Never to Love

by Anne Weale

  Tina nodded. “Though I can’t imagine ever being tired of Lyons,” she observed, dreamy-eyed at the thought of living on Welsh rarebit, meringues and chocolate sundaes.

  At this point they reached their stop and Simon had no chance to refute Andrea’s suggestion, although he was plainly anxious to do so. After tea they took the children back to the station, and as soon as the train had pulled out he swung around and said, “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  Andrea raised her eyebrows. “Mean what?” she asked coolly.

  But his half exasperated, half worried expression was too much for her. She began to laugh, and a moment later he was laughing, too.

  In the station yard he hailed a taxi, but it was not until they stopped outside the Odeon in Leicester Square that she realized he was not taking her home.

  As he got out of the cab and turned to assist her, she hesitated and said doubtfully, “I think I ought to go home now. They’ll be expecting me for dinner.”

  “Must you? This will do you far more good than an evening with an improving book. Can’t you call again?” His smile was very persuasive.

  “Well ... oh, yes, I will,” she decided after another moment of uncertainty.

  The film was a hilarious American comedy accompanied by a cartoon feature and a Mediterranean travelogue. They came out into the soft spring twilight, still smiling at the recollection of a particularly crazy piece of slapstick.

  Simon looked about for another taxi, but Andrea said quickly, “Can’t we walk? It’s such a lovely evening.”

  “Have your feet recovered from this afternoon’s marathon?” He glanced down at her neat black shoes.

  “It did me good. I was in danger of losing the use of them,” she said smilingly.

  They strolled toward Piccadilly Circus at a leisurely pace, discussing the merits of British, American and Continental movies.

  “Did you ever consider a screen career?” Simon asked as they turned up Regent Street.

  Andrea laughed and shook her head.

  “No, I’m serious,” he said. “If you’d worked in America you’d have been bound to have several offers. I believe half the women stars are former models or cover girls.”

  “I was never screen-struck,”

  “What were you like in your teens? I can’t picture you as a gawky schoolgirl with grubby hands and a giggle.”

  “I don’t think I had a giggle, but I was certainly gawky,” she said dryly, remembering her painful thinness accentuated by the cheap skinny dresses she had had to wear.

  “What were you like? Rather studious, I imagine, and probably a bit grandiloquent about the rights and wrongs of life.”

  “How did you guess?” His eyes twinkled. “As a matter of fact I started my journalistic career by writing burning articles on social evils, none of which was ever published, of course. I used to paste the rejection slips in a scrapbook and dream of the day when editors would be outbidding each other for my stuff. A golden prospect that is still unrealized, I fear.”

  “There must be quite a few budding journalists who think how marvelous it would be to be you,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps. But far more little girls who imagine themselves following your lead. It’s a pity you weren’t dragged up in some East End tenement. It would make a first-rate Cinderella story.”

  She shot a swift glance at him. “How do you know I wasn’t?” she said.

  He smiled. “It would be possible, I suppose, but extremely unlikely.”

  They had reached the corner of Syon Place and he halted, looking down at her with a quizzical expression.

  “The beautiful Mrs. Justin Templar, who started life as little Annie Scroggins of Shoreditch,” he said slowly. “No, it just doesn’t ring true.”

  She had a momentary impulse to tell him that it was true—although she had at least been spared a name like Annie Scroggins. But instead she said casually, “Why not? Isn’t fact supposed to be stranger than fiction?”

  “So they say.” There was an odd glint in his eyes, but she was not looking at him and his tone did not give him away.

  When they had reached the house, he said, “Look, if you’re not busy tomorrow I wonder if you’d care for a day in the country. I’m calling on some friends in Berkshire. They’re an amusing couple. Guy is a writer and his wife paints. I know they’d like to meet you, and it would do you good to get out of town after your bout of flu.”

  “But I can’t just arrive without an invitation,” she said, although it sounded much more agreeable than going for a solitary drive as she had intended.

  “Of course you can. They’re always having unexpected visitors. Anyway I can call Nina up tonight and ask her to lay an extra place. How about it?”

  “Are you sure they won’t mind?”

  “Certain. That’s settled, then. I’ll call for you about ten,” he said, while she was still hesitating.

  As Simon had promised, Guy and Nina Lacey were an amusing couple, and their gay company, the peacefulness of the country and an excellent lunch did do Andrea good. They spent the afternoon taking the dogs for a walk in the pine woods surrounding the isolated cottage where the Laceys lived. Nina was expecting her first baby in September and was one of those women to whom pregnancy lends a special radiance. As they wandered along the woodland paths, with the men some distance ahead, Andrea thought of the society women she knew to whom the waiting months were a tiresome affliction that interfered with their normal pursuits. But Nina evidently rejoiced in her fertility. It was plain that Guy Lacey shared her eagerness for the birth of their child, and Andrea found herself oddly moved by the glances of tender happiness that she had seen them exchanging from time to time during the day.

  When Simon said it was time for them to return to London, the young couple were obviously sincere in their hope that she would come again.

  “What did you think of her?” Nina asked her husband when the car had gone.

