by Anne Mather
Except that night, she consoled herself in moments of extreme adversity. Then, briefly, she had glimpsed what those tortured memories were doing to his subconscious. She tried not to think about what his captors might have done to him. She didn’t want to think of him starving, or filthy, or forced to suffer the basest kinds of humiliation. She didn’t want to think of him in pain. It was as simple as that.
But that didn’t stop the recollections of news items she’d seen, articles she’d read, from filling her head with horrific details. It seemed as if she couldn’t open a newspaper or a magazine without reading some new report of the atrocities that had been committed—not just against the soldiers themselves, but against innocent civilians, caught up in the fighting. There were accusations about the use of napalm, a form of jellied petrol, which stuck and set fire to anything it touched; about the fact that some soldiers developed a drug habit; and the underlying problem of psychological difficulties. But when she considered that the average age of the men fighting in Vietnam was nineteen, Catherine didn’t find that at all surprising. Dear God, she thought, it was like sending an army of college students to fight a war, and then being shocked because they reacted against its futility.
The conversation she had had with Kay had satisfied the doubts she had had about Morgan’s not being used to working in an office. Although Kay hadn’t elaborated about his being in Florida, Catherine suspected he had spent a lot of his time there outdoors. It would explain his physical appearance, and the fact that he had so little interest in his present occupation. She wondered what he had done in Florida. Whatever it was, he had been happier then, she was sure of it. So why had his father insisted on him returning to Washington? For that was one thing Morgan had told her: he had worked in Washington, before he had come to London.
But the things she did know about him seemed so insignificant compared to what she wanted to know. In truth, she would have liked to know everything about him, and, although she knew it was crazy, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
So much for her determination not to get involved, she thought ruefully as she prepared Hector’s meal one evening, about two weeks after the Sawyers’ dinner party. She should have stuck to her guns and refused their invitation. That way, she would never have met Morgan Lynch.
The doorbell rang as she was running her bath. Turning off the taps, Catherine went to answer it. As luck would have it, she hadn’t yet undressed, and only the unbuttoned sleeves of her blouse flapped about her wrists as she opened the door.
She didn’t expect it to be Morgan, and it wasn’t. In the early days after their parting, she had jumped every time the phone rang, and rushed to the door every time she had a visitor. But she had long since admitted that he wasn’t going to contact her, so that finding her mother on the doorstep was no great disappointment.
‘Hello, darling.’ Mrs Lambert kissed the air beside Catherine’s ear and stepped past her into the hall. ‘Am I intruding? Or do you have the time to offer me a cup of tea?’
Catherine sighed, and closed the door. ‘You’re not intruding,’ she averred, gesturing for her mother to go ahead. ‘I was just going to have a bath, that’s all.’
‘Oh, well.’ Mrs Lambert tucked the parcel she was carrying under her arm, and preceded her daughter into the kitchen. ‘We can share a pot of tea then, can’t we?’
‘Why not?’
Catherine tried to sound enthusiastic, but she was unhappily aware that it didn’t come out that way, and her mother gave her a thought ful look before noticing Hector, hunched over his feeding bowl.
‘I see that creature still warrants primary attention,’ she remarked, as Hector paused to give her a slant-eyed stare. ‘Oh, get on with your fish-heads, or whatever it is you’re eating! Don’t look at me as if I had no right to be here.’
‘Stop exaggerating, Mother,’ exclaimed Catherine, going to fill the kettle. ‘And sit down, if you’re going to stay in here. Hector won’t bite you. He’s just curious, that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’ Mrs Lambert didn’t sound convinced, but she seated herself on one of the kitchen chairs, and put the parcel on the table beside her. Then, patting it, she said, ‘You know what this is, of course.’
‘I imagine it’s the print,’ replied Catherine, giving her a rueful look. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot all about it.’
‘Yes. I guessed you had.’ Her mother nodded. ‘I did wonder if you might come over last weekend, and every day this week I’ve expected you to phone, but of course, you haven’t.’
