Afterwards her room was an island in a sea of compliments. Even with the door closed she could hear the applause beating relentlessly in the distance. Ray knocked, then poked his head round. 'No, I'm not going to ask you to drag yourself out there again, sweetheart. You've given them four encores. They'll have to come back if they want more. But there is someone here to see you. Do you mind?'
Zia—she still wore the silver wig and one silver sandal was swinging from the ends of her toes as she sat on the stool in front of her lighted dressing-mirror—pivoted. Ray's words had made her heart lurch, but it was followed at once by a sigh of relief. A tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man with a moustache and immaculately tidy brown hair came through the doorway.
He held out a hand. 'Zia, so kind to see me. I'm Herman Ward.' He obviously expected his name to mean something and her quick glance of appeal to Ray showed that he had hoped to forearm her before her privacy could be invaded. Behind the stranger's back he spread his arms helplessly then moved forward.
'Herman is an agent with Southern Artists. He was very interested in your performance tonight.'
'Very interested indeed, my dear.' Herman, having shaken her by the hand, still held it in his.
She withdrew it carefully and moved back. Rachel might have blushed. But Zia drew herself up. 'You're too kind.' She gave him a limpid smile. Herman turned to Ray as if expecting him to leave but Zia fixed him a look of appeal again and, reading it, he remained staunchly where he was. 'May I offer you a drink before you go home, Zia?' he murmured. 'I know you always want to get away as soon as you finish.'
'Family commitments?' asked the smooth Mr Ward.
'No.' Zia smiled but, enigmatically, failed to enlarge on why she always left straight away.
The purpose of Herman Ward's visit, she soon discovered, was to discuss the likelihood of her compatibility with the agency, as he put it.
After he had courteously cut short his stay in deference to her wish to leave early, she mused over these words as the wig and the silver dress, the sandals and the diamante earrings were stowed away for the night. What about the compatibility of the agency with me? she wondered. That, she thought a little crossly, was important too.
'Changed your mind, did you?' It was raining in sharp, nasty gusts and the garden party window display looked rather forlorn. Elliot, in a full-length Burberry, its collar pulled right up, half obscuring his face, caught Rachel by the elbow as she hurried towards the staff entrance. He guided her roughly back into the street and proceeded to hurry her along the expanse of window space that fronted Knightsbridge.
'It's eight-fifty in the morning --' she knew to the minute because of a delay on the Tube making her think she'd be late '—and I have to clock on even if you don't.'
'I asked you a question.'
'I heard you.'
'I want an answer, Rachel.' His blue eyes were expressionless. 'Out of curiosity,' he amended, 'just where did you go last night? I followed as quickly as I could but you seemed to vanish into thin air. Did I make you change your plans? Are you so anxious to avoid seeing me?'
She walked on rapidly, aimlessly, head high, rain plastering her hair to her forehead. When she came to the end of the block she stopped abruptly. 'Look, I really do have to go into work.'
'You're not going anywhere until I have a satisfactory answer,' His grip tightened on her elbow. 'Now come on, you can be back inside in two seconds flat if you co-operate.'
'I went to the club. Of course I did. I --' she bit her lip, choosing her words carefully '—I didn't see you there.'
'I was there. I had to sit through the cabaret. I thought when the lights came up I would see you at the next table or something.' His face darkened. 'For God's sake, Rachel. Don't thwart me. It's nonsense. Why are you doing it?'
His grip tightened and she made a sudden effort to wrestle free but he merely increased the pressure and she saw from his expression that he wasn't going to let her go. A tide of anger swept through her. 'Don't I have any choice in this?' she said with venom, keeping her voice low so as not to attract the attention of the passers-by. 'Surely it's enough if I say I don't want to see you? What have my reasons got to do with you? Who are you? God Almighty?'
