Devil in Disguise

by Jessica Steele

  Her thoughts getting on top of her, Clare left her room. In the hall she put on her coat, then went into the kitchen in search of her mother.

  'Going out, love?' Ruth Harper asked, seeing her dressed in her outdoor things.

  'I'm—er—a Christmas card short. I thought I'd go to the village—anything I can get you?'

  Why she had said that Clare had no idea as, armed with a small shopping list and a shopping basket, she walked out of the gate. She had never had to make excuses to her family before. She saw then that being in love had made her far more vulnerable than ever before, made her sensitive to even the smallest enquiry of 'Going out, love?'

  Her face was flushed by the time she reached the village post office, but it wasn't from the exhilarationof the half-mile walk. Timid for so long, she knew the need to be bold had come to her. She had just spent one year-long week in gathering her courage together. Now she knew what she was going to do. That lie about needing a Christmas card had given her the idea.

  Inside the post office she purchased a Christmas card, having had no such intention when she had closed the garden gate. The card depicted a snow-covered, typically English scene and she took it with her when she went to sit on a bench in the bus shelter.

  For long moments she stared in front of her, then removing the cellophane wrapping from the card, she took her pen from her shoulder bag, and using the bag for something to bear on she leant over and wrote, 'With love, Clare.'

  Quickly now in case her courage deserted her, she wrote Lazar's name and the address of the villa on the envelope, popped the card inside and sealed it urgently, hurrying back to the post office with her insides churning as she waited for the postmistress to tell her how much the postage was to Greece.

  Long, agonising days followed, days when she found a hundred and one things to cause her anxiety. Would her card get there? Had she addressed it correctly? Would Lazar be at the villa to receive it? Perhaps he only ever went there in the summer? What would he think if he did get it, did open it? Would he think her 'With love, Clare' was just the free and easy way English girls went on? Or, as she was hoping, if he did love her, would he have learnt enough about her to know that that was not her way?

  She was certain of nothing on those days, apart from one thing. She had no regrets in having done what she had. If she never heard from Lazar again, then at least she had had the courage to do something constructive in finding out one way or another if she meant anything to him.

  Clare awoke on Christmas Eve morning, her anticipation in waiting for the postman dimmed. Lazar had had time now to send her a card in return, but nothing had arrived. She was more quiet than usual when she went downstairs to join her mother, the men in the family having gone off early that morning proclaiming that they were busy at the office since they were having an extra day off at the other end of the holiday. Lazar didn't love her, she knew that now. Her pride had been battered into the ground, and she had no idea how she was going to keep her family from knowing she was bleeding inside on this festive occasion.

  It was a death knoll blow to all her hopes when the postman, late because of his Christmas deliveries, finally arrived, to hear her mother say, 'Nothing for you, love,' as she inspected the writing on the envelopes in -her hand. She had told herself that if there wasn't anything in the post for her this morning, then she could put everything down to her imaginings.

  'Coffee, Mum?' she enquired in an attempt to appear as if she hadn't been expecting anything.

  'We'll have it in the ...' Her mother's reply was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. 'I'll get it,' she said, being the nearest to the hall.

  Clare put the kettle to boil, having not much interest in who was calling. She wouldn't make the coffee until her mother had finished, though, in case it was Chloe Rattenbury. Her mother could be on the phone for half an hour...

  'It wasn't Mrs Rattenbury,' she said, attempting to tease when her mother came into the kitchen. Thenshe noticed she was wearing a slightly puzzled expression. 'What's the matter?'

  'The call's for you. He's holding on,' her mother replied.

  'He ...' Clare whispered, hope soaring ridiculously. 'I'm not sure,' Ruth Harper said slowly, 'but I think he has just a touch of a foreign accent.'

  The cup and saucer Clare was holding crashed unheeded to the floor, tears springing to her eyes. 'Oh, Mum!' she choked, and that was all. Then she was streaking out into the hall.

  'Lazar,' she said huskily down the phone; it was unthinkable that it should be anyone else—fate wouldn't be so cruel. No answer came, and she was terrified she had kept him waiting too long and he had hung up. And then his voice came, and tears were streaming down her face and she felt so weak she just had to sit down on the bench adjoining the telephone table.

  'I have just arrived at the villa,' he said, his voice stiff, the sound coming through as clear as a bell as she realised he was phoning her from Greece. Then bluntly, getting straight to the point, 'Did you mean what you said on your card?'

  A dryness was attacking her throat, making speech difficult. She swallowed painfully. 'Yes,' she said, then, frightened he hadn't heard, for all she was having no trouble hearing him, 'Yes, I did,' she said more loudly.

  Her words were answered with an agonising silence. She wished she could see his face. Then he said two short words, as stiff and unbending as when he had first spoken.

  'Prove it,' he said.

  'Prove it?' How was she to prove it? Didn't he believe her? And then he was further scattering all her senses by saying slowly, and deliberately so she shouldn't misunderstand him at all:

  'A car will arrive for you in about an hour from now. The chauffeur will have instructions to take you to the airport where a plane will be waiting for you.'

