by Anne Mather
‘How could I refuse such a gallant proposition?’ she retorted, showing a little of the humour which had attracted his attention in the first place. ‘All right, darling, nine o’clock it is. Will you pick me up?’
‘Promptly,’ he affirmed, with a bow of his head, and forced to the conclusion that for the present this was all she could expect of him, she put down her glass and moved towards the door.
‘Until tomorrow,’ she murmured, lingering long enough for him to respond if he chose, but Jarret remained where he was.
‘Tomorrow,’ he agreed shortly, and the door closed rather heavily behind her.
With her departure, Jarret breathed a sigh of relief. Then, raking back his hair with aggressive fingers, he went to take one of the narrow cigars he favoured from the carved box on the bookshelves. He was already regretting the impulse he had had to give in to her, and impatience carved its identity across his dark features. Why the hell had he agreed to such a wasted outing? It was only her way of getting him to spend the day with her. Why on earth hadn’t he told her to go to hell, and shut her out of his life once and for all? He shook his head. A country estate was not for him, and she knew it. A house, maybe. That had possibilities. But forty or fifty acres of arable land…
He slumped down into the chair beside the typewriter and propped his head on his hand. What had he done that morning? Two, maybe three pages! He wasn’t even satisfied with what he had written. It was vacuously amateurish, he thought, with savage criticism, ignoring completely the incisive prose which had made a bestseller of his first novel and subsequent successes of his second and third. Nevertheless, the meaningless words and phrases were not Jarret Manning at his best, and the horrible suspicion that he had nothing more to say stirred in his stomach like a corpse in its tomb.
It was useless to pretend he was working at the moment. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, and where once these minor distractions would not have troubled him, lately he was inventing reasons for not sitting down at the typewriter.
Would a change of surroundings help? He suspected it might. Margot had been right when she had said he was too accessible in London, too open to distraction, and maybe for his own good he needed a change. Too many parties, too many drinks, too many late nights…The indictment was endless, and he had no one to blame but himself. He had let the fruits of his success dictate his style of living, and for a writer that was professional suicide. Maybe if he got away from town for a while, he would have time to think. In the clean, unpolluted air of the countryside his brain would reassert itself, and recover from the crippling effects of too little stimulation and too much apathy.
Realising he was not about to write anything of significance today, he determinedly put his self-doubts aside and went to wash and shave. Then, adding a navy corded jacket to his denims, he left the apartment. Downstairs in the underground car park, one of the fruits of his success he did appreciate awaited him, and he lowered his lean body behind the wheel, and started the powerful twelve-cylinder engine. It responded without effort, and he reversed out of the space and then accelerated smoothly up the ramp to the street.
It took him less than half an hour to reach his destination, a narrow terraced house in a row of the same, situated in a less salubrious area across the river. The sun was endeavouringto break through the clouds as he parked his car at the kerb, and levered himself out on to the pavement, and he paused to grin at an elderly matron peering through the lace curtains of the house opposite before walking up the path to the house.
It could do with painting, he reflected, letting himself in with his key and slamming the door behind him. ‘It’s only me, Dad!’ he called by means of a warning, and then strolled down the narrow passage to the back of the house.
The old man was not in the living room or the kitchen, but the open back door indicated his whereabouts. He was in the long narrow garden, pottering about in the greenhouse, and Jarret pulled a wry face as he went to show himself.
‘What are you doing here?’ the old man demanded peevishly, not entirely able to hide his pleasure nevertheless. ‘I don’t normally see you Thursdays, do I? You got some trouble or something, or is this just a social call?’
Jarret grimaced. ‘That’s some line in welcomes you’ve got there, Paddy,’ he remarked without rancour leading the way back to the house. ‘I make a special effort to come and see you, and what do you say?’
‘Don’t call me Paddy,’ the old man grunted, coming into the kitchen after him and reaching for the kettle. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or are you needing something stronger? I’ve a bottle of stout in the cupboard, if it’s not too strong for your taste.’
