‘I’m not much of a hand at breakfast, Ian,’ Val explained, casting down her eyes and sounding like a child, heart-trippingly anxious not to offend. Too abasing, thought Karen, feeling her mouth pinch. Ian thought not.
‘I know, chicken,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to eat a big lunch. Otherwise, you’ll disappear.’
‘I’ll try . . but.’
‘I know you will. And to eliminate the but, I’ll personally supervise.’
‘But, Ian. You’re so busy. And, besides, I feel a dreadful nuisance as it is.’
‘You are that,’ he said, his mouth wearing an overcoat of humour. Karen had never seen it put on more than a light jacket for her. ‘But I happen to like nuisances. And if the day comes when I’m too busy to lunch a pretty girl, it’ll also be the one I look round for a new job.’
It was too much. Karen got up from the table, taking her cup of coffee with her. She was drinking it in the kitchen when Ian joined her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just reproved in horrible silence. Ill-advisedly Karen rushed in to break it.
‘I’m sorry.’ That part was all right, it was the next bit that did the damage. ‘Blame my queasy tum. I can’t seem to swallow pap on an empty stomach.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Have you a better name?’ she thrust angrily.
‘No.’ His face was deadly serious, his eyes grave and considering.
‘She’s an infant who needs to be fed soft foods. But it’s because of what she’s been through.’
‘She’s not the only one to have known a nasty experience,’ she countered, swallowing on tears, fighting to show the argumentative front, and, apparently, succeeding beyond her wildest hope.
‘I know that.’ Was he completely hoodwinked, because here the first hint of gentleness encroached his voice? It didn’t stay, however; with calculated firmness he added: ‘The ingredients might look the same, but they’re not. Whatever the cover says, you and Val are contrasting characters. You should pity her, not condemn her for it, and be thankful your clash with fate made you a stronger person. Oh yes,’ as Karen would have interrupted. ‘That fragile appearance is deceptive. A man might think he can break you with one hand, not knowing he is in danger of breaking his hand in the attempt. In her case, it was Val who broke. The pieces were rushed to Highgate, a superior nursing home, all mod cons and resident psychiatrist. She reports back to him twice weekly out of necessity, and not because she can’t bear the parting to be final. Actually she can’t wait for that day, and neither can I. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’ Did he practise making her look small, or was it a natural talent? And why, she wondered, did they always quarrel? Two more whys ejected in rapid succession. Why, in every argument, did he always have right on his side? And why couldn’t she pander to the soft spot of sympathy his words evoked? Because, try as she might, she couldn’t, couldn’t be sweet and penitent. She couldn’t even lose the battle by default, she had to put her meanness and nastiness into words. In her defence, it was the appeal in his eye that goaded her to say: ‘I’ll tie on the bib. But don’t expect me to pick up the spoon and shover.’
She spent a miserable morning. There was no joy to be found in tidying and polishing the house, nor in setting to rights Ian’s quarters over the garage, or shopping, or doing any of the things she had come to enjoy.
She lunched on cheese and an apple, she couldn’t face more, and then got the sewing machine out from its new home in the sideboard cupboard. She selected one of the remnant pieces and cut out a nightie. If she couldn’t be sweet, at least she could be decent.
When the phone rang, her thoughts automatically turned to Mitch. She didn’t know why, except that he’d phoned her before. She didn’t feel in a Mitch mood, and her hand very reluctantly went to the receiver.
‘Hello,’ she said, and it was as well she didn’t anticipate the caller by name, because she was wrong.
‘Karen?’
‘Yes?’
Unexpectedly: ‘Ian here.’
Her heart, equally unbelieving, gave a curious lurch. Perhaps he too had spent a miserable morning and was ringing to find out if they were still pals. Of course, she had a genius for being wrong, it was nothing of the sort. He’d forgotten, or the distasteful parting scene had driven it from his mind, to tell her it was Val’s day to visit the psychiatrist. Her appointment was from seven till eight. He said he would deliver her to Highgate, hang around, and pick her up again at eight.
