by Celia Scott
'Beautiful?' she echoed, stunned.
'Certainly. After we've bought you some pretty dresses, and shoes with decent heels on them, you'll see.' His black mood was evaporating. 'You should wear clothes that have fluid lines to show off your excellent figure. And I don't want to see your glorious hair scraped back in that hideous tail thing any more.'
'Hideous?' she echoed lamely.
'It looks very nice loose, the way it is now.'
'I can't wear it loose when I'm cooking,' she said defensively.
'You don't cook twenty-four hours a day Pippa,' he smiled at her disarmingly.
Now that his anger had passed he seemed utterly approachable and she decided to unburden herself.
'I get scared, Damon, when I think about Crete, and being your… your hostess. I'm frightened that I'll let you down. You need someone with poise, and… glamour… to be your wife, even your makebelieve one.'
Damon leaned across the table and looked deeply into her eyes, and she noticed how long his dark lashes were. She must have been blind not to have noticed before how disturbingly handsome he was. The whites of his eyes had a slight blue shade which made the irises the colour of indigo.
'It's true, Pippa, that you're not glamorous.' She could have wept at this home truth! 'But that's easily fixed, if glamour is your aim. I flatter myself that I make sound decisions. I know I do in business, and while my experience with women had been limited.' (Of course, there must have been women in his life, so why did this depress her?) 'As for poise,' he continued, 'I've never met anyone as young who has so much natural dignity and poise. I believe in you. All I ask is that you believe in yourself.'
Philippa examined her short unpainted nails in an attempt to disguise her confusion. She was extraordinarily conscious of his closeness, the texture of his skin, the well-kept sweep of his dark hair. What's the matter with me? she thought. This man is my business partner. Why should I feel weak with pleasure because he pays me a few compliments? It simply won't do.
She deliberately shattered the moment by making a flippant remark. 'My goodness, Damon, you're so dramatic! It's easy to tell you're half Greek—no Englishman would be caught dead being so emotional!'
His face grew stony, and she felt awful, knowing she'd hurt his feelings, and he had been saying such nice things! But she mustn't let him know what a powerful effect he had on her.
'It offends you? My foreign blood?' His mouth was a set line.
'There you go again!' Her forced laughter was as brittle as glass. 'Taking everything so seriously! Of course it doesn't offend me. It has nothing to do with me. I don't even think about it.' She stretched her pretty mouth in an unnatural smile—a smile her eyes did not mirror.
'As you say, it has nothing to do with you. And now I think it's time to end this tête-à-tête.' Damon got up from his chair without another word and strode off to get their coats. Philippa followed, miserably aware that she had wrecked the evening. But better to destroy one evening than let him guess that his good opinion caused her such pleasurable turmoil.
They drove back to Hammersmith in silence. Damon drove much too fast, and the atmosphere in the car was one she could have cut with her favourite meat cleaver. He screeched to a halt outside her front door, but left the engine running.
'I won't see you in, Philippa. You might think it too emotional of me to walk you to the door.' He looked like a hurt small boy. She couldn't let them finish the evening this way.
'Damon, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I was thoughtless.' There was no denying the sincerity in her tawny eyes. He waited a moment before he answered.
'Ah, Pippa,' he sighed, 'we're living a lie, and that's always difficult. Even a lie for the most honourable of reasons takes its emotional toll. You were quite right, neither of us should take this situation too seriously.' His tone became brisk. 'Now, goodnight, Pippa. I'll see you on Monday at the lawyers. Have a good rest tomorrow.'
The car was gone the moment she had clambered out of it, before she had a chance to say, 'Goodnight, and thank you.'
She entered the flat, deserted now by Martha and her friends, and miraculously tidy. Damon's suggestion about the washing-up had apparently been heeded.
Philippa felt let down by Damon's sudden departure. Last time they had parted he had brushed her cheek with his lips, and she realised she had been looking forward to a similar farewell.
She must discipline herself to continue picturing him as her employer only. Not as her fiancé, or her husband, but simply a man who had hired her for a limited time, to play a role in his life for business purposes. It would be fatal if she started getting romantic ideas about her boss.