Instead of rounding on her, he released her arm so suddenly that she nearly fell. He caught her again. Putting both arms tightly round her and holding her against him in a sort of embrace, his lips scarcely moving, he said, 'I'm not God Almighty and I'm not the store detective either. Though I damn well wish I had been last night. Maybe then I would have been able to find out where you disappeared to. Come on. Let's go back. You're getting wet.'
He looped his arm around her waist and forced her to walk back alongside him until they came to the staff door again. 'Am I supposed to accept defeat?' He sounded bemused and there was a glint in his eyes that was no longer due to anger. 'I'm not used to being turned down. Perhaps I'll go back to the Manhattan,' he mused, eyes bright. 'That singer they've got there was really something. Maybe she'd appreciate what I've got to offer! In fact after her performance last night,' he gave a short laugh, 'I'm sure she would!'
'What do you mean?' She gave him a sidelong glance.
He began to chuckle. 'You'd have to be a man to understand a woman like that. I won't shock your innocent little ears by trying to explain. Suffice it to say, I think my poor battered ego --' he gave another chuckle '—would receive the attention it deserves in the arms of the fabulous Zia!'
'I wouldn't be too sure about that.' Rachel scowled up at him.
'Are you challenging me again, Rachel?'
'What do you mean?'
'You don't think much of me, do you? Do you really think she'd turn me down too?'
'Yes,' she said shortly, swivelling into the entrance. He pulled her back.
'Want to bet?'
'I don't bet.'
'No, but you sure believe in throwing down the gauntlet. Tell me something.' He put an arm confidentially around her shoulders and drew her to one side so that they were unobserved. 'Are you still playing games or are you definitely saying no to me?'
She nodded, painfully aware of the virile strength of him, the sharp, arousing scent of his skin numbing her resistance. 'I'm saying no,' she replied slowly.
Swiftly his lips were on hers and her own traitorous response quickened her pulses and made her mouth open softly to receive his assault, but before she could register what was happening he drew back. His lips twisted with derision. '"No," she says. "No." I've never met a woman who could say no the way you do! But so be it. You realise, of course, that you leave me no option?' He released her, letting his hands drop roughly away so that she felt as if something had ripped them both asunder.
'No option,' he went on, 'but to seek solace in the arms of the amazing Zia!' He gave a hard laugh.
Rachel could only stand and watch as he crossed the foyer to the directors' lift. He got in as she went on staring after him and then the doors drew together so that the last thing she saw was the jut of his chin and his expression as his eyes challenged her own.
CHAPTER FIVE
Such had been Elliot's mood when they parted that Rachel fully expected him to try to fulfil his intention to seek solace in the arms of Zia at once— if he could manage it! But after her performance, not sure whether he had even been in or not, she saw no sign of him. There was, however, the usual bottle of champagne and a single long-stemmed rose from her faithful admirer referred to by Ray as 'long-suffering Henry' and there were more in an increasing number of invitations, both written and verbal, from other members of the audience.
Rachel didn't like it much, but she didn't see what she could do about it—except to keep on saying no.
She was now firmly established as resident chanteuse, as Ray suddenly decided to call her, and she wondered what she might have to do to instigate her next career move. One possibility was to accept an invitation to meet Herman Ward in order to discuss representation by Southern Artists.
She
gave the matter careful consideration. And finally, though she decided to be prudent and decline his offer of dinner a deux, she did agree to have lunch with him, the proviso being that as she was a working girl he would have to meet her at work, in the garden restaurant at the store.
Herman Ward turned up on time, his hair, as before, so immaculately in place that she suspected it might be a toupee. He was businesslike but did not try to conceal his personal interest in her either.
'It's quite a surprise to see the fabulous Zia --' it seemed to have become a catch-phrase, she noted '—in the cold light of day. Nothing like lunch to deglamorise a myth,' he added, rather cynically. Then, as if to counter any sense of criticism in the remark, he added, 'I'm not sure which one of you I prefer. You're really a very beautiful young woman, my dear. It will be a privilege to represent you.' He bowed his head courteously. Rachel was finally convinced it was a toupee and silently observed that she and Herman had one thing in common at least.