‘So you want me to prepare a meal for say, eight-thirty?’ presumed Karen, crisping her tone to match his.
‘No, that’s not it. I’m phoning to tell you not to prepare for us at all. We’ll stop off in town. Get a bite. Make an evening of it. There’s nothing to rush back for. Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll survive. Thank you for letting me know. Have a pleasant evening.’
She didn’t know why she added that, unless she begrudged it them so much that she had to make amends.
I’ll survive, she thought, when he’d rung off. I’ve survived lightning. I’ve survived a car crash. Surely I can survive an attack of plain old-fashioned jealousy.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Okay, lady. This is a hold-up. Keep walking, or I’ll let you have it.’
‘Mitch. You idiot!’ she said, without looking over her shoulder.
The finger in her back dropped. Three others joined it to lightly clasp her waist. ‘Wrong approach?’
Wrong man, she thought.
‘I meant it, the keep walking bit. There’s a cafe not two streets away that does good coffee and mouth-watering Danish pastries. And don’t say you can’t spare the time, because I’ve been watching you dawdling aimlessly for the past few minutes.’
The barb went home. He’d phoned twice during the past three weeks and both times she’d made excuses not to see him. Not because she feared Ian’s disapproval—that would have chased her into his arms—but because she had this thing about using people. It couldn’t be a progressive relationship, and it didn’t seem fair to lead him on.
‘I wasn’t dawdling aimlessly,’ she disclaimed. ‘I was deciding which belt to buy. I’ve narrowed the choice to two. A chic brown leather, or a snazzy gilt chain belt.’
‘What’s it to go with?’
‘A cream dress.’
Is it pretty?’
‘I think so.’
‘Buy both. Ring the changes.’
She threw him an old-fashioned look. ‘Have you ever had a money problem?’
He threw the look right back. ‘Darling, I always have a money problem. I’ve got one at the moment.’
‘Any expectations?’
‘Such as?’
‘A rich aunt pushing a hundred and two?’
‘Er . . . no.’
‘Then you’re not worth cultivating.’
‘I mean no rich aunt. I do have expectations. I’d like to tell you about them, if you’ve a couple of hours to spare.’
‘I have,’ she admitted, enjoying the repartee and thinking perhaps she’d been over cautious. Mitch’s sparkling blue eyes contained only light amusement. He didn’t look in the least sex-starved; he wasn’t hungering after anything she couldn’t give him. ‘It’s Monday,’ she added, basking in sweet relief.
His face went blank. ‘Monday?’
She explained: ‘Mondays and Thursdays my time is my own. Those are the days Val reports back to hospital.’
His mouth closed round an: ‘Oh!’ Like a horse thirsting to drink but balked by contaminated water, he got off to a slow start, drifting with his own strange thoughts, or whatever whitened his face, pulling himself together, smiling exultantly, rapidly catching up. ‘In that case the cafe’s had it, sweetie. My flat’s just round the corner.’
‘Your flat? Will I be safe?’
‘As safe as you want to be, darling.’
She considered. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’
* * *
‘Well, what�
��s the verdict?’
‘The cake is delicious,’ she said. ‘You must beg me the recipe.’
‘I doubt if Cadbury’s would give it. I meant the proposition.’
‘Too daft to discuss.’ She wiped her fingers on the paper serviette he had thoughtfully provided. ‘Hare-brained. Ridiculous.’
‘Well, thank you for the vote of confidence. Now would you care to explain what’s so ridiculous about it.’
‘The basic idea is all right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I believe club turns are all the rage. You have talent. I recognized that when you played the piano, the night you took me to the Grapes. I guessed you were a pro. You fooled around, effortlessly, and made beautiful music. As you so rightly point out, the north is clubland. It’s here, right on your doorstep. You say you have contacts. So go ahead. With the right partner you could make a go of it. But I’m not the right partner. It’s me. Not you. I mean, can you see me as the crumpet half of a duo?’
‘Seriously, yes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have put it to you.’
‘Then you must be blind, or something,’ she said flatly, trying not to sound sour.
