by Anne Weale
"Indeed," Mrs. Durrant said frigidly.
"If one had been obliged to live over an artisans' caf£ and mingle with the customers, one could at least have the sensibility not to dwell on such circumstances — that was clearly her aunt's view of the subject.
Such empty snobbishness set Joanna's teeth on edge. The patrons of the Bernadine might not be as consciously refined as Merefield's coffee groups, but at least they were honest and kindly and amusing, she thought angrily. Another pang of longing for French faces and voices took hold of her. She wished she had never come Merefield, never let Charles goad her into shelving her plans for Brittany.
As soon as they had all drunk their coffee, Mrs. Durrant asked Charles to signal to their waitress.
"We must be getting on if you want to look at dresses, Vanessa. Perhaps you'll look in this evening so that we can discuss the details of this party, Charles."
He accompanied them to the street where he said goodbye and strode away to the car park. A few minutes earlier, in the lift, Joanna had found his eyes resting on her with an expression she could not fathom. She wondered if he too had thought her remarks in bad taste.
Neither of the Durrants consulted her opinion in the choice of Vanessa's dress, although the saleswomen at the various shops they visited made several abortive attempts to draw her into the discussion. Finally, when it was drawing close to lunch-time, her cousin made up her mind to have a simple low-necked frock in shaded pink-and-white poult. Joanna thought privately that it was a rather insipid design and, had she been her cousin, she would have settled for a cheaper but more dashing style in subtle chartreuse cotton. But Mrs. Durrant evidently saw her daughter as the 'English rose' type and had dismissed the more sophisticated style as being too old for her.
While the fitter made adjustments to the shoulders, Joanna wondered if this emphatic outdoor-girl rosiness was really most likely to appeal to Charles's taste. She now had little doubt that Cathy was right in her view of her mother's matrimonial ambitions.
* * *
It was arranged that the party should take place on the following Saturday. Charles seemed to have decided that she no longer needed his supervision, and Joanna saw little of him during the remainder of the week. But she did go for two more evening runs with Neal, and her liking for him increased. In a way, he reminded her of Yves, although he lacked the Frenchman's polish and suavity. Neal's worldliness was only a veneer, she guessed.
On the night of the party, she had taken a bath and was fastening her dressing-gown when there was a rap on the door and Neal called, "Get a move on, Van! You've been in there hours. What about the rest of us?"
Joanna gathered up her things and unlocked the door. "It's me. Have I held you up? I'm sorry, Neal," she said with a smile.
His glance swept from the white chiffon bandeau on her hair to her green velvet mules. His scowl of impatience gave place to an appreciative grin.
"Mm… you smell delicious," he said, inhaling. "Actually you must have been very quick. The last time I rattled the door, Vanessa was still wallowing."
Joanna laughed. "That's one of the penalties of living with a houseful of women — you can never get to the bathroom."
She moved to pass him, but he put out a hand and held her arm. "Don't dash away for a minute. I'd always been led to believe that girls looked terrible without their warpaint. That certainly doesn't apply to you. Your skin's like silk."
"Thank you. All the same I don't think I'll appear downstairs without some camouflage," she said, amused.
'You certainly don't need it." He drew in another deep breath. "What's the scent? An expensive present from some rich admirer at the cabaret?"
"It's Balmain's 'Jolie Madame' — and I bought it myself," she said drily.
"Well, I don't know what you're planning to wear, but any girl with that stuff behind her ears could put on a sack and still have the men dropping like ninepins. The local belles don't run to anything more intoxicating than lavender water," he said, with a wry expression.
"French scent is very expensive in England," she pointed out.
"Probably — but they could always save on something else." His eyes glinted with mischief. "You'll be a knockout with the male element, my dear Joanna, but the women are going to hate you."
"I hope not. I don't see why they should," Joanna said anxiously. Then a faint glimmer of amusement lit her eyes. "You're not expecting me to come down in one of my cabaret costumes, are you?"
"I only wish you would — that would really get their claws out," he said wickedly. "But you won't need a scanty dress to set their teeth on edge. That subtle Parisian gloss will be enough." His hand tightened and he moved a little closer. "Though at the moment, in that kimono thing, you look more like some ravishing little geisha girl."
