Edge Of Deception

by Daphne Clair

  Tod had taken to hanging about until Tara locked up each evening. But one day just before closing time Andy wandered in, and Tod said, ‘D’you mind if I go now, Tara? I’ve got a special date tonight. Andy’ll be around for a while, won’t you, Andy?’

  ‘Sure,’ Andy agreed. ‘Go for it, Tod.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Tara said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  When he’d left she turned to Andy. ‘Did he ask you to keep an eye on me?’

  ‘Um—not exactly. He just mentioned that he wanted to get away early, only he doesn’t like leaving you on your own since the robbery. So I told him I’d make sure you weren’t—on your own, I mean. The boss said I could come along before five.’

  Touched, she said, ‘That’s awfully good of him—of all of you. But I really don’t think it’s necessary.’

  Of course everyone in the mall knew about the rob­bery. Some had advised her to tighten security, get a grille on the window and install a better alarm system.

  ‘I wanted to see you, anyway,’ Andy told her. ‘Want to ask you something.’

  Tara went to turn the sign on the door to Closed. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What?’

  ‘D’you remember Jane? The... the—’

  ‘The professor,’ Tara supplied.

  ‘Yeah. Her. Well...d’you think she liked me—really?’

  ‘She certainly seemed to enjoy talking with you.’

  Andy’s face lit. ‘I liked talking to her, a lot. I really had a good time that night. With you, too,’ he added earn­estly.

  Tara laughed. ‘Thanks. So, have you seen Jane again?’

  ‘Not since then. Only, I’ve got this crazy idea.’

  When he didn’t elaborate, Tara gently prompted, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought... I thought I might ring her at the univer­sity, and... and ask her out. On a date. With me.’

  ‘So?’ Tara asked. ‘What’s crazy about that?’

  Andy looked at her hopefully. ‘You don’t think she’d laugh at me?’

  ‘Why on earth should she do that?’

  ‘Aw, Tara, come on! She... she’s an intellectual! I’m just a salesman. And you know it was all I could do to get a pass mark at school—in any subject!’

  ‘I’m sure she isn’t going to laugh at you,’ Tara said firmly. ‘She’ll be thrilled and flattered—’

  ‘Aw—’ Andy shook his head.

  ‘She will!’ Tara insisted. ‘Even if she turns you down, she’s going to be delighted that you asked.’

  ‘You do think she’ll turn me down!’ Andy said gloomily.

  ‘I have no idea! But maybe she’s in a relationship, or something. Do you know?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t with anyone at the party.’

  ‘Ask her,’ Tara said. ‘She could be just waiting for you to call her.’

  Andy snorted. ‘She’s probably forgotten all about me by now. She won’t even remember who I am.’

  Tara looked him over, from his glorious golden mane to his size-fourteen joggers. ‘No chance,’ she said. ‘She’s probably been dreaming about you every night.’

  Andy blushed. ‘Come on, Tara, be serious!’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what effect you have on women,’ Tara said sternly. ‘You work on it!’

  ‘Okay, so I do,’ he admitted. ‘And of course I like it when... when women come on to me. It’s a buzz. But I don’t really—I mean it’s not serious stuff mostly, you know. Just kidding around. I don’t... I mean, I’m not a stud. For one thing,’ he said solemnly, ‘it would inter­fere with my training schedule.’

  Tara bit back a choke of laughter. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Jane’s different. Those girls—well, I guess they like me because of... of how I look, you know?’

  Tara nodded. ‘And Jane liked you for your mind?’

  Andy scowled. ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it?’

  She touched his arm. ‘No, it’s not. I didn’t mean it to be. I’m sure she liked your personality, you have similar taste in music, and maybe how you look won’t matter to her—but she can’t have helped noticing, Andy. Any woman would!’

  ‘It never made any difference to you.’

  ‘I knew you when you were a grubby-kneed little brat. Jane didn’t. Look, give her a call and see what she says. The worst that can happen is that she’ll say no—for whatever reason. But you won’t know if you don’t ask her.’

  ‘I’ll take her to a film,’ he decided. ‘Then we won’t have to talk much.’

  ‘She likes talking to you.’

