It was a squash, but it had worked up to now and Lucie loved every bit of it. The important thing was that it was her own; she had made it possible by her own efforts, and she had never regretted the life of luxury with her father that she had left behind. In fact, until the letter arrived this evening she hadn't thought of her father for weeks.
But the letter had shaken her considerably. A frown had settled between her prettily-marked dark brows and when she carried the plates back to the small table in front of the fire Peter looked at her curiously. 'What's up, Lucie? You're not the carefree young celebrity you were at the party a while ago. Not bothered about me inviting myself here, are you?' He grinned his crooked, attractive grin. 'I assure you your maidenly virtue is safe with me, a promise is a promise. I have no base motive. Blame the filthy weather.'
Lucie shook her head, smiling back at him as she arranged the plastic containers, with their still-steaming-hot contents on the table. 'No, it's not that, Peter. I trust your honour as a British gentleman.'
'Thanks, pal.' He drew up chairs for them both. 'What's up, then? Tell Uncle Peter.'
Lucie nibbled a prawn cracker. Her appetite seemed to have gone, along with her euphoria, but Peter had taken trouble over his selection of Chinese specialities, and the least she could do was to appreciate them. So she helped herself to a plateful of chop suey, prawn, sweet and sour pork and rice and said, 'When we've eaten, perhaps I will.'
He nodded and started to talk about her book and expectations of sales, and the possible publication date of the next one, and it wasn't until they had cleared the table and pulled up the two easy chairs to the fire with the coffee percolator on the hearth that he said, 'Well?'
Lucie hesitated a moment, then she said, 'I've had a letter from my father. It's thrown me, rather.'
Peter nodded sympathetically. 'Parents can be trying.'
'My father's more than trying, I'm afraid.' She hesitated again, then the need to discuss her predicament took over. 'You see, I haven't had any communication with him since I walked out on him more than three years ago, and now he's written to ask me to come to his sixty-fifth birthday party.'
'Just like that?'
'We-ell, he does say that he might have been to blame for—things that went wrong. It isn't like him to eat humble pie, I feel he must really want to see me. I keep thinking that perhaps he's got some illness that he's not telling people about. If he—if he died, and I hadn't gone to see him when he tried to make up our quarrel it would be really awful.'
'H'm. Sixty-five, you said? That's rather ancient to be your father, surely? How old are you, Lucie?'
'Twenty-two next month. He must have been well over forty when he married my mother. That was after the divorce from his first wife.'
'And then another divorce?'
Lucie shook her head sadly. 'No, my mother died when I was fifteen. I loved her very much.'
The room was silent for a while with only the muffled sound of traffic from the snow-covered road outside, and the companionable hiss of the gas fire. Then Peter said, 'Well, surely it's not much of a problem? You could just put in an appearance and see how things were. Probably the old boy's just feeling his age a bit.'
Lucie smiled wryly. 'It's rather more than putting in an appearance. It means travelling quite a way.'
'Where is he, then?'
'The Cayman Islands.'
Peter's fair brows shot up. 'The Cayman Islands?'
'You know—in the Caribbean. Not so far from Jamaica.'
'Yes, I know,' he said slowly. And then, 'You never told me about your father, Lucie. I thought you were alone, except for your brother James.'
'I don't talk about my father. Our parting was distinctly traumatic. This letter—it's brought it all back.' She bit her lip hard.
'Yes, I could see there was something,' Peter said quietly.
She looked at him as he leant back comfortably in his chair. He was an attractive man—charming. An amusing, easy-going companion, understanding, sympathetic. And he had taken such an interest in her and her book from the day, nearly a year ago, when she walked into the publisher's office with her portfolio of drawings under her arm and her knees shaking with nerves.
At first they had met only in the office; then, one day, he had suggested they have a snack-bar lunch together to discuss the book's cover. After their first dinner-date he had kissed her in the taxi on the way back to her flat, and waited to be invited in.
It was then that she had had to explain to him that she had made a vow to keep romance out of her life until she managed to publish her first book. 'P'raps you'd rather call it a day?' she had suggested, and she had been really rather torn, because she liked him a lot.