"Oh, Neal — you're incorrigible!" Joanna broke into laughter.
"What's so funny?" he asked, looking slightly injured at this hilarious reception of his compliment.
"You are! If you had a moustache, I believe you'd be twirling it at me." She put up her free hand and, twisting imaginary whiskers, said in a throaty voice, " 'Aha, me pretty village maid, and where are you off to?'"
Neal was not amused. "I'm sorry," he said gruffly, "I can't compete with your usual smooth Latin boy friends, I'm afraid."
Joanna found this retort even funnier, but, seeing that he was really offended, she stifled another burst of laughter and said gently, "Oh, don't be huffy, Neal. I haven't any smooth Latin boy friends — they sound odious! — and I much prefer nice un-smooth Englishmen."
And then, because he was still looking rather wounded, and because it was endearing to see that he was so much less confident than he pretended, she reached up and brushed a light, friendly kiss against his cheek. At that precise moment Mrs. Durrant reached the top of the stairs and turned towards them.
Neal saw his mother first and there was a rather peculiar expression on his face as he met her cold regard. After fixing a repressive glance on her son for some seconds, Mrs. Durrant looked freezingly at her niece. And, much to her chagrin, Joanna felt her cheeks beginning to burn. Nobody spoke, but the tension was almost tangible.
The painful silence might have stretched out indefinitely had not Cathy come out of her room to find someone to unstick a zipper. As she saw her mother's expression, her voice tailed off and she shot a curious look at the other two, her tussle with the fastener forgotten as she sensed the chill of the atmosphere.
"I'll come and deal with it in a moment, Cathy," Mrs. Durrant said, her tone very clipped and precise. Then, to her son: "If you're intending to shave again, Neal, please be as quick as you can. I shall want the bathroom myself in a few minutes."
"Right, I'll get a move on." Neal flickered a half smile at Joanna and disappeared into the bathroom. Whether he had been amused, embarrassed or exasperated by his mother's reading of the situation was impossible to tell.
For an instant it seemed as if Mrs. Durrant was about to say something else. But, with tightened lips and veiled eyes, she ignored Joanna and hustled Cathy back into her bedroom. Almost, Joanna thought with a mingling of annoyance and amusement, as if she were shielding her innocent offspring from contact with a Scarlet Woman.
Back in her own room, she leaned against the door for a moment. She was still vexed with herself for having colored like a guilty schoolgirl. A fine start to the evening, she thought bleakly, as she put away her toilet things. But as she sat down at the dressing-table to do her face, her sense of humor overcame her irritation. Her aunt could not have behaved more censoriously if she had surprised them together in the most abandoned embrace. She must either be inordinately prudish or else her detestation of me overcomes all common sense, Joanna reflected, with a wry quirk of her mouth .
A light tap at the door distracted her as she was applying foundation cream. Was it her aunt, come to deliver a frigid homily on the impropriety of her behavior? Or Neal? Or an inquisitive Cathy?
Instead of calling her vis
itor to come in, Joanna crossed the room.
"Who is it?" she asked through the door.
"It's Neal." His voice was low and urgent. "Can I see you?"
The idiot! If his mother caught him lurking stealthily outside this door, she would be even more furious.
"I'm in the middle of dressing. I'll see you downstairs," Joanna answered in a casual tone.
There was no further sound and, after waiting for some moments, she concluded that he had accepted her refusal and gone away.
It took her nearly half an hour to put on her make-up and brush her hair into a smooth French pleat at the bade of her head. Then, shedding the kimono, she went to the wardrobe and took out the dress she had finally chosen to wear. At first she had been tempted to wear something that would confirm her aunt's suspicions and fan any highly-colored rumors that might be circulating about her life in Paris. There would have been a wicked satisfaction in playing out the part they had doubtlessly assigned to her — that of the ne'er-do-well Michael Allen's shameless daughter whom Charles has found in some scandalous Pigalle 'dive". And provoking Charles would have been particularly satisfactory. She knew just the way his dark eyebrows would lift, his lips compress. It was her regard for her grandmother which had made her choose the least dashing of her dresses. Indeed, as she slipped the garment from its hanger and opened the long slide fastener beneath the sleeve, she wondered if this dress might not be too plain, its elegance too understated to appeal to local taste. The dress was made of an unusual shade of grey-green ottoman, the color and sheen like that of a pigeon's wing. The design was very simple: a high neckline, long tight sleeves and a slender skirt. The fact that, at the back, it was cut away to the base of her shoulder-blades could scarcely offend anyone.
