by Celia Scott
The pretty hairdresser took her time, studying Polly's face and bone structure carefully. Then, after a great deal of snipping and combing, Polly's hair was blow-dried and she was handed a mirror. The change was miraculous! Her hair now fell in feathery layers to her shoulders, the disastrous bangs had been trimmed and were brushed back off her brow so that her delicate face was softly framed in glossy waves. Her eyes now looked enormous.
'It'll be very easy to keep,' Ila promised. 'You won't even need to blow-dry it, and it's still long enough to put up. Do you like it?'
Experimentally Polly shook her head and her gleaming hair swung in a perfumed curtain, then fell back into shape again. 'You're a genius,' she told Ila. 'A sheer genius!'
Back in the cubicle she got dressed again. Now the brick-coloured tee-shirt looked really dreadful! She had noticed a rack of soft cotton dresses hanging in the reception area of the beauty parlour when they had come in. They were the work of a local batik artist, and now Polly went to investigate.
She chose a low-necked dress which was tied at the waist with a sash and fell almost to her ankles in soft unpressed pleats. It was patterned in shades of almond green and honey. She pushed the elasticised sleeves above her elbows and looked critically into the narrow mirror in the cubicle. She looked terrific, and although the dress showed more bosom than she was used to, she had to admit it was a vast improvement over her usual clothes. Delighted with herself, she went to the front desk to pay.
She was a bit put out when Ila told her that the hair-do had already been paid for by Flint, for she liked to feel independent, but she kept quiet about it and sat down to read a magazine until he arrived.
She was immersed in an article about eye make-up when the chimes sounded and Flint burst into the salon. For a second neither of them spoke, then he exclaimed, 'Polly! My God! You look beautiful!'
She stood up, collecting the brown paper bag containing her old clothes. 'It's not very polite to sound so surprised,' she smiled. She had the distinct impression that Flint was at a loss for words, while she felt in complete control, and she was enjoying the sensation.
He was still gazing at her. 'Your hair—it's terrific, Pollyanna—just terrific,' he said.
'It certainly beats my own cut,' she agreed lightly, but her heart was pounding pleasurably because he made her feel desirable, and this was heady stuff!
In the car she asked him what she owed him for her new coiffure. 'Nothing,' he said, 'it's a bonus,' and when she protested he explained that the bonus was for the extra work she had contributed to the article. 'Without your help it wouldn't have been half as good,' he said.
Since she was learning not to belittle her achievements she thanked him and refrained from making any comments about it being 'easy'!
'By the way,' he said, 'while you were at Ila's I went to the bank so I can pay you your salary in cash, and run to an advance if you need it—for tomorrow's shopping.'
'I won't need an advance,' she told him, recollecting the money-order from her grandmother. 'I have some birthday money to spend.'
'When was the birthday?'
'It wasn't. I mean, it's in a couple of weeks.'
'And you'll be twenty, is that right?' He turned to look at her and his eyes lingered appraisingly for a moment at the shadowed cleft of her cleavage. She felt a tide of colour sweep over her chest up to her face. 'So young,' he muttered under his breath, 'and so damn vulnerable it hurts.'
Unable to hear him properly, she asked, 'What?' but he didn't reply, and since her new-found confidence had deserted her under the audacity of his gaze, the remainder of the drive passed in silence. Sable was on the phone when they went into the house. She waved her beautifully manicured fingers at them and went on writing on a jotter. 'Fine!' Polly heard her say, 'sounds fine. Will nine o'clock be too late?' She mouthed 'Work' at them and gestured to the phone. With a grin she said, 'See you later, then!' and hung up.
'My agent wants me to come in to Toronto,' she said, and her dark eyes glittered with excitement. 'Some clients are looking for a model to publicise a new line of cosmetics and my agent's having dinner with them tonight. She wants me to join them.' She started for the stairs. 'I'll just have time to put on the war-paint and iron my dress. Sorry I won't be here for dinner, Polly. Hope it doesn't put you out too much.'
Polly assured her that it didn't, and then suggested that she iron the dress while Sable got ready. 'You won't mind waiting for your meal, will you, Flint?' she enquired.
