Moonrise Over the Mountains

by Lilian Peake

  There was strain, there was tension sitting beside Ewan Pascall. Gayle resolutely refused to yield to the enticing softness of the car’s upholstery. She closed her ears to the smoothness of the purring engine, her eyes to the opulence of the interior—and her mind to the dominating presence of the driver.

  It was not only hunger that made her feel oddly drained, nor was it due to the fact that prior to Ewan’s calling for her she had rushed about getting her father a meal. The weakness in her legs, she told herself firmly, was fatigue after a hard day’s work. But try as she might she could not rationalise away the exaggerated pumping of her heart and the confusion of her thoughts. Intimidated, that was how she felt—by the self-assurance of the man, his distinguished appearance, his relaxed, almost amused attitude towards the girl who was mentally—if not physically—shaking beside him.

  “What’s the matter?” His quick, cynical glance made her flinch like a careless finger being flicked against her cheek. “Scared?”

  She wanted to bluff and say, ‘Of course not’, but the “Yes” came out of its own accord. Then she laughed, trying to pretend she hadn’t meant it.

  “Of my car? My driving? Of the ordeal of dining in style or,” softly, “of your host?”

  “Yes to all of them,” she answered, attempting to pass it off as a joke.

  “I don’t eat young women,” he commented, smiling. “I only enjoy their—company.” He gave her a swift, mocking glance. “It depends on the, shall we say, broadmindedness of the young woman. She sets the limits, I respect those limits. Does that set your mind at rest?”

  She smiled with him. “To a certain extent, Mr. Pascall. After all, you are an engaged man.”

  He did not reply but concentrated instead on negotiating the traffic hazards. Soon he commented, “We’re nearly there.” He turned down a side street and parked the car. The engine was silenced, the car was still. He turned towards her and rested his arm along the back of her seat. She felt the movement of his hand as it lifted her hair out of the way.

  “Now,” he said, “what is our relationship to be this evening? Do we dine as boss and employee, as expert adviser to inexperienced, newly-appointed but up-and-coming young buyer? As friends or,” a pause, “as man to woman? I’ll let you choose.”

  “Do you,” she tried to evade the issue, “ask all your guests such questions?”

  “No.” His eyes took a detailed inventory of her features, “but not all of them are young, attractive and—vulnerable.”

  She coloured deeply and her embarrassment seemed to amuse him. “Don’t be silly,” she responded edgily, “I’m not attractive.”

  He laughed. “I contradict that statement. My eyes tell me that you are.”

  He was, of course, her host, so he was being suitably gallant. “And by the way,” with a smile, “an employee doesn’t usually tell her employer that he’s ‘silly’.”

  “I apologise.” She said angrily, “And now you’ve established our relationship for the evening—boss and servant.”

  He seemed to be enjoying their conversation. “Boss and servant it is. As my ‘servant’,” his eyes laughed at her, “you must obey my orders. Would you kindly get out of my car so that I can lock it?”

  With a jerky, irritable movement she complied. As she waited, she looked about her and the facade of the hotel loomed large and white in the gathering darkness.

  Ewan cupped Gayle’s elbow—it was the action of a man accustomed to escorting women in to dinner—and led her towards the entrance. The doorkeeper saluted and called Ewan, “Mr. Pascall, sir.” Glad to see him again, he said, and glad, of course, to welcome his lady guest.

  Ewan took the adulation as a matter of course, dismissing it with brief but polite nod. Either he disliked people of the rank of doorkeeper, or he disliked sycophancy. If the former, Gayle felt she could not forgive him. If the latter, she could not fault him. She hoped it was the first, because she knew that she must not under any circumstances even begin to like this man.

  Not only was he engaged to be married, and to a woman whose beauty was known all over the world; he was also arrogant, autocratic—and dangerous. His charm was dangerous, his good looks, his physique, his power, both of body and mind were dangerous and as such, a threat to the peace of any woman, of whatever age or status, and regardless of whether or not she wore another man’s ring.