Today her mousy hair had been highlighted in the store salon and piled on top of her head in what she hoped was a style of smooth sophistication. Her salary had stretched to a neat dark suit with a short skirt that showed off her perfect legs and she hoped she looked businesslike and, with the silk shirt fastened at the neck by a borrowed gold clip, coolly glamorous.
Herman was obviously much taken with this new image and couldn't take his eyes off her. But, when it came to the terms of the contract his agency wanted to offer her, he became sharp enough to make her realise she was getting out of her depth. He seemed to want an awful lot of power over her future. He promised to send a copy of their standard contract so that she and her manager— he paused—could look it over. She didn't like to tell him that she was her own manager, thinking it might be safer if he thought she had some tough-minded protector in the background.
'We'll read it over and think about it,' she told him.
They concluded lunch with glasses of brandy and Rachel's glance at the time eventually brought the meeting to an end. Herman walked to the entrance with her after settling the bill and took one of her hands in his. Kissing the back of it, he murmured, 'Here's to the next time. May it be soon, my dear.'
As she watched him leave she felt someone brush against her and, thinking it was a customer wanting to leave the restaurant, she stepped to one side. Then she found herself being glowered at by an obviously irate Elliot.
'A little old and—how shall we say? --' he paused with delicate irony '—well used for someone of your age, isn't he, Rachel?'
Her mouth opened and closed. It seemed an age since she had seen him. He was wearing a light-coloured summer suit that accentuated his hint of a tan. His hair was glossy, very black and infinitely touchable. Only his expression, the arctic sweep of those scornful blue eyes, warned her to check any show of the wild longing his appearance aroused.
'He's --' she swallowed to regain control of a voice that came out like a croak '—he's a very nice man.'
Elliot's face was a picture of disdain. 'No accounting for taste, is there? But obviously you have lots in common, judging by the way you were hanging on his every word.' Plainly he couldn't accept what he mistakenly believed to be true. She wanted to tell him he was wrong to make assumptions, but his anger seemed to annihilate the impulse to speak. Without waiting for a reply he swept on, punching the lift button to carry him to the seventh floor, his handsome features covered in a scowl.
That night she wore the little black nothing of a dress Lulu had picked out, and with black spiky heels, black stockings and a short wig that was just a neat cap of party glitter she felt chic and, as Ray said when he saw her in the corridor, utterly sinful. He gave her an avuncular pat on the shoulder before she went on.
She had decided to try out a few standards for a change, like 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes', 'September Song', 'If I Loved You', taking a short break in the middle, then afterwards, in a frou-frou outfit of red taffeta and black net, bouncing back with a series of more upbeat numbers. When it was over she asked Ray if she should have performed them the other way round—sad songs second. He smiled contentedly.
'Zia, perform them back to front or upside-down if you like. Whatever you do is spot-on.'
If that were only true, she thought with a stab of pain as she recalled Elliot's words that afternoon. Ray brought her a hot drink, knowing by now that she wouldn't touch alcohol. 'There's something for you in my office. It wouldn't fit in here.' He glanced round the cramped dressing-room. Puzzled, she followed him down the corridor. An enormous basket of flowers stood in pride of place on his desk.
'Heavens!' She gulped at the sight. The room was filled with their exotic perfume.
'For you.'
'Why thank you, Ray, I --'
'Not from me, child. From one of your many admirers.' He chuckled. 'Long-suffering Henry seems to have a rival.'
She approached the display and looked for a card. There wasn't one. 'Heavens,' she said again. The tropical colours glowed under the office strip-light, only their delicate shapes balancing what might have been an overpowering gaudiness.
She bent to smell a single white bloom, basking for a moment in the heady perfume that enveloped her. Tears came into her eyes. Not from the scent but from emotion, a knot of it, welling up unbidden inside her. If only this were a gift from Elliot, she thought, she would cherish every last petal. But she had put paid to any relationship with him for good and all now. She dashed away the silver drops and jerked her head up to look at Ray.
