Roberta Leigh - Not a Marrying Man

by Roberta Leigh

  Reluctant to continue talking about him, Sara picked up her empty cup and went to the door.

  'Do you have a long dress with you?' Madame asked.

  'No.' Sara felt a pang of regret and dismissed it instantly. Why on earth should it matter what she wore for Bruno Lyn? He would view her with the same disenchantment no matter how glamorous she looked. 'I came here with a lazy weekend in mind,' she confessed.

  'You'll look lovely whatever you wear. Besides, I'm not going to change. I'll keep this old housecoat on.'

  Since the housecoat in question was a magnificent gold brocade affair with mink collar and cuffs, Sara could not help laughing.

  'That old housecoat would put my most expensive dress to shame!'

  'Youth and beauty outshine any couturier's creation. It is only when you reach my age that you need to worry about what you wear.' The black head, its shape so reminiscent of her nephew's, tilted in a birdlike movement. 'But even when you are old you will be beautiful, Sara. I looked like a frog when I was young and an even uglier frog now I'm old. Maybe that's why I have been so successful. After all, I need my products as much as my clients do!'

  'There must be millions of women all over the world who send up grateful thanks to you each night,' Sara smiled.

  'Twaddle!' Madame's tone of pleasure belied the word. 'Hurry up and change. I don't want to sit here too long by myself.'

  Having hoped to stay in her room until dinner was announced, Sara went down the corridor with a sigh. No matter how she tried to avoid it, she was faced with several hours in Bruno Lyn's company. She slid back her wardrobe door and thought how lonely her few dresses looked hanging up in such a vast space. What a pity she didn't have a dress with her that would really hit Madame's nephew between the eyes. Hard on this thought came another, more satisfying one. To have dressed up would have made him think she wanted to attract his attention—which was the last thing in the world she desired—so it was probably far better for him to see she was making no effort whatever.

  Reassured by this, she washed her face and put on only a layer of lipstick, then slipped into a pink jersey dress. It was cut on simple lines and relied for its effect on the colour, which did wonders for her spun gold hair and deepened the green of her almond-shaped eyes in their frame of thick spiky lashes. She pulled her hair back from her face, then decided to let it hang free. It made her look younger, but she did not care. No matter what she did, Bruno Lyn would continue to see her the way he wanted.

  Walking across the circular hall to the sitting-room she knew a moment of trepidation. But it did not show on her face as she entered the room and she looked serene and lovely as she glided across the carpet, her skirt swaying around her. The man she had been thinking of was standing in front of a highly coloured Mend-jinsky—newest of Madame's fabulous collection of paintings. The brilliant colours were a fitting background for the broad shoulders and the challenging tilt of the head whose dark eyes watched her approach. But his voice as he offered her a drink was gentler than she had ever heard it, which only made her more on her guard with him, seeing it as a ploy to get her to lower her defences and make his inevitable attack on her more successful.

  'A Martini if you have one,' she said in answer to his question.

  'I'm drinking champagne,' Madame cut in. 'You should stick to wine, too. Alcohol is bad for the skin.'

  'I don't think Miss Vale needs to worry about her skin. Aunt Rosa,' the man said. 'She has a typical English rose complexion.' His look was deliberately appraising. 'Have you ever thought of being a model ? When I think of how hard we have searched for the right type I am sure you could earn a fortune.'

  'Maybe I could.' Sara sat beside Madame on the settee, thus making sure he could not come and sit next to her. 'But I would find it too boring.'

  'I didn't think any woman would find the prospect of a fortune boring.'

  That wasn't what I said, Mr Lyn. I'd like to have money, but only on my own terms.'

  'And what might those be ? A wealthy husband or a loaded boy-friend?'

  'Preferably a well-paid job that gives me satisfaction.'

  'Ah yes,' he murmured. 'Job satisfaction. The cry of the seventies.'

  'Is that so bad?' she demanded. 'Maybe you wouldn't know the boredom of having to work at something you hated simply because there was no other way of earning a living. If you——' Seeing a gleam in his eyes she stopped speaking. 'I'm sorry, Mr Lyn, but you touched on a rather sore subject with me.'