  The head waiter’s respect and veneration echoed that of the doorkeeper. “Mr. Pascall,” the man said, with a slight bow, “you wish to have a quiet table for yourself and your lady?”

  “Please.” One word, but it was enough to send the head waiter in front of them, leading them to a secluded alcove screened by white, flower-entwined trellis work which acted as a barrier to prying eyes.

  The lights were low, the talk subdued. Candles on the tables illuminated the faces of the diners, playing over their features and hiding more than they revealed.

  Ewan, opposite Gayle, picked up the menu and opened it, but he gazed over the top of it at his guest. In the restless flicker of the candles he must have seen more than she intended. She reproached herself for not having learned to make her features blank.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked. “Aren’t you comfortable? Is it too secluded? Does the candlelight displease you?”

  “It’s not that at all,” she said hurriedly. Oh, dear, she thought, now I’ve implied that something is wrong. He did not miss the hidden implication.

  He put down the menu and said with a half smile, “Ah, now I know. The inherited inferiority complex, the self-effacement and inbuilt under-evaluation of yourself, passed down from your equally self-effacing father. The atmosphere, the grandeur, it intimidates and even perhaps angers you. Am I right?”

  She dropped her eyes, fiddling with the shining cutlery. “I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Pascall.” He seemed to be waiting for more and as her host she supposed he deserved an explanation. Her eyes almost pleaded with him to understand. “My father and I live so simply. We’ve never questioned it, just accepted that we moved in—compared with you—ordinary, everyday social circles...” She looked away. “I’m making a mess of it. And I sound ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

  He said softly, “You’ll have to change, Gayle.” His use of her first name had her heart jerking. “Now you’re a buyer, you’ll be mixing with many different kinds. You’ll often feel out of your depth. Unlike you, most of them are hard-headed types. But you mustn’t go under. You’ll have to surface amongst those crowds of buyers and designers and fashion models and journalists and find your own level and your own place when you’re mixing with them.”

  Unconvinced, still uncertain, Gayle met his gaze over the golden, fluctuating glow. But because he was so tall his eyes were in shadow, and she wished she could seize a candle, lifting it high so as to read in his eyes the words he did not speak.

  The waiter approached, breaking the spell. Ewan, after consulting with Gayle, gave the order. When the waiter had gone, he went on as if they had not been interrupted, “You will have to make trips abroad. Don’t look so terrified! Some chain store buyers travel all over the world looking for ideas. They go to fashion shows in France and Italy. They see at first hand the trends, the shapes, the designs they will be displaying in their shops in the coming season.”

  “But—how can I travel, Mr. Pascall? Who would look after my father while I was away?”

  “Couldn’t he look after himself?”

  “He wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Isn’t there a neighbour? It would only be for a few days at a time.”

  “There’s Rhoda, next door. She’s Mel’s mother.”

  “Mel?”

  “Melvin Booker, my—my boy-friend.”

  There was a pause then. “I see, the boy—next-door routine. You’re going to marry him?”

  “I—I—” Why the hesitation? she asked herself. Of course she was going to marry Mel. But even so she could not bring herself to answer positively. “I—I think s
o. We have a sort of—understanding.” She looked up quickly. “But it won’t be for some time yet. He’s studying for better qualifications. There are a number of exams for him to pass first. Why did you ask?”

  He shrugged and said, his voice oddly curt, “I just wondered how long we would keep you. We have to harden ourselves to a quick turnover in buyers. They come and go. Some—not many, because the average age is a great deal higher than yours—marry. Some are dismissed because their performance simply isn’t good enough. It’s a job that’s well paid and carries a lot of status, but it’s exhausting and demanding. Standards are high. If a buyer falls short of those standards, if he—or she—makes a wrong forecasting, even if the cause may be factors outside their control, they’re out.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Oh.” She caught at her lip with her teeth.

  “So now you know.”

