‘But it was nothing to do with me,’ Colleen said, genuinely confused. Surely the situation she had witnessed had involved only Burns and the fire-haired woman, and would have been little different without her presence? Or had she been included in that final visual assault? And, if so, then why?
‘And damned lucky for her she realised it,’ he growled savagely, replying, she realised, not really to her but to some inner voice...
The following silence was thicker than ice cream. And colder. But not, thankfully, as long-lasting. Colleen made sure of that!
‘All right, I give in,’ she said with a scowl. ‘I’ll play your little game, under protest. So let’s have it: who was the lady and what’s it all about?’
Devon smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth, and when he replied his attempt at humour was too bleak, too black to really work.
‘Well, I’m not about to say. That was no lady; that was my wife — you can bet on that. Although I dare say the first half mightn’t be far off the mark. I’m just pleased Lucinda didn’t stage one of her ... performances for your benefit, that’s all.’
Performances? I don’t think I quite understand.’
‘Just as well too,’ he said, with a hint of a chuckle that seemed surprisingly genuine. ‘Let’s just say the last time I encountered her in a public situation she created a scene that was highly embarrassing both for me and the lady I was with. I wouldn’t like to even imagine you wearing your sundae, and I’m sure you’d prefer a different image yourself.’
‘Very definitely. Though I can hardly imagine you putting up with such nonsense,’ Colleen replied almost without thinking, but on immediate reflection could quite understand his meaning when he raised an eyebrow and replied.
‘What would you expect me to do? Add to her pleasure by laying a nuisance charge or returning the assault, or...?’ He shrugged. ‘I generally make it a policy to avoid her, but — as tonight — sometimes luck doesn’t work that way.’
He shrugged, almost but not quite casually. ‘Lucinda,’ and again she couldn’t help noticing the way he spat out the word ‘doesn’t always row with both oars in the water. She’s more to be pitied than censored, I suppose, but it’s damned hard sometimes.’
‘You’re saying she’s...’ Colleen couldn’t quite bring out the word ‘insane’’ ‘...disturbed?’
‘There’s a proper technical term for it,’ he replied. ‘Somewhere between manic-depressive and compulsive-obsessive, I think. When she takes her medication and the world goes right for her she can be nice as pie, or so I’m led to believe. But other times…’
‘And this was one of the other times? I mean...?’
‘I am what constitutes the other times, at least too often for comfort,’ he replied. ‘This evening was better than usual, probably because the boy was involved. Whatever else, she can’t be faulted as a mother; again, something I’m told.’
Then he shook his head as if to whip away bad memories like droplets of water from his hair.
‘Look, let’s just leave it there, OK? It’s a long and complicated and rather dreary tale, actually; it doesn’t make decent table talk and it isn’t conducive to the enjoyment of good theatre either. We had comedy planned tonight, not melodrama.’
Which, Colleen realised, explained everything and absolutely nothing. Who was Lucinda, that he couldn’t even utter her name without it emerging tainted from his lips? And who was the child so like Devon Burns as to make that question almost ridiculous? And...
‘But why—?’ She bit off the question, mentally shaking her head at her own stupidity. She didn’t need to know, didn’t want to know. Except, of course, that she did.
Some expression flickered across Burns’ face, but so quickly that she might have been mistaken. He looked down at the empty sundae glass before him — whatever else, the incident hadn’t blunted his appetite — then sighed deeply and looked up at her with eyes that danced icily.
‘Because...’ he said, and his voice was even colder than his eyes. ‘Because darling Lucinda believes exactly what I’m sure you believe, my dear Ms Ferrar. She believes that I am that boy’s father!’
And there he stopped, letting the statement fall to the table between them like a well of ice. But his eyes continued the statement, challenging, provoking, demanding some response from her.
‘What I believe?’ Anger boiled up now, anger caused by the immediate flush of guilt at the accuracy of his comment. In truth she wasn’t absolutely certain what she believed, but the evidence, at least on the surface, was fairly damning, she thought. The boy was his spitting image; the mother surely had some reason for her obvious hatred of Devon Burns, and...
Colleen did her best to hold back her tongue but it was too late.
‘I think you’re getting just a bit carried away, Mr Bums,’ she retorted. ‘A lot carried away, in fact. I can’t see why I should believe anything ... or anybody: you, her, whoever! It’s none of my business for starters, and, for your information, I couldn’t care less!’
‘Ah,’ he said softly, but his eyes said far, far more.
They cast her lie back in her face; he didn’t need to mouth the words.
Then he grinned—a broad grin that didn’t touch his eyes.
‘No sense either confirming or denying it, then,’ he said. ‘So I won’t bother. Time we were away, I think.’
And he was on his feet, a hand extended to help her up, before Colleen could think. Only when she was on her feet, had been gently turned round so that he could remove her bib with fingers that grazed tantalisingly at the nape of her neck, did she realise how adroitly she was being manoeuvred.
She shrugged off his touch, though the feel of his fingers remained on her bare shoulders even as she stalked through the doorway ahead of him, unsure for a moment if she was going to stay with him or search for a cab and give up the entire evening as some sort of bad joke.
