by Betty Neels
‘You were joking…’
He looked surprised. ‘Good lord, no! It’s the only answer, isn’t it? If Nicky thinks I’m going to marry you, he’ll drop you like a hot brick.’
‘Why?’
‘A number of reasons we don’t need to go into.’
‘You mean just pretend to be engaged until he’s found another girl, or gone off me?’
Oliver’s mouth twitched. ‘Exactly so. It shouldn’t take long,’ he added kindly. ‘We shall have to spend some time in each other’s company, of course, visit my aunt and uncle and allow ourselves to be seen around—we have a number of mutual acquaintances.’
‘I’ll have to tell Mother and Father.’
‘I’m sure they’ll approve.’
The waiter took their plates and offered the menu. ‘Do you like the sound of pancakes filled with raspberries and cream, or a sorbet perhaps?’
‘The pancakes, please. Why should they approve?’ Celine heard her voice, nicely controlled, but if this conversation went on much longer she rather thought she might do something ghastly, like bursting into tears.
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t like the idea of you being pestered.’
‘I don’t like being pestered either,’ she told him with a touch of asperity. She really was on the verge of tears, any moment now she was going to panic.
‘That’s settled, then. You’ll go on working at the clinic, of course?’
‘If you’ll let me. I like it there. I didn’t think I would at first, but now I’m getting used to it…besides, it’s nice to be paid each week.’ She frowned. ‘When we—we break off our engagement, shall I have to leave?’
Oliver’s face was placid, but he had dropped the lids over his dancing eyes. ‘Why should you? We could—er—part in mutual friendliness. Of course you only came to Bethnal Green to get over Nicky, and if you want to return home, you’re free to do so.’
Her lovely face was the picture of dismay. ‘Oh—you want me to leave? I didn’t know…I thought…’
‘Did I say I wanted you to leave? No such thing Celine. You’re proving very useful, you can stay just as long as you want to.’ He sat back while she poured their coffee, watching her. ‘Shall we find somewhere to dance?’ he asked.
‘Dance? Us?’ Her eyes flew to the clock, an ornate bronze affair on the wall. ‘But it’s ten o’clock; there’s a clinic in the morning!’
‘All the more reason for taking a little exercise now. We’ll go to the Savoy. Besides, we can’t start soon enough being seen together—probably there’ll be someone there who knows me and who’ll pass the news round.’ His voice was so matter-of-fact that she could only agree. In any case, she didn’t want to disagree, the prospect of dancing with him was delightful.
They danced for a couple of hours and Oliver greeted several people he knew. ‘Just to set the ball rolling,’ he explained, and when he drew her closer, added, ‘Only in the line of duty, Celine.’
She kept her face close to his chest and willed herself to stay calm. She had thought she had been in love with Nicky, but now, loving Oliver, she discovered that this was something quite different; she was excited and happy and blissfully content all at the same time. When she had been with Nicky she had worried about her hair, her face, always taking care not to vex him, working hard at pleasing him, but with Oliver it was quite the contrary. She didn’t think he’d mind if her hair looked frightful or she forgot her make-up or had a streaming cold, and since he showed no signs of ill temper, she never bothered to worry about vexing him. She said softly: ‘This is nice,’ and then wished that she had never said it, because he didn’t reply.
He took her back about midnight, getting out of the car and opening the door and seeing her safely inside. When she thanked him for her evening he smiled slowly. ‘The first of several, if we’re going to do the thing properly. Goodnight, Celine.’
He held the door and she went past him, wishing with all her heart that he would kiss her. But he didn’t. She heard him shut the door behind her and drive away at once.
She slept soundly, although she hadn’t expected to. Too much had happened all at once, and she went down to the surgery with mixed feelings. It would be heaven to see Oliver again, but she wasn’t sure if she could bear seeing him day after day, loving him so much and he not caring a button for her. He liked her, she knew that now, but liking wasn’t loving, and it seemed to her that if you liked someone as a friend you weren’t likely to fall in love with her. She went into the waiting-room and opened the windows, then laid out the magazines and children’s books ready for the day’s work.