Jarret grinned. ‘The stout would be fine,’ he agreed, propping himself against the table. ‘And how have you been since the last time I saw you?’
The old man busied himself getting out two bottles of stout and levering off the caps. Jarret saw, with some concern, that his hands were getting shaky, and there wasn’t the strength in them there had been a year ago. That stroke he had had, had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and Jarret wished he would let him do something for him.
But Patrick Horton was intensely independent, he always had been, and since Jarret’s mother died he had resisted all efforts to share in his stepson’s success. It was ironic really, Jarret thought now, that his mother should havedied only weeks after his first book was published, and the subsequent success it had enjoyed had never made her life any easier.
Now he accepted the stout the old man handed him, declined the offer of a glass, and raised the bottle to his lips. It was rich and black, and only slightly warm despite the heat of the day, and he drank it thirstily, acknowledging the old man’s pleasure in his enjoyment as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘So?’ he urged. ‘You’re keeping well? No more of those dizzy turns you were having a month or two ago?’
‘Psshaw, dizzy turns!’ His stepfather was impatient. ‘I’m getting too old, that’s all that’s wrong with me. And you didn’t come here to discuss my aches and pains.’
Jarret sighed. ‘I wish you’d let me find you somewhere—pleasanter, somewhere smaller. Somewhere you could look after your garden, and not have to bother about taking care of a house. A bungalow, for—’
‘I was born in this house, Jarret, and I intend to die here,’ his stepfather interrupted him firmly. ‘It may seem scruffy and old-fashioned to you, after that place of yours up West, but it suits me down to the ground.’
Jarret shook his head. ‘You’re an obstinate old fool, do you know that?’
‘Why? ‘Cause I won’t let you squander your money on me. Humph!’ He chuckled. ‘You save it for those skinny bits of skirt I see you going about with. Don’t know what you see in them, I don’t honestly.’
‘Don’t you?’ queried Jarret lazily, and his stepfather chuckled once again.
‘Well, yes, I guess I do at that,’ he agreed wickedly. ‘But that’s not to say I approve. You’ll be getting yourself into trouble one of these days, and then all that money of yours won’t be enough to get you out of it.’
‘Mmm.’ Jarret took another mouthful of his stout as if considering the point, and the old man continued:
‘Like that Honourable what’s-her-name you used to see sometimes. Margaret something or other.’
‘Lady Margot Urquart,’ amended Jarret dryly. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw her this morning.’
‘Did you?’ His stepfather made a sound of contempt. ‘Soshe’s still hanging around, is she? What the hell do you want with an old bird like her?’
‘I have to remind you that it was Margot who persuaded James Stanford to publish Devil’s Kitchen!’ he retorted, shrugging. ‘Besides, she’s not that old, Paddy. I doubt if she’s even forty.’
‘And you’re thirty-one,’ his stepfather pointed out shortly.
Jarret sighed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Margot did have a reason for visiting me…’
> ‘I can believe it!’
‘No, really.’ Jarret had finished the contents of the bottle and now he took mock-aim at the old man. ‘She’s suggested I buy some place out in the country.’
Patrick Horton absorbed this in silence for several minutes while he examined the contents of his small pantry. Then, realising his stepson expected an opinion from him, he turned and glanced at him over his shoulder.
‘What kind of a place?’
Jarret shrugged. ‘A house—and some land. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’
‘And who’s going to live there? You and Lady Margot?’
‘Of course not.’ Jarret was impatient now. ‘Me! Just me!’ He pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘I’m getting stale, Dad. The words just aren’t coming any more. I need to get away—I’m stifling in London.’
‘What you mean is you’re bored, don’t you?’ his stepfather remarked shrewdly. ‘Too many late nights and too much alcohol. And too many women!’
‘All right!’ Jarret heaved a deep breath. ‘What you say is true. I’m too easily diverted. Maybe out at Thrushfold I’ll be able to breathe again.’
