If This Is Love

by Anne Weale

  In the car, David said, “I have to go back to London tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Jane exclaimed, dismayed.

  “I have work to do, appointments to keep. I can’t play truant too long.”

  “No, of course not,” she agreed, in a flat tone. “Well, I—I hope the pictures come out satisfactorily. But I suppose they always do when you’re an expert. What time are you leaving in the morning?”

  “Not too early. I’ll see you before I go.”

  But when you get back to London, you’ll forget all about me, she thought desolately.

  Of his own accord, David dropped her some distance away from the Crown.

  “Thank you for coming with me, Jane,” he said, before she slipped out of the car. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon. You’re a refreshing young thing. Nowadays a lot of girls of nineteen behave as if they’re blasée sophisticates of thirty.”

  She smiled, but her lips quivered slightly. “Thank you for taking me,” she said, in a low voice. “Goodnight, David.”

  Sylvia had invited her current boy friend to the hotel’s dinner-dance, but Jane guessed that it was for David, not young Roy Stephens, that her cousin was wearing her newest pale rose pink organza evening dress.

  Watching Sylvia dancing, the diamante combs in her upswept golden hair glinting in the subdued light of the Crown’s glass-roofed sun-lounge-cum-ballroom, Jane found it difficult to credit that the younger girl would not succeed as a model. Yet David must know what he was talking about. Sylvia herself had said that he was the most brilliant of all the London fashion photographers.

  It was half past twelve before Jane was free to go to bed. She found Sylvia sitting at their dressing table in her bra and briefs, brushing her hair.

  “What an extraordinary person David Ransome is,” her cousin burst out pettishly, as soon as Jane had closed the door behind her. “I thought he would watch the dancing tonight. But George told me he had a drink in the bar after dinner and then went up to bed. I’ve hardly seen him all day. Why did he bother to come here when he’s been shut in his room most of the time?”

  “I don’t suppose our Saturday night shindigs would seem very exciting to anyone from London,” Jane said wearily, suppressing a surge of irritation because the room, which she had already had to tidy earlier, was in wild disorder again.

  Sylvia’s pink dress was flung carelessly over Jane’s bed, her can-can petticoat was on the floor, and the dressing table was littered with used face tissues and hairpins. Jane had always wished she could have a tiny room of her own, and tonight she would have given anything to be alone. She felt like flinging herself on the bed and bursting into tears.”

  “Incidentally, I think it was pretty mean of you ! to take the afternoon off today and leave me with all the work,” Sylvia complained. “Where did you go?—all togged up in your best things.”

  “That’s my business, Sylvia,” Jane said shortly.

  Long after her cousin was asleep, she lay awake in the dark, listening to the ticking of the alarm clock and the scatter of rain on the window.

  She knew now that she had fallen headlong in love with David Ransome. But, after tomorrow, she would probably never see him again.

  Next morning, Jane was checking the laundry list in the linen room when one of the chamber-maids came to find her.

  “You’re to go to the office, Miss Jane.”

  “Who wants me, Lily?” Jane asked warily.

  It had been after three o’clock in the morning before she had finally fallen into an uneasy dream-disturbed sleep. And, before she slept, she had decided that it would be better to avoid saying goodbye to David. This was not love, she had told herself sternly, only a crazy and temporary infatuation.

  “Your aunt, miss. But there was a gentleman with her when she said to tell you to go down. That tall chap who’s been in Seventeen. He’s going this morning, isn’t he? Perhaps there’s a query about his bill. Mrs. Brewster didn’t say.”

  Jane went downstairs, bracing herself. She did not look at David as she entered the office. Her aunt smiled at her, but Jane knew at once that, inwardly, Mrs. Brewster was angry about something.

  She said sweetly, “Mr. Ransome is just leaving us, Jane. But he has asked to have a word with you in private.” Then she left them alone together.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t about to say goodbye to you,” Jane said stiltedly, avoiding David’s eyes.