  He must have heard her gasp of astonishment, she thought, for his voice had dipped at the end as though he was having a hard time controlling it, and while all she could do was grip tightly on to the phone, shaken to the very core, his voice came again, fully controlled as he said slowly:

  'Spend your Christmas with me.'

  Robbed of speech, her vision blinded, Clare could only sit there, unable to take it in. Was this happening? Was this really happening that Lazar was asking her to ... Apparently he had tired of waiting for her answer, for as not one word would leave her throat, his voice came again, roughly this time:

  'Will you, Clare?'

  And suddenly she was terrified in case he would hang up if she couldn't find her voice, and mindless of the family complications, nothing important any more save giving him his answer, she fought to unlock her paralysed vocal cords.

  'Yes, Lazar—I will,' she said, and was left holding the telephone as he didn't wait to hear any more, but hung up.

  For long seconds she sat stunned, holding the phone in her hand, going over every word he had spoken. Then, galvanised into action as she heard him say again, 'A car will arrive for you in about an hour from now,' she crashed the receiver back on its rest and went tearing into the kitchen to find her mother clearingaway broken remains of crockery and had only the vaguest of recollections that she was responsible for the breakage.

  `Mum,' she said, tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks. 'Oh, Mum, I'm going to Greece for Christmas! '

  'Greece!' Ruth Harper was astounded as she promptly put dustpan and brush down, her face showing shock and bewilderment. 'Clare, you ...'

  'Please, Mum,' begged Clare, going over to her and pulling at her hands until they were sitting facing each other on kitchen chairs, 'I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but—but please hear what I have to say before you try and stop me.'

  Ten minutes later her mother was sitting looking as stunned as Clare had first felt. Considering it would take up too much time to explain how Lazar had collected her from this very house and why, Clare let her mother believe she had met Lazar on her holiday in Greece.

  'You've certainly changed since you came back from that holiday,' Mrs Harper said at las
t. 'We've all noticed it. I was telling your Aunt Katy about you the other day and she said the time had come to let you make your own decisions, but—but Greece!' She broke off to ask, 'Aren't you—afraid of this man?'

  'I love him, Mum. With Lazar I'm afraid of nothing.'

  Ruth Harper thought about that for a moment, seeing from her daughter's lovely shining eyes the truth of that statement, and yet she couldn't cut out the constant vigil she had kept over her for the last five years just like that.

  'You say Kit has met him.'

  'Yes.'

  `Then let Kit go with you. I can phone him at the ...'

  'No, Mum.' Clare smiled gently at her. `You, Dad and the boys have been wonderful to me, and I'm so grateful. But this is something I have to do on my own. Don't you see that Lazar, knowing all about me, won't truly believe I fear nothing from him unless I go alone?'

  'He loves you—this Lazar?'

  Clare wished she could say yes. 'I don't know,' she answered, `But I have to go to him, Mum.'

  Seeing her determination, perhaps seeing some of her own determination she had handed down, Ruth Harper got to her feet. 'I suppose if I ring your father to get him to come home to talk to you it wouldn't make any difference to your decision to go, would it?' she asked hopefully.

  'No, Mum,' Clare answered quietly.

  'In that case we'd better go and get you packed—only promise me one thing, Clare.' Clare was ready to promise anything. 'Promise to ring us as soon as you can.'

  Dissatisfied with her wardrobe, Clare had never loved her mother more when as she bent over her suitcase she came into the room carrying the dress that had been kept in her wardrobe until tomorrow.

  'I expect you'll want to wear your Christmas present to travel in,' she said.

  Sitting, the sole passenger in the executive jet, Clare had to pinch herself to believe it had all happened. Here she was in her lovely red dress, having hugged her mother goodbye and trying not to see the tears in her eyes lest her own tears should start again. She had been chauffeur-driven to the airport and—she checked her watch—in about an hour from now she would beseeing Lazar. Her insides trembled, but try as she might she could think up no words of greeting that wouldn't sound stilted and not at all what she wanted to say.

  Disappointment hit her that Lazar was not at the airport in Thessaloniki to meet her, though she overrode her disappointment and beamed a smile at Rasmus when he, recognising her first, came to relieve her of her case.

  In the car she realised she needed the extra time it would take to get to the villa to get herself under control. She was shaking like a leaf, must try and stop wondering what was going to happen. A terrible thought smote her. What if Lazar thought she had been angling for an invitation to stay at the villa for Christmas when she had sent him that Christmas card? What if he had invited her for no other reason than that he believed he still owed her something? Oh God, what a time to start getting ideas like that, she thought, trying to remember he had asked her to prove she had meant the 'With love' she had written.

  But by the time Rasmus had turned down the drive to the villa, she was so confused she wasn't sure of anything any more, save wondering if she was wise to have come at all.