'Singing those nostalgic old songs has really taken it out of me,' she muttered, trying to avoid his eye. 'I feel sort of shaky.' It was ridiculous. She couldn't understand what had got into her. Things were going so well.
'Take it easy, kiddo. You had half the audience in tears too. I think, in answer to your former question, you'd better stick to the current sequence otherwise we're going to have them going home with their faces buried in their hankies!' He patted her shoulder. 'Want me to try to find out who sent them?'
She shook her head. 'It wouldn't matter anyway. If he wanted thanks he'd have left a name.'
'I'll help you get them out to a cab.' He reached for the phone.
'I'll change. Ask the cab to come round straight away, would you?' She went back to the dressing-room and removed her make-up and the false eyelashes she had been experimenting with. Men were strange, she thought. Would they send flowers if they saw her now, pale-faced and without the makeup? Yet she was still the same girl, despite the lack of glitz and glam. Feeling disturbed by the effect of something as artificial as mere appearance on her audience, she slipped thoughtfully into her street clothes. Elliot Priest, too, had fallen for an illusion if he seriously saw her as nothing more than an apple-cheeked country girl.
Ray eventually came staggering down the corridor with the flowers. She held the door then followed him out. The cab driver didn't bat an eye at his extra 'passenger'. She had to carry it up the steps to her flat herself when they arrived. Everything seemed like a dream, she felt, at one remove from reality. Somehow she had never felt so alone in her entire life.
Lulu was looking gloomy, and she continued, 'You're a good window-dresser, Rachel. I shall be sorry to lose you.'
Rachel had just broken the expected news that she was going to hand in her noticed 'In another four weeks,' she explained. 'I may be under contract to Southern Artists and the bookings should be starting to come in. I'll need the daytime to rehearse new songs and get myself organised.' Though she spoke cheerfully enough, there was a strange heaviness in her heart. She put it down to the fact that she was leaving one phase of her life behind, and the future, like anything unknown, seemed a little scary. Besides, she'd been happy enough working here. The girls were a great crowd and she would genuinely miss them.
'We must all have a night out somewhere,' she said, 'and keep in touch.'
'We'll certainly do that.' Lulu smiled. 'And you must always let us know where you're performing and we'll be right there on the f
ront row!'
Elliot hadn't been seen for several days. She knew he was in the building because news of his activities filtered down to their level. Changes were afoot in the store and he was said to be the moving force behind them. Lulu was pleased because she thought the place was being dragged into the twentieth century at last. 'They're even opening a department for new young designers at last. And about time too. Good old Elliot Priest,' she said.
'Old?' One of the girls raised an eyebrow.
'Good?' Someone else did likewise.
They all laughed, but even the most gossipy among them couldn't link Elliot with any specific name, though there were plenty of rumours going the rounds.
Rachel tried not to listen. She had made her decision and that was that. Even the blandishments of her admirers at the Manhattan couldn't deflect her from the single-minded course she was pursuing. And the blandishments were many.
Night after night there were flowers from the man who had sent that first enormous basket. Sometimes they were in the same style, with different colours predominating. Sometimes they were at the other extreme—simple nosegays or exquisite out-of-season snowdrops, or roses, blood-red, speaking of eternal love.
'I can always find out who he is,' Ray suggested as he once more handed over a cardless offering.
'Primroses!' she exclaimed. 'How can he get primroses at this time of year?' She raised enormous blue eyes. 'I really don't understand why he's doing it. Why doesn't he say who he is?'
'He will. And then what are you going to do?'
Rachel shrugged. 'It would seem churlish not to do something, I suppose. He must be a real romantic.' She sighed. 'Hopefully he'll just keep on sending them. Or stop.' She swung back with a little laugh. 'Perhaps he owns a flower shop, and these are his left-overs!'
Steps to Heaven Page 6
