A Different Kind of Love

by Jean Saunders

  “Oh, I assure you I didn’t mean to criticise, and I apologise if that was the way it seemed. The way you speak is quite delightful,” he said, as smooth as silk. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”

  At this, Kate took fright. She didn’t know how to behave in a hotel, and after Walter’s betrayal, she didn’t want to have even the remotest association with another man. That fact had been dawning on her all the way from Bristol, and she had looked on her week at the Charlton Hotel as something of a retreat, where she could become as anonymous as the wallpaper. She had been dismayed when the hotel receptionist had pointed out the board announcing all their social activities. There was dancing to a small band each evening, and various charabanc trips could be arranged by the management if sufficient guests were interested, and there was always a special banquet each Friday evening, “price extra” written in small letters underneath. And Kate wanted none of it.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered the man on the balcony now. “If you’ll excuse me, please, I’m finding it quite chilly out here.”

  But nothing like as chilly as the reaction he was getting from her, she said to herself, and a good job too. If he thought she was going to be friendly just because they were temporary neighbours, he could think again.

  She went back inside her room and closed the windows, leaning against them for a moment, realising that her heart was pounding. Despite her determination to freeze any individual who attempted friendship, she was disgusted at herself, knowing she must have appeared naive and unsophisticated – which she was – in even refusing to let a gentleman introduce himself. What a simple country chick she must have seemed, and him so suave and gallant. So had Walter been, she reminded herself, and that had been the start of all her troubles.

  She turned to her unpacking, her hands shaking. She hung the new frocks in the wardrobe, and for a moment she held the new nightgown to her face, breathing in the distinctive scent of soft new fabric which had so long been a part of her life. This particular garment had been stitched with so much love and hope. All her dreams had gone into it … Without warning, the tears came in a flood and she found herself lying face-down across the width of her bed as if in supplication, weeping as if her heart would break.

  When the shaking finally stopped, she told herself furiously it was nothing but self-pity. She conjured up the brief sneaking feeling of relief she had felt, knowing she hadn’t had to live a sham of a marriage, since she no longer loved Walter the way she once had. But it was his cruel deception that was still so hard to bear. And remembering how she had given herself to him so wantonly and freely … remembering all the things they had said, all the things they had done, filled her with shame.

  Slowly, anger overcame everything else. A man like Walter Radcliffe wasn’t worth wasting tears over, she told herself, and she had done with crying over a rotter. She got up from the bed, seeing how she had creased the lovely new nightgown she’d worked on so painstakingly, and she didn’t even care. It was only a bit of cloth after all.

  Chapter Three

  Some time later, a paler Kate Radcliffe descended the curving staircase of the Charlton Hotel. She was more composed than an hour ago, and she wore the floaty chiffon frock with the handkerchief points at the hem that had been been intended for this first special evening of her married life.

  She wore it defiantly, telling herself that nobody was going to take away the pleasure of knowing that she looked her absolute best in its shimmery soft hues of cream and gold, with a matching wisp of chiffon tucked inside the gold-coloured bangle on her upper arm.

  The frock certainly did something for her waning self-esteem as she entered the dining room alone. She quailed for a moment, as people glanced her way, but she held her head high, trying not to guess at their speculation about her. Almost everyone else here seemed to be part of a couple or a group of people, and she had been told enough times by her parents that proper young ladies never stayed unaccompanied in an hotel. They had to be at least sixty years old to do so without inviting comment. There might be any number of reasons for a young girl to be travelling on her own, but people generally thought the worst. Especially if the girl held herself well and was reasonably good-looking. It was ironic that such a circumstance hadn’t bothered too many people when those same young women were prepared to go to war alongside their men.

  The maître d’ hovered at her side, and Kate gave her name quickly, reminding herself that she had better remember her chosen persona of the young married mystery woman, Kate Radcliffe. It helped, in a way, even if she had no intention of sharing confidences with anyone else. But it was like playing a part in a play, and it somehow put a barrier between the old Kate and whatever the future held for her.

  “Would madam like a window table, or one where she can hear the piano player?” the man said smoothly, his eyes noting everything about this golden-haired young woman.

  “Neither, thank you,” Kate said at once. “I’d like a quiet table where I can be quite alone.”

  “But there are much nicer tables where a lovely lady like yourself can be much admired—”

  “Thank you, no,” Kate said adamantly. “The one in the corner over there will suit me perfectly.”

  He sighed heavily as she indicated a table surrounded by potted palms, but Kate was more than content to merge into the background. But no matter how the buzz of genteel conversation went on around her, or the way the piano player occasionally directed his soulful music towards her, she had never felt quite so alone as she studied the dinner menu.

  This night should have been so very different. Despite the anger she tried to keep uppermost in her mind, she could still feel the sharp pain of being jilted. Those who had never experienced it would never understand the sickness in the pit of her stomach whenever the shame of it hit her anew. Tonight should have begun so tenderly, and ended so lovingly. She should have been spending her first night as a married woman in her husband’s arms.