  It was on shaky legs that she got out of the car. Rasmus stayed by her side until they were in the hall, and then as though sensing her nervousness since there was still no sign of Lazar—yet he must have heard the car, it was so peaceful and quiet here—he said, 'To salóni,' and she knew then when Rasmus turned and left her, it was in the salóni she would find Lazar.

  Her hand on the door handle, she had to give a cough to clear her throat, then slowly she turned the handle and pushed the door inwards.

  Lazar dominated the room; the room ceased to exist for her as her eyes went straight to him. An overwhelming shyness was constricting her throat as she stood there just inside the door. He was on his feet, a caged look about him as though it was some time since he had sat down. He was dressed all in black but no longer looked like the devil she had once feared. He was as she remembered him—yet not so. Never had he looked so gaunt, so—so as if life had not treated him kindly this past four months.

  Her voice frozen, she wanted to rush over to him, to hold him in her arms, to have his arms that did fit, holding her. But the longer she stood there not saying a word, the more taut the expression on his face became, forbidding almost, as in turn those dark eyes searched her face.

  In the end it was Lazar who spoke first. `You came alone?' he enquired stiffly.

  `I—Mother wanted Kit to come with me.' She found her voice, hating that it sounded as stiff and as formal as his, and trying her best to find some warmth as she added, `But—but I wanted to come by myself.'

  A look of strain was added to his taut expression. `I did not think you would come,' he said, his voice no warmer than hers for all her efforts.

  `I ...' Clare stopped.

  Oh, this was awful! They were like strangers. Did he feel it too? Worse—did he think of her as a stranger? She chewed at her bottom lip, half way to wishing she had never come. Courage, Clare, she mentally brought herself up short. Have you come all this way just to go crashing—running—at the first hurdle?

  `I—I couldn't have not come,' she said, and miraculously felt the warmth she had been seeking creepinginto her voice, warming the whole of her. And her courage was never higher as she said, though it had to be admitted only just loud enough for him to hear:

  `I love you, Lazar.'

  The words left her without her wishing them back. That was until she saw a flush of dull colour come up under his skin, watched as he closed his eyes and saw him swallow on the embarrassment she had served him. And then she too changed colour, went red, a fiery red.

  Tears were in her eyes, tears of mortification that she had so misread the situation. `I'm sorry,' she whispered, `I've embarrassed you. I—I never meant to do that. I'll go,' she mumbled, turning, not having the least idea where she would go, but unable to bear the consequences of what she had done.

  'No!' The word ripped from him on a hoarse sound. It had her halting, turning around. `Do not go, Clare,' he said, his tones more even, though she could see he was nowhere near to being the controlled Lazar Vardakas she remembered as his hand lifted to rub along the back of his neck. `Take off your coat—sit down,' he added abstractedly, in direct opposition to her stated intention to leave.

  Confused, lost now to why she should stay after having embarrassed him so, she felt her moment of strength to walk away from him leave her. Perhaps he would forget she had told him she loved him, perhaps —if God was kind—Lazar would allow her to stay just these few Christmas days—she wouldn't ask for more, just to spend a few days with him.

  Knowing she could deny him nothing, slowly she unbuttoned her coat and draped it over a chair. She straightened to see Lazar's eyes going over her fitted dress. At one time such a look would have had her shrinking, folding her arms in front of her, attempting to cover herself. But she didn't flinch away from his gaze and when his eyes returned to her face, she looked back bravely until he indicated that she should be seated in the chair near her. She sat down, observing that he had taken a chair some way away.

  She saw as they sat facing each other that Lazar had gathered his control, looked more like the Lazar she remembered, and that in itself helped her find some self-control of her own. That was until he said gravely:

  'I know it has taken you a lot of courage to come here, Clare, a lot of courage to speak of your feelings for me. You have guessed, of course, that I am heart and soul in love with you ...'

  A strangled cry left her, making him break off what he was about to add, as she made to rise to her feet to go to him.

  'No!' he said sharply, forcing her to stifle her impulsive action. 'Wait to hear what I have to say.' What else was there to say? she wondered, her heart palpitating madly as she fought against tears of ecstatic joy. Lazar loved her! Lazar loved her! Her heart racing, she was compelled by th
e sheer authority of him to stay where she was. Soon she would be in his arms, but first it seemed he felt it necessary to say other things to her.

  He waited only to see that she was comfortably settled back in her chair. 'I have told you of my love for you,' he began, his eyes drinking in her face. 'Indeed, I have been half off my head with love for you,' he confessed, to her growing wonder. 'I need you so much, Clare.'

  He broke off as if trying to choose the right words, words that would not alarm her.

  'Forgive my plain speaking,' he said at last, 'but my need for you, my sweet little one, has a physical side to it that I find difficult to control.' She wanted to cry out to him that she needed him in the same way, but shyness kept her silent. 'You, I know,' he said, his face stern now, 'are terrified of physical love. So how can I marry you when I know myself equally terrified that I shall not be able to keep that physical love out of our marriage?'