She had stepped into the matching glace slippers and was screwing on amethyst ear-rings, when Cathy tapped at the door and popped her head round.
"Can I come in? Are you ready?"
Joanna smiled at her. "I will be in a moment. You look very nice."
"Honestly? You don't think this frock's too babyish?" Cathy postured critically in front of the long mirror on the wardrobe door. She was wearing a lemon voile shirtwaister with a velvet belt.
"Not at all. It's charming," Joanna assured her.
Cathy nipped in the belt a notch and swung her petticoats. She was obviously pining for a slinky black number and stiletto heels, Joanna thought amusedly.
"How about me?" she asked. "Will I pass muster, do you think?"
Cathy eyed the grey silk. "You always look nice," she said politely. Then, after a second of hesitation, "I was hoping you were going to put on something really sizzling."
Joanna grinned. "Skin-tight lam£ with practically no top, I suppose?"
Cathy giggled. "Well, not quite as sizzling as that," she admitted. "But something more… more French."
Joanna's lips twitched as she tucked a compact and handkerchief into a small mesh bag. "I'll sizzle for you some other night," she said gaily. "This evening I just want to merge with the background."
"How does your hair stay up like that?" Cathy began, turning and running to the window as the sound of a car turning in at the gate was heard.
"It's Charles," she announced over her shoulder, as the engine was switched off.
Neal was standing against the balustrade at the head of the stairs as they left the room. The severe black and white of his evening kit emphasized his fair good looks. As Cathy ran down the stairs, calling to Charles, Neal stopped Joanna from following her by catching her wrist.
"You look very demure. I was expecting a Paris model," he said with a hint of disappointment in his voice.
"So was Cathy. You aren't exactly boosting my morale," she replied drily.
"I didn't mean that you don't look nice," he said hastily. "You always do. But I'd been looking forward to seeing you stun 'em. By the way, I'm sorry if Mother embarrassed you earlier on. I think she was mainly annoyed at finding me hanging about when she wanted to use the bathroom."
"Yes, I expect so. She's had a hectic day," Joanna said noncommittally. "Shall we go down?"
Charles was still in the hall as they turned the bend of the stairs. He looked up at them and Joanna saw his eyes sweep over her. Would he too express surprise at her choice of dress?
When he made no comment at all, she found herself slightly piqued. Somehow she had expected that Charles would approve her discretion and like the dress for itself. Evidently she had been mistaken.
However, she was a good deal heartened when her grandmother, who was already seated in the drawing-room, said warmly, "You look most delightful, my dear. I shall be very proud of you."
Joanna was still talking to Mrs. Carlyon when the two other women came down and a few minutes later the first guests arrived, so she was not a witness of Charles's greeting to Vanessa. The pleased smile which animated her cousin's face as she stood beside her mother in the hall to welcome their visitors suggested that his reaction to her appearance had been a gratifying one.
For the following hour, Joanna was kept busy making Smalltalk to the people to whom she was introduced. This was somthing of an ordeal, as very few of them could wholly conceal that their curiosity about her went deeper than the normal interest of a newcomer to their set. One or two of Mrs. Carlyon's contemporaries spoke kindly of Joanna's mother and remarked upon the likeness between them. This she did not mind. But the delicately probing questions and the avid appraisals of some of her aunt's cronies made her temper simmer.
She was relieved when Neal came to take her to dance.
"I believe they're half expecting me to break into a cancan or a strip-tease," she said a shade crossly, as they began to quickstep. "It's obviously no secret that I worked in a night club."
"Nothing's ever secret in a town this size," he said wryly. "Why let it bother you? They're probably as envious as hell."
