‘Damn—if I lose that one it’ll be about the sixth, but it’s quite safe…’
‘You’d better go and get it,’ she interrupted. ‘Who knows what could happen to it during a talent contest? I’ll be fine now and I’m really as tired as any mere mortal. Goodnight.’ She withdrew her hand and walked away.
Rick watched her go, but didn’t follow, nor did she see that he stood in the path for several minutes after she was out of sight before turning and limping back to the lounge.
But to end a thoroughly contrary day, once upstairs in the privacy and safety of her room Evonne found she wasn’t sleepy-tired any more— mind-weary, certainly, but also oddly keyed up.
She changed into an oyster satin short nightgown with shoestring straps and intricate lace and applique panels, but took it off almost immediately and found a plain blue cotton one vith no applique or lace or see-through panels. Then she removed her make-up and brushed her nair—and wondered what the hell the matter was and why she felt thoroughly jumpy and on edge.
‘Surely one man… of the type you’ve never been attracted to… hasn’t done this to you?’ she asked herself, standing before the built-in dressing-table mirror studying her naked face and loose hair. ‘Well, he’s certainly provoked you successfully a couple of times, he’s even dug out some things you thought you’d successfully submerged years ago, but what would he know about being tough and street-wise? He’s probably led a charmed life from day one, what with a diplomat for a father—he sounds well-educated and he appears to have the wherewithal to do crazy thinks like indulge in a year of amateur anthropology stroke archaeology. Something of a typically good-looking dilettante, if you ask me…’
She stopped abruptly and stared at herself even harder because she thought she could detect something oddly shrewish in her expression. ‘Oh, Evonne,’ she whispered, ‘you always could be a shrew sometimes. Especially when you were on the defensive, which you were so often—but why now? You’ve got to the top of the tree…’
I must be very tired, she thought, turning away from her disturbing presence in the mirror. And still thinking about… will I ever forget? What if I hadn’t been able to come away from the Anniversary Dinner? What if I hadn’t been able to feign some temporary disease, what if I ever just bump into Rob and Clarry one day, what if a terrible sense of curiosity takes me back for it, just to see how they are? No, no… I wouldn’t do that to myself, and that’s why I’ll stay here and beat Richard Carlisle Emerson at his own game!
‘And it’s just occurred to me how to do that,’ she mused, with a sudden, almost hysterical little jolt of laughter. ‘I’ll treat you as if you were young Ricky Emerson. I’ll be just like your maiden aunt!’
CHAPTER THREE
‘ARE these they?’
‘That’s them,’ Rick Emerson said. ‘My life’s work, my contribution to society, my wit, my perception, my scientific knowledge—some of it, my excellent grammar—my notes in other words, my precious though fragmented masterpiece.’ ‘And you couldn’t find anything more suitable for your fragmented… manuscript than a series of old brown paper grocery bags?’ Evonne enquired as she studied the pile he had just dumped on her bed.
‘An artist uses whatever material happens to be at hand.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she said wryly.
‘You’re very calm this morning, Patterson,’ Rick Emerson commented, calmly draping his tall golden frame on her bed alongside the paper bags, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up at her thoughtfully. He again wore only his multi-coloured shorts.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she said tartly.
‘My ankle’s sore. I’m resting it. We’ve just played five holes of competition golf, if you recall.’
‘I recall,’ said Evonne. ‘Remind me not ever to believe you when you say you’re also only an amateur at anything.’
He grinned. ‘I am!’
‘Then I must be the most useless person who ever held a golf club.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Just to watch you walking along, swinging it, was a source of great inspiration to me—and not a few others, before you take umbrage. There’s something about your figure in shorts that’s quite electrifying.’
Evonne glanced down at her fashionably long, slate-grey thin linen shorts and white sleeveless scoop-necked blouse which was now sticking to her and damp in patches—and remembered her plan. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Rick. Tell me, does this book have any… form?’
