If This Is Love

by Anne Weale

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke,” Jane said.

  “Good. It is not a habit which pleases me in women. But you eat and drink, I hope. I am planning to take you to lunch at a very agreeable restaurant where, the cuisine is almost equal to that of my favorite place in Paris. Please, do not tell me that your exquisite figure must be preserved by a regime of lettuce leaves, or that you are one of these extraordinary people called—what is the word?—teetotallers?”

  “No, I have a very good appetite, and I’m not a temperance fanatic,” Jane said, smiling.

  “Excellent. In that case we will sit here for a time and get to know each other, and then we will have a delicious luncheon together. After that perhaps you will be kind enough to help me choose suitable presents for my sister and her children, and then I will take you home to change for the evening. I think we will go to La Ronde—unless you have some other preference?”

  “Aren’t you taking rather a lot for granted, monsieur?” Jane said dryly. “I may already have a date tonight.”

  “You can break it, can’t you? I am only here for a few days this time. We must establish our relationship quickly. No time must be wasted. Naturally, I shall return as soon as possible, but if we are only slightly acquainted you may forget me as soon as I have gone.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘establish our relationship’?” Jane asked cautiously. She liked the Frenchman, and was amused by his extravagant gallantry. But she was conscious of her inexperience, and guessed it would be easy to get out of her depth with him.

  “My dear Miss Baron, as you must very well know, there is only one possible relationship between a man like myself and a girl who is as lovely as you are. Naturally, my aim is to melt your heart—what else?”

  “But my heart may already have melted—for someone else,” Jane said lightly, giving no sign of the sudden pain she felt inside her.

  “You mean you are already involved in a love affair, and it is serious—not merely a casual diversion?” he asked, frowning.

  “I think you and I probably mean different things by the term love affair—but no, I’m not involved with anyone at the moment, either casually or seriously.”

  “I thought not. You do not have the look of someone whose emotions are engaged,” he said knowledgeably.

  “What kind of look?” she asked curiously.

  Yves shrugged and grinned. “There are two looks, if one is to be precise. When a woman is in love and things go well, she shows this in a hundred different ways. She smiles to herself, she is very gay and confident. There is a glow about her. One’s efforts to charm her do not succeed because she is so absorbed by the man whom she loves that all others are merely shadows to her.”

  “And the other look?” Jane queried.

  “Ah, that is when her affections are not returned, when the man is indifferent, or she has a rival. In this event the signs are exactly the opposite. There is a wrinkle here”—he touched Jane’s forehead with a fingertip—“and a little droop here.” Now he touched one corner of her mouth. “She pretends to be very gay, but it is only a facade, you understand. There is no light in her eyes, no élan about her. She responds to other men—but only to make her lover jealous, or to pretend to herself that she does not give a sou for him.”

  “You seem to be quite an expert on women, monsieur,” Jane said dryly.

  “Oh, please, my name is Yves. Won’t you use it—and permit me to call you Jane?”

  “Very well. Are you an expert—Yves?” she persisted, smiling.

  “I would not call myself an expert—no man can boast that he understands all the mysteries of the feminine character—but I am not unacquainted with your sex,” he said, with a twinkle.

  Expressing a thought which had not occurred to her before, she said bluntly, “Are you married?”

  “No, certainly not?” he replied at once. “I shall marry eventually, of course—one must have sons to carry on one’s name and heritage. And the time does come, unfortunately, when one’s energies begin to flag a little. But for the present I prefer to enjoy my freedom. Surely you cannot yet be thinking of committing yourself to all the tiresome restrictions of matrimony, my dear Jane? You English girls have so much more licence than the daughters of good French families. Don’t tell me you want to settle down and become a wife and mother already? How old are you?”

  “I’m nineteen. No, I’m not thinking of marrying yet. I’ve only just won my freedom,” she said.

  Or have I, now that David has started treating me like some kind of bondmaid? she thought wryly.

  “Ah, yes, I suppose you have only recently escaped from all the rules and regulations of your finishing school,” Yves said sympathetically.