He considered before answering, taking his cue from the edge of bitterness in her voice. He supposed that just once every woman would like to be told she had ravishing features and a beautiful body, even if it was a blatant falsehood. Yet such flattery would insult her intelligence. And what did she mean by the ‘or something’? He wasn’t biased, if that’s what she meant.
‘I’m not blind . . . or anything,’ he said guardedly. He wasn’t in love with her, he didn’t lust for her in the physical sense. On the other hand she did not repulse him. He dare not be too honest, because he was unsure of his ground. He hadn’t yet decided which carrot would offer most enticement: himself, or the lolly. She might even be greedy and want both.
‘Look,’ he said, dropping the light approach and sounding splendidly earnest. ‘I’ll level with you. You haven’t much of a voice, but it’s adequate. You haven’t—’
Her hand clapped over her mouth in quaking disbelief.
‘You mean it! I do believe you mean it! Oh, do tell me it’s a hoax? Tell me you’re having me on?’
‘No.’
‘But I’m not beautiful or glamorous. I’m just not the image.’
‘Right on two counts. Wrong on the third. You’re the image I want. The ‘in’ image that’s never really been out. Tiny girl, big stage to swamp you.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Out of the spotlight, for the opening bars. It’s just you and them, your audience. They look at you. And what do they see.’
‘What do they see?’
‘A green-eyed urchin, all set to creep into their hearts. The men’ll reach out to protect you. The women’ll adore you, because you aren’t glam and don’t have a beautiful body. You won’t steam up their husbands and boy-friends. By comparison they’ll feel glam and beautiful. Get it?’
‘You have a vivid imagination.’ She began to rock, she put her hands to her mouth and the laughter spilled round them.
He despaired: ‘Why aren’t you sweet and eighteen? You’d be easier to convince if the dew was still in your eye.’
He was serious. She was not. He couldn’t make her see his point, she couldn’t make him see how ludicrous the idea was.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, reaching out and catching hold of his hand, feeling absurdly contrite. ‘Truly sorry.’
His fingers bent round hers. Was that it? He would have to find out. His free hand went round her shoulder, drawing her close. Her eyes sent out green sparks of surprise. She didn’t speak, she seemed incapacitated, but never had she been more eloquent, and he knew with a sinking certainty that she was not caught up in the Mitch net of charm.
Illogically, this angered him, and he forgot to tread warily. His hands slid over the body that failed to excite him, and his lips closed round the mouth parting to say his name. ‘Damn you!’ he said, his breath an angry hiss against her cheek. ‘What are you made of?’
‘And damn you!’ she retaliated, white faced and choky. ‘For thinking every girl will swoon at your feet. And double damn you for being despicable and dishonest. I asked. You said I’d be safe.’
‘Not quite, darling,’ he contradicted, his tone making a mockery of the endearment. ‘I said, as safe as you wanted to be.’
‘You thought that’s what I wanted?’ Her anger evaporated. She stared, twisting her hands, and when he didn’t reply, repeated: ‘You thought that’s what I wanted?’
He tried to say yes, but muffed it. He felt downcast and ridiculous. But yes, he’d honestly thought that’s what she wanted. For once in his life, he’d backed the wrong hunch.
‘But you don’t want me, any more than I want you. We haven’t that sort of thing going.’ She sounded incredulous and intensely shocked. ‘Does it mean so much to you?’
He had to look at her. He didn’t want to, but it was a compulsion. The mouth that he had so recently savaged, looked soft and tender. There wasn’t a hint of derision in the expressive eyes. ‘Yes, yes it does,’ he was magnetised to admit.
She sat down on the sofa, patting the space beside her. ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it.’
She couldn’t be sure he did tell all. Because he lifted the lid to expose a layer of dark brown, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a layer of black lurking underneath.
‘Mitch and Mandy was an established act,’ he began. ‘We did the clubs, got some worthwhile bookings.’
‘Was Mandy your fiancée?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Very much like you.’
‘Is that why you picked me for the new Mandy?’