'No problem,' he replied. 'I'm not hungry. I'll take Duvet for a walk. Good luck with the job, Sable.'
He sounded so subdued that Polly wondered if Sable's obvious delight at this chance to rush off and pursue her career was upsetting him. If so it didn't seem to bother Sable, who led the way upstairs, unbuttoning her silk blouse as she went.
'You are an angel, Polly,' she chattered, 'this account is a very big one and includes a trip to Paris for promotional work—if I get it!' They had reached her room by now and Sable was pulling out dresses from the wardrobe and flinging them on to the bed. Finally she made her choice.
'This one, I think.' She held it against herself. It was a black silk shift—very short, and very narrow at the hem. 'It just needs a touch-up with the iron.' She looked at Polly closely for the first time. 'Your hair, Polly! It looks sensational! And I love your dress! I should have noticed before, I am a selfish pig.'
Polly smiled. 'No, you're not, you're just excited about this job. Now, you get to work on the face while I deal with the wrapping.'
It took only minutes to iron the dress, and when she brought it back Sable called, 'In here, Polly!' She was sitting in front of her dressing-table mirror in the bathroom, painting her face. She was clad in a pair of gauzy black tights sprinkled with silver moons and stars—and nothing else. The air was heavy with the musky perfume she always wore in the evenings.
'How do I look?' She turned towards Polly, who stood in the doorway. She was clearly nervous, and Polly had said in all honesty that she looked terrific. The black dress was the latest fashion, the black stockings with their silver motifs provocative, and the carefully made-up face had the mask-like perfection of a top Vogue model.
'Bless you,' Sable had said, fiddling with the single rhinestone ear-ring that hung nearly to her shoulder. 'By the way, Polly, if there's any of my make-up that you want to use, help yourself.' Polly had looked at her blankly. 'For your tête-à-tête with Flint!' And she had blown a kiss and flown from the room.
Tête-à-tête with Flint! Polly had to admit she hadn't thought of it that way, and now that she did she wasn't sure she liked it. Something about the intimacy of that phrase frightened her. Of course, she reasoned, Sable didn't mean anything by it, it was just a joke. Even sophisticated fashion models surely didn't make presents of their lovers for the evening.
But she was tempted to try some of Sable's eye makeup just the same!
She put aside the thick salmon steaks that she had already braised in a fumet of red wine. She would glaze them in the oven and make the Genevoise sauce when Flint returned from his walk. Right now she was going to work on her eyes!
Fifteen minutes later, after a fascinating time experimenting with Sable's various pencils and shadows, she came back downstairs. She had tried to remember the tips she had read that afternoon in the salon. Her eyelids were coloured with bronze shadow, and her long lashes were spiky with mascara.
Flint was in the hall, carrying a tray with a bottle of Cinzano and two glasses on it. 'I've fed the dog,' he said. 'Fellini must be out catching his own dinner, there's no sign of him.' In spite of the ordinariness of these remarks the atmosphere between them seemed uneasy. 'I thought we might have a drink on the patio.'
She said, 'Its rather late. Maybe I'll have my drink in the kitchen while I cook our dinner,' but he muttered something about there being no rush, she had time for one drink before she started cooking, so she followed him outside.
When he handed her her drink he looked str
aight into her face, and did a slight double-take. Polly lowered her eyes, and her heavily made-up lashes fluttered like a fan. Kicking off her sandals, she curled up in her cane chair and continued to stare at the glass in her hand, very aware of his scrutiny.
'Did Sable do your eyes?' he asked finally.
'No, I did'—she looked up into his impassive face. 'Why? Is it wrong?'
'Not wrong exactly—but a bit heavy, Pollyanna.' Swiftly he came and knelt before her, whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket and touching a corner of it to his tongue. 'Hold still!' He gently wiped at the bronze shadow. 'There—that's better.' He sat back on his heels. 'The colour's right for you, but don't use quite such a heavy hand. And the same goes for the mascara. And extend the shadow out to the side of your eyes like this.' He touched the corner of each hazel eye with his fingers and let them linger on the tender skin.