  Jane blinked at him. “Good heavens, I’m not a millionaire’s daughter, Yves. I’m new to fashion modelling, but I’ve been working for nearly three years. My parents are dead, but even if they were alive I should still have to earn a living. I’m not a debutante picking up some extra pin money.”

  He frowned slightly. “I do not understand. You said that you had only recently become free.”

  “Well, the job I had before I came to London was one I never liked very much, and I lived with some relations but didn’t get on with them too well. Now I share a flat with another girl and life is generally brighter. What about you? What do you do?”

  “I enjoy life,” he said, with a smile. “Are you hungry? Shall we lunch now? I booked a table in the hope that you would be free to join me. This restaurant has a high reputation, so one cannot rely on getting in without a reservation.”

  “But you must do something else besides enjoying life,” she said, after he had started the car. “I mean what work do you do?”

  “I do not work. I have a sufficiently large income to be able to devote myself entirely to the pursuit of pleasure,” he said carelessly.

  “But isn’t that terribly dull?”

  “How can pleasure be dull?” he said perplexedly.

  “I should have thought nothing but pleasure would have become boring after a time. Surely one must have some serious interest in life?”

  “But I have many such interests,” he said swiftly. “My racing stable and my yacht are of most serious interest to me.”

  After lunch they went to Fortnum & Mason where Yves asked Jane to choose a cashmere sweater for his sister, and then to the Burlington Arcade where he bought a toy tea service—made of hand-painted eggshell porcelain—for his two little nieces.

  Unlike most Englishmen, he seemed to enjoy window-shopping, and as they strolled up Bond Street, he pointed out several coats and dresses which he thought would suit Jane. Outside one shop, he had quite an argument because she would not let him take her inside to try on a dashing black sombrero which he wanted to buy for her.

  It was after four when he drove her home.

  A few minutes after Jane’s return to the flat, a messenger from the Knightsbridge boutique delivered a large dress box. In it were some of the other clothes which David had chosen the previous day, including a simple black chiffon sheath. Jane had meant to ask Heather if she could borrow something, but now she had the perfect dress for her evening with Yves. She tried it on again, then hung it up and went to take a leisurely bath.

  Heather was late home that evening and Jane was already dressed when she heard the other girl coming up the stairs and hurried to open the door for her.

  “I say! That’s a smooth little number.” Heather dumped her shopping on the table, looked Jane over more thoroughly, and gave a long low whistle. “You need a whacking great clip somewhere—probably at the waist. Hang on a minute. I’ve got the perfect piece of dazzle in my loot box. I’ll go and find it,” she offered.

  She came back a few moments later with a large and glittering sunburst of topaz-gold stones. “How about this? It’s a Dior I was given last Christmas.”

  “It’s gorgeous—but suppose I lose it,” Jane said doubtfully.

  “You can’t—the pin has a safety lock. Do w
ear it. It looks marvellous on black. Much more subtle than the usual rhinestones. Where’s David taking you?”

  “I’m going to La Ronde. Heather, have you ever heard of a Frenchman called Yves St. Cyr?” Jane asked swiftly.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “I haven’t. What do you know about him.

  “Mainly what I’ve read in the gossip columns. He’s one of those international playboy characters—spends his winters at St. Moritz and his summers on the Riviera. Between seasons he philanders around in Rome or New York or Para, wherever his fancy leads him. Why do you ask?” Heather enquired.

  “I met him when I was with David yesterday.

  “Oh, yes, David took some pictures at the Chateau St. Cyr last spring. I believe Yves made terrific passes at the models. They probably loved it—but David didn’t. You know what Englishmen are. They can be the worst wolves around, but if a foreigner starts prowling...” She gave an expressive shrug.

  “I’m dining with Yves tonight,” Jane said briefly.

  “You’re what! You can’t be serious.” Heather looked astounded.

  Jane glanced at the clock. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

  “But, Jane, you can’t!” Heather protested. “Why not?”

  “Because David would be furious, absolutely livid.”

  “David doesn’t own me. It has nothing to do with him. As a matter of fact I had lunch with Yves. I like him.”