The cool evening air brought a breath of sanity, and despite her better judgement she slowed them to let him catch up, and matched his pace as he crossed the square and turned up a narrow alleyway to their left.
~~~
Devon Burns didn’t try to take Colleen’s hand as they made the short journey from the ice-cream parlour to the Princess Theatre, not even when they jaywalked across Brisbane Street to the theatre’s entrance.
She’d probably break my arm or chew my hand off at the wrist, he thought. If looks really could kill I’d be a dead man twice over tonight for sure. Damn Lucinda anyway, he thought with a sudden surge of anger, then thought again, and thanked his lucky stars for whatever he’d done so right that he’d deserved finding Lucinda in one of her less provocative moods! Damn yourself ... It would make more sense, if there was any sense to all of this.
He had only thought of taking Colleen to the ice cream parlour as a lark, and was forced to admit to himself at least a modicum of surprise at how quickly, unexpectedly the whole thing had come off the rails.
Not the first time my so-called sense of humour has got me in trouble, he mused, at the same time glancing sideways in frank appreciation of the beautiful woman walking beside him. But this time ... well, blackmailing her into posing for him had been an impulsive gesture immediately regretted, although not quite so much that he was ready to admit it and retract. Not yet, at least, even if tonight was to have been a sort of beginning.
He’d been certain that she would accept ‘dinner’ at the ice-cream parlour in the spirit in which it had been intended, and he was equally certain now that she had, at least at the beginning. Which was wonderful; it confirmed his first impression that she was not only a fascinating woman but that she had a properly balanced sense of humour into the bargain.
Not that it needed confirming, he thought; anybody who could cope with the introduction that Rooster had given Colleen Ferrar could manage almost anything. And the games she’d played with his answering machine ... well ... a strange way to begin a relationship, but certainly effective.
&nbs
p; But it had all changed now. Explaining Lucinda — and, more importantly, her son — was not going to be an easy task, although it should have been. Would have been if he hadn’t let himself be carried away with the dramatic approach, if he’d just calmly told her the facts and let them speak for themselves.
Colleen Ferrar was neither blind nor stupid; she had dearly noticed the family resemblance and jumped to the obvious conclusions, or was at least headed that way.
Simple enough to explain, he thought. Just not easy. Especially given that, for whatever reasons, he wanted — would have wanted — to make such an explanation to this particular woman at the right time, under the right circumstances, using just the right words.
Well, you blew that one, my lad, he thought as they sat through the comedy like two strangers in adjoining seats, both laughing in the right places, at the right times, but never really together.
And then they walked the long, long walk back to Colleen’s unit, still like strangers, not talking, neither of them even trying to recapture whatever rapport they’d started with.
They said their obligatory farewells like strangers, and Devon Burns walked to his car in an unseasonal chill, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all — his stupidity.
‘Like a blind date gone wrong,’ he muttered as he started the long drive back to Liffey, then laughed bitterly. He had never had a blind date in his life and seriously doubted if Colleen had either.
~~~
Colleen marched straight from front door to bathroom, shedding clothing as she went, conscious only of some inner need to try and wash away the bad taste of the whole thing. It wasn’t until she lay in bed, restless and sure that she would never sleep, that Devon Burns’ caustic remarks began to revolve in her memory like a poor-quality tape recording,
‘She believes that I am that boy’s father!’ he’d said. Colleen mentally rewound, listened again. ‘She believes...’ ‘She believes...’
‘How stupid!’ she cried. ‘What did he mean, “She believes”? Surely she’d either know or she wouldn’t? What was she, I wonder — asleep at the time?’
The more obvious explanation, that he might have been one among many, flickered into consciousness only to be instantly discarded. Whatever else, she knew instinctively that that was not Devon Burns’s style and never had been, not even the six or so years ago when it would have happened. No, she thought, never ... never ... never!
But how, then, to explain the extraordinary resemblance? And, more curiously, the fact that she was somehow certain that Devon Burns had never seen that child before tonight?
‘He hadn’t; I’m positive of it,’ she muttered to herself. ‘But he knew about him; he as much as admitted that!’
She eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep—a sleep haunted by chocolate eyes that hated her and amber eyes that did nothing but confuse and confound her.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘To phone, or not to phone: that is the question.’
Colleen repeated the crude parody of Shakespeare, scowling at herself in the mirror as she did so and wishing that the question was as easy to answer as to pose.
Three weeks had elapsed since what she tried humorously to term the ‘cold-dog’ episode — three weeks in which she had debated regularly whether to try and reach Devon Burns by telephone or not.
‘Not! Definitely not,’ she told herself for the umpteenth time. ‘I don’t care what the glossy mags say is fitting for the modern girl to do — I’m damned well not going to call him first and that’s that!’
Which drew nothing but a puzzled response from her image, along with the comment, ‘But this is business; you’re not phoning for a date, for goodness’ sake.’
Business it might be, but considering her part of that business involved posing nude for his damned mermaid, or siren, or whatever it might turn out to be, Colleen found herself at a definite psychological disadvantage. If she phoned first, it would have the effect of increasing his power in the situation. But what if she didn’t, and if he had already decided to abandon the entire agreement in view of their chilly parting...?