Polly sat transfixed, trapped in her chair, while his fingers gently started to stroke her delicate brows. She felt a kind of prickling under her skin which was both delightful and scary. She couldn't have moved even if she had wanted to. And she didn't want to! His caress, as light as the flutter of a bee's wing, was filling her with a delicious kind of languor, and it took every ounce of will power not to sigh, lean back voluptuously, and wait for him to kiss her.
Flint stopped stroking her brows and cupped her face in his hands. 'You've got the sweetest face,' he murmured, 'the sweetest face in the world.'
With a gigantic effort of discipline she jerked her head away and croaked, 'I think I'd better go and cook the fish!'
Thoughtfully he ran his finger down her cheek again, before pulling himself upright and saying, 'Yes—yes, I guess you'd better.' He returned to the drinks tray and added ice to his Cinzano. Polly jammed her feet back into her sandals and hurried to the kitchen.
Dinner was not a great success. She overcooked the salmon and it was dry and chewy, but it didn't seem to matter since neither of them had any appetite. Nor was there any conversation during the meal.
Right after it, Flint excused himself to go and work in the darkroom, and Polly told him that she intended to have an early night. By now she had worked herself into a silent temper and was very off-hand. Hadn't Marjorie always told her that men were faithless—untrustworthy? And didn't Flint's behaviour prove the truth of this opinion? No sooner had Sable's car turned out of the driveway than he had started paying attention to Polly on the pretext of fixing her make-up. He had as good as made a pass, Polly said to herself, resolutely smothering the memory of her quivering response.
When she got up to her room she considered locking her door, but this seemed excessive, even in her mood of self-induced moral indignation. Instead she sat down at the pretty walnut desk and wrote a long letter to her grandmother. She described Crabtree Farm and her new job, and the antics of Duvet and Fellini—but she did not once mention Flint. As if by ignoring him in her letter she could ignore his presence in her thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
It was with some trepidation that Polly went down to breakfast the next morning, but she need not have worried. Flint was cool and businesslike. Friendly but distant, a far cry from last night. He was also dressed to kill. This was a Flint she had not seen before, a sleek, urban Flint in a raw silk suit and pale shirt, with a silk tie in muted shades of caramel and grey, and hand-made shoes of soft leather. Even his bright thatch of hair lay seal-smooth on his head, as if tamed by his expensive clothes.
He looked so smart that for a moment she regretted her decision to wear her old wrap-skirt again, but her new batik dress seemed a trifle overdone for a day's shopping in Toronto. At least her hair looked great. It had fallen back into shape after her shower as perfectly as when she had left the salon.
Before they went he told her that Sable had phoned late last night to say that the dinner had gone well, and that she was to have an audition this morning, so she had spent the night in her own apartment in town. 'So we'll leave Duvet at Mabel's place,' Flint said, 'it'll be too hot to drag her around with us.'
Polly had wanted to know if it was still all right to go shopping. 'I mean, we could always go another day,' she had said. But he had abruptly told her not to dither, and the subject was dropped.
They went shopping in Toronto's Yorkville area. Originally a village, it had been discovered in the sixties by the hippies, and their coffee houses had taken over and flourished. They had long since left, and it was now an elegant tangle of mews, courtyards and passageways, noted for its chic boutiques and restaurants.
Their first stop was at a tall narrow house, the sandblasted brick a soft pink, the front door painted brilliant yellow. A brass plate read 'Serendipity', and an outrageous-looking evening dress in peacock hues of striped silk was shown in the tall diamond-paned window.
They entered a spacious room with racks of clothes on each wall, and a glass desk at one end at which sat an exquisitely dressed older woman whose silver-grey hair was piled high on her head in a complicated coiffure. She greeted Flint effusively, sprinkling endearments like confetti at a wedding.
'Darling Flint! Sable told me you were back. How simply marvellous to see you.' She kissed his cheek, and at the same time cast an appraising look at Polly.
Flint introduced this resplendent creature, whose name seemed to be Jade, and explained that they wanted to buy several items of clothing.
'Soft colours and soft materials, I think,' he said. 'Polly's the romantic type. And I'm relying on you to give her a good deal, Jade—as a favour to me.'