‘Probably. I’ve got the contacts. If I don’t change the act, or the name, it’ll make it easier to get back.’
‘What happened?’
‘She couldn’t stand the pace. It’s hard graft. And she didn’t like me being nice to the customers. Well, I mean, you have to be. There were lots of small unsavoury incidents, and one, concerning a club proprietor’s wife, big incident. The breaking point came. It had to. We split up.’
‘I thought you said she was dead?’
‘Did I? I don’t think so. We split up.’
‘I must have misunderstood. Did you . . .’ She hesitated, because of the delicacy of the question. ‘Did you offer the ring because you loved her? Or as bait?’
His shoulders hunched, his hands slid through his knees to the floor. The ultimate in dejection. ‘There are times,’ he said, not looking up, ‘when I don’t much like myself. But,’—he thumped the floor like a madman—‘Why didn’t she know?’
‘Know what?’ probed Karen, swallowing to stem the full blast of her feelings. ‘That she wasn’t beautiful or voluptuous, or any of the things you said she was? That all the time her mirror was right? You’re a rat, Mitch.’
‘I know, I know. I should have been destroyed, not her.’
‘Is it too late?’
‘I think so. The show is over . . . I guess. Like you, she wasn’t interested in making fifty a week.’
‘Fifty?’ Her breath bucketed in her throat. ‘Fifty what? For goodness’ sake, not pounds? I’m not greedy, I don’t want fifty a week. One straight fifty would do me.’ There was in her voice a ring of galloping excitement and earthy realism. She was interested. She was interested!
His dissipation vanished. He was keen, alert, confident. ‘Curse my perspicacious grandmother for letting me down. I placed the money last!’
She looked down her nose. ‘Then you’re a fool.’
‘We’ll practise. Work up a routine. We’ll start with the little clubs and go on to the big ones.’ Now they were both equally excited. He caught her to him and she hugged him back. And the embrace was light and superficial, as lacking in passion as the other had been fraught with it.
‘My hat! This is it. I feel it.’
She clutche
d her throat, dropping from the heights to a sobering low.
‘I won’t wear itsy-bitsy costumes. I insist on decent coverage. And I shan’t tell Ian.’
‘You shall have a hand in choosing your gear. But tell Ian,’ shouted Mitch, all the way from his lofty mountain top of glory. ‘Tell him to go to . . .’
‘I can’t. Not until I’ve made the first fifty. Anyway, he’d laugh. I can’t bear to be laughed at.’
‘Darling,’ said Mitch, tossing her a peculiar look. ‘He’d do more than laugh. He’d throw you out on your ear.’ He was grinning and sniggering, as if he knew something she didn’t. ‘If he did throw you out, would it be so bad? You could move in with me. On a platonic basis, of course.’
‘Thank you. But . . . no.’ Marvellous how she kept her voice on an even keel.
‘Okay . . . We’ll rehearse here, in my flat, during the day. But if you’re not going to tell him, you’ll have to think up a decent cover story for when we start taking bookings. They won’t be afternoon jobs.’
‘I know, Mitch. I’ll think up something when the time comes.’ The trouble with Mitch was, he couldn’t bear the thought of anybody not being ensnared. She must never let him know that she had resisted, not only him, but a flame quickening, a response to all that was evil in him, when he had brutally kissed her. She would never feel safe, when resistance was low, on a dark night . . . in a storm.
CHAPTER TEN
‘I’ve changed my mind about Mitch. I don’t like him,’ she informed her troll doll. ‘Not only do I not like him, I positively dislike him. He’s working me to an early grave. I’m losing weight. And I can’t afford to lose it.’
Mitch said the act was going well, after rehearsing for only two weeks. She tried to be infected by his fervour, but she felt unprofessional, raw. Perhaps because he was so polished and professional. He said the ‘rawness’ as she called it, was the quality she mustn’t stamp out. ‘It’s what you’re selling darling. You are raw. Cultivate it.’ He said that before long they’d be ready to take bookings. One night stands. As breakers in. She panicked. She couldn’t do it. What had possessed her to think she could?
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