Oliver didn’t come. David Slater arrived, bringing Peter Trent with him, and since Nurse Byng was there as well as Sister Griffiths, the clinic, large though it was, was dealt with on time. The afternoon session was small, so that the three of them were able to have a leisurely lunch before opening the doors once more. And this time it was Peter Trent who arrived to see the patients. Celine contrived to ask casually if he would be there that evening too, and was horribly disappointed to hear that he would. She had somehow expected to see Oliver; he had given her the strong impression that he wanted to see her as often as possible—or so she had thought, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. She cleared up once more, readied the place for the evening clinic, then went upstairs to have her tea, a meal she ate in the solitude of her room, although she would have liked to have shared it with Mrs Thatch in her kitchen. She had poured her tea and taken a slice of bread and butter without any enthusiasm when there was a knock at the door and Oliver came in.
She put the bread and butter down. ‘Oh,’ she said, her breath uneven at the sight of him. ‘I didn’t hear you…I thought you weren’t coming.’
He grinned at her. ‘Expecting me? I’m flattered. May I share your tea?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll get another cup…’
‘Mrs Thatch is bringing it, I asked her to.’ And at her look he flung up a hand. ‘I know—the uninvited guest, the arrogance of the male, taking too much for granted, but I can plead hunger.’
‘You’ve had no lunch? Why doesn’t anyone see that you get something? You’d better have an egg with your tea.’
But this laudable intention was made unnecessary by the entrance of Mrs Thatch, bearing another tray, piled with sandwiches, two boiled eggs, a quantity of buttered toast and another pot of tea. ‘There, sir,’ she said in a motherly voice, ‘you just eat that up—such a big man too to do without his victuals, we can’t have you falling ill.’ She glanced at Celine. ‘You just see that he finishes the lot, miss.’
‘There’s a sizeable clinic this evening, isn’t there?’ asked Oliver.
‘Yes—but Peter Trent’s here as well as you.’
He took this gratuitous bit of information with a nod and fished a paper out of his pocket. ‘See if that’s all right, will you? I’ll phone it through first thing in the morning.’
Celine read what he had written and then read it again. ‘How did you know that my second name was Petronella?’ and then: ‘Do you have to send this? I mean, since we’re only pretending…’
‘Ah, but think carefully, we know we’re pretending, but no one else does.’
She glanced up at him. ‘You didn’t tell me how you know about Petronella.’
He raised his brows. ‘I asked your mother.’
‘You mean she knows—and Father too?’
‘Yes. But I told them you’d be ringing them up this evening and explaining.’
‘Did they mind?’
‘Apparently not. In fact your mother seemed to think it was a very sensible thing to do, since Nicky was proving himself to be a nuisance.’
‘They weren’t surprised?’
‘Er—oh, yes, of course.’ Oliver had eaten half the sandwiches at a great rate and Celine wondered if he’d missed his breakfast too. There was, after all, an awful lot of him to nourish. She glanced at her watch. The clinic was due to open in fifteen minutes; she would have to go down.
&nbs
p; ‘You want to go? I’ll drive you back to my place after we close. There are things we have to talk about.’ Oliver finished the sandwiches and started on the toast. He put out a hand. ‘Shall I have that back—the details are correct?’
‘Yes. Must you put Petronella? Not many people know that’s one of my names.’
‘Then it’s time they did. When I have a daughter that shall be her name—I like it.’
‘Your wife might not like it,’ said Celine tartly.
His eyes twinkled. ‘Then I shall have to think of a way of getting round her, shan’t I?’
The idea saddened her so much that she jumped to her feet. ‘I’d better go—please stay here and finish your tea.’
He got up and opened the door for her, carrying her tea tray to save Mrs Thatch’s feet. ‘I’ll be down presently,’ he told her. ‘I must do this more often—I seem to have been missing out on domestic comforts!’
She paused to look at him. ‘Good heavens, you have all the comfort you could possibly want in your house!’
He looked annoyingly meek and apologetic. ‘But not you,’ he said.