  Heather seemed lost for words. “Well, I suppose I can’t stop you,” she said, at last. “But I think you must be crazy, I do honestly. If David finds out, he’ll go berserk. And apart from that, how do you know you can cope with him ... Yves, I mean? Supposing he suddenly pounces?”

  “I’ll just have to risk that, won’t I? Don’t fuss, Heather I’m not completely green, you know. Anyway, I don’t think Yves is the pouncing type. He’s much too civilized. Oh, that sounds like him now.” Jane ran to the window and looked down into the street. “Yes, it is,” she confirmed. “I’ll run down and meet him in the hall. ‘Bye, Heather. Don’t flap. I’ll come back unscathed,” she promised mischievously. And slipping into the black silk mandarin coat which David had also bought for her, she picked up her little beaded purse and hurried out of the flat.

  Two hours later, holding Jane close, Yves said softly, “Do you know you are the most beautiful girl here? All the other men are watching you, and wishing they were me.”

  “I doubt it,” she said dryly. “The girls may be wishing they were me,” she added, with a moue of distaste. During dinner she had noticed that almost all the other girls were with men who were old enough to be their fathers, if not their grandfathers. The few young men present were vapid-looking long-haired types with loud drawling voices and blasé manners.

  Now, shuffling round the floor in Yves’s arms—there wasn’t room to dance properly—she wished suddenly that she had not come here.

  She had expected to enjoy herself, but instead she felt depressed and disillusioned. It was so crowded and stuffy and noisy. Even the champagne Yves had ordered had been a letdown. It tasted like weak cider, she thought, and it hadn’t made her feel gay and exhilarated, but only made her thirsty for a long drink of ordinary orange squash and tap water. Everywhere she looked there was some awful old man puffing at a cigar and fondling a girl’s arm, so that, even though she was with Yves, she felt oddly cheapened just by being there. She was glad when, shortly before midnight, he suggested taking her home.

  “Oh, how lovely to breathe fresh air again,” she exclaimed, when they were out in the street once more. “Can we walk part of the way?”

  “Certainly, if you wish—but won’t you spoil those pretty shoes? It has been raining.”

  “Yes, I suppose I might,” Jane agreed. “And anyway, I ought not to be out too late or I shall look a hag tomorrow.”

  The doorman hailed a cruising taxi and Yves helped her into it.

  “I’m afraid this evening has not been a success,” he said presently, reaching for her hand.

  Jane controlled an urge to free her hand and edge away from him.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been dull company, Yves. I don’t think I’m the night club type,” she said awkwardly.

  “It is I who should apologize. I should have thought of somewhere more amusing for us to go. I will do better next time.” To her surprise he replaced her hand on her lap and lit a cigarette. As his lighter flared, she saw that he was smiling to himself.

  When the taxi stopped, he sprang out and handed her down. But he did not pay the cab off, and after unlocking the main door and returning her latch-key, he said briskly, “Unfortunately I am engaged tomorrow, but perhaps I may telephone the next day?”

  “Of course. Thank you very much for today, Yves.”

  She held out her hand, expecting him to raise it to his lips. But instead he gave it a brief firm shake. The light was still on in the sitting-room when she let herself quietly into the flat. Surprised Heather had said she was going to have an early night—Jane opened the sitting-room door and said, “Still up? I thought you were going to bed early?”

  But it was not Heather who rose from the armchair beyond the fire. It was David.

  “Oh, what are you doing here? Where’s Heather? Is anything wrong?” Jane asked nervously.

  “Heather went to bed two hours ago. Close the door, will you, or our voices may disturb her,” David said quietly.

  Neither his tone nor his expression suggested that he was angry, yet as she did as he told her Jane felt a cowardly impulse to dash across the hall and lock herself in her room.

  “Sit down.” David indicated the chair on the other side of the fire, and remained on his feet until she was seated. “Well?” he said mildly.

  “W-well what?” Already her voice had a quiver in it.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Her mouth felt dry. “I don’t understand,” she said huskily.