  “I was pleasantly surprised. With a face like that, one might expect her to be pretty dumb.”

  “I wonder what her husband is like? I got an impression that she wasn’t terribly happy,” Nina said thoughtfully.

  “All women can’t be as lucky as you, my love.” He dodged the cushion which she flung at his head. “It’s a good thing we haven’t any neighbors to see how you treat me.”

  Nina made a face at him, but her mind was still with their recently departed guests.

  “Did Simon mention how he got to know her?” she inquired.

  “Through a mutual friend, I gather. Hope he doesn’t burn his fingers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Guy shrugged. “He’s bound to fall for someone eventually, and Mrs. Templar seems to have everything a woman needs to make a man forget he meant to stay fancy-free.”

  “She also has a husband,” Nina observed, a slight frown between her pretty eyebrows.

  “Then he’d be wiser not to leave her on her own while he jaunts off to America,” Guy said dryly.

  “Oh, nonsense. She isn’t the flighty type and you can tell Simon is just a friend to her.”

  “Ah, but what is she to him, my poppet? I agree that it’s only a casual friendship on her part, but I rather fancy that Simon is on the brink of something more complicated. I caught him giving her some very lingering looks today.”

  “Why not? She’s well worth looking at,” said Nina. “All the same, I’m afraid you may be right. I do hope not. I would hate him to be hurt. Anyway, her husband isn’t away for long and then she won’t need anyone to keep her company.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, it doesn’t take long to fall in love. Let’s hope her husband gets back before Simon loses his balance,” Guy replied dryly.

  Meanwhile, the subjects of his discussion were driving back to town in companionable silence. Andrea was thinking about the Laceys and how carefree they seemed in spite of having a rather precarious means of livelihood, and Simon was reflecting, not for the first time, that it wo
uld be pleasant to have a proper home to return to between overseas assignments.

  Guy was close to the mark in his surmise that Simon was in danger of falling in love with Andrea. He did not know it yet, for it was not his habit to analyze his emotions and he had always been at pains to avoid any serious entanglements. In the past his relationships with women had been confined to casual affairs that had petered out by mutual consent after a few weeks. In Simon’s view marriage was incompatible with his present job and would have to wait until he was tired of roving or was offered a tempting executive post. Although he had met several attractive girls since returning to London this time—girls who had made it clear that they found him equally agreeable—he had been disinclined to cultivate any of them. He had also felt a certain dissatisfaction with his service apartment, which was comfortable enough in its way but lacked the welcoming atmosphere of a permanent home. However, he had dismissed both these feelings as passing moods and had certainly never connected them with his friendship with Andrea.

  Simon had always regarded flirtations with married women as courting disaster, and although at first he had concluded that Andrea had married for money, their closer acquaintance inclined him to revise this cynical view. But whatever her motive for marrying Justin Templar, she was not the kind of woman to indulge in covert affairs, of that he was sure.

  When they reached Syon Place, she invited him in for coffee. Hubbard answered the library bell.

  “Mr. Justin telephoned from New York about an hour ago, madam,” he said when Andrea had asked for coffee and sandwiches. “I explained you were spending the day in Berkshire with friends of Mr. Brennan and he asked me to inform you that he would be flying home on Tuesday and expected to arrive about eight o’clock in the evening. He also asked after your health and I said you were quite recovered.”

  “Thank you, Hubbard. Did he say how he was?”

  “I gather he was in a hurry, madam. He was only on the line for a few moments.”

  “I’m sorry I missed him, but it was so pleasant in the country that we were quite reluctant to come back,” Andrea said.

  “If I may say so, madam, I think it has done you good. You look greatly refreshed.’

  When he had gone, Andrea asked Simon to excuse her while she opened some letters that had arrived by the afternoon mail. One was a note from Aunt Laura announcing that she was coming to town the following day and would enjoy lunching with Andrea if she were free.

  She glanced through the rest of the mail, unaware that Simon was watching her face and wondering about her. If she had not married Templar for his money, she must care for him.

  Yet she did not look like a woman in love, or at least not like a woman whose love is returned. Was it possible that Templar did not care for her? Surely no man could be immune to that astounding loveliness, especially when it was allied to so much intelligence and charm. On the other hand, Templar had the reputation of being a hard nut to crack, and perhaps like many big businessmen he was too concerned with high finance to take more than a cursory interest in his wife’s well-being.

  When Simon left the house about an hour later he had made no arrangement to meet Andrea again, but as he drove home he wondered if she would like to go to the ballet the night after next. He had been given two complimentary tickets and it seemed a pity to waste one. Even then he did not see the abyss yawning at his feet.

  As it turned out Andrea could not go the ballet because Aunt Laura had decided to stay in London for a night or two and they had made other plans. But, thinking that the old lady would enjoy meeting him, she suggested that he lunch with them the following day. Afterward Simon bitterly regretted accepting the invitation, for it was during that lunch, when Andrea was laughing at some remark he had made, that in a moment of appalled enlightenment he knew he was head over heels in love with her.