  'I'm running true to form then, aren't I ?'

  'Before she came to work for me,' Madame Rosa said, 'Sara worked in a grocery shop. She started when she was twelve.'

  'Twelve?' The man looked surprised.

  'After school was over,' Sara mumbled, wishing Madame had kept quiet.

  'And before school started too,' Madame added. 'It belonged to her parents and her father died, so she helped her mother.'

  'How did you escape from it?' Bruno asked Sara directly.

  'I guess you could say I was made redundant. My two brothers left school and took my place.'

  'And then what did you do?' He sounded interested, but she sipped her drink and remained silent, unwilling to regale him with her family history.

  'Does your family still have the grocery shop?' he asked, realising she was not going to continue.

  'Yes.'

  'Where?'

  'In South London. It's a small shop, but it gives personal service and———-'

  'Job satisfaction for your two brothers.' Her face flamed and he looked perturbed. 'I was not being sarcastic. I'm merely amazed that in an age of cut price supermarkets, a couple of young men should be swimming against the tide and managing to stay afloat.'

  'Salmon swim against the current,' she said stiffly.

  'But only to spawn and then die. I'm sure your brothers envisage a far different future for themselves!'

  'I doubt if their idea of success is yours, Mr Lyn.'

  'What is all this Mr Lyn, Miss Vale nonsense?' Madame Rosa demanded.

  'I don't think one should be on first name terms with one's employer.' Sara was embarrassed and could not hide it.

  'Aunt Rosa is right.' Bruno Lyn both looked and sounded amused. 'Please call me Bruno—even though you do see me more as Mephistopheles!'

  The Devil can be thwarted with prayer,' she retorted, 'but I doubt if you could.'

  He laughed outright. 'Are you never at a loss for words?'

  'Words are my business.'

  'Ah yes, I was forgetting you are a promotions expert.'

  He resumed his original position in front of the Mend- jinsky. He was all in black tonight: tight-fitting suede slacks and a fine silk sweater with a roll collar. The sombre colour made him look pale and the muscles of his shoulders rippled beneath their soft covering.

  'Tell me, Sara, where did you get the training that has turned you into such an efficient member of our company?'

  'I had no formal training in publicity. I learned it by trial and error.'

  'Your error and our trial,' said Madame affectionately.

  'I did make some awful bloomers in the first six months,' Sara agreed ruefully. 'I was always expecting you to fire me.'

  'My aunt is obviously capable of seeing beneath the surface,' Bruno said.

  'Are you?' Sara challenged.

  'Obviously you don't think so.'

  'Don't put words into my mouth, Mr Lyn.'

  'Bruno,' he reminded her. 'And no one needs to put words into your mouth. You have more than enough to say for yourself already!'

  'I'll try to be docile when I'm with you. That's the type you like, isn't it?'

  'Dumb and docile,' he agreed. Then they present no problem.'

  'Other than the problem of boredom,' his aunt said dryly, and caused him to give her a startled look that quickly turned into one of wry amusement.

  'How right you are, bellissima. If only I could find a gentle creature who does not also bore me to death!'

  'Comp
romise,' his aunt said shortly.

  'By compromise, you mean I should find a woman like you?'

  'There is only one me,' came the imperious answer.

  'Then I'll have to be content with second best,' he said gently. 'Until that time I will alleviate the boredom by changing the face with greater frequency.'

  Sara was annoyed to find she was curious to know how often such a change occurred. All she was sure of was that none of his girl-friends would be eager to make the move. He was not only a handsome brute but an exciting one. Even she was not immune to him and thought with pleasure of bringing him to his knees. How satisfying it would be to make him want her and then laugh in his face.

  'You look like a cat who's swallowed a mouse.'