Celine hurried down to the clinic and opened the doors, and was soon busy sorting out the patients while her thoughts raced. Oliver need not think he could bamboozle her in that fashion. They were agreed that their engagement was to be for one purpose only, to get rid of Nicky’s attentions; it was a kind of business arrangement between friends. That she wished with her whole heart that it was nothing of the kind was beside the point. She concentrated fiercely on the delight of spending the evening with him, and when he went along to his office presently, she was as coolly efficient as she knew how to be.
The evening went slowly as sometimes it did, with tiresome patients and weary mothers and Sister Griffiths with an evening off, but it finally came to an end and Celine began her round of clearing up jobs, only to find when she had finished them that Oliver was still deep in paper work.
‘Half an hour,’ he called as she whisked past the open door, ‘and I’ll have to call in at my rooms on the way.’
She showered and did her face and hair, then brooded over her wardrobe. The alternative to the Italian knitted was the yellow crêpe. It would have to do, because there was nothing else. She put it on, thrust her feet into high-heeled sandals, saw that she had almost ten minutes to spare and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the clock. On no account must Oliver think her over-eager.
At one minute after the half hour she went downstairs and found him locking up. He paused to look at her. ‘Nice,’ he observed, and opened the surgery door, and as he settled into the car beside her: ‘Shan’t be long now.’
His consulting-rooms were in Wimpole Street, something Celine hadn’t known. She stayed in the car while he went in and wondered what else there was to talk about. The announcement of their engagement would be in the paper in a day’s time; her parents had been told, there didn’t seem to be anything else. She supposed they would go out from time to time to make it all look genuine, and later, perhaps when she had gone home, it would be quietly finished. Because, of course, she would have to leave Bethnal Green. To see Oliver, if not every day, then most days, would be rather more than she would be able to bear. Besides, she might give herself away. She went hot at the very idea, and as a consequence when he got back into the car she was cool to the point of coldness, so that he presently asked her what had happened to annoy her. Celine made haste to say that it was nothing, and he didn’t pursue the subject but began to talk about little Linda, doing nicely in hospital. ‘You did very well there,’ he told her. ‘We shall miss you when you leave.’
And yet not so long ago he had assured her that there would be no need for her to leave. She said: ‘Well, I suppose I shall have to go home eventually.’
They were almost there. ‘Well, I hardly imagine you’ll spend the rest of your life at the surgery. And when you’ve quite forgotten Nicky, you’ll fall in love again, and this time it will be the right man.’
‘Oh, but I have forgotten him.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she had fallen in love again, just as he had said, only he might ask her who it was.
Oliver must have found time to phone from his office, for Pym admitted them before he could get his door key out and showed no surprise at seeing Celine, indeed he greeted her in the same fatherly manner as Barney did at home. He took the thin shawl she had brought with her, led the way to the drawing-room and departed to tell Mrs Pym to serve dinner at once.
But there was time for a drink first and a boisterous welcome from the two small dogs. Oliver, in a great winged chair by an open window, his long legs stretched out before him, spoke thoughtfully.
‘That’s a pretty dress—but you always look nice, Celine. How pleasant it is to sit here—a dress rehearsal of a kind.’ And at her look of questioning surprise: ‘In ten years’ time, safely married, we shall remember this.’
Celine knew she would never forget it, but she felt a flicker of sympathy for his wife. It was hardly fair on her if he were to sit daydreaming about someone else. ‘No, you won’t,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘because you’ll have your wife there.’
His eyes gleamed beneath their lids. ‘So I shall,’ he agreed placidly, and since Pym came at that moment to tell them that dinner was served, no more was said.
It was later, as they sat over coffee in the drawing-room, that Celine reminded him that he had wanted to discuss something.
‘Ah, yes! I think we should visit my aunt and uncle, don’t you?’ Without giving her the chance to reply: ‘Next Sunday for lunch, I suggest.’
‘He—Nicky won’t be there?’
‘Unlikely, but all the better if he is, don’t you agree? And the weekend following I think I can get away for Saturday and Sunday; we could go home—your home.’