She had been surprised and pleased when he said No, he'd like to go on seeing her now and again, with no strings attached, and that was how it had been. They had met fairly often and had lunch or dinner together, and talked about books and about their aims in life: hers to make a name as author and illustrator of nature books for children, his to have his own literary agency. Lucie found herself looking forward to their meetings more and more and wondering if she was, perhaps, falling in love with him. He had never made a pass at her after that first date, and she took it for granted that he had girlfriends who were more—obliging than she allowed herself to be.
Looking at him now, with the firelight throwing a soft glow on his smooth gold hair, she wondered how it would have been if she had been less dedicated to her work, and suddenly the defences that she had put up when she had chosen to leave her luxurious, protected existence and make her own way out in the world crumbled.
'Want to talk about it?' asked Peter. 'About your father?'
Lucie turned her head and looked into the fire. 'I adored him when I was little,' she said. 'He's a big man—big in every way—a flamboyant character. I had everything a girl growing up could want— clothes, parties, ponies, dancing lessons. I wanted to please him always, to look nice for him, to do what he wanted.'
'He's a businessman?' Peter prompted.
'Oh yes, very much so. You'd call him a financier, I suppose. He owns I don't know how many companies all over the place. My brother James— he's my half-brother really—manages one of them up in Birmingham. James was marvellous to me when I left home. I lived with him and his family for a while and went to part-time art classes. Then when my course came to an end I wanted to go it alone and I came to London and got various jobs, mostly in shops and cafes—and worked on my painting at nights and early in the mornings.'
'An independent young woman,' Peter smiled. 'But you haven't told me why you left home. Couldn't you have worked just as well on your art there? If your father was such an indulgent parent, I wonder you didn't.'
'Indulgent—ha! That's what I thought—until I wanted to do something that he didn't want me to do. And I wouldn't do something that he did, if you know what I mean. It all boiled up until in the end I just—walked out.'
'Go on,' he said.
She thought for a time and then said slowly, 'I think I first began to realise what he was like when my mother became ill. He was impatient with illness, he just didn't want to know. It was my long school holiday, and I sat with her a lot and she talked to me, and I began to understand how frustrated she had been. She wanted to be an artist—she was talented, I'm sure—but he wouldn't have it. He put every possible difficulty in her way. She had to be at his beck and call, always. She'd kept cheerful for my sake, but when she was ill she couldn't keep it up any longer. One of the things she said before she—she became unable to talk much was, "Just be careful not to let him run your life, Lucie darling. He'll try".'
'And he did?'
'Oh yes, indeed he did.' Lucie's soft mouth drew down. 'It really began when I left school. I wanted desperately to go on to art school, my art mistress encouraged me—said I had talent. But he wouldn't hear of it. He'd arranged—without my knowledge— to send me to a finishing school in Switzerland. I endured one term and that wa
s enough—I came home. Finishing schools just weren't my line and I was crazy to go to art school. My father and I quarrelled about it all the time and I began to see what he was really like when he was opposed. Ruthless, dictatorial, sometimes almost savage. A man with an outsized ego whom everyone had to obey—or else—'
'So you walked out on him?'
'Oh, not right away. I tried to come to terms with the situation. Spent sleepless nights wondering how I could cope. I felt almost sorry for him sometimes because I knew that if I left he would be quite alone, and in his own way he loved me. Then he married again—a girl half his age called Stephanie, a film starlet, and we moved to Paris. I—to put it mildly, Stephanie and I didn't hit it off. I knew this was irritating my father, but the crunch came when he told me he wanted me to marry a business associate of his—the son of his banker. He actually admitted that the marriage would be a good thing for him— my father—in his business affairs. I thought he was joking at first, but he wasn't. We had a blazing row— everything that had been simmering under the surface came out. It was—it was horrible.' She put a hand over her eyes as if to shut out the memory. 'Next morning I packed a bag and left. I went to Birmingham, to my brother James.'
'And that was it?' Peter said gently.
'That was it. I'd done the unforgivable thing, as far as my father was concerned. The break was complete—until today.'
