The Sugar Dragon

by Victoria Gordon

‘Then why this great public apology?’ Jennifer seemed unmoved by the flush that her question raised on Verna’s cheeks. ‘Or isn’t he talking to you at all?’

  How true. And how impossible to answer in words alone, Verna thought. ‘I just thought it would be ... easier ... this way,’ was all she could think to reply.

  ‘Well, I sure hope I’m smarter than that when I fall in love,’ Jennifer said somewhat pensively, and Verna recoiled in surprise.

  ‘But I’m not ... that’s quite ridiculous, Jennifer,’ she replied hastily.

  ‘Okay,’ the younger woman replied with careful indifference. ‘Lord, look at the time! I’ll be late for tea.’

  And she leaped to her feet and rushed from the pub, leaving Verna with a half-finished beer and a kaleidoscope of thoughts that seemed to spin unending in her mind.

  She couldn’t possibly be in love with Con Bradley. That was the first thought, and it didn’t last long. Quickly replacing it was the horrifying realisation that Verna was in love with Con. Either that, or so close as to make no difference at all.

  She sat, staring into the amber liquid and trying to rationalise her feelings. Certainly her carefully written apology was no more than an honest attempt to show her admission that he’d been right about the column all along, she thought. But it couldn’t be denied that what bothered her most wasn’t his disapproval of her professional attitudes. That was deserved, but it was a secondary consideration.

  What really hurt was his condemnation of her as a woman. And that credibility she’d destroyed irrevocably.

  Verna thought about it all the way home, and long into the night as she tossed and turned in a restless half-sleep that brought her into Wednesday morning more tired than when she’d gone to bed.

  Her apprehension about how Con would react to the interference with his column was overshadowed by her bitter realisation that she did love him, and that it wasn’t going to do her a bit of good.

  She picked up her copy of the paper on the way into the building, and upon reaching her desk she quickly skimmed through it, relieved that the ‘Bib’n’Tucker’ column was free of typographical errors, and that her dragon sketch looked quite appropriate to the text.

  During the day, she was the subject of various smart remarks from staff throughout the building, and she managed to laugh and joke in return. She didn’t care what anybody else thought of the column today; all that mattered was the reaction from its proper author, and every time her telephone rang she had to mentally prepare herself for his comments.

  But Con didn’t telephone her that day, nor the next or the next or the next. And although she made a special point of being home throughout the weekend, dreaming he might possibly show up in person, he didn’t do that either. By noon the next Monday, Verna was a nervous wreck. She’d left space for the column, but she had absolutely no idea whether she’d get another one or not, and she realised that she’d never be able to contrive one of her own without deliberately going out for dinner alone that night to get the information she’d need.

  And as noon approached, she found herself admitting she simply didn’t have the nerve to stay in the office through lunch and see if Con would deliver the copy she so desperately required. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t possibly meet those ice-chip eyes and feel her bones melt with the urge to throw herself into his arms.

  At eleven forty-five, she fled the office and went to hide in the pub next door, ignoring the taunts of surprised workers from the back shop who had adjourned early for their own liquid lunches. It was all Verna could manage just to sit quietly and sip slowly at a cold beer while her mind imagined all sorts of horrible possibilities.

  The easiest would be if he didn’t bring her any copy at all. At least she could explain that to Reg Williamson and Garry Fisher. They wouldn’t like it, but at least it would take the pressure off Verna herself for the moment. Admittedly, she’d have to explain to the publisher that it was her fault Con had given away the agreement, but she’d face that reality when it arrived. If Con provided another straight column, she didn’t know what she’d do. She didn’t think she had the nerve to try another rewrite.

  ‘You can come back to the office now; he’s been and gone,’ said Jennifer’s voice, and Verna turned to find her young journalist looking at her with undisguised amusement.

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ Jennifer replied to the unspoken question. ‘But he looked sort of ... pleased with himself, I guess you’d say. Although maybe that’s not such a crash-hot sign, from your viewpoint.’