  She looked up, expecting to meet his smile, but he was deadly serious. A chill ran through her and involuntarily she shivered. He saw it but made no comment.

  “I wish,” she said, when the waiter had come and gone, leaving their first course, “you hadn’t pushed me into the job. I’ll never rise to your high standards, Mr. Pascall. It’s just not in me.”

  “For crying out loud!” he muttered. “I know it’s in you, girl. Let it out, that’s all, just let it come out.”

  They ate in silence for some time. The next course arrived and Ewan said, “You wanted to ask me something, Gayle?”

  ‘Gayle’. Her heart leaped again. How could she frame her request? She plunged in at the deep end. “I’d—I’d like your permission to—well, to adjust store policy.” His raised eyebrows daunted her. The water into which she had flung herself was cold. “You may remember that I mentioned to you that the clothes stocked by the dress department were on the expensive side. Sales aren’t very good at the moment, I’m afraid.” She surfaced, gasping for air.

  The answer came coldly. “It’s your job to see that they are.”

  “I know, Mr. Pascall, so,” she trod water, “I had an idea.”

  She turned on a scintillating smile. “If I were to buy some cheaper dresses,” he had already begun to shake his head, but she ploughed on, “feature them so as to encourage new customers into the dress department and push up my sales that way—”

  ”No!”

  She floundered and went under.

  “Cheap goods are against store policy. I thought I told you that?” He was angry, there was no doubt about it.

  Miserably Gayle nodded.

  “The management have no intention of allowing Pascall and Son to lose their coveted name for quality just because an inexperienced young buyer wants to increase her sales and her profits and, in that misguided way, try to justify her reason for existence. So, I’m sorry,” the swift, sideways movement of his hand emphasised his point, “no cheap dresses. Such an idea would catch on and other departments would be clamouring to follow your example. Before we knew where we were, the store’s image would have sunk so low the customers would be grumbling and complaining. They would talk about the old days, when you could be sure of getting something at Pascalls which was above average quality and good value for their money. Then they would go elsewhere.”

  “But, Mr. Pascall—” There was a pleading urgency in her eyes.

  “You must listen to me, Gayle.” The waiter interrupted, bringing coffee. Ewan went on, “I said you would learn your job even if I had to teach you, so teach you I will. I’ve talked to sales reps, to manufacturers, to designers. The trend today is veering from ‘throw-away’ clothes. There are shortages of so many basic materials, shortages that will go on for some years, that people are beginning to demand clothes that will last. They want the classic line, good quality cloth, styles that are well cut and elegant and designs that will look good for some time to come.

  “And there’s something else you must bear in mind.” He drank some coffee, swallowing it down, while Gayle sipped hers, listening bleakly to his advice, accepting it as the truth with one part of her mind, but with the other resenting and rejecting it fiercely.

  “There’s little point these days,” he continued to press his point, “in stocking clothes without ‘labels’, established names that people recognise and ask for. So you can abandon your questionable idea of grouping your stock under prices, and return them to racks bearing their brand names.”

  “But, Mr. Pascall,” she urged, unwilling still to concede victory, “if I don’t do something drastic like stocking cheaper lines, my sales won’t improve, and if they don’t I shall be blamed and I’ll be out. You said so yourself.”

  He sighed, pushing away his empty cup. “Look, Gayle, you’re new. You’ve got a long hard road to travel. Eventually your takings will start improving, our profits will rise. If Carla could do it, so can you.”

  But, Gayle thought, finishing her coffee, Carla had her special customers. Her turnover wasn’t so large as it seemed. It was just that the dresses she sold brought in a lot of money. But before she could give voice to her thoughts, Ewan spoke.

  “Heaven knows,” he was saying, “Carla’s a beautiful woman, breathtakingly so. Physically, no one could ask for more. But when it comes to mental ability—well,” he shrugged and smiled, “you can’t have everything. You may pretend to play dumb—largely, I suspect, because it suits you to do so. It gets you out of taking responsibility—” she shook her head, but he rested his hand over hers, “I can read you like a book.” She coloured indignantly and he laughed. “I have your father as an example. But intelligence-wise, you beat your beautiful but dumb predecessor to the post.”