He sat up with a frown. ‘What do you mean? Of course it does!’
‘I mean like a beginning, a middle and an end. Or is it a series of… sequences? And before you take umbrage,’ she continued serenely, to his definite look of annoyance, ‘I’m only asking because I just don’t know what to expect.’
‘This book,’ he said precisely, ‘is in journal form—diary form, if you like. From the day I decided to go to Papua New Guinea to the day I left. It takes the form of all my experiences, anecdotal as well as the scientific observations I made…’
‘What about your experiences of the Swiss/ Yugoslav persuasion?’ Evonne put in innocently.
For once, Rick hesitated, but not for long. ‘Some,’ he admitted, ‘but nothing to get your puritan knickers in a knot about, Patterson. I’ve only actually detailed my failures, not my…’
‘Victories?’ she supplied.
‘I don’t sleep and tell,’ he said virtuously. ‘I’m relieved to hear you say so,’ she replied, and favoured him with the closest she could come to whatever the feminine version of an avuncular smile was called.
He narrowed his green eyes immediately. ‘Have I missed something somewhere along the line?’ ‘Missed? I doubt if you miss much at all… so, is it all dated and in order, then?’ Evonne gestured at the paper bags, then frowned doubtfully. ‘There seems to be an awful lot of it.’
‘It’s in perfect order, although once it’s legible it might need some editing.’
‘Legible?’ she queried warily. ‘It’s not in Pidgin—whatever? ’
Rick laughed. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Then…?’ She stared at him.
‘Didn’t Uncle Amos tell you? He always says I should have been a doctor, I have this…’
‘Oh, no!’ Evonne muttered, and leant across him to pick up a bag and extract a piece of foolscap from it, covered in a large round writing that resembled hieroglyphics to her despite its sprawling size. She groaned. ‘Why me, and how did you ever learn to write like this?’
‘My mother claims it’s because no one realised I was left-handed and was originally taught to write with my right. In fact I have all sorts of odd personality quirks because of that. I trip, I lose things…’
‘And talk a lot of nonsense,’ Evonne said wearily. ‘This could take me months! I didn’t realise I would have to type out a whole manuscript which I can’t read in the first place, I thought you needed someone to help you edit it and perhaps type up some amendments. Why didn’t you type it in the first place?’ she demanded. ‘You must know no one can read your writing!’
‘I can’t type,’ he said meekly. ‘I’ve tried, but my left-handed syndrome doesn’t allow it. Also, when you’re crawling through a crocodile-infested swamp and you come to a bit of high dry ground, it’s much simpler to take out some paper and a pencil, which I always kept in a waterproof wallet upon my person, and record things there and then, rather than waiting until you can lay your hands on a typewriter or carry one around with you.’
Evonne let the sheet of foolscap flutter to the bed. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I believe one word you say. You make it up as you go along, don’t you?’
Rick’s eyes sparkled with laughter, but he said gravely, ‘I’ve certainly crawled through a crocodile-infested swamp.’
‘And I’ve…’ Evonne bit her lip and turned away, only to tense as Rick said gaily and got up lithely, ‘Relax, Patterson! Uncle Amos obviously has great faith in you.
So have I. Once you master my handwriting—and I’ll be here to help you every step of the way—it will be a piece of cake.’
‘No, it won’t,’ she said intensely, and sank down into a cane armchair with her face in her hands.
‘Evonne,’ he said after a time, and when she looked up at last he seemed to have changed character. The lines and angles of his face were set differently; for once his green eyes were not amused or mocking but narrowed and oddly determined, even carrying a faint look of hauteur, and she realised she had dimly been aware of this capacity he had of stepping into another skin, rather like the curtain he had accused her of lifting, aware that beneath the charm and the humour there lurked a tiger… She blinked at herself impatiently and said dully, ‘What?’
‘I’m rarely serious about anything, but there are one or two things I take to heart. If I start a project, I always see it through and I do it well. This book is no exception to that rule, whatever you and Uncle Amos may have decided to the contrary.’
