Anne Weale - Until We Met

by Anne Weale

  "Evidently those opulent-looking ear-rings didn't make the impression he hoped they would," he said drily. "Or is he the 'friend' you are so anxious to ring?"

  "I'm ringing my agent," Joanna retorted coolly. "He doesn't know where I am, and we have some bookings to discuss."

  Charles straightened. "Business before pleasure… mm? All the same, I should give the boy friend a tinkle, if I were you. He may not qualify for that gilt-edged marriage you're planning, but sapphires are worth some acknowledgement." Before she had time to retaliate, he had left the room.

  Joanna glared after him for a moment, then shrugged and lifted the receiver. The operator told her there would be only a few minutes' delay on a call to Paris, so she stayed where she was.

  Now that Charles had reminded her of it, she had to decide what to do with Yve's present. True, a gift of sapphires meant no more to Yves than some pretty costume trinket to a man who worked for his living. All the same, she didn't feel comfortable about keeping the ear-rings. Yet, if she returned them, she might hurt him even more than she had done already.

  She was still debating the problem when the operator called her back. A few moments later she was connected to Gustave's office. The agent was not on the premises, but his secretary took down the Merefield address and telephone number, and it was oddly comforting to hear a staccato French voice. Joanna was tempted to call the Dinards, but guessed that they would be so flustered by a cross-Channel conversation that they would never take in her explanation.

  Returning to the morning-room, she ignored Charles' Interrogative glance and hastily took an interest in the embroidery on Mrs. Carlyon's tambour. Presently her aunt and Vanessa returned, and there was no further opportunity for him to attempt to ruffle her. But once or twice while they were all having lunch together, she was aware of his glance resting on her and was made oddly restive and self-conscious by it.

  After lunch Mrs. Carlyon went upstairs to rest, and Joanna asked her aunt if she might use their ironing board to press some of her dresses.

  "I hope my arrival hasn't made a great deal of extra work," she said apologetically, as Mrs. Durrant showed her the small first-floor ironing-room.

  "Not at all. I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet here, but perhaps you won't mind that for a fortnight," her aunt said coolly. "Excuse me. I have some things to attend to."

  Joanna fetched her clothes and plugged in the iron. There was no sign of her aunt warming towards her. Indeed, the rather pointed remark about the duration of her niece's visit suggested that closer acquaintance had increased Mrs. Durrant's animosity.

  Waiting for the iron to warm up, Joanna leaned against the window. It overlooked the hard tennis court at the back of the house, and as she stood there, Charles and Vanessa came into view. Both had changed into tennis kit, and Vanessa's short princess style tunic enhanced her generously proportioned figure. As a schoolgirl she had probably been plump if not buxom, but now, her puppy fat fined down, she was what people called "a handsome figure of a girl" and probably more attractive to masculine eyes than a more willowy type. Watching them unlash the tarpaulin cover on the net, Joanna thought how well they looked together. Charles, tall and dark and lithe, and Vanessa, so fair nd limber and healthy-looking.

  Turing back to the ironing board, she began to press a skirt. It seemed much more than two days since she had left Paris, and suddenly she felt a pang of something close to homesickness for her room above the Cafe Bernadine and for the sounds and scents of the quartier.

  From below the window came the hollow clop-clop of ball hitting racquet, and unconsciously Joanna frowned. She slipped the skirt back on its hanger and took down an Italian silk shirt, carefully adjusting the temperature control to suit the material.

  "You're out of condition. It's all that lazing about on the Riviera!"

  The clear, rather high-pitched voice drifted upwards and there was an answering laugh from the far end of the court, followed by the crack of a powerful service.

  Joanna twitched impatiently at a fold of the shirt and applied the iron. What was the matter with her? Why should the sounds of the game make her feel shut out— an unwanted interloper in a circle which had been complete before she came, and would still be so when she had gone ?

  The last dress pressed, she went back to her room and put the clothes away. There were some books on a shelf near the fireplace. She took a couple, slipped off her blouse and skirt, and lay down to read off her unreasonable mood.

  Some time later there was a soft scratch at the door, and, in answer to her "Come in," Cathy's head appeared. "Oh, sorry. Were you asleep?"

