The Art of Romance

by Margaret Carr

  ‘Then please collect whatever it is you have come for and let me go home.’

  Her door was pulled open and a sharp voice demanded, ‘Out.’

  She set her mouth and planted her feet firmly on the floor, refusing to budge.

  Who did he think he was, for goodness’ sake? You couldn’t go around kidnapping people in broad daylight.

  Then she realised how childish she was being and popped her head out of the door.

  ‘If you go home now you will be in the way of a cleaning company who are working to straighten things for you. I have arranged that you should stay with me for the next day or two.’

  ‘Oh, you have, have you? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but cleaners or no cleaners I shall go home with or without your help.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’

  He closed her door and came back around the car and climbed in. He started the engine and slid back into the traffic. The journey was completed in silence and in twenty minutes they were back in the mews.

  True to his word, the front door and window stood wide open, the sound of merry chatter floating down the stairs and out to a white van whose open back doors revealed numerous pieces of industrial cleaning equipment.

  Maurice turned off the engine and climbed out of the car.

  What now, Alison thought, raising her eyes heavenward. She followed him up the stairs.

  There were two women and a man all busily washing dawn walls and vacuuming carpets. The kitchen was already spotless.

  Maurice spoke to the man then came back to Alison.

  ‘He says if you give them another half-an-hour they will be finished.’

  Alison stepped over the cleaner cord and gave in.

  ‘OK, what do you suggest?’

  ‘We go for a drink, try to do some straight talking then we come back here and get you settled in.’

  She dreaded the talking part, but they couldn’t stay here, and perhaps a drink would help loosen her throat a little.

  * * *

  After finding a table in a quiet part of a local corner pub, Maurice went off to the bar and came back with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  ‘Now,’ he said as he poured the wine, ‘suppose you tell me what is going on.’

  Alison’s hair fell forward covering her eyes as she stared down at her glass.

  ‘What do you want to know that Etienne hasn’t already told you? You already know that Victor Brewer is my father.’

  ‘It didn’t take Maria Cicognani to tell you that. So what did she say to you?’

  ‘That she would expose me as Victor’s daughter. That I would lose the honey pot that was Etienne and my job and all my friends again.’

  Her voice shook as she told him.

  ‘Surely you realised she couldn’t expose you without exposing your father also. Were you in love with Etienne?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘He was a friend who betrayed me, that’s all. Everyone betrays you in the end.’

  ‘No, Alison, you are wrong.’

  ‘You sacked me,’ she said bitterly, ‘and turned poor William away when all he tried to do was stand by me. What kind of person does that make you? I don’t know why I am sitting here in your company.’

  She started to rise to her feet.

  He put out a restraining hand.

  ‘Sit down, please. Don’t I have the right to have my side of this discussion heard?’

  She sank back into her seat but she could not look at him. She just wanted to escape back to her flat and lick her wounds. If she could only be alone she could pretend none of this had ever happened.

  Why hadn’t she walked out on William when he suggested she visit Maurice to apologise in the first instance? She would have been settled in a new job now and never have met Vernon again.

  Then she remembered the pictures. He would have found her wherever she was. Why?

  ‘Alison,’ he said as he refilled her empty glass.

  ‘Angela,’ she corrected automatically, still the child who had everything but love.

  Maurice nodded.

  ‘Witherston. Did Vernon contact you before you saw him in Sussex?’

  ‘Yes, he left some photographs of me. When I saw them I knew he must be back in the country.’

  Maurice leaned back in his seat and regarded her coolly.

  ‘When we first met I thought you were a dead volcano just waiting to erupt. The apologies that never quite caught up created a boiling beneath the surface. Then you calmed down and set me aside while you played with Etienne. Then Victor appeared and you took off after telling all to Etienne. He played cat and mouse for a couple of days before letting me in on the secret.

  ‘I didn’t know what was going on, so, yes, I chased you back to London. I had to replace you and Sharon in the office, and William wouldn’t tell me where to find you and we had an argument, but no-one, and I stress that, no-one was fired.

  ‘He said he would step down if I tried to fire you. My head was full of you and I told him he must do as he thought fit.’

  ‘He was terribly hurt,’ Alison said. ‘I came back and was virtually told I was trespassing by your new PA. I took William home and stayed with him for a few days.’

  They both fell silent. Alison played with her drink while Maurice watched.

  ‘I think the cleaners will be finished now,’ Alison said, rising to her feet.

  * * *

  They left the pub and walked back to the mews. The cleaners had gone and the flat was all locked up.

  Then they noticed that Maurice’s Jaguar was clamped which made Maurice hiss with fury. She had no alternative but to let him in to use the phone.

  Once he had made the necessary call, he replaced the receiver before he walked over to the window to look down into the mews.

  ‘They say someone will be out in thirty minutes. May I wait here?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. You still haven’t told me about the burglary. Who was robbed?’

  ‘No-one,’ Maurice replied. ‘The place was gone over but nothing was taken.’