  ‘D’you think so, really? We could have coffee after­wards. We could talk about the film, then.’

  ‘Sounds good. What film are you thinking of?’

  His brow knotted anxiously again. ‘Maybe she’ll want to see one of those arty things—with subtitles. Trouble is, I don’t know anything about symbolism and stuff like that.’

  ‘Ask her what she’d like to see,’ Tara suggested. ‘Her subject is popular culture. She might prefer a space opera or a Disney film.’

  ‘D’you think so?’ Andy began to look slightly happier. ‘Okay, I’ll ask her.’

  Jane’s choice was ultimately a fast-paced Hollywood thriller. Tara happened to be at the same theatre with Derek Shearer and they met Jane and Andy on the pave­ment outside afterwards.

  Andy hailed Tara as though he hadn’t seen her for a year, and enthusiastically invited her and Derek to join him and Jane for supper. ‘We thought we’d go to Ponsonby,’ he said. ‘The cafes will still be open there.’

  Along Ponsonby Road crammed and dusty second­hand shops and trendy boutiques rubbed shoulders in the daytime with greengroceries selling exotic fruits and veg­etables from the Pacific Islands—coconuts and yams, taro and ugli fruit. At night the fruit shops and junk shops were shuttered, but the cafe society spilled onto the pavement out of the well-lighted interiors of establish­ments selling Turkish, Indian, Lebanese or Chinese deli­cacies or just an eclectic mixture of fashion foods.

  The one they ended up at was relatively quiet. They found a table just inside the door, and ordered coffee and desserts.

  Jane asked Derek what he did, and looked respectful when he explained he was an accountant. ‘I’m hopeless with figures,’ she confessed. ‘I’d be useless in business. But I suppose you must be good at that sort of thing, Tara.’

  Tara shook her head. ‘Derek does my accounting.’

  Derek said, ‘Don’t be so modest. You keep impec­cable books. Balancing your yearly accounts is a breeze.’

  ‘Heck, I can’t even balance my chequebook,’ Jane said.

  ‘Can’t you?’ Andy looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Can you?’ she asked him, laughing.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jane stared at him with exaggerated awe, until he blushed. ‘Heavens!’ she said. ‘I don’t know anyone else in the world who can do that!’

  Looking at Andy, Tara saw him almost preen. Then he cast Jane a suspicious look. Finally he shrugged. ‘Well, I can.’

  The desserts came, and Derek asked, ‘So what did you two make of the film?’

  Tara thought Andy would wait to hear Jane’s opinion before venturing one of his own, but he surprised her, launching into a fluent critique of the story, the acting and the photography.

  Jane soon chipped in with her own thoughts, and Tara relaxed. Jane talked to him as an equal.

  Pushing away her glass dish a few minutes later, Tara felt a slight prickle of awareness, almost apprehension, and lifted her eyes to scan the restaurant. Several tables away Sholto was sitting with a woman who had her back to Tara, but she recognised the pale hair and graceful sloping shoulders.

  Sholto gave her a brief nod, and she returned a cool, minimal smile. She saw Averil lean forward to say some­thing, and Sholto’s lips move as he answered, his gaze leaving Tara.

  Tara looked away. The others were laughing at some remark of Derek’s, and she joined in without knowing what the joke was. She was out with frie
nds, having a good time, and she didn’t want anyone to think other­wise.

  A little later Derek turned to murmur in Tara’s ear, ‘Sholto’s here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Tara gave him a smile. ‘It’s all water under the bridge, Derek. We’ve met a couple of times since he came back to New Zealand.’

  ‘You have? And... how was it?’

  Tara shrugged. ‘No problem. The woman with him is his new fiancée,’ she said, pleased that her voice hadn’t faltered.

  ‘Oh?’ Derek’s gaze travelled in their direction. ‘Well, well.’ After a moment he said, ‘She doesn’t look like Sholto’s type.’

  ‘I’m the one who wasn’t his type, Derek. I was... an aberration.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ About to say more, Derek broke off and warned, ‘They’re coming this way.’

  She was staring down into her empty sweet dish but she knew when Sholto stopped by the table, and reluctantly looked upwards.