'He's only my boss. He's only my boss,' she muttered to herself while she waited for sleep. But in spite of this valiant attempt, her last waking memory was his honey voice saying, 'I believe in you…' and it continued, over and over again, in her dreams.
CHAPTER THREE
Monday's meeting with Mr Farjeon, Damon's lawyer, was uneventful. Damon was there to co-sign the documents, dressed in a navy blue suit, and looking less boyish than the other night. He seemed to have recovered his good humour completely, and smiled cheerfully when Philippa walked into the office.
Mr Farjeon was a stooped white-haired man of about sixty-five, Philippa judged, and he obviously found the situation strange. He was very cool to Philippa, regarding her suspiciously from under untidy white beetling eyebrows. He made no bones about the fact that he intended to protect his client from any fortune-hunting females. Silently he handed her a copy of the agreement to read. Damon sat opposite her, looking quite at ease, as if he had this kind of contract drawn up daily.
'That clause you requested, Pippa,' he said, 'concerning the non-sexual nature of our relationship—it's been included on page two.' He regarded her coolly.
'Thank you.' Her cheeks flushed under the combination of Damon's amused look and his lawyer's disapproving gaze.
When she reached the paragraph that dealt with the sum she would receive when the marriage was annulled she protested:
'Damon, this is ridiculous!'
Mr Farjeon broke in before Damon could reply. 'What exactly do you object to, Miss Kenmore?' His faded old eyes behind his glasses were hostile.
'Why, the amount mentioned here—it's absurd!'
'I think not,' he went on in his precise manner. 'I must say I think my client has been generous—more than generous, I might go so far as to say foolish in the amount set out in the agreement.'
'Exactly!' Philippa flashed the older man a brilliant smile. 'Foolish is exactly the word for it,' and turning to Damon she said impulsively, 'It's far too much, Damon. I don't want anything like that. In fact I'm not sure I want any settlement at all.'
'Don't be silly, Pippa. You're going to lose a whole summer's work by coming to Crete with me. I must reimburse you for that at least.'
'But I wouldn't make anything like the amount you're offering,' she insisted. 'I'd feel badly. I won't accept it, Damon. If you want me to sign this agreement, that clause has to be changed.'
'You have a very prominent chin when you get that stubborn look on your face, Pippa. Did you know that?'
'You change the amount of the settlement to a reasonable sum, and I'll change the angle of my chin,' she countered.
During this exchange the frost in Mr Farjeon's manner started to thaw, and he regarded Philippa with friendlier eyes. 'If I might suggest, Mr Everett,' he offered, 'perhaps Miss Kenmore could tell me how much she earned during the past year. Would you say fifty per cent of that amount would be fair?'
'Yes,' said Philippa.
'No,' said Damon.
'Come, come, Mr Everett. It's what Miss Kenmore desires.' The old man threw her a positively conspiratorial look; obviously she had won him over. She told him the amount, and he wrote it down on a notepad.
'All right,' Damon conceded. 'Fifty per cent… and a new car. The one she drives now isn't roadworthy,' he added in an aside to Mr Farje
on.
'That's not true! My Mini's perfectly O.K.,' protested Philippa hotly.
Mr Farjeon held up an admonitory hand. 'Shall we leave the question of personal gifts out of the contract?' he suggested. 'I advise you to settle the matter of the… er… vehicle in question between yourselves. Now I have altered the amount of the settlement to the agreed fifty per cent, so it only remains for you to sign.' He handed Philippa a pen, and so brought the argument to a close.
Once they were out on the street Damon took her arm and swung her towards him.
'Pippa, I mean it—about the new car. I worry about you driving around in that ramshackle old tin can of yours.'
She fought twin emotions—hurt pride that he found her car—a second-hand one she had scraped and saved for—an 'old tin can', and growing delight that he felt concern for her. Resolutely she smothered her delight.
'We can't all afford to drive Jags, you know,' she said shortly.