‘Thrushfold?’ His stepfather frowned. ‘Where’s that?’
‘I’m not precisely sure. Somewhere in Wiltshire. The house is called King’s Green. A genuine old property!’ he added, with mock transatlantic reverence.
‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’
‘No.’ Jarret put the bottle on the table behind him and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘No, I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t even seen it. That’s one of the reasonswhy I wanted to see you—to ask you what you thought. To find out whether you think it’s a good idea or not.’
‘Hmm.’ The old man grimaced. ‘You had anything to eat?’
‘Some toast, at breakfast time,’ replied Jarret patiently. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I think I’ll open a tin of soup,’ declared Mr Horton consideringly. ‘Which would you prefer? Chicken or oxtail? It’s all the same to me.’
‘I’ll take you out for lunch, Dad,’ protested Jarret, shaking his head, but his stepfather declined.
‘If my soup’s not good enough for you—’ he began, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jarret shed his coat and reached goodhumouredly for the can-opener.
Later, seated at the kitchen table ladling spoonfuls of oxtail soup into his mouth, Jarret returned to the object of his visit. ‘About this house, Dad,’ he began uncertainly, ‘what do you think? Ought I to go out of town for a while?’
Mr Horton considered for a few moments, and then he nodded his balding head. ‘I’d say it was the best idea you’d had in a long time,’ he asserted, frowning. ‘But not if you take anyone along with you.’
‘If you mean Margot, I’ve no intention of doing so.’
‘I didn’t mean her, actually. I meant that other one I read you’d been seeing. Some model girl, isn’t she? Comes from America. They gave you quite a write-up in the Gazette.’
‘Vivien Sinclair,’ remarked Jarret flatly. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her name. Yes, she’s a model. And I’ve been seeing her for over six months. But there’s no likelihood of her joining me in my country retreat. She likes the bright lights far too much for that.’
He didn’t sound heartbroken, and his stepfather gave him a disapproving stare. ‘You don’t care, do you?’ he exclaimed, permitting a brief word of criticism. ‘Jarret, when are you going to give up this artificial existence and settle down? You know your mother would have wanted you to.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ The younger man lay back in his chair and surveyed his stepfather humorously. ‘Don’t give me thatold line. What Ma would or would not have wanted is immaterial, isn’t it? I mean—well, she’s dead, and my idiosyncrasies aren’t going to hurt her, are they?’
Patrick Horton sighed. ‘You’ll find your own way to the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered.
Jarret shook his head and sat up again. ‘So how about you coming with me instead? Then you could keep an eye on me, ensure that I ate the right food and got to bed at a reasonable time, and didn’t sleep with any strange women!’
His stepfather’s lips twitched in spite of himself. ‘Oh, no!’ he denied at once. ‘I’m not your keeper, nor would I want to be. And as for removing myself to the wilds of Wiltshire at my time of life—no, thanks!’ He paused. ‘But you go, Jarret, son, you go. I’m all in favour of that. I’m in favour of anything that will make you happy.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Jarret leant across to squeeze the old man’s arm, and they finished the meal in a companionable silence.
It was after four when Jarret arrived back at his apartment. Despite the unsatisfactory beginning to his day he felt reasonably content, and half inclined to anticipate the journey to Thrushfold with some enthusiasm. If the house was any good, the sale might be completed before the end of May, with the long lazy days of summer to look forward to. In previous years he had gone to Bermuda and to Cannes, and last year he had spent some time on the west coast of the United States, but the prospect of spending the summer in a home of his own was appealing, and he wondered how he would react to so much isolation.
Vivien Sinclair’s reactions were characteristically opposed to his leaving London.
‘Jarret, you can’t!’ she wailed, when he casually mentioned the idea at dinner that evening. ‘Honey, you’d die in a place like that! Come to Barbados with me next week. You know I’ve got that modelling assignment, and you could work at the hotel while I was at the studios.’