  "No. Just being lazy. Come and talk to me," Joanna said, sitting up.

  Cathy advanced into the bedroom. She was wearing her school uniform and looked gawky and rather wan.

  "Phew, what a foul day! I'm so sick of school I could scream. Thank heavens we break up on Friday," she said, hitching herself on to the end of the bed. Then, her eyes brightening: "I say, what super undies. You must have a marvellous job to afford all your lovely clothes. What do you do, Joanna?"

  Joanna told her, wondering what her reaction would be.

  "No! Not really!" Cathy exclaimed incredulously. "Oh, what a stroke of luck. Absolutely heaven-sent! You're just the person I need!"

  "What do you mean?" Joanna asked, puzzled.

  "Why, to back me up, of course, when I drop my bombshell," her cousin said excitedly. "Look, swear you won't tell—at least, not till the right moment."

  "No, I won't tell, if it's a secret."

  ■

  Cathy settled herself more comfortably, kicking off her shoes and then clasping her arms round her knees. "You know I leave school at Christmas," she began. "Well, Ma and Vanessa want me to go to a secretarial college. I'm not a bit brainy, you see, so there's no point in going on to university, or anything like that."

  "So?" Joanna prompted.

  "I don't want to be a secretary," Cathy said flatly. "I'm not even sure that I could be one. I'd probably end up as a pretty hopeless copy typist in some third-rate ofüce. I'd certainly never get one of those plum jobs with an M.P. or an actor."

  "What do you want to do?" Joanna asked.

  "Ah, that's the whole point—and the reason why you may be such a godsend," Cathy said hopefully. "You see, what I want to be is the very last thing they'll let me be. I want to be an actress!"

  Joanna regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "Why?" she asked quietly.

  "Oh, I know what you're thinking," Cathy said, with a sigh. "That I'm just another stage-struck teenager. But it isn't that, Joanna, honestly it isn't! I know it's terribly hard work and the chances of success are about two in a million. But I want to try. I want it more than anything."

  "Why do you think your mother wouldn't approve?" Joanna asked.

  "Because her idea of success is getting married to someone madly eligible," Cathy said scornfully. "All she wants is for us to catch husbands, preferably important ones. Not that that matters much, because it isn't Ma who has to be persuaded."

  "Who, then? Your grandmother?"

  "Heavens, no! Gran's a lamb. She'd let me start acting tomorrow, if she knew I wanted to. No, it's Charles who's the important one!"

  "Charles! But he's not responsible for you," Joanna objected.

  "No, not officially. But he's the head of the family now —the one they all kow-tow to."

  "But Charles is very fond of you. He might not object, if you explained to him."

  "Yes, he would. He'd laugh at me. He thinks I'm still a child," Cathy said earnestly. "But if someone like you could convince him that I'm serious, then he might approve."

  "But why me?" Joanna protested. "I've only just arrived. I'm sure Vanessa would be far more likely to influence him."

  "Huh, Vanessa!" Cathy gave a hollow laugh. "Haven't you noticed it yet? She and Ma are much too busy with their own scheme."

  "What scheme? I don't know what you mean, Cathy," Joanna said perplexedly.

 
"You will, if you keep your eyes open," Cathy said with a tinge of bitterness. "Vanessa wants to be Mrs. Charles Carlyon. That's why she and Mummy don't like you. They're terrified Charles might fall for you. Oh, it makes me sick!"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "OH, Cathy, that's absurd! You must be imagining it," Joanna said, as lightly as she could manage.

  Cathy scowled at her stockinged feet. "No, I'm not!" she said positively. "Vanessa's absolutely determined to marry him. She practically admitted it to me."

  Joanna slipped out of bed and put on her blouse and skirt. "Perhaps she's in love with him," she answered casually. "I should say they were very well matched."

  "That's the whole point. She doesn't love him a bit," Cathy said acidly. "She just wants to be rich. I bet she's livid that you've turned out to be so super."

  "Thank you," Joanna said drily. "But even if you're right—which I doubt—she hasn't much to worry about. Charles rather dislikes me, as it happens."