  Verna didn’t answer as she strode swiftly back toward the office with Jennifer scurrying at her heels. Her one thought was to see what Con had written, despite her confessed fear that it wouldn’t be guaranteed to please her.

  Jennifer sat quietly at her own desk and watched as Verna ripped open the familiar envelope and began to read, her eyes racing over the page as her heart leaped with growing pleasure and amazement. She finished reading, laid the copy on the desk, then abruptly picked it up and read it again. It was still unbelievable.

  Her columnist, typing, (he said) with the one finger that had healed so far, humbly begged forgiveness from Her Ladyship, then went on to make her sound even worse than ever. The activities of ‘old-sulphur-snout’ and ‘brimstone-breath’ while allegedly dining at the Regatta Room were enough, he said, to have her barred for ever from civilised eating establishments.

  Even worse was his description of her ‘jealous’ assault on an exceptionally luscious waitress who dared to look upon the poor injured columnist with a glint of pleasant lust in her eye.

  It was an awesome attack on Dragon Lady the Editor, and Verna loved it. She sighed with a relief she wouldn’t have ever believed possible. Her public apology had been accepted. In public ... but what could she read into the fact that Con had deliberately avoided staying to face her on her return?

  Nothing! She flogged herself mentally for even thinking of it. The first and most important step in the reconciliation had been accomplished, and Con’s acceptance of her professional apology was enough. To expect more, or even think of it would only re-open the wounds, and Verna didn’t think she could handle that.

  If she could get through the next few months, reading his column every week and knowing he’d accepted that one apology, it would be enough. Even if she never saw him again, although the thought of that sent shivers of hurt through her system.

  And yet, while she could apologise in print for her attitude towards his writing, she couldn’t use her paper to do the same thing about her assault on his body. And she couldn’t imagine herself being given the opportunity to do it in person, even if she could find the words.

  "Can I read it now?’ Jennifer asked her cautiously, and Verna passed over the copy with a grin.

  ‘You’ll love this one,’ she told the girl. ‘Dragon Lady lives again, with a vengeance!’ And when Jennifer laughed and chuckled her way through reading the column, Verna took an unexpected delight in sharing the younger girl’s attitude of happiness.

  She reached out to crumple the envelope and dispose of it, and thanked her lucky stars for whatever impulse caused her to peer inside before she did so. Because the column hadn’t been alone in the envelope; another piece of paper had been tucked in with it, and Verna felt her heart give a curious little lurch as she eased her fingertips inside to free it.

  What emerged was her own little dragon cartoon of the week before, but where her drawing had the little stick man fleeing for his life, this one had him with his arms clasped about the lady dragon’s neck, obviously giving her a great smacking kiss.

  Verna blushed with pleasure at the little shivers of anticipation that shot through her when she looked at the cartoon. Perhaps there was a chance after all that Con would accept all of her apologies, she thought, her heart racing feverishly at the possibility. Or was there some other message here? Shaking her head in fond comfort, she rejected that possibility in favour of the far more pleasant dream that at least
maybe he didn’t hate her after all.

  She was quite unaware of the revealing look on her face when she showed the cartoon to Jennifer before adding it to the layout for that week’s paper, but Verna wasn’t quite so lost in her own happiness that she’d miss the girl’s laughing response.

  1 thought he looked awfully smug about something,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad for you, I really am. Only ... couldn’t you two find an easier way of getting it together? This thing is starting to shape up like a mail-order romance, or something.’

  Both of them laughed at the suggestion, but Verna’s laugh was loudest of all. She didn’t care how they got back on speaking terms, just so long as it happened.

  Verna’s mood of luxurious happiness lasted throughout that day and the next, but when she’d heard nothing more from Con by Wednesday, she began to find it difficult to maintain her buoyant spirits. Maybe he was waiting to see if she’d print the cartoon, she told herself. Or maybe he was just busy with his writing or something. But by Thursday even that excuse seemed terribly, frighteningly fragile.