  Mrs. Brewster had sat down behind the reception desk and appeared to be absorbed in one of the Sunday papers. But after a speculative glance at her back, David moved to close the glass-paned hatch between them.

  “Jane, I have a suggestion to put to you,” he said quietly. “Since you aren’t at all happy in your job here, how would you like to come to London and work for me?”

  “For you? I don’t understand?” she said breathlessly.

  “I need a secretary. Not merely a girl who can type and write shorthand, but someone who has a pleasant way of dealing with people and who can cope with a lot of the work on her own initiative. I don’t know what you earn here, but I can offer you about twelve pounds a week. You could live in one of the business girls’ hostels at first, and then later look around for a place of your own. The hours would be rather erratic, but no worse than here, and I’m sure you’d find the work more interesting. How about it?”

  Jane stared at him, stupefied. “I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, at last. “It sounds wonderful, David—but I couldn’t leave my aunt and uncle, just like that. They need me here. It wouldn’t be right to walk out on them when they’ve done so much for me.”

  “How much do your benefactors pay you?” David asked dryly.

  Jane told him. “But that’s all pocket-money, of course,” she added, seeing his eyebrows go up. “I haven’t any living expenses, remember.”

  “My dear child, it’s not you who owe your relations anything now. I’ve never heard of such fantastic exploitation,” he said angrily. “You must know yourself that they would never get an outsider to work for such a pittance. Great guns, girl, what’s the point of going on martyring yourself when they obviously don’t give a damn for you? Haven’t you any pride? I’m darned sure I wouldn’t let myself become a glorified drudge for people who had no real affection for me.” He took her hands in his. “I know that sounds pretty brutal, but it’s obviously the truth of the matter, Jane. Look, I’m not suggesting that you come with me now. Give your relatives the usual week’s notice, and then pack your bag and start a new life—a life of your own.”

  “But what makes you think I could do this work for you? Why choose me?” she asked, still bewildered by the total unexpectedness of his offer.

  “Because I like you, that’s why. Now here’s my address in town. If you lose it, you can look me up in the phone book. I shall expect to see you in London early next week. If you don’t turn up—well, I shall know you haven’t the grit to seize a good chance. Goodbye, Jane. Be seeing you.”

  And before she could protest that the whole question would have to be discussed much more fully before she could possibly come to a decision, he gave her a light pat on the cheek and walked out of the office. Before Jane could gather her scattered wits, he had picked up his one light grip and pushed through the hotel’s swing doors. When she ran out of the office to call him back, she was just in time to see the big black saloon shoot out of the parking space and turn right towards the main road to London.

  Her aunt had disappeared, but George, the bartender, told her she was to go to the family’s private sitting-room.

  All three Brewsters were waiting for her. When she saw the expressions on their faces. Jane felt like some particularly low criminal who, already convicted, was about to be heavily sentenced.

  “And what was all that about—if we may ask?” Mrs. Brewster began, her tone silky, her eyes hard and suspicious.

  Jane braced herself to meet their concerted outrage. “Mr. Ransome has just offered me a job in London,” she answ
ered mildly.

  “He—what?" Connie Brewster gasped, electrified.

  “I don’t believe it. You’re making it up,” Sylvia exclaimed angrily.

  “No, I’m not. He offered me twelve pounds a week to work as his secretary. He suggested I should give you a week’s notice and travel up to London next Sunday.”

  “Twelve pounds a week! Give notice!” Harold Brewster looked as if he was about to have a fit. “Good God! I’ve never heard of such tomfool rubbish,” he cried violently. “What the devil does the fellow mean by it?”

  Until that instant, Jane had only intended to shock them, to cause a momentary sensation and then agree that such a precipitate new venture was unthinkable. But when her uncle began to snort like a goaded bull, and her aunt and Sylvia glared at her, equally furious, her own temper kindled suddenly.

  “He meant what he said, Uncle Harold. Why is it such rubbish?” she retorted.