'I wasn't proposing to buy you a Jaguar. Just a newer version of your present jalopy,' he gave her arm a friendly shake. 'Come on, Pippa! It's not good manners to keep on refusing my gift. What's the matter? Afraid I'm after your virtue?'
She turned bright scarlet and tore from his grasp. 'I wouldn't be stupid enough to think that,' she snapped.
'Nor likely to fall from grace if I was,' he answered quietly. She remained silent. 'Look, Pippa,' he said, 'let's forget this whole business about the car for the moment and get on with the rest of the day. I'm starving, aren't you? Let's have an early lunch and then start on your shopping spree.' He smiled down at her, the web of lines around his eyes crinkled goodhumouredly. 'What do you say, Pippa? Lunch?
Before I drop at your feet in a swoon from lack of food.'
His mood was infectious and she grinned back. 'You don't look as if you're wasting away, but I am hungry—so all right, lunch it is!'
They drove to the Prospect of Whitby, one of London's historic old pubs. Philippa had never visited it before, but she had read an article about it in a magazine. It enchanted her, with its sagging old floors and blackened oak beams, which Damon had to bend almost double to avoid hitting. They had been hewn from solid trees in the reign of Elizabeth the First. Although the district now consisted of slums and warehouses people came from all over the City to lunch in the ancient saloon bar with its creaking floors and leaded windows that had looked out over the Thames since the sixteenth century.
Damon ordered a half pint of draught ale for himself, and a shandy for Philippa. They ate fried whitebait, minute silver fish the size of a matchstick, fried crisp golden brown and eaten with the fingers, several fish to one delicious mouthful. This was accompanied, traditionally, with slices of thickly buttered brown bread. After a platter of fish they left to have coffee and pastries at a smart cafe in Knightsbridge that Damon knew. There he ordered black coffee for himself, and a generous china cup of foaming cafe-au-lait for her.
Philippa agonised happily over the three-tiered pastry cart loaded with a multitude of rich cakes, and finally chose a sugar-glazed mille-feuille, bursting with fresh whipped cream. She lingered over it, savouring each bite like a child being treated by an indulgent uncle. When she had wiped away the last flaky crumb from her mouth she became aware of Damon's blue eyes smiling at her. She smiled back ruefully and said:
'You've guessed my guilty secret!'
'And what's that?'
'My terrible sweet tooth. That cake trolley is my idea of paradise!'
'You're not going to stop with just one, are you?' Damon asked. 'The éclairs are famous here.'
She giggled happily. 'I couldn't, Damon, I just couldn't!'
'In paradise there's no such word as "couldn't"!'
'Are you Lucifer to tempt me?' she teased.
'I hope you never see me as the devil, Pippa,' he said, his face suddenly serious. 'However,' he brightened, 'if I can't tempt you now we'll come back at tea-time for the éclair.'
'If I go on indulging like this I'll have to buy all my new dresses at least two sizes larger!'
'Don't be silly, Pippa,' he said loftily, 'you're not the type to get fat. Besides, you're tall enough to carry a little extra weight.'
'You're a dangerous man to be around,' she said. 'At this rate I'll soon be the size of a blimp!' But in her heart she meant this warning for herself, and it had nothing to do with weight. She was so happy with Damon today. Being with him was a heady mixture of ease and excitement. And this she knew was dangerous.
Damon had chosen a boutique in Chelsea for their shopping, but when they reached the door Philippa felt a sudden panic. It was the type of shop she had often peered into, but never had the nerve to enter. There was always one exclusive garment cleverly arranged in the display window with no price tag visible, and she always knew ahead of time that she could not afford the kind of prices those exclusive clothes inevitably commanded. She now hung back outside the elegant shiny black door.
'What's the matter, Pippa?' Damon asked.
'I don't think this is… my kind of shop.'
'Why not? I'm not in the habit of buying women's clothes, but my sister used to buy her dresses here, and she was a very smart woman. That's why I chose this store.'
'That's just it, Damon. Your sister was fashionable, I'm not. I couldn't begin to match up—I'm not the type.'
'What rubbish are you talking now?' he replied, his voice sharp.
'One must be practical,' Philippa said levelly, 'one can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.'
