to the German's questions. “And ask Sue to send Rod here at once if and when he comes back. Oh, and bring coffee in about ten minutes – with some of those chocolate wafers,” she added, remembering Werner's sweet tooth.
“Herr Werner!” she said, putting on her best smile when Jenny showed him in. “What a pleasant surprise. Do sit down.”
It was ominous that the German did not take her outstretched hand but nodded curtly. “Good morning, Fraulein Stevens.” His square, usually smiling, face was grim. He spent some time removing and folding his brown leather coat, laying it carefully across a chair, smoothing the sides of his grey-blond hair, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his well cut suit. She guessed that the delay was intended to put her at an early disadvantage.
“You know Mr Fuller, of course,” she said when at last he had accepted a seat at the table.
“Mr Fuller.” Werner nodded again. “I notice your men are again busily at work. In Germany our workers practise their national sports in their own time!”
Gabriella winced. The German was definitely on the attack. Wishing she had had more sleep, she struggled to counter his accusations but it soon became apparent that Werner had already made the decision to change suppliers.
“Promises,” he said, dismissing all her arguments. “Promises and excuses. But still we do not have deliveries. Frankly, Fraulein Stevens, Herr Fuller, this will not do. Our buyers in Germany are accustomed to receive their goods within the month.” He began to replace his papers in his briefcase. “No, Fraulein, your products are excellent but unless we have prompt fulfilment we must look for other suppliers.”
“Herr Werner, I'm sure we can improve on our delivery dates. We've recently moved to two shift working and Mr Fuller will be giving your orders absolute priority.” Gabriella knew she was pleading. “We expect to complete at least ninety per cent of your outstanding orders within the month.”
Werner waved an impatient hand. “Even if you accomplish this miracle – and I am not convinced that you can do this – what of the future? Your past record gives us no confidence. No, Fraulein Stevens, I must tell you that we have – how do you say it here? - we have had it. I regret that our long association must come to an end but we are businessmen and must put our business and our customers in Europe first.”
He was slipping through her fingers. Where, where was Rod? Back to the wall, she would for once have welcomed him with open arms. Frank was no
help. He opened his mouth only to aggravate the German even more.
Well, if Herr Werner was tired of excuses, and she couldn't blame him, she would have to switch tactics.
“Please sit down again, Herr Werner.” She waited until he reluctantly resumed his seat, then leaned forward, holding his gaze.
“Herr Werner, you are right in everything you say. Our record has been atrocious. We've prevaricated, made excuses, let you down on one delivery after another. Frankly, in your shoes I wouldn't have had your patience.” She certainly had his attention now. She moved in swiftly. “But in one way we've never let you down. The quality of our products. We know – and so do you – that they're unbeatable, here or in Europe. If that were not so, Englands would have gone out of business long ago.”
Suddenly over Werner's shoulder she saw Rod standing in the doorway. He was nodding approval and she felt an unexpected warm glow of pleasure.
“We have Ben Englands to thank for that insistence on quality,” she went on, “and although Ben has gone we've no intention of lowering the standards we set. But we must satisfy our customers' other requirements as well. That means an efficient production line and speedy reliable deliveries.”
“You are saying that Englands is at last to recognise the importance of the time factor?” Werner asked drily.
“Some of us have already recognised it.” She felt a twinge of disloyalty to Ben, but Ben was gone and Englands could lose a large slice of its business if Kassels looked elsewhere.
“And how, Fraulein Stevens, do you intend to put these fine new aims into effect?”
She hesitated. She and Rod had met with machine manufacturers, talked to bank managers and produced sheets of figures to justify new investment. Ben had resisted to the end, and with his death their plans had been shelved. She was not at all sure if they were ready yet to put these plans into operation. Or even if they should. She sent a look of appeal at Rod and saw that he was already coming forward.
“Karl! Good to see you. Sorry I wasn't here to meet you – another appointment. Frank, I believe your shift supervisor is looking for you, but thanks for filling in for me. Now then, Karl, why don't we continue this discussion over lunch? I've found an interesting new restaurant, I think you'll enjoy it.” While he talked he was expertly shepherding Werner out of the office. “Gabriella, you'll join us, won't you?”