  The storm raged for nearly half an hour. They told her she was sly, ungrateful and stupid. They said that David had been pulling her leg, that she wasn’t fitted for such an exacting post, that if she did go to London she might soon find herself in A Very Unpleasant Predicament. They said that, in any case, she couldn’t leave the Crown without their consent, which they had no intention of giving, that, if she did go, they washed their hands of her, that they had never heard of such blatant ingratitude.

  By the time Jane was able to get a word in, she had made up her mind beyond all argument. David had been right. They didn’t care a pin for her personally. It was only her cheapness and usefulness which they were afraid of losing.

  “If you’ve all finished badgering me now, I’d better get back to the desk,” she said, very quietly. “I’m leaving you next Sunday—that’s definite. I’m nineteen and I have a good job to go to; there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’m sorry we have to part on bad terms, but you never really wanted me in the first place. I’m sure you’ll soon find someone to take my place. You’ll have to pay her more, of course, but then you won’t have to put up with her outside working hours as you have me.”

  There was no express service from Starmouth to London on Sundays, but Jane did not mind a protracted journey. It gave her more breathing space between her old life and her new one. She felt as if she were passing over a great chasm. Once she reached the other side there would be no going back. She was not quite sure what she would find there, but she was travelling with high hopes—and no regrets for all she left behind her.

  In her last week at the Crown, the Brewsters had scarcely spoken to her. After the row in their sitting-room following David’s departure, they had not tried to dissuade her from leaving, but had treated her with righteous hostility. Once or twice her aunt had warned her—rather gloatingly, Jane thought—of all the possible ulterior motives which might lie behind David’s offer. And there had been several vituperative outbursts from Sylvia, who seemed to think it was all Jane’s fault that David had not offered her a dazzling future. But, in a way, Jane had been glad of their animosity. Otherwise her courage might have failed her.

  The train drew into the cavernous grey gloom of Liverpool Street Station soon after four, and Jane found a taxi and gave the driver the address on David’s card. She had never been in London before and, full of curiosity, she sat on the edge of the slippery leather seat and looked eagerly out of the window. There was not much traffic about, and the cab sped swiftly through the City, and along the tree-lined Embankment beside the Thames.

  But it was a long way from the station to David’s address, and presently her interest in the passing scene gave place to a bad attack of nerves. What if David had changed his mind or had never really expected her to come? She began to feel rather sick.

  At last the taxi drew up outside a large modern block of flats with a canopied entrance flanked by tubbed evergreens. Jane paid the fare and carried her new chain store suitcase up the steps and through the doors.

  A uniformed porter came out of his lodge in the hall and took her upstairs in a lift. Both the foyer and the upstairs landing were richly carpeted, with mirrors and pictures on the walls, and there were lavish flower arrangements on console tables. The porter carried her case to one of the four doors on the landing, pressed the bell for her, and returned to the lift. Jane drew in a deep, apprehensive breath.

  It was not David who opened the door a moment later, but a small grey-haired woman in a plain navy barathea dress with a white collar and cuffs.

  “Oh, good afternoon,” Jane said uncertainly. “I’ve come to see Mr. Ransome. He does live here, doesn’t he?”

  The woman smiled at her. “Ah, you’ll be Miss Baron from Starmouth. Come in, my dear. I’m Mrs. MacDonald, Mr. David’s housekeeper. Unfortunately he’s out this afternoon, but he’ll be back for supper. He told me to expect you any day now.”

  She led her along a passage and into a large beautiful room which was quite unlike Jane’s conception of a bachelor’s apartment. It was nearly dusk and a crackling log fire cast a warm and welcoming glow on the pine-panelled walls and closely-packed bookshelves.

  “You must be tired after your long journey. I’ll show you the bathroom—trains always make one feel so grubby, I think—and then you can have a nice cup of tea and some of the scones I’ve been baking,” the housekeeper said comfortably, moving across the room to draw tobacco-colored velvet curtains over the wide expanse of glass which looked out on to a paved balcony garden.