  "Yes, that's the queerest part," Cathy said thoughtfully. "I saw him watching you at dinner last night, almost as if he were… angry with you. Neal thinks you're wonderful, but of course he flirts with almost everyone he meets."

  Joanna picked up her hairbrush and began to use it with slow absent-minded strokes. She was troubled, not so much by the subject under discussion, but by Cathy's disillusioned tone. Probably she was imagining the whole affair, or else dramatizing it out of all proportion. But even so, her attitude showed that her relationship with her mother and sister was not as it should be.

  "Look—to get back to your wanting to go on the stage— there's not much I can do until I've been here a bit longer," she said, after a moment. "You aren't proposing to tell them just yet, are you?"

  "No, I suppose not. I've been waiting for the right moment—if it ever comes," the younger girl said gloomily. "But, if I do tell them, you will back me up, won't you?"

  Before Joanna could reply, there was a tap at the door and Vanessa appeared. She was still in her tennis clothes and had a flushed elated look which suited her.

  "Oh, hello, Cathy," she said. "I just came up to say that tea is ready," she added to Joanna.

  "Thanks. We'll come down," Joanna said with a smile. "Did you have a good game?"

  "Yes, marvellous, but Charles is out of practice. I beat him," Vanessa said with a laugh. "What a pity you don't play. You could have joined us."

  "Yes, it is," Joanna said mildly.

  But if I could play and I wanted to please him, I certainly wouldn't win, she thought to herself.

  Aloud, she said, "Oh, Cathy, I'll give you that petticoat. We shan't be long, Vanessa."

  "There's no hurry. I'm going to change," her cousin said, disappearing down the corridor.

  Joanna went to the chest of drawers and found the petticoat, waving away Cathy's voluable thanks.

  "That's all right, you can keep it. I've got another one."

  "And you will help me with the other thing?" Cathy asked, glancing over her shoulder at the open door.

  "Yes; if the right moment comes—and if I can," Joanna agreed cautiously.

  "You're an angel! I knew you would," Cathy said gratefully. "Come on., let's go and have tea. I'm starving."

  Charles was standing by the window as they entered the drawing room. He was holding a glass of iced lager and whistling softly. Against the whiteness of his tennis shirt, his arms were brown and muscular. Joanna wondered how he managed to look so fit when most of his life must be spent behind a desk.

  "Hello, Charles. Did Van really beat you, or did you let her?" Cathy enquired, helping herself to a sandwich from the trolley.

  Charles looked amused. "She trounced me off the court, I'm afraid. She's getting much too good for me," he said.

  Cathy looked unconvinced. "I bet you let her. She's not as good as all that," she said, munching.

  "Shall I pour you some tea, Cathy?" Joanna asked, hoping to lead the conversation away from this topic.

  "No, thanks. I'm going to get some cold squash from the fridge. Shall I get some for you too?"

  "I'll have tea. It's a taste I should acquire," Joanna said, moving towards the trolley.

  For some moments after Cathy's departure, there was silence. Joanna added sugar to her cup and chose a scone. She was not used to being self-conscious and it irked her. What was it about this man that sapped her composure? she wondered resentfully.

  "You seem to have made a hit with our infant," he said suddenly, startling her.

  She took a second to steady herself, then glanced at him. "She's still at the age to take people at their face value," she said coolly. "You probably won't believe it, but I like her."

  "Why not? I should say you're not unalike."

  Joanna's eyebrows lifted. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked guardedly.

  He set his beer on a table and lit a cigarette. "Nothing uncomplimentary. I'm very fond of her."

  "Don't tell me you're revising your opinion of me," Joanna said coolly.

  He watched her for a moment without replying, his eyes narrowed and speculative.

  "I was forgetting, I have a cheque for you in my other trousers," he said. "I must enquire about the currency restrictions. I daresay we can get round any difficulties."

  Joanna stiffened, her chin lifting. "That won't be necessary," she said crisply. "I've changed my mind."

  A faint smile curved his firm mouth. "Mm, I thought you might," he said quietly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I rarely make snap decisions—particularly about people," he said. "Whatever else you may be, I don't think you're a profiteer."

  She flushed. "Then why did you make your offer?"