Catherine finished setting out cups and saucers, and then, unable to delay any longer, she too sat down. ‘It’s been—pretty hectic, at work,’ she murmured, not altogether untruthfully. ‘I meant to phone, but—’
‘But I come low on your list of priorities, is that it?’ enquired Mrs Lambert drily. ‘Yes, I had gathered that.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Mrs Lambert pulled a wry face as her daughter busied herself opening the parcel. And then, perceptively, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Wrong? What could be wrong?’ asked Catherine defensively, pulling off the string, and unwrapping the brown paper. ‘I’m fine—oh!’
She broke off as the print was revealed, swallowing convulsively. She had almost forgotten what it portrayed, but now, as she pushed the paper aside, the substance of the painting was exposed. She recalled then why she had liked it so much. The landscape at dusk, with its subtle hues of purple and blue and grey, was wonderfully evocative, just as she remembered. But what had caused her to take that sudden intake of breath was the distinctly oriental influence in the painting. The skyline, the fields, even the stark sinews of the bare trees, with the mountains beyond, were essentially Chinese in ori gin. Why had she never noticed it before? And why was she noticing it now?
Hot tears were suddenly pressing at the backs of her eyes, and, turning her face away, she dashed a hand across her cheek, almost dislodging her spectacles. ‘Oh—the kettle’s boiling,’ she said, unutterably relieved to have an excuse to get up from the table. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
‘I didn’t realise you found it so moving,’ remarked her mother, watching her daughter as she poured hot water into the teapot. ‘I’ll tell Fliss. She might know of other work the artist has done.’
‘No…’ Catherine answered too fast, and had to restrain herself. ‘That is—one is enough for me. I—er—I haven’t even decided where I’m going to put it.’
‘How about your bedroom?’ suggested Mrs Lambert shrewdly. ‘Catherine…’ She paused. ‘Something is upsetting you, isn’t it? Can’t you talk about it?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she denied. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Are—er—are you staying for a meal?’
‘Are you inviting me?’
Catherine determinedly stirred the tea in the teapot. ‘If you’d like to stay, you’re welcome,’ she said. ‘It’s only chicken salad.’
‘Ah.’ Her mother made a considering sound. ‘You’re slimming.’
‘No.’ Catherine turned to set the cups on the table. She could hardly tell her mother that her appetite had practically disappeared since Morgan had driven out of her life. ‘It’s simple to make, that’s all.’
‘Well, you have lost weight,’ declared Mrs Lambert. ‘And if you’re not slimming, it must be something else. Have you seen your doctor?’
‘Of course not.’ Catherine set the teapot on its stand, and pushed both it and the jug towards her mother. ‘Help yourself.’
Mrs Lambert poured her tea, added a splash of milk, and then sat back in her chair. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘much as I would like to accept your somewhat…’ she grimaced ‘…reluctant invitation, I can’t. As a matter of fact, Billy brought me up to town. He’d arranged to have a drink with his broker at his club, so I suggested he dropped me here for an hour, and then I’d meet him for dinner later.’
‘I see
.’
It was a relief to know she wouldn’t have to keep up an appearance of normality all evening, and Catherine was grateful. Billy Saunders was the latest in the long line of her mother’s escorts, and, although she knew it was unlikely, their friendship did seem to be progressing into a genuine relationship.
‘He’s such a love,’ said Mrs Lambert now, sipping her tea reflectively. ‘He’ll do anything for me, you know.’ She looked at Catherine across her cup. ‘It’s a pity you don’t know anyone like that, darling.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Catherine shortly, looking down at her hand where it rested on the table. ‘What time are you meeting him?’
‘Seven o’clock,’ replied her mother, with just the faintest edge to her voice. ‘You don’t have to look at your watch. I’ll be going soon.’