  She did not notice that he was unusually quiet and withdrawn during the rest of the meal, but Aunt Laura had glimpsed the expression in his eyes at the moment of discovery.

  “I like that young man. He should go far,” she said when he had taken his leave. She did not add that she knew his secret and pitied him.

  On the day of Justin’s return to England, Andrea went to see her hairdresser—though such a prosaic term for his creative artistry would have horrified Monsieur Raoul. After the receptionist—a beautiful Chinese girl with lacquered-smooth black hair and a face like an exquisite porcelain mask—had checked the appointment, Andrea was ushered into the changing room where she took off her coat and dress and was enveloped in a voluminous wrap of rose pink nylon. She was then led into a luxurious velvet-curtained cubicle and settled in an adjustable chair.

  A few minutes later the curtains were swept aside and Mr. Raoul made a dramatic entrance.

  For the next hour the cubicle was a hive of activity. Andrea’s hair was combed and cut, washed and pinned, dried and unpinned, brushed and brilliantined—until at last Raoul waved his hands like a magician performing the final rites of a particularly complicated spell and announced that his creation was ready to face the world and set a new fashion.

  During the afternoon she found herself roving about the house as restlessly as a child waiting to go to a party. At last the clock struck seven, which was the time she had set to begin dressing. As she hurried upstairs she was humming the tune of a current hit song, and Hubbard, who was passing through the hall, smiled to himself, sharing her pleasure at Justin’s homecoming.

  When she was ready Andrea inspected herself in the broad mirrors fronting her clothes closet. She had chosen to wear a close-fitting sheath dress of cafe-au-lait jersey wool with light tight sleeves and a wide cowl neckline filled in with ropes of pearls and scarlet beads. Her gloves and bag were made of pale mocha suede and her hat was a crescent of red velvet leaves, each one delicately veined with silver thread.

  With a touch of nostalgia she struck the kind of pose in which she had so often been photographed. It seemed a very long time since she had last stood in the dazzle of the studio lights holding a difficult stance while the photographer fiddled interminably with the camera until her muscles ached to relax.

  Shrugging the thought aside, she picked up her mink jacket and hurried downstairs. The New York flight was due in at half-past eight, and she arrived at the airport with ten minutes to spare. The reception lounge overlooked the runways and in the distance an airplane was taxiing toward the takeoff strip, its wings glinting in the soft evening light.

  To curb her impatience Andrea lighted a cigarette. The hands of the electric clock above the swing doors crept forward with tantalizing slowness.

  At last, over the PA, came the announcement that the transatlantic flight was coming in to land.

  Crushing out the cigarette, Andrea jumped up and went to the window scanning the darkening sky. Someone had once told her that dusk was the time when most road accidents occurred. She wondered if it was equally dangerous to aircraft.

  Suddenly she did not want to watch the moment when the airplane swept down toward the tarmac. Turning her back on the window, she was ashamed of this ridiculous spasm of nerves but unable to control it.

  Then, behind her, a child’s voice cried out excitedly, “Here it comes, mommy.”

  Andrea drew on her gloves and smoothed the fingers carefully into place before looking around. The aircraft was quite close to the building and two men in white overalls were wheeling a mobile staircase up to the door. A few moments later the first passenger stepped down it.

  Justin was among the last to leave. Even in the failing light there was no mistaking his tall figure. He had to bend his head to pass through the doorway. And then, rather surprisedly, Andrea saw him turn and offer his hand to a woman. As they walked toward the airport the woman was still holding onto his arm and they seemed to be talking in an animated manner. Before they were close enough for Andrea to see her face, they had disappeared into the customs hall. It was a few minutes before the first passengers to leave the place came out of the
customs and meanwhile a group of men, who had been waiting in a corner of the lounge, began to bestir themselves. Andrea hadn’t paid much attention to them, but she saw now that three of them had cameras and were evidently photographers waiting to take shots of some celebrity among the arrivals.

  At last, just as she was wondering if he would possibly have left the airport by another exit, Justin appeared—and with him the woman he had escorted from the plane, whom Andrea recognized with some astonishment as one of Hollywood’s most publicized new stars.

  Considerably disconcerted by this turn of events, she stood where she was and watched the newspapermen surround their mink-coated quarry. Then, over their heads, Justin saw her and immediately bade a brief farewell to his companion.

  “I didn’t expect this,” he said as he reached her side. “How are you?”

  “Oh, quite recovered now. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes, very satisfactory—although the flight back has been a little wearing,” he said dryly. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  By the time they had exchanged accounts of their activities they were nearly home. Andrea had expected Justin to be tired, but he seemed in excellent spirits and chatted pleasantly during dinner.

  “You know you really are a very unusual woman,” he said as they went into the library for coffee. “You haven’t asked me what I’ve brought you.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to bring me anything.”

  “Don’t you think you deserve some compensation for having had to stay behind?” he asked smiling.

  “But I had that before you left. This.” She indicated the garnet bracelet on her wrist.

  He eyed her somewhat quizzically for a moment and then said casually. “In that case I’d better give the rest to Madeline. You’re about the same size, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Justin, don’t tease. What have you brought?” she asked eagerly.