  ‘They why did Francine and Etienne leave in such a hurry?’ Alison inquired.

  ‘Etienne always steers Francine away from any trouble, real or otherwise. She is a fantastically wealthy woman, you know, and there have been attempts in the past to blackmail and kidnap and so on.’

  ‘And what about my father? Where do you think he is now?’

  ‘Still at the house, I believe. They leave on Sunday. Will you come back to work on the house after they have left, or would you prefer to stay in the office?’

  She shook her head wearily.

  ‘Think about it,’ he said, as a knock on the door heralded the clamp man had arrived.

  Eventually she heard him leave, followed by the murmur of voices downstairs, then the slam of the front door.

  She was alone at last.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alison arrived back at The Kicking Cuddy on Monday morning after phoning through to make sure there was now a room free. Staying at the house was unacceptable.

  Sharon made a tremendous fuss on Alison’s arrival, following her to her room and bringing her up to date with all the gossip.

  ‘It will be such a relief to get Mr Kyle off our backs. He’ll be really pleased to know you’ve returned. He’s been impossible while you’ve been away.

  ‘The builders are finished work and the decorators have just started. Madam and her nephew have gone, so there’s just the guests left. They were supposed to have packed up yesterday. The young bloke, the nephew’s friend, he’s left but the others are still here.’

  Alison was not happy to hear that her father was still around, and was thankful that she’d had the sense to book in at the pub.

  ‘I’ll sort these out later,’ she said dumping her case and travel bag on the bed. ‘It will be handy living on the job, so to speak.’

  Their laughter echoed down the stairs as they made their way to the room that was serving as an office.r />
  ‘Are you still in the room at the bottom of the garden?’

  ‘I like it there,’ Sharon giggled. ‘It’s private, and I learn all sorts of things because nobody knows I’m there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, take the night before the break-in. I spied one of the guests from the house in the garden with two thugs. Plotting something, you could bet on that.’

  ‘Did you mention this to the police?’

  ‘No,’ she said, waving a hand in front of her face. ‘Never offer what you’re never asked, that’s my motto.’

  ‘Which guest was it?’ Alison asked with her heart in her mouth.

  ‘The one that comes in here with the Italian woman. I can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Victor Brewer,’ Alison answered for her.

  Just as she thought, he was here for some despicable purpose but what? What had he hoped to gain by ransacking the house?

  If he had intended stealing from Francine, she had gone and there was nothing in the house, as yet, worth stealing. Yet he was still here.

  She pushed these thoughts into the back of her mind and concentrated on the job at hand. Sharon had done her best to keep things ticking over, but it was soon obvious that the choosing and ordering of fabrics and furniture was falling behind.

  ‘I could never get Mr Kyle to commit to anything, even when I managed to get him on the phone. So I just put it on hold and prayed he come back to the house soon.’

  ‘You’ve done extremely well considering it isn’t your job. It’s not your fault that Maurice Kyle can’t concentrate on more than one thing at a time. This is like history repeating itself, isn’t it?’

  * * *

  The following two weeks passed swiftly. Alison saw little of Maurice who seemed to be spending most of his time in London, leaving more and more of the decisions with her.

  Her father, and his companion had left on the Sunday after her arrival. She was beginning to relax and enjoy her work again, convinced that whatever had brought her father back to this country, it had nothing to do with her.

  With the house empty, the workmen were making good progress. The decorating was finished and it only remained for the floor coverings, wall and curtain hangings and the placing of the furniture, and all would be done. There would be a gap of several weeks before they started on the west wing. Alison would be glad of the opportunity to go back to her flat.

  * * *

  William was back in the office. Alison stood in the doorway and grinned at him. He turned pink with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m so glad things worked out with Maurice,’ she said.

  ‘We had a long talk, straightened some misunderstandings.’ He was leaning forward on the desk, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘We talked a lot about you.’

  ‘Me?’

  His eyes twinkled.

  ‘We are both very fond of you, Alison, and didn’t like to see you getting hurt.’

  With raised eyebrows Alison said, ‘You, I know, but Maurice, I don’t think so.’

  He indicated she should shut the door and come and sit down.

  ‘We have never talked about the friends who deserted you all those years ago.’

  Alison shook her head.

  ‘That is all in the past, William, and none of it matters any more.’

  ‘It does if you let it affect your life now.’

  ‘But that’s just the point, I don’t.’

  He eased back in his chair and stared thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘Maurice left the name of a man he said you were interested in working for.’

  ‘Yes, he said he would.’

  William passed over a sheet of memo pad.

  ‘He tells me you have a promising talent for design.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning on leaving you.’

  * * *

  Later that evening as she went to fit the key into the front door of her flat, the key refused to turn. She continued to struggle until she realised that the door was already open.

  Fear slipped like a well-worn glove over her heart. Did she go forward or go for help? Was she being burgled, if so, had they gone? All these thoughts and a million more filled her head and suddenly she was angry.