  Gayle withdrew her hand. “So you won’t let me—”

  ”No cheap dresses. And that’s final.”

  Ewan took her home. “Is your father in?” he asked as he drew up outside.

  Surely he was not expecting an invitation? “Yes, but,” she looked at her watch with what she hoped was a convincing gesture, “he often goes to bed early.”

  Ewan nodded as though he understood. “Goodnight, Gayle.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Pascall. Thank you for the meal.”

  They looked at each other and in the light of the street lamp his eyes seemed probing and—expectant? What did he want, a ‘thank you’ kiss? If he had taken one she would not have resisted. How could she when he was the boss? But would that have been the only reason? Would she have wanted to refuse? She closed her eyes, imagining those arms reaching out, those lips compelling hers to respond ... Panicking, her eyes flew open and inexplicably his were cold. Did he think she was steeling herself for his embrace?

  Her hand gripped the release catch, pushing at the door. Her legs swung out, the rest of her followed. She could not get away fast enough. She thanked him again and turned and made for the front door, opening it and shutting herself in without once turning round to see if he had gone.

  On the day of Gayle’s mini-sale, the manager of the receiving room rang through to her office.

  “There’s been a delivery for your department. Could you remove it, Miss Stuart? It’s taking up valuable space. Spring and summer stuff from the look of it. Should be on the racks by now, you know.”

  His dictatorial tone irritated her. Someone else trying to teach her her job! “I know, Mr. Fernley, but my racks are so full of old stock there’s no room down here.”

  “Bad management, that. Should have cleared the old stuff by now. Miss Grierson never let her stock gather dust. Chance of it being damaged. The staff up here are not exactly known for their careful handling of delicate goods.”

  “I’ll get the stock cleared as soon as I can, Mr. Fernley. My sale’s just started today. There should be room in a day or so.”

  “Best of British luck,” he said. “Having a sale outside traditional sale time’s no picnic.” He rang off.

  All the same, the marked-down dresses in the window brought in a steady stream of interested customers. They we
re not the usual kind. Gayle could see by the way they were dressed that they had less money in their pockets.

  If only, she thought, I could keep their interest, stock some cheaper styles ... As she watched the woman reaching into the racks and feeling hopefully for the price tags, she thought, Dare I do it? Go against this stupid store policy and buy a less expensive line?

  It took three days to empty the racks of most of the old stock. Profits were down on what they should have been, of course, because prices had been slashed to half, but most of the dresses had been sold, leaving space for the spring and summer styles.

  Mr. Fernley’s receiving room was relieved of its burden of unwanted stock and the racks in the dress department were filled again with more seasonal garments. The assistant who had been allocated to help Mrs. Carrington made her appearance. Her name was June Warner and she was young, lively and helpful.

  In Gayle’s office there was a growing pile of invitations to fashion shows and newly-opened boutiques. Some of the invitations were from designers abroad and these she slipped to the bottom of the pile. Not only did her domestic situation make such visits impossible, the thought of venturing to other countries alone, places which were mere names on a map, frightened her. So she pretended they were not there.

  The sale of the marked-down winter stock was over. The less affluent clientele had disappeared. The department was quiet again. Now and then, Carla’s customers—friends and others whose patronage she had nurtured by her specialist attention to their needs— would come in and ask to see the new buyer.

  When Gayle emerged from the office, an encouraging smile on her face, her clothes simple and businesslike, those customers would run a critical eye over her, ask a question or two and go on their way. It seemed that they sensed this quiet, rather retiring young woman would not give them the service they required. They wanted none of the stock on display.

  Their needs were like Mrs. Pascall’s, satisfied only via discussions on the telephone, long-distance calls to the Continent, lengthy conversations with friends and contacts in the fashion game. Carla Grierson had gone, their expressions said, so they would go, too.