  Averil, pink-cheeked and pretty, had a hand tucked firmly into his arm. She was the first to speak. ‘Hello, Tara,’ she said.

  ‘Averil. Nice to see you.’ Tara shifted her eyes to Sholto’s face and saw his mouth curve ironically. ‘Hello, Sholto.’

  ‘Good evening, Tara.’ He flicked a glance at Jane and a slightly longer one at Andy, then transferred an inimi­cal gaze to the other man at the table. ‘Derek. Enjoying yourselves?’

  ‘Very much,’ Tara said crisply.

  Averil said, ‘I love this cafe. It’s new since Sholto lived in Auckland last. I told him he had to bring me here!’ She squeezed his arm with both hands and looked up at him adoringly.

  Tara clamped her teeth together. Her gaze went glassy.

  ‘Still the man about town, Derek?’ Sholto said pleasantly.

  Derek laughed. ‘If you mean have I settled down, no,’ he said, ‘not yet. Although if Tara here would have me—’

  Tara blinked, before she realised what he was doing. He thought she needed to save face, and was gallantly trying to help.

  ‘Really?’ Sholto drawled. ‘I thought that you two had already—er—but never mind. Good night.’

  ‘Good night,’ Averil echoed brightly.

  They left a silence behind them. Even Andy and Jane had caught the tension and were looking curiously at their companions.

  ‘Damn him,’ Derek muttered. ‘He always was a sar­castic bastard.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Jane asked curiously. ‘He was at Chantelle’s party, wasn’t he?’

  He, Tara noted sourly. Averil had been with Sholto that night too, but it wasn’t Averil that Jane remem­bered.

  Derek spoke. ‘He’s Sholto Herne of Herne Holdings.’

  ‘Um... I think I’ve heard the name, but...’

  Tara said, ‘He’s my ex-husband.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘That’s your ex-husband?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Tara answered shortly. ‘He’s been overseas for a few years.’

  ‘Did Chantelle know you two when... ?’

  ‘No. His fiancée is Philip’s cousin.’ She picked up her coffee and sipped at it, hoping the others would take a hint and drop the subject.

  Jane filled the breach with a cheerful remark about her passionfruit sundae. ‘Food straight from heaven,’ she sighed, ‘but I’ll have to live on lettuce leaves for a week to make up for it.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Andy said.

  Jane shook her head firmly. ‘With my figure—’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your figure.’

  Jane laughed. ‘That’s sweet of you, but you don’t have to lie—’

  ‘I never lie,’ Andy said simply. ‘I just like you the way you are.’

  Ruefully, Jane said, ‘You’re only—’

  Tara confirmed, ‘Andy’s the most truthful person I know.’

  ‘See?’ Andy looked at Jane, giving her exactly the same deliberately sexy once-over that he’d turned on Tara at the party. Then he leaned towards her and murmured something in her ear.

  Jane flushed speechlessly, and Andy sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied air.

  Tara regarded him with mild anxiety. She wasn’t sure how Jane would react to his turning on the charm. It was an act that went down well with some women, but was Jane one of them?

  Certainly Jane was markedly quiet after that, but the flush hadn’t entirely died from her cheeks, and her eyes had a soft glow.

  A few days later Chantelle came breezing into the shop. ‘I’ve got twenty minutes to look for a wedding present,’ she announced.

  Tara’s heart lurched. She swallowed. ‘What... what sort of thing were you thinking of? Pottery, something to hang on the wall, or...’

  ‘Not pottery. Table linen, perhaps. Nothing heavy. I have to post it to America, and I don’t want the postage to equal the price of the gift.’

  ‘America,’ Tara repeated numbly.

  ‘Something with a distinctly New Zealand look would be nice, but I don’t want the souvenir type of thing. You know what I mean!’

  Tara did know. Garishly painted native birds and flowers and crude pictures of early Maori life printed onto tea towels or tablecloths were all too common in shops catering to tourists. ‘We have some hand-printed calico table mats with Auckland scenes on them. One Tree Hill, Waitemata Harbour, the view from the Waitakeres—that sort of thing. You can choose a set of identical mats, or different ones.’ Tara led her friend to the old dresser with its invitingly opened drawers. ‘Here they are. They’re padded with nylon filling, and very lightweight.’

