by Celia Scott
'Mr Everett gave instructions that you were to take everything that looked good on you,' Madame Martine told the startled girl.
'Bu-but the cost!'
'That's all taken care of, Miss Kenmore. Mr Everett will settle the account. He particularly stressed that you were not to be bothered by any of the financial arrangements.'
At this moment they heard the sound of the frontdoor bell, and Damon's voice filtered through the rose silk curtains of the fitting room.
In a dream Philippa put on her grey flannel skirt and cotton blouse, which now felt very dowdy. Damon arranged with Madame Martine to have the luxurious pile of multi-coloured clothes delivered to Philippa's flat the next day. In a dream she followed Damon to the car, and sat silent while they drove back to the cafe, where she silently drank tea and ate the promised chocolate éclair.
He looked at her, concealing an amused smile. 'So quiet, Pippa! Has the thought of emerging from your chrysalis stunned you?'
'Not exactly,' she replied, 'although I do feel as if I've had a head-on collision with Santa Claus! It's very pleasant. I feel a bit guilty, though.'
'Guilty? What on earth for?'
'To get so much, when poor Martha… What's the time, Damon?' she asked abruptly. He told her, and saying, 'Hang on a minute!' she dashed out of the cafe, leaving him sitting, bewildered, at the table.
She had noticed that next door was a small boutique, and now she tore in just before it closed and purchased an expensive silk scarf in the shocking pink colour that Martha loved so much. She was back at their table within minutes, only slightly out of breath.
'I thought you were going to turn into a pumpkin, Philippa,' he said drily, 'or should I say an elephant?' She flushed and poured them both more tea.
'I'm sorry, Damon, but I wanted to get Martha something. Just to make her feel… less left out.'
Damon did not look pleased. 'Left out of what?' he queried. 'It's your wedding, not hers. Why shouldn't you have new clothes? It's usual.'
'But so many… and such heavenly ones! She's bound to feel upset, and I don't want a scene.'
Damon frowned and his eyes turned cold. 'I don't understand you, Philippa. You work your fingers to the bone, and when a chance comes along for you to have some pretty things and enjoy yourself for five minutes, you spoil it all by feeling guilty. And all because that self-indulgent sister of yours might be jealous!'
'You hardly know my sister, so I fail to see how you can accuse her of self-indulgence,' said Philippa hotly.
'You don't have to know her to see that,' he retorted, 'it sticks out a mile. She constantly expects to be catered to, and it's obvious you're fool enough to do it.'
Philippa began to lose her calm. She was particularly maddened since honesty forced her to admit there was truth in what he said.
'I may be a fool,' she hissed, 'but at least I'm a generous one!'
'There's no virtue in that,' he sneered. 'Buying her off simply means you're a coward, besides being ah idiot. And you'll doubtless go on letting that selfish brat take advantage of you for the rest of your life!' Philippa gasped at the ferocity of his attack. 'However,' he continued icily, 'it's not my affair if you choose to ruin your life.'
Furious, she eyed him. 'As you say, it's none of your affair,' she retorted. 'Now, if you've finished your character assassination of my sister I'll leave you.' She got up from her chair and picked up her purse. 'Thank you for a pleasant day…'
Damon was on his feet and beside her in seconds, pushing her back into the chair and flinging her purse to the floor. 'I'm not ready to leave yet,' he said, his voice hoarse with temper. 'When I've had a second cup of tea I'll drive you home, not before. I would remind you that I'm calling the shots in this… partnership. You'll leave when I'm ready, not before.'
If the cake knife hadn't been so blunt she would have thrown it at him! As it was she contented herself by picking up her handbag, rising to her feet again with all the dignity she could muster, and removing her engagement ring and placing it on the white tablecloth in front of his plate.
'I've decided I don't like the terms of this partnership, Mr Everett,' she said. 'I'll arrange to have the clothes returned. Thank you again for a most interesting experience. Goodbye!' And she stalked out of the cafe, uneasily aware of the goggle-eyed interest of the waitress.
She strode along in the twilight, blinking back angry tears. Her long legs took her at a rapid pace, but she had no idea where she was going.