She looked down at the two dogs, sitting beside her and bent to tickle their heads. ‘If you think that’s a good idea. And you can spare the time. I haven’t telephoned home yet.’ She glanced up at him. ‘I haven’t had time.’
For answer he got up and dialled a number on the telephone near his chair. In a moment he handed it to her. ‘Go ahead.’
It was really very difficult talking to her mother while he sat there, unashamedly listening. Her mother knew, of course, but that didn’t prevent her asking awkward questions, like did Celine love Oliver and did he love her and when were they going to get married. Celine, her colour high, answered guardedly and didn’t look at Oliver, which was just as well, because his smile would have infuriated her. As soon as she could, she interrupted her parent ruthlessly, told her that they would be coming for the weekend very shortly, and hung up. Oliver had told her that he had explained to her parents, but obviously her mother had got it all wrong; she would have to have it all explained to her again properly this time.
She said coldly: ‘Mother seems to think—that is, perhaps you didn’t explain the—the situation clearly to her.’
His voice was placid. ‘Suppose you explain clearly to me—what does your mother think?’
She said tartly, ‘Why, that we’re properly engaged—I mean, that we’re going to get married. She hasn’t realised that it’s just a convenience.’
‘No? Ah, well, we’ll put her right when we go down. Just as well, perhaps, because if Nicky should phone your home she won’t have to do a lot of fibbing.’
Celine reluctantly agreed. ‘But I’ll have to explain,’ she insisted.
‘Of course you must.’ Oliver was at his most genial, ‘but don’t try and explain to aunt and uncle, will you? Aunt Mary is a darling, and if she knew the truth and Nicky suspected it, he’d have wheedled it out of her in no time.’ He got up and crossed over to the sofa to where she was sitting, put his coffee cup on the tray before her, and sat down beside her. ‘I have to go to Holland in a couple of weeks—a seminar at Leiden for two days. I should like you to come with me.’
Her heart set up a tattoo of delight, although she protested a
t once: ‘But how can I? I work at the surgery…’
‘So do I,’ he reminded her dryly. ‘I daresay they’ll manage for a day or two without us. And you’ll be working—someone will have to see that I get there on time and eat and keep appointments. Do you speak French?’
Celine nodded, speechless.
‘Good, it’ll probably come in handy.’
‘Don’t they speak Dutch in Holland?’ she managed inanely.
‘Naturally, but there’ll be a lot of us from all over the place, and French is widely spoken.’
‘Don’t you speak it?’ she wanted to know.
‘The odd word.’ He added decisively: ‘Good, that’s settled. Have you a passport?’
She nodded her head, found her voice and said: ‘I haven’t agreed to go yet…’
‘But, my dear girl, imagine the gossip it would give rise to—just engaged, and you staying behind while I go junketing off to the Continent!’ He sounded very convincing, so she said: ‘Oh, well, then I’ll come.’
He smiled at her and she melted inside, and then pulled herself together with a jerk. ‘I must go back, please, it’s quite late.’
He disappointingly agreed at once and drove her back, talking about nothing much as they went, the little dogs sitting side by side on the back seat. Celine wished them goodnight as she got out of the car, then she waited beside Oliver while he took her key from her and opened the door.
‘Thank you for my dinner,’ she said politely, and was taken utterly by surprise when he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
He didn’t hurry about it, when he finally let her go he said mildly:
‘I fancy we’re both a little out of practice—a few rehearsals won’t come amiss. Be sure to remind me.’
Celine had been kissed more times than she could count, but never once had she had to remind anyone to do so. Her charming bosom heaved with annoyance. ‘I shall do no such thing!’ she snapped, and sailed through the doorway, taking no notice of his quiet, ‘Goodnight,’ and racing up the stairs as though her life depended on it.
It was a good thing she couldn’t see the look of amusement on Oliver’s face as he got back into the car. The very pronounced gleam in his eyes might have disturbed her too; as it was she went to bed in a fine temper. She wasn’t at all sure why she was so angry; she loved him, of course, nothing was going to alter that, but he infuriated her at times. In bed, though, she came to the tearful conclusion that she wasn’t angry at all, only very unhappy.