  With a start she realised he was watching her and her soft mouth curved upwards as she imagined his reaction if she told him he was the mouse. Regretfully she discarded the idea, and was glad when Madame stood up and gave her nephew her arm for him to lead her in to dinner.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Madame retired to her room as soon as dinner was over and to Sara's chagrin Bruno did the same. More than anything else he could have done, it epitomised the way he regarded her and did nothing to decrease her dislike of him.

  Anger was still with her when she went into the dining-room for breakfast next morning. It was only eight o'clock, but she was in the habit of rising early and even here, with people to wait on her, she had been too restless to remain in bed.

  To her surprise Bruno was at the table and she wished she had dressed fully instead of appearing in her housecoat, even though it was no way reminiscent of the bedroom. He was dressed as casually as last night but more warmly, with tweed trousers and a thick sweater.

  'Good morning, Sara.'

  His voice was deeper than she had heard it and had she not known he had gone to bed early she would have assumed it to be the voice of too much whisky and women. As it was, she realised it was his early morning voice, the one his girl-friends probably liked best. Quickly she went to the sideboard and looked at the dishes on the hot plate.

  'Care to come for a jog with me?' he asked.

  'I beg your pardon?' She swung round and, seeing his expression, knew the question was serious. 'I don't think I'd care for it.'

  'A brisk stroll then, or don't you believe in walking?'

  'I know what legs are for,' she said irritably. 'As a child I dare say I walked more than you.'

  'Depends from what age you count. Till I was four I'd never been inside a car.'

  She helped herself to bacon and eggs and came to the table.

  'In the village where I was born,' he went on, 'only the doctor had a car. And most of the time he didn't use it either. It wasn't till my mother and I came to live with Aunt Rosa that I even had my first pair of shoes.'

  'You'll have me weeping for you in a minute,' she said indifferently.

  'I'm not asking for sympathy,' he said abruptly. 'Merely stating facts. One doesn't forget one's past.'

  'Some people prefer to do so.'

  'I'd rather forget the rich and so-called happy times. Living in Bandoli was the happiest part of my life.'

  'I find that hard to believe. If you were so poor that you couldn't afford new shoes, surely you were happier in England?'

  'One's soul is more important than the soles of one's feet.' His voice was as reflective as his expression. 'Once we came to live with Aunt Rosa I couldn't call my soul my own.'

  Curiosity was too strong for Sara to deny it and she put down her fork. 'I know Madame can be difficult as an employer, but surely as an aunt————'

  'She can be worse. She ruled the house the way she rules her business.'

  'I suppose a child would find that overpowering,' Sara agreed.

  'Not only a child. My mother was frightened of her too. When we lived in Italy she was gay and light- hearted, even when there wasn't much money in the house. But once we came here she was quite different. She didn't even look the same. Sometimes I had the feeling she wanted to give up everything and take me home again.' He flung out his hands. 'You see? I still think of Bandoli as home.'

  'Why didn't she go back, then?'

  'Do you think anyone can escape Aunt Rosa if she doesn't want to let them go?'

  To agree with him smacked of disloyalty, yet Sara could not bring herself to disagree, conscious that there was more behind his words than she was able to understand. 'When did your father die?' she asked softly.

  'When I was three. I barely remember him. He was a farmer; not the most rewarding way of earning a living in Southern Italy,' he finished ironically. 'He was a man of few words and I don't remember us talking together. It was my mother who meant far more to me.'

  'You obviously loved her deeply.'

  He sighed. 'I used to tell myself that when I grew up I'd take her back to Italy. But by the time I could do it, it was too late.' He saw Sara's questioning look. 'She died when I was fifteen.'

  If anything his voice grew deeper and Sara, remembering the opulent house where Madame had lived until a couple of years ago and which she had turned into a health farm, found it easy to see how lonely a young boy could have been there, particularly if he had not felt at ease in the countryside.

  'Yet funnily enough things became easier after my mother died.' He was speaking again, his expression lighter. 'It was because Aunt Rosa was changing too. She was less possessive of me and I found her easier to get on with.'

  'Perhaps she was jealous of your relationship with your mother,' Sara said. 'I know Madame never wanted to marry, but I'm sure she would have loved to have had a child of her own. I mean, she regards you as if you were her son.'