How dared he! she thought; he doesn't even know Martha. What gives him the right to criticise her like that? And calling me those names! Who does he think he is? Carrying on as if the way I run my life is any of his business. It's not as if he cared for me, she went on to herself bitterly, it's obvious I mean no more to him than an efficient secretary… or cook.
'Pippa!' He was right behind her, but his voice was no longer harsh. He caught hold of her arm and stopped her in mid-flight.
'Let me go!' She was unreasonably angry, furious with herself that the sound of his voice made her heart leap with joy. Furious, knowing she would have been sick with disappointment if he had not followed her.
'Pippa, please! Don't be angry. I'm… I'm sorry.' This apology, so uncharacteristic for so proud a man, stopped her in her tracks.
'You had no right to talk like that about my personal life—no right at all!' she said fiercely. 'I would remind you that we have a business arrangement. Strictly business, nothing more.'
He dropped her arm and regarded her somberly.
'I'm aware of that, Philippa. You're quite right, it was unpardonable interference on my part. But I do ask you to consider renewing our… agreement.' His eyes in the dying light seemed black they were so dark, and the lines that ran down to his mouth looked deeper than before. 'If you won't think of me… and there's no reason you should… at least think of Athena. It will be impossible for me to find a replacement at such short notice. We do have a legal contract,' he added softly.
Silently Philippa started walking again, but this time she walked back the way she had come and he fell into step beside her. A light April rain started to fall and the streets gleamed wetly in the lamps.
'Well, Pippa?' he asked after a while. She stopped and faced him. He looked as remote as he had in the past sitting at his kitchen table waiting for her to finish clearing away the debris of one of his dinner parties.
'Very well,' she said, 'since I can see it would be difficult for you in the circumstances. And for the sake of your niece.' She was grateful that it was dark now, since she could not fully meet his eyes knowing in her heart this was not the whole reason.
'Then let me return your ring that you so dramatically threw back at me,' said Damon lightly. He took her unresisting hand in his and slipped the sapphire back on to her finger. Instead of it making her feel happy she felt a grey mist of depression steal over her. The setting was so romantic—the big, handsome man, putting a magnificent engagement ring on the third finger of her left hand, the London street lights shining on his dark hair that was a little damp with rain.
And it's all a sham, she thought sadly, it's just a front for a convenient business transaction.
They were both silent on the drive back to Hammersmith. Damon arranged to pick her up the following Friday for his company's combined engagement and farewell party, but he didn't make any mention about seeing her before that. As usual he kissed her lightly on the cheek, so that for a brief moment she felt his warm mouth brush her face. Then she was alone on the rain-slicked pavement, watching the red tail-lights of the Jaguar disappear in the darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was no sign from Damon for the rest of the week. Philippa tried to discipline herself not to start with anticipation every time the phone rang, not to let a note of disappointment creep into her voice when someone else was on the line. But she found it increasingly difficult. She was forced to admit that she missed him—that without his overbearing presence her life was flat and drab, th
at she would rather be with him, even if they were at odds, than be without him.
However, she had plenty to occupy her. There were clients to be contacted, business appointments to be cancelled, and all the exacting details a prolonged absence from home and work entailed.
She went to the hairdresser's as Madame Martine had arranged, and spent an intoxicating couple of hours being clipped and combed by a languid young man who was extravagant in his praise of her heavy blonde mane, and sent her out of the salon with hair two inches shorter, that fell in a soft curve around her face and lay curling gently on her shoulders. He instructed her how to dress it in other styles, and she bought an array of multi-coloured combs and hairbands for the purpose.
After a visit to a shoe shop, where she purchased several pairs of high-heeled shoes and sandals, she went to a boutique specialising in cosmetics, and was shown how to make up her eyes so they glowed golden, and her thick lashes curled back like the petals of a flower.
On Friday morning there was a phone call from Damon's private secretary. At first Philippa thought he was waiting to be put through—but no, he was 'very busy', his secretary, a Mrs Hicks, informed her.