  “Has madam chosen?” said the waiter hovering at her side. She peered more carefully at the menu, dashing the hint of tears from her eyes. She had never eaten this well before, but since Walter’s money was paying for it, she felt reckless.

  “I’d like sliced duck, please, with a selection of vegetables in season.”

  “Certainly, madam. Would you care to see the wine list?”

  She swallowed as she heard the words. What would this penguin-stiff waiter say if she requested a jug of foaming Somerset cider, which was the usual drink her father brought home at night! She had never tasted wine in her life … she caught sight of a familiar face across the dining room, and the man from the next room to hers raised his glass to her in a brief acknowledgement.

  She turned away from his gaze, her cheeks burning, just as if he could have read her mind at that moment, and known what a hick she was.

  “Just bring me whatever you recommend to accompany the duck,” she said as coolly as she could to the waiter.

  “Thank you, madam. Would you prefer a glass or a carafe?”

  “Just a glass, please,” Kate said, paling at this, and not having the slightest idea what a carafe meant.

  That first evening was as much of an ordeal as Kate had expected. She stayed in the dining room for as long as possible, since the alternative was going back to her empty room and letting the misery take over. It wasn’t her shame, but that made no difference to her feelings.

  Long into the night, she could faintly hear the sounds of merriment from the hotel guests below and she wondered just what she was doing here at all. Yet the alternative to being among strangers was to brave the sympathy of those who knew her.

  For the next two days she kept strictly to herself, spending the days striding into the wind along Bournemouth’s blustery seashore; watching other families on holiday, the children digging up the sand and making sand-castles, or searching for shells to take home with them; watching couples, their arms linked, with eyes for no one but each other, and feeling the fa
miliar pain in her throat.

  On the third evening she was shown to her usual table for dinner. By now the maître d’ had developed quite a protective air towards the beautiful, sad-eyed young woman with the air of mystery about her, who always dined alone.

  As he handed her the menu that evening, Kate noticed a card beside her table napkin. The name in gilt letters on it was Luke Halliday, and the address beneath was simply Dundry Mews, London. There was also a telephone number, and Kate thought immediately that it was the business card of someone who was either very arrogant or very well known. Kate had never heard of Luke Halliday, but that wasn’t surprising. In her insular world, she knew nothing of London or its inhabitants.

  “I think someone left this here by mistake,” she said to the maître d’.

  He shook his immaculately-coiffed head.

  “There is no mistake, madam. The gentleman from Room 314 requests that you join him for dinner. If it is not your wish to do so, I will see to it for you.”

  Kate’s heart jolted. Her room was 316 so 314 would be the one with the adjoining balcony where she had seen the man on her first evening here. She remembered Walter telling her that all the best rooms on the seaward side were even-numbered. While she was still thinking how to rebuff the invitation, she turned the card over, and saw the strong, masculine handwriting on the reverse side.

  “Why don’t you have second thoughts and join me?”

  Her face flamed. The man had covered all eventualities, clearly having expected her refusal. And the maître d’ was still awaiting her decision.

  “I prefer to dine alone,” she said at once.

  “Then I will inform Mr Halliday that you don’t wish to join him, madam.”

  But he didn’t move away at once, as if he expected her to have the second thoughts just as Luke Halliday had suggested.

  Kate looked beyond him to where Luke Halliday sat at a window table. She could see his reflection in the darkened window, as if there were two of him. He caught her glance and nodded briefly. She looked away, feeling gauche and nervous, because she simply didn’t know to handle this situation. Almost at the same moment, she realised what a simpleton she must appear, to be thrown into such a panic at a perfectly civilised invitation in a respectable hotel.

  “Mr Halliday is a much-respected client here, madam,” the maître d’ murmured discreetly, as if to reassure her. “He comes here frequently.”

  Kate took a deep breath. “Thank you. Then I shall be pleased to join Mr Halliday for dinner,” she said.

  Her legs were shaking slightly as she crossed the dining room behind the waiter. Luke Halliday stood up as she approached. She already knew he was tall, but she hadn’t realised quite what a commanding figure he made as he held out his hand to take hers. She felt ridiculously, suddenly, afraid, as a frisson of something that was almost electric passed between them at the contact.

  “I’m honoured that you agreed to join me, Mrs Radcliffe,” he said gravely.

  “Thank you, Mr Halliday,” she said, confused at hearing such old-fashioned courtesy.

  “Won’t you please sit down?” he said.

  She sank into the chair across the candle-lit table from him, her eyes lowered. Even so, his image was still in her head. He was ruggedly good-looking … but so had Walter been. And his words were bland, almost trite, the words of a stranger politely greeting a guest.

  Won’t you please sit down?

  That was all he had said. But what Kate heard in her head was something different.

  Won’t you please come into my life?

  As if he were the spider, and she the fly. Every instinct was telling her to say no. To turn and run now, before she began something else that would only end in unhappiness.

  Kate knew she was being over sensitive, and that her nerves were still raw from Walter’s deception and betrayal. But as she met the stranger’s dark intense eyes which told her how much he liked what he saw, she couldn’t rid herself of the eerie feeling that once destiny took a hand in your affairs, there was little you could do to stop it.