‘I wasn’t.’ Catherine was indignant, but when she lifted her head, and met her mother’s penetrating stare, she realised that had just been a ploy to attract her attention.
‘It’s not Neil, is it?’ Mrs Lambert ventured now. ‘He hasn’t been pestering you, has he?’ She waited, and getting no answer, she went on, ‘I did hear he and Marie were having problems, and it would be like him to try and shift them on to somebody else.’
Catherine moistened her lips. The reason she hadn’t produced an immediate reply was simple enough. Sometimes, her mother’s perspicacity amazed her, and she was wondering whether she should tell her about Neil’s unsolicited visit when Mrs Lambert spoke again.
‘You wouldn’t—well, you wouldn’t take him back, would you?’ she asked. ‘Oh, darling, don’t let him hurt you again.’
‘I don’t intend to.’ Catherine could speak quite confidently now. ‘Neil and I are finished. Totally.’
‘Well!’ Her mother’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Little weasel! I never did like him.’
Which was true, thought Catherine ruefully. Mrs Lambert had always had her doubts about Neil’s character, and, when he had left Catherine for his secretary, she had been the first to denounce him. Not that she hadn’t harboured a sneaking relief when the divorce went through, Catherine acknowledged now. But she had supported her daughter all through that terrible time.
‘Anyway, I suppose I ought to be going,’ Mrs Lambert said, finishing her tea and refusing a second cup. ‘I don’t want Billy to have to stand around waiting for me. The secret of a successful relationship is to know when to make the right moves, and keeping him hanging about in the cold is not a good idea.’
Catherine had to smile, her mother’s incorrigibility breaking through her own black mood, and bringing a trace of humour to her face. If only she were more like her mother, she reflected. Her mother wouldn’t be sitting here, wondering what Morgan was doing, and whether she was ever going to see him again. She’d have balanced her needs against his, and if the scales had come down on her side, she’d have done something about it…
An hour later, Catherine left the house to get into the cab that was waiting at the gate. ‘Jermyn Gate,’ she said, hoping the driver would not ask her where it was, and, slamming the door behind her, she sank back against the leather upholstery.
Already, the doubts were nagging at her, and half a dozen times during the journey from her house to the West End she had to steel herself not to ask the driver to turn the cab around, and take her home again. But, somehow, she restrained herself from doing so, and as the lights of the city closed around them she accepted the fact that she was committed.
She looked down at herself instead, wondering if she should have worn something a little more formal. The close-fitting black trousers were flattering, and that was why she had chosen them. They accentuated the graceful length of her legs. But whether she should have teamed them with a wrap-around white sweater was something else. She hoped he wouldn’t think the generous cleavage it exposed was a deliberate come-on. She zipped her soft leather jacket just a little higher, and hoped she didn’t look too much like the black widow.
‘Is this it?’
The cab driver had turned into a lamplit square, and stopped beside a fairly new block of luxury apartments. Catherine looked up at the towering skyscraper, with the words ‘Jermyn Gate’ written in gold letters on a white-painted sign in the forecourt, and nodded her head.
Thrusting open the door, she climbed out and paid the fare. She was tempted to ask him to wait, but that seemed an unnecessary safeguard. After all, if Morgan wasn’t in—or didn’t want to speak to her, she appended tensely—she could always pick up another cab. In this part of London, they were often running around, and, if not, she could always call a minicab.
However, her first obstacle proved not to be Morgan himself, but the commissionaire who apparently vetted all callers. ‘Is Mr Lynch expecting you, miss?’ he enquired, his manner not exactly insulting, but not exactly courteous either. Did Morgan often have young women coming asking to see him? she wondered uneasily. And if so, what on earth was she doing here?
‘Er—no,’ she admitted now, half prepared to beat a hasty retreat, but the commissionaire was already picking up the phone.
‘I’ll just tell him you’re here, miss,’ he said. ‘What was the name?’ And Catherine, who didn’t want to give it, told him, simply because not to do so might have convinced him she was some kind of unsavoury character.