'Mr Everett says he'll be sending a car for you and your sister at seven this evening, Miss Kenmore… for your engagement party at the Savoy Hotel.' When Philippa remained silent she added, 'And Mr Everett said to remind you that it's semi-formal, not full evening dress.'
'Tell him I'll put my tiara back in mothballs!'
'What?'
'Nothing. Thank you for calling, Mrs Hicks. Tell Mr Everett we'll be ready at seven as arranged.'
'I will. We're so looking forward to meeting you tonight, Miss Kenmore. Goodbye.'
Philippa was bitterly disappointed that Damon hadn't taken the trouble to speak to her himself. But he had included Martha, which was nice of him, in the circumstances. She phoned her at the travel agency, and to her surprise Martha seemed eager to accept. After she had hung up a small cloud of anxiety settled over Philippa. She hoped her sister's sudden willingness to co-operate wasn't prompted by a desire to make trouble in front of Damon's staff. But there was nothing she could do, except cross her fingers and hope for the best!
She took her time getting ready for the party, brushing her ash-blonde hair till it crackled with vitality, and swung, a honey-coloured bell on her shoulders. She made up carefully, applying a hint of bronze shadow to her eyes as she had been shown, so that her eyes had the brilliance of topaz when she looked into the mirror. She wore a dress of fine wool challis, long-skirted and coloured palest pink, like the heart of a seashell. The bodice was drawn across her breasts in a deep vee, and ended in a sash tied on one side of her waist, the ends falling softly into the impressed pleats of the skirt. The effect was stunning in its simplicity.
She was sitting in the bedroom applying a second coat of pink nail polish to her fingernails when Martha arrived home. Philippa looked up from her absorbing task straight into Martha's astounded face. Carefully replacing the brush in the bottle, she waved her wet nails in greeting.
'What on earth are you doing, Tusker?' asked her sister.
'My nails. Nice colour, eh?'
'But you never wear nail polish.'
'I do now. I must grow my nails longer, though.'
'That won't be practical,' Martha said acidly, 'they'll chip when you work.'
'I don't plan to be working—at least not in the kitchen.'
Martha's eyes grew hard. She looked at her sister's glowing face. 'Have you cut your hair?' she asked.
'Just a trim. I like it, don't you? It's going to be very easy to manage this way.'
'And you're wearing make-up, aren't you?' This sounded accusatory.
'Mm-hmm. You'll have to give me some tips,' Philippa said diplomatically, 'you're so good at makeup.'
Martha didn't deign to reply at once, instead she looked askance at her sister's feet. 'You're not going to wear those shoes, are you?' she demanded, glaring at Philippa's pretty new taupe suede sandals.
'Certainly. Don't you think the colour's right?'
'It's not the colour, it's those heels. You'll tower over everyone!'
'I won't tower over Damon.' Philippa tilted her chin obstinately and changed the subject. 'The bathroom's free, Martha, you've got forty minutes to make yourself glamorous.'
Martha started pulling clothes out of the bedroom cupboard and hurling the rejects all over the room.
'Isn't that dress you're wearing rather plain. Tusker?' she queried.
'I don't think so,' Philippa replied serenely. 'It's not a full dress party, remember?'
'Still, I should have thought you'd wear something with a bit of sparkle.'
'I leave the sparkle to you, Martha.'
'I guess glamour just isn't your style,' Martha agreed smugly, pulling her silver dress over her head.
'I guess not.' Philippa repressed the treacherous thought that the silver dress looked overdone—an effect that was not lessened by the addition of long rhinestone ear-rings and bracelets.
A chauffeured Daimler picked them up on the dot of seven, and drove them to the Strand through streets filled tonight with the intangible quality of a London spring—a subtle mixture of exhaust fumes, lilac blossom, and the damp scent of the river Thames.
The statue of Peter of Savoy stood guard over the entrance of the Savoy Hotel as it has since the place was built. Damon was waiting for them in the art-deco lobby that was decorated with small flags of many nations. The board bearing the information about the daily Atlantic Crossings still hung in its place of honour, although in this jet age it only boasted one departure the following week.
When Philippa slipped out of her light silk coat— 'You'll need a coat for those cool Greek evenings, Miss Kenmore,' Madame Martine had assured her— she was gratified to notice Damon's look of approval. But it was to Martha that he spoke.