  Luke Halliday hadn’t been born into money. He had been brought up on the Kent coast in a family just nudging middle class, so he was well aware of its value, and the necessity of having something behind him. Something for a rainy day, as a doting great-aunt had often told him.

  Then that same doting great-aunt had succumbed to the lethal flu epidemic that had ravaged the country the year after the war ended. She had left Luke a surprisingly large nest-egg, and he had known exactly what to do with it.

  He wanted a place of his own for a start, and the maisonette in fashionable Dundry Mews in south London had been on the market at just the right time. Next, he needed a studio and darkroom, and all the more elaborate photographic equipment he had coveted and could now afford. He had always longed to delve into the mysteries of photography, and Great-aunt Min had given him the opportunity. Thirdly, the studio had to have a shop-window frontage where he could display, to his prospective clients, his portraits of weddings and babies and family occasions.

  Once he felt he had become accomplished enough, Luke had advertised for clients by offering, for a limited time, to photograph men in uniform returning from the Front, at half-price, as a family keepsake. The idea was nothing short of inspirational. Having served in an infantry regiment in France himself, he knew how the folk back home would treasure such a memento … and from then on, he had never looked back. Orders had come pouring in, and when those same servicemen had married their sweethearts who promptly produced babies, they had remembered the keen young man with the ready smile and easy-going manner, and brought their custom to him. It was Luke’s good fortune that it was becoming a national passion for families to have group portrait sittings at regular intervals.

  His final flourish with Great-aunt Min’s bequest and his new-found affluence, had been the swish dark green Bentley which now stood outside the Charlton Hotel attracting plenty of envious attention during that sunny May week in 1925.

  By now, he was thinking of branching out into something new, and it was making his pulses race every time he thought about it. And the sight of this golden girl sitting reluctantly opposite him, as if she was ready to take flight at any moment, was exciting him even more.

  “Please forgive me for staring at you so intently, Mrs Radcliffe,” he said, realising he had been doing so for longer than good manners decreed. “But you know you’ve become something of an enigma these last few days.”

  At the unexpectedness of the remark, Kate felt a nervous twitch at the side of her mouth.

  “I assure you there’s nothing in the least odd about me,” she said, not sure what the word meant.

  “Forgive me for my crassness, dear lady. I merely meant that your air of mystery is most alluring,” Luke said, not wanting to alarm her or to make her think that he was prying – which he most certainly was.

  There was something endearing about the little nervous twitch at the corners of her mouth. He decided to be bold in his approach.

  “For a start, where is the missing Mr Radcliffe, I wonder? And why does his lovely wife have such mauve shadows beneath her remarkable blue eyes? And even more intriguing – where does she go to every morning, when a lonely man such as myself is becoming exhausted from searching for her among the highways and byways of respectable Bournemouth?”

  Despite herself, Kate laughed, albeit nervously, at his artless questions, and as she did so, she realised it was the first time she had half-relaxed her guard since arriving at the hotel.

  Two days of wandering aimlessly about by herself had apparently made her ready for company after all. She knew that solitude didn’t really suit her. She was too used to the boisterousness of her workmates, and the clattering and whine of the sweatshop machines where the women had to shout to be heard, to enjoy being alone for too long.

  “Thank heavens for that,” Luke Halliday said in a relieved voice. “I had begun to wonder if you could smile at all, and now
that you have, it was worth the waiting.”

  It wasn’t a gushing compliment, but it made her feel good. And before Kate could think of a suitable reply, if one were needed at all, Luke raised one finger to the waiter, and a bottle of wine, in a silver cooling jug on a stand, was brought to the side of their table.

  The man poured out a glass of white wine for each of them, after giving Luke the cork to sniff and a taster in his glass, to which he nodded approvingly. It was all so suave and elegant, and Kate realised how little she knew of the social niceties.

  The wine tasted cool and not too heavy, and she made no demur when he suggested he should order dinner for them both, unless she had any special preferences. She shook her head, thankful to have the decision made for her.

  “Good,” Luke said. “I’m sure you’ll like my choice, so I thought we’d dispense with all that nonsense of going through the entire menu. So now tell me all about yourself.”

  “If there’s anything more guaranteed to make a person tongue-tied, I don’t know it,” Kate said. “Anyway, there’s nothing much to tell. I live in a small Somerset village, with the usual set of parents, an older brother and two young sisters. And me.”

  It sounded pathetic, and she was humiliated by her own ineptness. It seemed so dull, and so did she. She wasn’t normally like this. It was Walter who had taken all the life and soul out of her.… Why couldn’t she have invented something wildly glamorous about herself, to keep the interest of this intelligent man? And instantly, she knew why. She didn’t want to interest him – at least, not in that way.

  “You’re very fortunate,” Luke said, surprising her. “I no longer have the usual set of parents. And I never had any brothers or sisters.”

  “Well, they’re probably not such an advantage,” Kate said, and then felt awkward at her flippancy, as she suddenly remembered how some of the people in their village had laughed and cried and hugged one another, when any of their boys had come home from the war unscathed. And there had been many others who hadn’t…