  ‘Ideal!’ Chantelle said with relief. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  She made her choice and picked out a handpainted card to go with it.

  ‘Do you want me to post them for you,’ Tara asked as she giftwrapped the mats, ‘or would you rather do it yourself?’

  ‘I’ll do it, thanks. I hope they like them. My niece is getting married over there, but I really don’t know what her taste is.’

  ‘There’s nothing to dislike in them. The colours are muted, and the designs are lovely.’ Casually, Tara added, ‘Philip’s cousin is getting married soon, too, isn’t she?’

  ‘Averil—yes.’ Chantelle looked embarrassed, and lowered her voice. ‘I didn’t know about you and Sholto when I invited you to my party, Tara. I’d have warned you—’

  Tara smiled. ‘That’s okay. We were both surprised, but it’s no great tragedy.’

  ‘Averil said you’re still friends—you and him. It’s always better to be civilised about these things, isn’t it? Especially in a place like Auckland. I mean, you’re bound to bump into each other.’

  ‘Yes.’ Who had told Averil they were friends? Sholto? ‘There you are. I’m sure your niece will like them.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been a great help.’

  And you’ve been none at all, Tara thought, as Chantelle left.

  Not that it made a whit of difference, really, whether Sholto and Averil had set a wedding date or not. She was rather glad that Chantelle hadn’t recognised her polite query for the fishing expedition that it was.

  All day Tara was unable to banish Sholto from her mind. The evenings were still long, and after having a meal she tied her hair back with a silk scarf and wan­dered about her small garden, pulling out a few weeds without enthusiasm. Bored and restless, she decided to go for a walk. Perhaps it would help her to sleep. Lately she had been lying awake for hours every night, trying to stop her mind from going back in time, replaying the years she’d spent with Sholto.

  The suburban streets were quiet except for a few chil­dren romping on their lawns or riding bikes along the footpath, and an occasional dog warning her not to enter his property. Twice she met couples strolling arm in arm, and exchanged a smile and a greeting. And tried not to envy them.

  She liked living in an old suburb. There was an air of permanence and solidity about the mature trees with thick trunks and spreading branches that spilled o
ver garden fences and shaded the footpaths, and the solid, rambling weatherboard houses, some of them two-storeyed, built before Tara was born.

  The air was fresh and clean, and the smell of new-mown grass mingled with the scents of magnolia, roses and jasmine. Tara’s rubber-soled walking shoes made no sound on the still sun-warmed pavements.

  When she turned back into her own street the light was becoming dusky, the sky above a washed-out pink. Her step faltered at the sight of a dark, raking car parked outside her gate. She told herself it wasn’t, couldn’t be, Sholto. But when the driver’s door opened and he got out and slammed it behind him, she walked steadily towards him with a sense of fatalism.

  He stood by the car watching her approach, and even at a distance there emanated from him a subtle air of tension. And when she reached her gate and put a hand on the worn curve of the wood, turning an enquiring look on him, he didn’t move, just kept watching her with an unnerving, unreadable stare.

  ‘You want to see me?’ she asked. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘A while. Where were you?’

  ‘Walking. It’s a nice evening for it.’

  ‘You go walking alone—at night?’ He frowned.

  ‘It isn’t dark yet. Why are you here, Sholto?’

  He dragged his gaze from her face and looked at her hand, still on the gate. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’

  Tara hesitated momentarily, then shrugged and pushed the gate wide. ‘Come in and tell me what you want.’

  She slipped off her shoes at the door, led him into the living room, switched on a lamp and indicated the sofa he’d sat on before. But he shook his head, standing in­stead with his hands in his pockets, a faint frown on his brow.

  ‘Coffee?’ she offered.

  ‘No, thanks. But if you want one...’

  ‘Not particularly.’ She’d avoided coffee in the eve­nings lately, thinking that it would only exacerbate her problem with getting to sleep.

  He prowled to the window, stood there briefly and then looked around the room as he had before. ‘This room is...very unusual,’ he said.

  ‘Is that a polite way of saying it’s an uncoordinated mess?’