'I'm very glad you came this evening, little sister-in-law,' he said. 'Let's bury the hatchet, but hot in each other. Agreed?'
'I'm happy to come to your party,' Martha cooed, sweet as sugar, her eyes glittering with hatred, 'but why the Savoy? I thought you'd want to show off in one of your own hotels.'
'The one hotel I own in London is very quiet and small. Which may come as a surprise to you, Martha,' he grinned, 'since you seem to think I only put my money into monstrous edifices. In any case, I love the Savoy. The fact that it was created by Richard D'Oyly Carte, and some rooms have the names of Gilbert and Sullivan's operas, gives it a raffish charm that appeals to me. And I feel the history of the Savoy is appropriate for an engagement party. Look!' He led them to a plaque set in the wall which read, 'Here in the palace of the Savoy, Peter, Count of Savoy, lodged the many "beautiful foreign ladies" whom he brought in 1247 from the courts of Europe before marrying them to his wards, a large number of rich young English nobles.'
'It's a charming idea,' acknowledged Philippa, 'but it doesn't apply. I'm not a "foreign lady".'
'Beautiful foreign ladies,' he replied, taking her arm, 'and foreign to the Greek half of me, so don't quibble.'
'Thank you.' She accepted the compliment, and then added softly, so Martha couldn't hear, 'Since those marriages were arranged too, I suppose there is a link.'
Before he could answer they were joined by a small dapper man whom Damon introduced as Michael Wilson-Parkes, manager of the hotel, and a personal friend. Michael took both Philippa's hands, and holding her at arm's length said firmly:
'She's lovely, Damon, you lucky fellow. She's absolutely lovely!' still holding her hands he turned to her. 'You are, my dear, you're absolutely breathtaking!'
Philippa, scarlet with embarrassment, made an inarticulate noise, and was saved by Damon, who introduced Martha, whose face was sullen with resentment.
'Charming,' said Michael, briefly nodding in her direction. He looked at Philippa again. 'If Damon wasn't a dear friend I'd ask you to jilt him this moment and run away with me.'
Philippa, aware of Martha's h
ostility, without thinking blurted out:
'I can't jilt Damon—we have a legal contract.'
The little man laughed delightedly and finally let go of her hands. 'And I wouldn't dare,' he said, 'not when Damon is so obviously very jealous,' for Damon was looking black as thunder at this exchange. 'I'm envious of your good fortune, Damon. She is so lovely.'
'And so businesslike,' Damon choked furiously. 'My bride is a business woman first and last.' He glared at Philippa, who smiled weakly at him.
'I'm not used to such extravagant attention,' she said, 'it unnerves me.' He gave her a look of ice from his piercing eyes and turned to Michael Wilson-Parkes.
'Our guests arrive at eight. We'd better get to our dining room. You have arranged for us to be in one of the private rooms?'
'Pinafore, old boy,' affirmed Michael, 'less far for Kasper to travel.'
'Good. You've arranged the head table for thirteen, then?'
'Your wish is our command, old boy. That's our motto. And now, you lovely creature,' he turned theatrically to Philippa, 'regretfully I must tear myself from your side, but don't despair, I'll return later, to drink a glass of champagne to your bright eyes.'
'What an ass!' Martha said rudely when he had gone. 'Are all hotel people like him?'
'Don't be fooled by Michael's manner,' said Damon, 'he's no ass, believe me. And now if you'll excuse us for a moment, Martha—' He drew Philippa out of earshot, then turned on her. 'For God's sake, what are you trying to do,' he snapped, 'telling Michael we have a contract! Why not use the P.A. system while you're at it, and broadcast to the whole hotel!'
Philippa wished the thickly carpeted floor could have opened up and swallowed her. She went red, then white with emotion. 'I'm sorry, Damon,' she pleaded, 'but I found it so… embarrassing… coping with all those good wishes. When I know… we know… this arrangement has nothing to do with sentiment.'
'We also know you're being amply rewarded. I would appreciate it if you'd earn your money properly in future.'