She refilled their coffee-cups. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I really don't know. What do you think I should do, Peter? Here, read his letter.' She passed over the thick sheet of paper with its impressive letter-heading.
They had turned out the overhead light and the room was lit dimly by the Anglepoise lamp on Lucie's drawing-table. Peter leaned forward to let the firelight play on the single sheet. At last he said, 'Do you really want my advice, Lucie?'
'Yes, I think I do. I might not take it, of course,' she added with a faint smile.
He handed the letter back to her, giving her hand a squeeze as he did so. 'Independent little cuss, aren't you? Well, for what it's worth, my advice is that you should go. As you said, you might feel guilty later on if you didn't.'
She nodded slowly. 'I was afraid you'd say that, and it's what I know in my heart I should do. It's just that—it's been such a long time and—to go back alone into my father's plushy life-style after this'— she waved a hand round the modest, cosy room— 'which is really much more "me", is rather a daunting prospect. It wouldn't be so bad if James were coming with me, but he's got an important business deal on and he can't possibly get away. Oh, bother!' She put down her coffee-cup with a clatter, letting out an exasperated sigh.
There was another long silence. Then, 'Lucie—'
Peter began.
'Um?' She looked up absently.
'I've got an idea. How would it be if I came along with you?' He was watching her face and he went on quickly, 'I'm afraid I couldn't run to first class, but the money your father has sent you would almost cover both our fares if we went economy class—we'd have to shop around. What do you think? At least you wouldn't be on your own going into the lion's den.' He grinned encouragingly.
'Oh, Peter, that would be lovely! I'd love to have you there with me, only—' she hesitated '—only it's such a "family" sort of situation and it's going to be rather nerve-racking, meeting him again after what's happened and—'
'—and it wouldn't be quite on, to have a stranger hanging around,' Peter put in. 'Yes, I can see that.' He leaned over and took her hands in his. 'But what if I weren't a stranger, Lucie?' he said, and his voice was deeper and more serious than she had ever heard it. 'What if I were the man you were going to marry?'
Her eyes widened. 'Peter—I—'
'Don't say anything, darling. I know it's a bit of a shock. I've wanted to say this for ages, but I've been biding my time. I could see you weren't a girl to be rushed off her feet and I agreed to your terms.' He smiled his crooked smile. 'There's been no other girl since the first time I saw you in Frank Blessington's office with the sun shining through the dusty window, your eyes like wallflowers, and your hair all shiny like a blackbird's wing.'
'Oh, Peter—' Lucie laughed shakily. 'Be serious!'
'I was never more serious in my life. I thought then, That's the girl I want—for keeps. I'm in love with you, darling Lucie, and I want us to be married. Say you'll think about it. Say we can go to your father together and ask his blessing. Will you, Lucie?'
It was too much, all at once. First the letter, then this. She couldn't manage to think straight.
Peter slipped down on to the rug at her feet, gazing up at her. 'Oh, darling, I've waited so long,' he groaned, and she remembered how patient and understanding he had been. She had thought he had other girls, but all this time he had waited for her—it was somehow touching and rather humbling.
She said impulsively, 'I'd love you to come with me, if I go to the Caymans, but—but—about getting engaged—it's taken me by surprise. I can't—' she began to giggle a little hysterically. 'Oh dear, this sounds like the Victorian novels when the heroines murmured, "This is so sudden!" and promptly fainted away.'
Peter matched her mood. 'And here I am on my knees,' he grinned his lopsided grin, 'proposing according to the accepted custom of those days. Customs change, but there's one thing that doesn't— I bet the Victorian gent was just as much in love with his crinolined lady as I am with you, my darling. And I bet she wasn't half as lovely.'
Lucie nearly melted. Peter was such a dear and she liked him so much. But marriage—!
'I can't promise, Peter. I don't think I'm ready to commit myself yet to anything but my art, it means pretty well everything to me. Does that sound horribly pretentious?'