'A sow! Good God, Philippa!' He exploded with irritation. 'What is this fixation you have with animals? First an elephant, now a pig! If you must compare yourself with the animal kingdom choose more attractive specimens. Now come on—I haven't got all day.' He opened the door and bundled her through before she had time to protest further.
Inside all was gleaming creamy rose satin and crystal-shaded lamps. Philippa's flat-heeled walking shoes sank into white carpet that felt ankle-deep. They were greeted by the proprietress, a woman of middle age, who spoke with a slight French accent, and looked as if she had stepped out of the current issue of Vogue.
Apparently they were expected. Damon introduced her to this glamorous creature, who turned out to be friendly and courteous. This was a pleasant surprise to Philippa, who had expected condescension from so polished a being.
'I've some business close by, Pippa,' Damon said. 'I'll leave you in Madame Martine's capable hands and come back in two hours. Will that be all right?'
Panic overwhelmed Philippa for the second time in several minutes. How would she know how much to spend? How many dresses was she supposed to buy?
As if he could read her mind he continued, 'You're to buy everything you need. Remember we'll be doing a lot of entertaining, so you'll need dinner and evening dresses. Sporty things too, and things for the beach. In fact anything that takes your fancy. Have a nice time.' He was at the door in two strides, then he turned and gave her one of his rare sweet smiles. 'And Pippa—don't be "sensible" about your choices… promise?'
After he had gone Madame Martine ushered her into a change cubicle so spacious it seemed to Philippa to be almost the size of the bedroom she shared with Martha at home in Hammersmith.
'Now that I've met you, Miss Kenmore,' Madame Martine said, 'I can better judge what style will best suit your particular build and height.'
Philippa's heart sank. 'I suppose I'm difficult to fit,' she said dismally.
Madame Martine looked puzzled.
'On the contrary, you will show off my clothes particularly well. I only wish all my customers had your figure, it would make my job much easier, I assure you!'
Philippa wondered if this was clever sales talk, but the woman sounded quite sincere. So she brightened up, and kicking her shoes off stood, slim and straight in her slip, to start the pleasant business of choosing new clothes.
The following two hours flew by. Madame Martine knew her job and each dress she produced fitted perfectly. There was one part
icular evening dress, of wine silk, that Philippa fell in love with. It was cut on the lines of a Grecian dress, and moulded itself to her slender hips, falling low at the neck revealing more of her well-formed breasts than she usually showed. She revolved slowly in front of the triple mirror, and lifted her heavy beige hair to get the effect of a piled hair-do.
'That is a very good style for you, Miss Kenmore.' Madame Martine's voice startled her, she had been so absorbed in her scrutiny. 'If I might suggest a particularly good hair-stylist,' the woman continued, 'he would trim your hair just a little, so that it would fall attractively when loose, and would be easy to put up when you wanted.'
Very soon Madame Martine had taken Philippa in hand. Not only had she phoned the hairdresser for an appointment, she had made suggestions about makeup, and told Philippa what kind of shoes she should buy.
'Now, Miss Kenmore, I think we have seen enough of the day and evening clothes,' she said finally. 'Let me show you some very fine nightdress and peignoir sets that have just arrived from Paris.'
Philippa came down to earth with a crash. It was all very well for Damon to foot the bill for clothes she would be using as part of her job, but what she wore to bed was something he would never know. Her serviceable cotton pyjamas would do.
'I… I won't be needing any nightdresses, thank you, I don't wear them… that is…' The woman's brows raised quizzically, and Philippa turned bright red. 'I wear pyjamas,' she mumbled.
'Not on your honeymoon, surely, my dear!'
'Honeymoon? Yes… well, perhaps a nightie… and a dressing-gown too, I suppose,' she muttered, ready to die of embarrassment. She chose a filmy peach nightdress with a matching robe, and frivolous satin slippers stitched with pearls, without putting up a fight.
Now it was time for her to decide which dresses she would choose out of the dozens that hung around the walls of the fitting room.
'I must have this,' she said, fingering the wine silk dress lovingly, 'and maybe the white strapless one we tried on last.'