  His tone still pleasant, David said, “Yesterday I told you that Yves St. Cyr was an unsuitable person for you to know. This afternoon I saw you with him in Curzon Street. I gather you’ve been out with him again tonight. That calls for some explanation, don’t you think?”

  Jane braced herself. “Does it? I don’t see why,” she answered hardily. “I’m not a child, you know. I’m old enough to make my own judgments about people. I like Yves. Why shouldn’t I go out with him? Because you say so?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Exactly—because I say so.” There was a note of steel in his voice now. “It’s half past twelve. By the time you get to bed it will be one o’clock. I want you at my studio sharp at nine ... so you’ll have only six hours in bed before it’s time to get up again. What do you think you’re going to look like tomorrow? Fresh? Full of life?”

  She flinched from his sudden whiplash sarcasm. “One late night won’t wreck me,” she said woodenly.

  “That’s not the point,” he told her icily. As long as I’m sponsoring your career, you will do what I tell you—without question. If you don’t, the deal is off. You can either go back to Starmouth, or try to carry on under your own steam. But I warn you now that racketing around the night spots with types like St. Cyr will wreck your career before it’s begun. Now go to bed and think it over. Either you do as I say ... or I’ve no further use for you. Goodnight.”

  A few minutes after he had gone, Heather came into the room. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was in rollers under a tulle turban.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Jane, but David forced me to tell him who you were with. Was he livid?” she asked anxiously.

  Jane blinked away the hot tears that were stinging her eyelids.

  “Yes,” she said unsteadily. "But it wasn’t your fault, Heather.”

  “Well, don’t let it get you down. David can be devilish when he’s angry, but his bark is much worse than his bite. He’ll probably be as nice as pie to you tomorrow,” the older girl said comfortingly.

  Nevertheless Jane’s nerv
es were taut when, with Heather, she arrived at the studio the following morning.

  “Oh, he’s here already,” said Heather, finding the outer door unlocked. She led the way into a small but well-appointed reception office. Then, indicating one of the three doors leading off it, she said, “In you go. He can’t eat you.”

  The studio was a large room with a dais at one end, and a heterogeneous assortment of props at the other. Jane noticed a spinning wheel, a Thonet rocking chair, a Venetian blackamoor and a pair of water skis. Cables and flexes snaked all over the floor from various types of photographic lamps, and there was a long batten of lights suspended from the ceiling.

  As she stood there, looking about her, David came out of an adjoining darkroom and closed the door behind him.

  “Good morning,” he said briskly, rolling down his shirt sleeves and fastening the cuff-links.

  “Good morning.” Jane watched him walk across to a large desk in one corner and search through several drawers. When he found the file he wanted, he sat down in, the swivel chair and reached for a cigarette box.

  Jane moistened her lips and approached the front of the desk. “David, I’m sorry,” she said humbly. “I—I was very rude to you last night. It won’t happen again, I promise. If you’ll give me another chance, I’ll do exactly as you say.” For a moment she thought he was going to ignore her apology, and a chagrined flush crept up from her throat. Then he put the file aside, leaned back in his chair and looked at her. After nearly half a minute of his cool critical appraisal Jane’s cheeks were burning. But she managed to meet his eyes.

  “Very well,” he said, at last. “We’ll forget it happened. Now sit down and relax and I’ll explain the drill from here on.”

  At this point two boys of about the same age as Jane came into the studio. David introduced them as Pete and Sam, his assistants. After they had said hello to her, Sam disappeared into the darkroom, and David told Pete to set up some screens on the dais.

  “This morning I’m going to take some specimen photographs of you, and then we’ll go round and see your agent,” David explained to Jane, when he had sat down again. “You see normally when a novice finishes her training course, she has to get a model agency to put her on their books and then she treks round all the studios leaving specimen photographs with them. Often it’s weeks or months before she gets her first break. In general, most photographers aren’t too keen to use a raw beginner—unless she’s an obvious knock-out. However, you’ll by-pass all the usual setbacks, because I’m going to use you for a job for one of the glossies this afternoon. When the pictures appear, you’ll have bookings from all over the place.”