  He shrugged. "It seemed the quickest means to get you over here. There's nothing like affronting someone's principles to get a definite reaction. I calculated that you'd either tell me to go to the devil or get some peculiar feminine kick out of playing the part I've offered you."

  "You're quite a psychologist, aren't you?" she said stonily. "What if I'd chosen to tell you to go to the devil?"

  "Then I should have had to change my tactics," he said carelessly. "But as you were obviously bristling with the most stifl-necked kind of pride it didn't seem very likely."

  At this point Cathy returned. But later Joanna remembered what Charles had said and wondered if it were true. She had never thought of herself as a proud person; unless pride was the resentment she often felt against people whose lives had been easy and who took their circumstances for granted. But surely, when one had had to struggle for everything, it was only natural to be a little scornful of those who had never had to battle for their security? Perhaps not. Perhaps that kind of pride was as much to be disliked as the subtle patronage which she sensed in Vanessa's and her aunt's attitude towards her.

  That night, after Charles had left and while they were having coffee in the drawing-room after dinner, Neal suddenly stood up and said, "I think I'll take a run out for an hour or so. How about you, Joanna? Would you like a spot of fresh air after being indoors all day?"

  Joanna hesitated, but Mrs. Carlyon said quickly, "Yes, do go, my dear. It will do you good. But don't frighten her out of her wits, Neal. I know how you like to drive, and we don't want an accident when Joanna has only just got here."

  "I'll drive as sedately as the vicar, Grandmother," her grandson assured her, grinning. "I should tie a scarf over your hair, Joanna. I'm afraid my old jalopy isn't quite as luxurious as Charles' plushy turn-out."

  So Joanna ran upstairs to fetch a jacket and a scarf, and found him waiting for her by the door when she came down, his car was an ancient two-seater, rather cramped for leg-room and decidely draughty, but Joanna did not mind. It was not a chilly evening and she was glad to be out of the house for a while.

  "We'll go up on The Ridges," Neal said, as they crunched down the drive. "There's quite a good view of the town from the highest point. Not that the lights of Merefield are likely to uplift you, but at least one esacpes t
he smell of fish and chips and the sound of 'Nellie Dean' being bawled out in the pubs."

  "Nellie Dean?" Joanna queried.

  He laughed. "It's a song of sorts—not one you'd be likely to want to add to your repertoire, I fancy."

  "Oh—so you know."

  "Yes, Cathy collared me as soon as I got in and told me. Not that it was much of a surprise. You don't look like a schoolmarm or an office type."

  "What do I look like?" she asked, smiling.

  She felt him turn his head towards her. "Like the most beautiful girl in Merefield," he said seriously.

  She laughed. "Oh, Neal! What a shameless exaggeration. I'm sure Merefield is full of pretty girls—and you've probably said that to all of them. I suspect that you're a terrible flirt."

  "Why not? One must get some kicks out of life," he said flippantly.

  "Is that the only kick you get—playing at love?" she asked.

  "Pretty well."

  "What about your job?"

  "It's a job."

  "Charles told me you wanted to be a painter," she said, after a moment.

  He swung the car off the main road and up a steep lane. "I considered it," he said in a blank tone.

  "What made you give up the idea?"

  "I don't subscribe to the theory that genius thrives in a garret," he replied. "Not that I regard myself as a genius, but I might have done something worth while."

  "You talk as if it were all over and done with," she said curiously.

  "It is."

  "But why?" she protested. "If you really want to paint, you can't give it up. It's like music, or dancing, or wanting to go to sea. It's something in your blood. You can't just forget about it"

  "Sometimes you have to," he said tersely. "You can't be a sailor if you have to live in a city, and you can't write music if you haven't got a piano."

  "But one can paint anywhere," Joanna countered. "You could be painting now."

  The road levelled and passed through a tunnel of trees.

  "Look," he said quietly, "have you ever heard of a first- rate pianist who could only practice for an hour a day, or a ballet dancer who got to the top without training? People seem to think that painting—good painting—is something you either can do or you can't. It's not. It takes years of solid grind to make an artist of any stature. A good picture isn't a lucky chance, it's the result of years of study and practice. Time is what an artist has to have. Time—and something to live on. If I can't do the thing properly, I'd rather not do it at all."