Joanna smiled and relaxed. It was silly to be irritated, she decided. Probably if she had spent most of her life in a quiet provincial town, she too would be wildly intrigued by the sudden revival of an old scandal.
Over Neal's shoulder she saw Charles dancing with an elderly woman in black lace. His well-shaped dark head was slightly inclined as he listened to his partner's remarks. Suddenly, as if he sensed that someone was watching him, he glanced up. Joanna smiled at him, but although he acknowledged the smile with a faint upward tilt of his lips, there was no answering warmth in the keen grey eyes. Feeling oddly hurt by his unfriendliness, Joanna hastily switched her attention back to Neal, and for the remainder of the dance she was careful not to look in that direction again.
Presently people began to drift towards the supper- room, and she found herself talking to a pleasant young married couple, the Drurys, who wanted to know if she could recommend a cheap pension where they could spend their next holiday.
"I love your dress, Miss Allen," said Margaret Drury, after her husband had gone to fetch them some fruit sorbets. "I used to work in London before I was married, you know, and in the first six months up here I nearly went mad with frustration. There's pots of money in this town, but the standard of taste is abysmal. The shops never seem to catch up with fashions until they're completely outmoded, and if you ask for any new line they tell you there's no demand for it."
"There's nothing outdated about that dress you're wearing," Joanna said, smiling. Margaret's coral chiffon had caught her eye some time earlier.
"Well, fortunately I'm fairly handy with a sewing- machine, so I try not to get too dowdy," the other girl explained. "Not that I go out much nowadays, because it's so horribly expensive to hire a baby-sitter."
"Oh, you have children?" Joanna asked politely.
"Only one — but he's more than enough to cope with for the moment," Margaret said.
"How old is he?"
"Ten months — but already a holy terror," said a voice from behind her.
Turning, Joanna found Charles smiling at Margaret over her head.
"Ch
arles is the brat's godfather, so he's entitled to malign him," Margaret said, laughing. "You haven't been to see us for ages, Charles. Are your godson's bellows beginning to wear your nerves ?"
"I've been tied up lately. I'll look in tomorrow if I may."
"Come to supper. You know you're always welcome," Margaret said warmly. She turned to Joanna. "Perhaps you'd like to come too, Miss Allen, if you're not already booked and you can stand my infant's howls. He's teething, poor lamb."
Joanna flickered an uncertain glance at Charles, but he was crushing out his cigarette, so she had no means of deducing whether he wished her to accept.
"Id like to," she said, after a fractional pause.
"Good. We'll expect you about seven. Oh, Dick, I've just asked Charles and Miss Allen to share pot luck with us tomorrow."
Her husband put the sorbets on the table beside them and gave Joanna a grin. "You'd better bring some earplugs and some form of protective covering, Miss Allen. Maggie doesn't stand on ceremony and you're quite likely to find yourself with a soaking wet infant on your lap. Everyone's seconded to help when things get too hectic."
"Even Charles?" Joanna asked impishly. Somehow she could not imagine him coping with a screaming and soggy infant.
"Oh, Charles is a dab hand with nappies — even better than Dick," Margaret said earnestly. "In fact, if he hadn't been with us when Bunter was about a fortnight old, the poor little wretch would probably have choked to death. Dick and I were wringing our hands in panic and Charles just heaved him upside down and batted him back to normal."
"I dare say I should have panicked too if it had been my own child," Charles said negligently, but with a glint of mockery at Joanna's surprised look.
"You'll never have any if you don't hurry up and find a wife," Margaret said candidly. "It's all very well being a carefree bachelor now, but it wont be so pleasant when you're old and crochety and need someone to poultice your lumbago."
"You stick to your guns, old chap," Dick advised him. "Im not saying that marriage hasn't some advantages if the girl can cook decently and has a proper respect for her lord and master. Otherwise you're just putting your head in a noose which gets tighter every year. Look at me, if you've any doubts. Five years ago I hadn't a care in the world. Now I'm up to my neck in hire purchase payments, and I'm lucky if I get a clean shirt once a month. I can't see you living on corned beef sandwiches and darning your own socks."