  Everything that had happened to her in the last month to upset her quiet routine was balled up into anger that grew until it had her charging up the stairs ready to do battle with anyone or anything she found there.

  What she did find was her father searching through her dresser.

  ‘Where have you put your mother’s photo?’ he snapped without ceasing in his search.

  ‘How did you get in, and what do you think you are doing?’

  She charged across the floor and pushed him out of her way before standing guard on the dresser.

  He sat down with a thump in the nearest seat.

  ‘Your mother’s photograph, the one you used to keep by your bed, what have you done with it?’

  He stared up at her as though she was guilty of some heinous crime.

  ‘Get sick of it? Throw it out?’ With a snarl he leaped from the chair.

  Alison jerked sideways to avoid his headlong rush, but he grabbed her by the arm and shook her.

  ‘What did you do with it, you little fool?’

  Totally confused now, Alison whimpered with the pain his grip was causing her.

  ‘Mum’s photograph? Why, what is it to you?’

  ‘It’s what I came back for, why I had the house torn apart to disguise the search of your room, only you had left, Miss Clever, and I had to waste precious days searching for you. Well, now I’ve found you and I want that photograph.’

  He followed her through into the bedroom and watched as she lifted a small hat-box down from the top shelf of her wardrobe. When the photograph was lifted out, she held it close to her heart.

  ‘Give it to me. You can keep the picture. I only want the paper beneath the frame,’ he snarled.

  She handed it over hesitantly and he snatched it from her hand.

  She watched in angry amazement as he ripped the back off and proceeded to run his fingernail around the edge of the photograph.

  A thin layer of card came away and stuck to the inside of this was a printed piece of paper.

  Laughing now, he pocketed the piece of paper and handed the rest of her mother’s picture back to Alison.

  ‘This will see me all right for some time to come. This is a receipt for a bank account somewhere safe,’ he said, patting his pocket. ‘Helps you to do time when you know there’s a nest egg waiting for you on the outside. I’ve waited a long time for this.’

  ‘So, why haven’t you come for it before?’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were. You’ve come a long way from Harrogate.’

  ‘And starvation, homelessness, joblessness.’ Her mouth tightened with remembrances. ‘How did you find me, by the way?’

  ‘Just luck. You have to have a little luck in your life.’

  ‘Tell me about it, Father. Tell me about all the luck you bestowed upon the old people you robbed, the young couples who trusted you, the friends you betrayed. Tell me about their luck?’

  Smouldering with anger and hate, she nevertheless felt guilt, too. How could she hold this feeling of a hate so strong for her own father?

  ‘Don’t worry, girl,’ he said as though reading her mind. ‘You won’t see me again. Maria and I are thinking of a life in South Africa, or possibly Australia.’

  * * *

  She rang William to tell him what had happened and after assuring him that she was well and in no need of assistance, she rang off.

  Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. She was on the point of returning her mother’s photograph to its box when the sudden sound had her jerking backwards.

  The box slid from her grasp and flew open, scattering photographs all over the floor. She left them lying and went to open the door.

  Maurice turned from surveying the lane and pushed past her up
the stairs saying as he did so, ‘You’ve had a bit of trouble, I believe.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  She suspected William of relaying her news to Maurice.

  She ran up the stairs behind him and faced him in the living-room, flushed and indignant.

  He was standing with his back to the window, a wary expression on his face.

  ‘I have come to take you out to dinner. William thought you might be in need of some company after Brewer’s visit. He didn’t hurt you, did he?’

  ‘My father or William? William had no business repeating my news to you.’

  He nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘True, but then he has his reasons.’

  ‘I am very fond of him, too, but wouldn’t dream of telling …’ Her voice faded as she remembered the way she had shouted at him when she thought he had sent William packing. ‘I can’t go to dinner. I’m busy and tired,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘You startled me when you rang and I spilled the things I was carrying all over the floor.’

  ‘Then I’ll help tidy up,’ he said lightly. ‘Take me to the mess.’

  She hesitated, but then thought, why not, and led him into the bedroom. For a moment he stared at the litter of photographs covering the floor. Then he stripped off his jacket, laid it on the bed and nipping the pleat of his trousers, bent down on his toes and began to retrieve the pictures, one at a time, and place them back in the box.

  Alison went to make him coffee. When she came back, he was examining a picture.

  ‘This is you, right?’

  Glancing over his shoulder she said, ‘Yes. I was seven. It was my birthday.’

  ‘You have plenty of friends at your party. Do you still keep in touch with any of them?’

  ‘No,’ she said, handing him his coffee.

  They sat cross-legged on the floor amidst the photographs.

  ‘Did you go to college with the same girls?’ he asked, studying a picture of a group of laughing girls standing outside the main hall of an old building.

  ‘Most of them.’

  They finished the coffee and Alison made to rise when he said thoughtfully, ‘You’re very like your mother, you know.’

  Alison glanced at the back of the picture of her mother lying in the bottom of the box.

  ‘How do you know what my mother looked like?’