The phone rang for some time before it was answered, and Catherine was just beginning to believe she had been granted a reprieve, when the connection was made. ‘There’s a Miss Catherine Lambert here to see you, sir,’ she heard the commissionaire say, in an insufferably deferential tone. ‘She says you’re not expecting her. Do you want me to send her up?’
Catherine couldn’t hear Morgan’s reply, and she was trying to decide whether it would be better if he refused to see her, or if he let her in, when the commissionaire replaced his receiver.
‘You can go up, Miss Lambert,’ he said, with considerably more warmth to his voice. ‘The eighteenth floor. Number five.’
‘Yes, I do know that,’ said Catherine tersely, walking rather jerkily across to the lifts. Well, she really had burned her bridges behind her now, she thought. Dear God, please let her not make a fool of herself!
The corridor was carpeted in a deep green pile, a luxury she had never experienced in any other apartment building she had visited. And Morgan’s door had the number on it in little gold figures. Nothing ostentatious, of course. Just plain cardinal numbers. Daunting, all the same, she thought, lifting her hand to tap at the panels, and then stepped back aghast, when the door was opened.
Morgan was wearing a bathrobe, and she guessed that was why he had taken so long to answer the phone. His hair was damp and tousled, his legs and feet, below the hem of the robe, bare. But he was just as disturbing to her emotional balance as ever, and, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, she endeavoured to adopt a casual pose.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi.’ The tawny eyes moved over her face with disruptive intensity, and settled on her mouth. ‘Come in.’
‘May I?’
Catherine’s mouth was dry, but Morgan’s invitation was sincere. ‘How could I refuse?’ he countered, stepping back to allow her to enter the hallway. ‘You didn’t.’
‘What?’ Catherine blinked behind the lenses of her spectacles. ‘Oh—no.’ Understanding his meaning, she acknowledged the irony. ‘Thank you.’
The hall was wide and spacious, nothing like her hall, with its narrow passageway along to the kitchen. What was more, a curving staircase indicated a second floor above, with a crystal chandelier suspended above it that glinted with a thousand prisms of light.
She had no time to absorb any more than this before Morgan closed the door behind them, and came to lead the way into an equally impressive drawing-room. At least, Catherine would have called it a drawing-room. She wasn’t sure what Morgan would call it. She only knew there was a silky Persian carpet on the floor, and a rich mixture of fine wood and leather in the c
hairs and cabinets that furnished it. There was a sofa, too, upholstered in a deep burgundy velvet, and curtains of a matching shade hanging at the long windows.
‘Like it?’ Morgan asked, and Catherine, who had been thinking how the apartment mirrored the enormous gulf between them, gave a nervous nod of her head.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said politely. ‘I—had no idea it would be like this.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Morgan’s expression was unreadable. ‘Well…’ He indicated the tray of drinks residing on the top of a polished cabinet. ‘Do you want a drink? I could use one.’
‘Why? Because I’m here?’
The words just slipped out, and Catherine’s nails dug into her palms as Morgan’s eyes narrowed in sudden contempt. ‘Could be,’ he responded coolly. ‘You should have phoned before you left home.’
Catherine held up her head. ‘So you could have stopped me from coming?’
‘Perhaps.’
Morgan was non-committal, and it was only the thought of confronting that supercilious commissionaire again that kept her where she was. This had not been a good idea, she thought, trying not to blame her mother for unknowingly putting the thought into her head.
He shrugged now. ‘So, what’ll it be? Scotch? Gin?’
Catherine wanted to refuse, but she thought having a drink in her hand might make her feel a little less tense. ‘Do—er—do you have any sherry?’ she asked, and when he gave her an old-fashioned look she said quickly, ‘Oh—Scotch, then. No ice.’
He poured her drink and gave it to her, their fingers touching as the glass changed hands. The contact caused a shiver of awareness to run up her arm, and she wrapped both hands around the glass.