He shook his head. 'Of course it doesn't, you're a very talented girl and you're dead right to be serious about your art. I'm afraid I've rushed my fences—I meant to wait a bit longer. And then this thing about your father came up and it seemed like a good time.' He sounded so despondent that she wanted to lean down and kiss and comfort him.
But instead she said slowly, 'But it would be lovely if you could come with me on this trip. It would make all the difference.'
Peter raised his head eagerly. 'To me, too. Look, couldn't we work something out? We could be sort of engaged as far as the outside world is concerned, for the time we're out there. That would give you an excuse for taking me along. And when we get home we could formally decide to call it off. That is, of course,' he added, 'if the romantic sunsets in the Caribbean haven't softened your heart and made you fall desperately in love with me.'
She began to laugh. 'Peter, you're wonderful, and I think it's a splendid idea. At least we'll have a holiday and have some fun.' She stood up and pulled him to his feet beside her. 'Thank you for being such a good friend,' she said.
He pulled a face at that. 'No more?' he said softly, his hands at her waist. 'It's been a good day—the party, and your book and everything. Couldn't we end it the proper way?' He pulled her closer and she could feel his heart begin to race. He stroked her neck and his hand found its way inside her blouse and began to mould her breast gently. 'Lucie,' he groaned, and his mouth closed over hers.
Another moment and it would be too late. Another moment and her mind would stop working, her body would take over. It would be so easy to let her lips relax, to press against him, to let him lead her over to the divan.
But too much had happened today and she was off balance. She didn't want her first lovemaking to be like this—the impulse of a moment. She pushed away from him. 'Peter, you promised. I'm not—not ready—'
He let her go rather abruptly and walked over to the door to unhook his coat. 'OK, Lucie, I can wait a bit longer. But now I think I'd better go down and cool off in the snow.'
He wasn't taking offence; he really was a nice man. She went with him to the top of the stairs.
'Let's meet for lunch tomorrow at the Oak Tree and we can discuss arrangements,' she said. 'Goodnight, Peter, and—and thanks.'
&nbs
p; He bowed from the waist with exaggerated gallantry. 'Thank you, my lady.' At the turn in the stairs he stopped and looked back with a thumbs-up gesture. 'See ya, baby!' he shouted, and she waved to him, laughing. She went slowly back into the flat and closed the door.
She lay awake for a long time after she finally got into bed, thinking of the past—hoping that there could be a healing of wounds with her father. Remembering that last horrible quarrel.
It all got very jumbled up and finally her eyelids began to ache with tiredness. And her last thought was of Peter. I can go back and face Father now, with Peter beside me. And if he's got any more men like that hateful Guy Devereux lined up for me it'll be just too bad!
CHAPTER TWO
'This is what I call the life.' Peter laid back his head as the taxi drove them away from the little airport in Grand Cayman a week later, and sighed deeply and with pleasure. 'How did you ever bring yourself to cut adrift and exchange this sort of life for a bedsitter in Bayswater, darling?'
'I've explained that.' Lucie sat bolt upright, her fingers lacing themselves together. At this moment the sunshine and the limpid blue sky and the glimpses of the luxury hotels and apartment buildings between the lushly-growing trees and flowering shrubs were doing nothing at all for her spirits, which were just about at zero. Ever since she had sent the cable to her father saying tersely, 'Arriving Thursday Lucie', she had been feeling more and more depressed, and now that she was here, in this beautiful paradise island, all she really wanted to do was to go back to Bayswater and get on with her book.
Which was absurd really, she scolded herself. Peter was going to love every second of it, and why shouldn't he? He'd taken care of all the preliminary arrangements and he'd been sweet to her on the journey, apologetically trying to make it up to her for having to travel economy class, when, without him, she might have booked first class. Not that she had cared about that. Flying first class would have been more comfortable, certainly, but it wouldn't have been any novelty to her. First-class travel had been taken for granted in her old life, and on this particular trip all the first-class perks—the champagne, the free drinks, the extra leg-room, the choice of menu, the hovering and attentive stewardesses who pander so beautifully to the needs and whims of first-class passengers—would have meant nothing at all to her.
Honeymoon Island Page 2