‘It’s not that I mean to belittle your book,’ said Evonne, and flushed slightly.
‘No?’ His eyes taunted her. ‘Be that as it may, when I idly happened to mention to my beloved uncle that I needed some help on it, it wasn’t my idea that he send me his very own personal assistant who would have her nose put out of joint—all I said I needed was a typist, some patient soul who wouldn’t mind deciphering my handwriting. He then said, “I’ve got just the person for you, someone with journalistic experience who was once even Robert Randall’s Press secretary!” ’
Evonne winced inwardly.
Rick went on, ‘Then his telegram arrived and I smelt a rat but also thought—why’s he sending me a bloke? They’re not as a rule great typists, and do I need somebody’s exPress secretary to make suggestions and generally irritate the life out of me?’
‘What, I hesitate to ask, did you answer yourself?’ Evonne enquired with some return of spirit.
‘Because of the time I wasted on this infernal ankle, I’m behind schedule, my dear Patterson, so I thought I’d wait and see what transpired. After all, why knock back a pig’s ear before you’ve had a chance of assessing its capability for being a silk purse instead?’ A glimmer of a smile disturbed his expression for the first time. ‘I’ve never before had the opportunity to use that expression so aptly,’ he mused.
‘I’m surprised, but…’
‘Let me finish,’ he commanded. ‘At least let’s sort the wheat from Uncle Amos’s chaff—are you a good typist?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Do you have a journalistic background?’
‘I did a course…’
‘I mean practically? Were you Robert Randall’s Press secretary, and how did you get that job?’ Evonne took a breath. ‘Yes, I was,’ she said steadily. ‘And I worked my way up through advertising copywriting, magazine editing, a stint in a publishing house and some time in the business section of a daily paper, but…’
He had been leaning back against a wall with his arms folded, his legs crossed so that his bad ankle was resting on his good one, but he straightened swiftly and came to stand over her. ‘Then you’re bloody perfect for this job, Patterson!’
Evonne stared up at him dazedly. ‘You just said—rather, about two hundred words ago you said the last thing you needed …all you needed was a sweet-tempered typist..
‘I need a good, happy, interested typist, and coming from you, I wouldn’t even mind some suggestions. Truly! But what I meant, later, was that you could find it really interesting. I mean, one way or another it’s your career, but this might be a delightfully different branch of it. You might even be inspired to write a book yourself. Most people who take up journalism dream of doing that, don’t they?’
‘I…’ She closed her eyes.
‘Is something pulling you back to Melbourne? Something that’s making you spurn the chance of a wonderful, different holiday, an experience? Like a couple of kids, despite your being a Miss and never married?’
‘No!’
‘It happens.’
‘Not to me.’ To her horror, Evonne felt tears on her lashes and she stood up abruptly and dashed at them. ‘I…’
Rick caught her wrist and swung her round to face him. ‘But there’s something… rather unhappy down there, isn’t there?’ he said very quietly.
‘No.’
‘Something that’s put you off balance. I can see it in your eyes. This morning you started out treating me as if I was ten—from the moment you laid eyes on me, you’ve been disturbed, angry, at odds—unless I remind you acutely of some lost or perfidious lover…?’ He waited.
‘You don’t.’
‘Then something’s happened to make the world go dark for you. I can’t believe you’ve got where you are if you’re as thin-skinned and unsure of yourself as you appear to be.’
They were very close and he still had his fingers linked round her wrist—so close she had to tilt her head back slightly to look into his eyes, and the dark depths of hers were a little stunned, wary and disbelieving that this man who had only known her for not yet twenty-four hours could read her like this.