'Of course, darling,' she cooed, and, turning to Polly, she gave her the kind of scrutiny a farmer might give a young heifer. She nodded her handsome head. 'Mmm! Sloping shoulders, full bust and hips, and short…'
Thanks a lot! thought Polly, but Jade said brightly:
'I think I've several things that will suit, let's begin, shall we? Change behind that screen,' she waved towards a beautifully embroidered silk screen. 'Then we'll get an idea what's best for you.'
It took two hours. Which amazed Polly, whose idea of buying clothes was to grab a garment in the right size, try it on, and if it fitted reasonably well, pay for it and leave. This was not the system at Serendipity. Polly tried on dozens of dresses. Each time she tried one on she would show herself; Jade would tweak and fuss, and Flint would study her intently and either reject the garment, or suggest a slight alteration which seemed totally unnecessary to Polly, but made an enormous difference once it had been pinned.
Finally her new clothes were chosen. A peach-coloured skirt and matching top, a dress of bleached silk embroidered round the neck with sea-shells, and a cotton dress the colour of ash, sprigged with tiny pink roses. Flint had also insisted she buy a pair of pants in natural cotton, several wide-sleeved tops of different shades, and a faded mauve silk shawl swirled in patterns of purple and green.
'For the evenings,' he told her. 'It's just your style and it'll go with everything.'
They arranged to pick up all these purchases later, to allow time for the alterations. But one dress Polly tried on had fitted perfectly, and this she wore for the remainder of the day. The moment she had slipped it over her head she had fallen in love with it. It was made of cotton challis, which whispered round her hips and fell in a wide bell-like skirt. But it was the colour that enchanted her. It was creamy primrose yellow; the bodice was laced over a blush-pink camisole by narrow pink ribbons, and a wider ribbon encircled the waist. The inside of the loose short sleeves were lined in blush-pink also, to match the silk petticoat which made a delicate rustling noise when she moved. It was a perfect dress! The yellow and pink gave her skin a glow of pale radiance, like a tea rose which still held dew on its petals.
When she had stepped from behind the screen to show herself, Jade had said, 'Oh, yes!'
But Flint had remained silent, staring at her intently. He said only 'Now we must get you proper shoes.' But his voice was not quite steady.
On their way to the shoe shop they passed an open-air ma
rket. There were stalls with pottery, hand-made jewellery, and other arts and crafts. Hand-braided rugs— like the one in the hall at Crabtree Farm—were hung over a line. Hand-carved furniture, and tables heaped with second-hand clothes and bric-a-brac, filled the sunny yard.
Flint took her arm. 'Let's browse for a bit', he suggested, and she agreed.
It seemed that everyone in the market knew Flint. Polly was introduced to so many people in such a short space of time that her head swam. People came from behind stalls to shake his hand and to tell him that they had missed him. Glamorous young women, and equally glamorous young men, kept coming up to talk, and always when Flint introduced Polly the men gave her hard admiring glances, and she could see them trying to figure out what the relationship was between Flint and herself.
Flint remained suave and totally non-committal. He held Polly's arm in a proprietorial way all the time, and kept them moving steadily through the throng.
They reached a stall piled with small articles of clothing and objets d'art. 'I often find props for my work here,' he told her, picking over a bundle of peacock feathers. He held up a yellowed ivory back-scratcher. 'You never know when something like this might come in useful—but not today,' he said to the girl behind the stall. Then he spied something hanging from one of the supports. He reached up and pulled down a large-brimmed straw hat. It had a small bunch of sweet-peas pinned on one side. 'Try this,' he said, putting it on Polly's head and tying the ribbon under her chin. His fingers lingered for a moment and she trembled as he traced the outline of her jaw.
He stepped back and looked at her critically. 'Perfect,' he said softly. He grinned. 'It's perfect, modom,' he kidded her, 'just Modom's style.'
'Oh, I don't know!' Polly said, still flustered by his touch. 'I hadn't budgeted for a hat.'
'My present. No arguments,' Flint held up his strong hand. 'I want to take a picture of you in it, so it can count as a prop.'