‘Well, I guess I’d just have to find another birthday present for Dad,’ she muttered. ‘Hardly a crisis, that.’
Then she chuckled at herself, half expecting that mirror image to grow a liar’s nose like Pinocchio, admitting to herself that the real issue here had very little to do with business.
Devon Burns still had a clear four months in which to complete, if he was going to, whatever sculpture he chose from the Huon pine she had given him, and she knew instinctively somehow that, having promised, he would do his best.
‘But will he still expect me to keep my side of the bargain?’ she asked the mirror, not for the first time during the three weeks. The answers hadn’t been encouraging. One day she would be convinced that he wouldn’t bother, the next day she’d be positive that he’d enforce the bargain to the letter.
The real problem was deciding — no, she thought, ‘admitting’ was the better word for it — which option she really honestly wanted. Admitting it to herself, at least; she wouldn’t dream of admitting it to Devon Burns.
The fact that he hadn’t phoned did not help. The fact that virtually nobody else had phoned either made it even worse.
‘I give you a proper name, Freda, and see what happens?’ she growled at the silent answering machine. ‘You get all uppity and neglect your work. No, I suppose that isn’t quite fair; maybe you’re just in love.’
A sobering thought, and one that on immediate reflection she preferred to discard.
The weather was generally less than helpful into the bargain. It had rained at least a little bit every single day since his chilly departure from her doorstep. Today was no exception, adding to the forecasts for major flooding of rivers throughout north-eastern Tasmania.
Commentators were dredging up ancient flood records and speculating wildly about the one this spell of rain would create.
Colleen found most of their calculations difficult to follow; since her arrival in Launceston the trip to Devon Burns’ property had been the longest she’d made, and her memory told her that there had been a fair number of bridges involved. There was an idea about the Liffey running into the Meander, which always seemed to get a mention in the flood reports, and the Meander running into ... was it the Macquarie or the South Esk? She didn’t even have a proper map, and that lack suddenly, inexplicably, began to bother her.
‘You’ll take any excuse to get out of working when it isn’t going well,’ she accused the image in the mirror, deliberately attempting to ignore the fact that her work hadn’t been going all that well for nearly three weeks and she knew exactly what the reason was. A quick check of the telephone directory, and five minutes later she was out of the door and splashing happily through the puddles en route to the TASMAP offices in Civic Square.
An hour later she was back, loaded up with maps and touristy pamphlets, all of which landed in a heap on her work table when she entered the flat to find Freda’s Cyclopian red eye winking incessantly, absolutely demanding that she push the message button. Which of course she did, but not without first having to conquer an unexpected and surprisingly strong tremor of apprehension. It could be anyone leaving that message, she thought, but knew it was Devon Burns.
‘Ignatius here,’ said the unmistakable voice. ‘It is now Friday: ten forty-three a.m. precisely. In approximately one hour, if the weather holds, a rather waterlogged human person might be expected to knock upon your door begging to trade lunch somewhere very posh for an hour of your valuable time, to be spent posing for what he euphemistically terms sketching.
‘You’ve heard of it, I’m sure: a lot of lines and doodles signifying absolutely nothing in orderly, technological terms but apparently satisfying to the human psyche. If not, I am certain your delightful Freda will be pleased to explain. Should this bargain be acceptable to Your Reverence, that is. The shortness of notice is, of course, duly apologised for.
‘I am requested to say that should this prove at all inconvenient you are quite at liberty to send the earlier mentioned human person packing without bothering about explanations, et cetera, et cetera. Being a human person of rather pedestrian gastronomic taste, he could undoubtedly be sent to the local hot-dog shop or milk bar with no risk of any stain upon your pristine conscience.
‘There is obviously no logic in attempting to contact this wayward human through my august services today,’ the voice continued, and Colleen fancied that ‘Ignatius’ must by this time be struggling to keep from hysterics; she was! ‘But, of course, I am always open to the blandishments of the buxom and bounteous Freda, whose synapses positively overwhelm my poor self. Oh! Let me hie myself to the cold shower just at the mere thought lest my circuits explode...’
The wail which ended the message echoed one from Colleen as she looked at the clock to see that the predicted arrival of Ignatius’s human person was imminent and that she was hardly dressed appropriately.
‘Or am I?’ she mused, peering into the work mirror. An aged, weary sweatshirt with both elbows missing, jeans that fitted like a second skin but had less elasticity—one knee was gone and the other on the same downhill skid, and both legs were soaked almost to the knees from her playing in the puddles, sneakers in worse shape than the jeans and at least as wet...
Add her distinctly unfashionable coat, Colleen thought. Forget about make-up, throw away the comb—her hair was already in a rough pony-tail— ‘And you’ll do,’ she told the image. ‘You’ll do just splendidly, thank you, and the posher the restaurant the better!’
The image joined in her roar of laughter and then the doorbell rang.
Devon Burns was hardly what she would have called waterlogged. Ravishingly, devilishly handsome, Colleen thought, was a far better description. He was respectably dressed for a very posh lunch, too.
Beguiled and Bedazzled Page 7