  He nodded and passed his coffee cup across to her.

  'Would you pour me another cup, please, or should I ring for someone to do it?'

  The liking she had begun to feel for him died, even though she knew her behaviour yesterday in the kitchen had warranted his sarcasm. 'I think I can manage to pour the coffee,' she said, not showing her seething thoughts. 'If you had wanted sugar in it, it might be different.'

  He laughed, a booming sound in a room where sound was usually muted. Thanks for reminding me of our true feelings towards one another. If you hadn't, I might have forgotten we're declared enemies.'

  'We are no such thing,' she said flatly. 'We just happen to be antipathetic towards each other.'

  'You disappoint me,' he chided. 'I was expecting you to say you hated me.'

  'Why?'

  'Because hatred is akin to love.'

  Annoyed at not foreseeing his remark, she set his coffee cup down sharply in front of him. Some of it spilled, but he smiled and dabbed at it with his napkin.

  'Can't you talk to a woman without bringing sex into it?' she demanded.

  'Only if she's old and ugly. If you were honest with yourself you'd admit you would be very disappointed if I said I had no interesting thoughts about you.'

  Thoughts are only interesting when they're different,' she said crossly. 'And yours are too obvious to be anything but dull!'

  Then you won't be disappointed if I tell you I don't intend to translate those thoughts into action.' As he had known it would, his remark piqued her even more and he grinned broadly. 'Aren't you going to ask me why?'

  'Yes—as you obviously wish it.'

  'Because although I love beautiful women and adore intelligent ones—and you happen to be both, which I might add is so rare as to be a phenomenon—you are also a career woman, and those are the kind from whom I run a mile. Aunt Rosa is enough career woman for one man to have in his lifetime.'

  It was an explanation she had already anticipated, but hearing it did not lessen her pique. Yet to show it would make him think she minded his indifference.

  'I am not indifferent to you,' he said, uncannily echoing her thoughts. 'I'd find it all too easy to make love to you, but it would lead to complications which I don't think either of us want.'

  'I wouldn't want you to make love t
o me either,' she said. 'Much as I regret having to disillusion you, I'm afraid I don't find you sexually exciting.'

  'Don't you?' he said, his ridiculously long lashes masking his eyes.

  'No.' She searched for a way of proving it. 'Your approach is too unsubtle and your charm too obvious.' Yes, she was beginning to get under his skin, if the flush coming into it was anything to go by. 'You aren't my type either,' she continued, starting to enjoy herself. 'I prefer my men fair and taller.'

  'Like Nevil Maine.'

  'Yes,' she said without expression.

  'Are you engaged to him?'

  'I wouldn't be spending the weekend here if I were.' Too late she realised he had misconstrued her answer, and said quickly: 'I don't mean I would be living with him. But I wouldn't leave him alone for a whole weekend.'

  'A possessive female, I see.'

  'That's something you despise, isn't it?'

  'Pity is a more appropriate word. To want to possess someone implies a pitiful lack of security in oneself.'

  'And you have no insecurity?' 'No.'

  'Then your childhood couldn't have been as difficult as you maintain. Much as you disliked the over- possessiveness of your aunt and your mother's fear of her, it nonetheless provided you with a very secure background.'

  Thoughtfully he stared down into his empty cup, giving the impression that he was pondering her remark. 'I suppose I was happier than I gave it credit for being,' he said finally. 'I've tended to think of the difficult times rather than the good ones.'

  'With most people it's the reverse. I only remember the good times.'

  'Did you have any bad ones?' he asked.

  'I was the oldest child of five,' she said shortly, 'and my parents were overworked. Money was hard to come by and I had to be grown up before I had a chance of being a child.'

  'Is that why security and position mean so much to you now?'

  'How do you know how much they mean to me?' she cried. 'You've no idea what I think or feel. You're so used to dealing with artificial women, you wouldn't recognise a real one if you saw her!'

  'Don't tell me you'd be willing to give up your job and settle down with the right man.'