  She went through the weekend in a daze of mingled emotions, angry with herself, angry with him, sorry for herself and drowning in frustration. She haunted the beach where they’d first met, but to no avail. By Monday she was in a temper so foul even his expected column wouldn’t be enough to snap her out of it.

  Young Dave quite deliberately made himself scarce, chasing up all manner of nebulous sports stories in a bid to avoid the office, and Verna’s temper, as much as he could. Jennifer was sneakier, but no less determined to resolve the problem, as Verna found before the morning was out.

  It was Jennifer’s turn once again to cope with the lunch-hour office duty, and when she left on an assignment at eleven, Jennifer promised to return in time to let Verna get away before noon. A false promise, Verna thought to herself as the minutes ticked away and she realised she’d be alone to face Con’s arrival.

  Alone. The thought of it terrified her. She could have faced meeting him again with Jennifer on hand, and had actually considered staying with that in mind, but to meet him alone suddenly seemed an impossible task. Gone was the loneliness and lovesick frustration that had made her wander the beaches all weekend; as noon drew closer she felt only a growing apprehension.

  She felt the bustle of activity in the building as everybody went off to lunch, but instead of hunger she felt only a huge lump of dread in her stomach. The clock seemed to shift into slow motion, ticking over the minutes like hours as she sat silent, unable to work, unable even to read the paperback she kept in her desk for whatever spare minutes she had during the day.

  Five past twelve; the clock must have stopped, she thought. Ten past; perhaps he wasn’t coming after all. A quarter past; surely he wasn’t coming. Twenty past; she was planning a suitable revenge on Jennifer, who would be certain to have an unshakeable excuse. And by twelve- thirty, Verna couldn’t take any more. The phone hadn’t rung, not a soul had come anywhere near the office, and she no longer cared about her rule that it shouldn’t be unattended during the lunch hour.

  Grabbing up her handbag, she walked quickly around the desk and through the door, reaching behind her to grab at the doorhandle to close it after her. Head down, she was plunging forward when a pair of soft leather loafers appeared in her vision.

  As she raised her eyes, slowly and with growing apprehension, she was conscious of the gleaming white stockings, the tanned, muscular legs merging into cream-coloured shorts and shirt, and finally the pale blue eyes that regarded her steadily but with an unreadable expression.

  ‘Bit late for you to be going for lunch, isn’t it?’ rumbled that familiar deep voice. ‘And leaving the place unattended as well?’

  ‘No, not really ... Jennifer should have …’Verna was stammering, quite unable to get her words together properly, when Con handed over his envelope.

  Their fingers met as she reached out for it, and she instinctively recoiled from his touch as it seemed to burn right through her hand. The envelope fluttered to the floor, and Con dipped forward to retrieve it.

  ‘Shall we try that again?’ he asked with a droll grin, his eyes roving over her body with an easy familiarity that brought every nerve alive in Verna’s slender figure.

  Hastily, she took the envelope and laid it on her desk, then turned to face him again, hoping he couldn’t see how much she was trembling.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then fear took over again. ‘I …I really must go,’ she blurted, shifting to try and pass where his tall frame blocked the doorway. Con didn’t move.

  ‘Aren’t you even going to read it?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be just fine, I’m sure,’ she replied. ‘Listen, I really must go. I’m late already.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’ He asked it gently, but the expression in his eyes told her he knew she was making excuses.

  To ... to the hairdresser,’ she replied hastily, reaching up to touch the knot of reddish-gold hair. ‘I’m getting it cut, you see. It’s much too long for this heat, I find.’

  ‘Oh, come now. You can do better than that,’ he said, and grinned ... an evil, knowing grin.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Verna knew very well what he meant, but she wasn’t going to admit it. All she wanted was to get herself away from his demoralising presence, before she did or said something utterly stupid.

  ‘I mean you’re not getting your hair cut, and you know it as well as I do,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you just admit you’re afraid to be alone with me — even in your own office — and be done with it?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she lied. ‘Why should I be?’

  Con shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Why are you?’ Then he grinned wolfishly. ‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I might ask you to apologise personally, I suppose.’