Jarret grimaced. ‘No, thanks,’ he declined gently. ‘I need to work, not to play baby-sitter while you take off your clothes for someone else.’
‘But Jarret,’ she protested, clasping one of his hands in both of hers, regardless of the interested eyes of theirwaiter, ‘when will I see you, stuck out in this Godforsaken hole—’
‘Hardly a hole,’ he corrected her dryly, removing her fingers. ‘Now, do you want yoghurt or ice-cream to finish, or shall I just order coffee for two?’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ she protested sulkily, pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag and sniffing miserably into it. ‘You can get me a brandy with my coffee instead. I need something to sustain me after what you’ve just told me.’
Jarret shrugged and summoned the waiter, and ordered the drinks with the minimum amount of fuss. Then he relaxed in his seat while Vivien recovered her humour, apparently immune to her tearful performance.
‘And when do you leave?’ she ventured at last, when it occurred to her that she was doing herself no favours by causing a scene, and Jarret looked up from lighting a cheroot through the narrowed fringe of his lashes.
‘It’s not even definite yet, Vivien,’ he told her flatly, putting his lighter away. ‘I’m going down to see the place tomorrow. I’ll know more about it after that.’
‘But how did you learn of its whereabouts anyway?’ she exclaimed, putting her handkerchief away. ‘Thrushfold! In Wilshire? I’ve never even heard of it.’
‘The county is Wiltshire,’ Jarret amended, realising he might as well tell her the whole tale. ‘Margot Urquart told me about it. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’
Vivien evidently suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips, and asked about the house with as much detachment as she could muster. But later that night, when they were alone in her apartment, she could not deny the need for reassurance that only he could give.
‘You—er—you wouldn’t consider marrying Margot Urquart, would you, Jarret?’ she probed, caressing his ear with mildly anxious lips, and Jarret’s laughter came from deep down in his throat.
‘No,’ he agreed, turning his mouth into her nape, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he kissed her.
CHAPTER TWO
‘WHEN did you decide all this?’ Helen Chase rounded on her mother in uncharacteristic aggravation. ‘Couldn’t you at least have discussed it with me first?’
&nb
sp; Mrs Chase expelled her breath on a long sigh, and then replied carefully: ‘We have discussed it, Helen. You know that as well as I do. And there is no other solution.’
‘How can you say that?’ Helen made a gesture of frustration. ‘After Charles and I are married—’
‘Yes? After you and Charles are married—what?’ Mrs Chase viewed her daughter with fond affection. ‘My dear, Charles won’t want to live at King’s Green, and as far as keeping two homes going is concerned…’ she shook her head, ‘It’s simply not feasable.’
‘But there must be something we can do.’ Helen paced restlessly across the room, the silky dark hair that resisted all efforts to curl curving under her chin as she moved. She wore it in a simple but effective style, parting it centrally, and allowing the two sides to hang loosely to her shoulders; but now she pushed it carelessly behind her ears, too disturbed by what she had learned to pay any attention to her appearance.
‘There’s not,’ her mother assured her now, resuming the sewing which Helen had interrupted. ‘Since your father died things have gone from bad to worse, and it’s a relief to me to know that you at least aren’t going to suffer by it.’
‘Am I not?’ Helen sounded less than convinced, and her mother looked up once again.
‘Darling, you’re getting married in August. And naturally I’m hoping we can stay here until then. Your father would have wanted it that way. But after the wedding…’
Helen hunched her slim shoulders. ‘I still think you’re acting hastily. I mean, anything can happen between now and August.’
‘Nothing that’s likely to make the slightest improvement in our financial position,’ replied her mother dryly, used toher daughter’s attempts to dissuade her from even considering the idea of selling. ‘And quite frankly, my dear, I’m tired of living this hand-to-mouth existence.’
‘But why involve Margot Urquart?’ demanded Helen, clinging to straws now. ‘I mean—oh, you know what she’s like! And this man, whoever he is, is just the latest in a long line of hangers-on—’