Her throat worked and for an instant a fleeting sense of being stranded caught at her nerves—to go back was madness, to stay… but what could be so dangerous about staying? She was no girl to be seduced by a handsome face, by a pair of broad golden shoulders, by a man who sometimes seemed younger than she was, by an insolent, boyish charm… What am I thinking? she marvelled. I am probably more piqued than I realised, at being seconded to do a job any girl from the typing pool could do. As for him… the sudden memory of his tiger look as he had talked about his book came to her…as for him, he needs a typist, obviously, and he’s the kind of person who’ll flatter and whatever to get his needs attended to. If only he didn’t make me feel… I don’t know… vulnerable now.
‘Well?’ he said softly.
‘It seems to me,’ her voice was husky, ‘I might need a holiday after all. They say a change is as good as one, don’t they? And I can’t quibble with the setting. If you really want me to stay, I will.’ Rick was silent and he watched her carefully for a long moment before he said, ‘You wouldn’t also like to confide in me, would you?’
‘No—at least,’ her hand clenched involuntarily and he felt it through her wrist and his eyes narrowed as she went on with an effort, ‘there’s nothing except that I probably am thin-skinned and not the most patient person in the world. I could arrange for someone else for you, though.’
He released her wrist, stepped back and said with a curiously twisted smile, ‘We’ll muddle through somehow, Patterson. Why don’t you put those gorgeous togs on and come for a swim?’
Evonne started to frown and opened her mouth, but she shut it and after a moment nodded.
‘That’s my girl!’ he drawled. ‘I’ll go down and commandeer a couple of loungers for us.’
That afternoon, however, she became businesslike.
She requested of the housekeeper, and got, a table and straight-backed chair, she resolutely shut out the view and adjusted the air-conditioning so that she could work in comfort with the windows closed and disturb no one at the same time. She typed out—the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, and, half a page lower—Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
She took the piece of paper in to Rick next door and handed it to him with a pen. ‘Write that out, will you, underneath the typing?’
He scanned the sheet. ‘What the devil for…oh, I see. This is going to be your guide. Not a bad idea, Patterson, but we can go over a few pages together and…’
‘No,’ Evonne said firmly, ‘I’m best off trying to master it alone, which I expect to have done by this evening. Then I’ll get you to check what I’ve typed.’
‘Well—but look here, I don’t expect you to work yourself to death or your fingers to the bone…’
‘I don’t intend to,’ she i
nterrupted, ‘but I plan to work a part of each day, and at that rate it should be done within a week.’
‘Should it, now?’ he said with a grin. ‘It doesn’t have to be, you know. I have a fortnight before I’m due to present it to my editor.’
‘You have an editor?’
‘Of course. You sound surprised.’
‘I…’ Evonne hesitated. ‘I…’
Rick waited with one eyebrow raised, then said deliberately, ‘I don’t know why people take this unprofessional view of me—some people. When I got the idea of spending my sabbatical the way I did, and writing a book, I naturally approached a publisher first to discuss its viability and whether they’d be interested. I approached several and one, a university press, indicated that they would… surely that’s the professional way to go about things?’
‘Oh, it is,’ Evonne said hastily. ‘My apologies. I… er…’ She broke off and glanced around at the colourful chaos of his room. ‘Perhaps it’s because you don’t seem to be a terribly… organised sort of person that one gets these false impressions—don’t you ever hang any of your clothes up?’
‘Not often,’ he replied. ‘And do you know why?’
‘Your left-handed syndrome?’ she hazarded.
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘that too, probably, but in hotels and resorts I do it as a form of protest. I resent the fact that they automatically assume I’m going to pinch their hangers and have installed the horribly ingenious new kind without hooks that you have to slot into permanent rings on the rails.’
Evonne stared at him, at the genuine hauteur of his expression, and said feebly, ‘You are a bit mad, you know,’ then dissolved into helpless laughter.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never grappled with them and found them fiddly and irritating!’
‘Yes, you’re right, I have.’
‘Then why don’t you join me in my protest?’
‘Because I have too much respect for my clothes. Will you please write that out and let me get to work?’
‘You say that as if it’s downright dangerous to stay in my company any longer.’ He looked offended.
One More Night Page 4