  ‘For what?’ Verna tried to look highly indignant, and knew she was failing miserably.

  ‘Oh, for rewriting my column, among other things, although I win admit you did a splendid job under the circumstances.’ He paused, obviously waiting, and Verna finally nodded and whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And then of course there’s the matter of trying to carve me up for dinner, or had you forgotten that?’

  Forgotten! How could he possibly expect her to forget the most despicable act of her entire life? she wondered, trembling visibly at the memory.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, and yes, I am very sorry about it,’ she said, and then wondered at how easily it came out.

  ‘Good, because I haven’t forgotten it either,’ he replied grimly.

  ‘Or forgiven,’ she whispered, as much to herself as anything else. The chill in his pale eyes had suddenly unnerved her, and her legs began to tremble under her.

  ‘Do you really think you deserve to be forgiven?’ he asked, raising one dark eyebrow with the question.

  ‘Probably not,’ she whispered so softly that he didn’t quite hear her.

  ‘What?’ His voice seemed to roar into her guilt-alerted ears.

  ‘I said probably not,’ she answered, more loudly this time.

  ‘Awfully hard on yourself, aren’t you? Or did you really mean to chop me up with that knife?’

  ‘Of course not! I just grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on and that ... it ...’ Verna couldn’t continue; the vision of herself laying about with die dangerous, shining blade reared up inside her like a spectre.

  ‘Good thing it wasn’t an axe, then, isn’t it?’ Con’s eyes were flashing to match her own, but there was a glint of humour there.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Verna replied frankly, then fumbled to a halt, uncertain what else to say.

  ‘What time’s your appointment?’

  The question took her totally by surprise, and she didn’t even know what he was talking about. ‘What appointment?’ she asked wonderingly, then flushed with embarrassment as she realised how easily he’d tricked her.

  ‘Just as well,
’ Con muttered almost to himself. ‘Bad enough you’ve got to wear such lovely hair in such a frumpy damned style, without cutting it all off.’ He reached out to brush his fingers against the top-knot, and Verna shied away from his movement.

  ‘Hmm, touchy, aren’t we? I pity the hairdresser if you react that way,’ he laughed. ‘But seriously, you’re not going to cut it?’

  ‘Well, not today,’ she admitted bashfully. ‘But I have been thinking of it. It’s awfully hot when it’s this long. Which is why I wear it in this frumpy style; it keeps if off my neck at least.’

  Her brief flash of rebellion was wasted. Con just stood silently, toying with his fingers along the edges of her fringe. ‘Don’t cut it,’ he said, very bluntly.

  ‘I will if I choose,’ Verna retorted, surprised at the harshness of his command.

  Con’s hand dropped to his side and he looked at her with a strange grin on his face. Your choice,’ he shrugged, ‘but I might not love you any more.’

  That was far too close to the mark for Verna’s taste, but she didn’t dare let him see just how close. ‘Hardly significant, if you’d only love me for my hair,’ she retorted with a shake of her head. ‘And besides, you might like me with it short. Maybe being cool and comfortable would improve my disposition,’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything doing that,’ he replied with lifted eyebrows, ‘although lunch might help. You will join me, I hope?’

  Verna immediately began to phrase a careful reply about leaving the office unattended, then thought better of it as she realised how silly it would sound. Still, the thought of dining with this man gave her the cold shivers; he simply had too much power over her.

  ‘Really I’d like to, but I’m afraid there isn’t the time,’ she replied gracefully. ‘There’s just so much to do on a Monday; I’ll have to get your column edited, for one thing, and ...’

  1 can take the hint,’ he interrupted with a brusque gesture. ‘So I’ll get out of here and let you work. That way you’ll have no excuse at all for not joining me for dinner.’

  Verna started to object, but Con interrupted before she even began. ‘And since it’s the night before deadline you’ll have to be home to bed early, which will suit me just fine,’ he continued. ‘I’ll pick you up at six-thirty, which even gives you time to feed my favourite dog.’