  After she had washed in one of the most luxurious bathrooms she had ever seen, Jane returned to the lounge to find Mrs. MacDonald setting a laden tray on a low table beside one of the long four-seater sofas.

  “There now, you sit down by the fire and make a good tea,” the housekeeper said kindly. “You won’t mind if I leave you, I hope, but I’ve some pastry in the oven which needs watching.”

  The peaceful atmosphere of the lovely firelit room, and the delicious scones and sandwiches and savoury puffs which Mrs. MacDonald had set out in enough quantity to feed at least three people, quickly dispelled Jane’s earlier qualms.

  Intending only to relax for a few minutes, she must have fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes, the tea tray had gone, several lamps were alight, and David was sitting opposite her, reading a paper and smoking one of his cheroots.

  “So you came,” he said, smiling, as she sat up and pulled herself together. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Did you have a lot of trouble getting away?”

  “Yes, a bit,” Jane said ruefully.

  But, seeing him again, she knew that her acrimonious parting from the Brewsters was of no importance now that she was here and going to work for the man she loved.

  David told her that he had arranged for her to spend the night with a girl called Heather Stuart who had recently lost her flat-mate.

  “If you like each other, it could be a permanent arrangement,” he said.

  Then Mrs. MacDonald came in to say supper would soon be ready, and Jane discovered that she had slept for more than two hours.

  They ate in front of the fire, and two glasses of claret made Jane feel drowsy again. After his housekeeper had cleared the table and closed the door behind her, David switched off all but one of the lamps, and put some records on the radiogram. Then he came and sat beside her on the sofa.

  “Would you like a liqueur with your coffee?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, thank you, I’m not used to alcohol,” she said shyly.

  “It’s just as well you aren’t. Spirits and cigarettes could spoil that schoolgirl complexion,” he said, smiling. “Look, Jane, I have a confession to make, I’m afraid.”

  “A confession? What do you mean?”

  He crossed his long legs and shifted to face her, resting one arm along the back of the couch so that his hand was behind her shoulders.

  “Well, the truth is that I got you up to London on false pretences,” he said slowly, as if he were choosing his words with some care.

  Jane felt a tremor of
uneasiness run through her. Suddenly she found herself remembering her aunt’s warning’s.

  “I don’t understand,” she said unsteadily.

  A faint smile touched the corners of David’s well shaped mouth.

  “I don’t need a secretary at all. I already have a most efficient one,” he told her. “But I do have a plan for your future. The idea may shock you at first—that’s why I wanted to get you up here before I mentioned it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WHAT kind of plan?”

  Involuntarily, she had shrunk back against the cushioned arm of the sofa, her whole body stiffening with apprehension.

  David’s eyes narrowed, and there was an expression on his lean dark face which she had never seen before. He rose abruptly from the sofa, crossed to a table where there was an open box of cheroots, then swung to face her again.

  “I’m not a thought reader, but it was fairly obvious what was going through your mind just now,” he said, in a caustic tone. “However, there was no need for you to recoil so melodramatically. I have a number of vices—but they don’t include making passes at very gauche little country mice.” He lit his cheroot.

  Jane went crimson. She had never felt so mortified in her life.

  After a moment, David crossed the room again. Tipping up her chin, he looked down into her troubled brown eyes.

  “But you won’t be a country mouse when I’ve finished with you,” he said softly. “You see, you’re going to be what your cousin wanted to be. You’re going to be a model.”

  For a full minute after he had released her chin and sat down again, Jane could only gape at him incredulously.

  “You can’t be serious! I—I’m not even pretty,” she protested.

  “No, you aren’t,” he agreed. “I said as much that afternoon on the dunes. But I know what I’m doing, young Jane. All you have to do is what you’re told. Don’t you want to earn a great deal of money, to realize your dream of seeing the world?”