by Lilian Peake
She mumbled an apology, hating for a moment the man who had made her do so.
He let her go. “Your father knows you. ‘Your fighting spirit’, he said, was so active that once it was aroused it was advisable for the one who had aroused it to take cover. But I didn’t take cover, Miss Stuart,” his voice took on a hissing quality and his face came close to hers. “I turned and challenged you—and won.” He moved away, hands in pocket?. “So now I know. In the future, whenever you get pert and start putting on airs, I’ll know how to deal with you. Be warned!”
He smiled and moved towards her. She backed away, but he only handed her back her glass. The door bell pealed. It was answered by the housekeeper and Ewan went into the hall to greet his guest.
“Ewan, my dear!” Mrs. Pascall’s affected voice in the hall filled Gayle with dismay.
“What do you want, Mother?” Ewan’s voice was sharp.
“A chat, dear, someone to talk to. I’m bored with my own company—oh!” Mrs. Pascall appeared in the doorway. “Miss Stuart.” The woman, startled, hesitant, then belligerent—all three expressions registered on her face—entered the room. The occupant, her features said, was an intruder and as unpleasant and unfitted to be found in her son’s aristocratic residence as a pair of soiled shoes in a lingerie drawer.
“Ewan,” she turned to him, “if I’d known...”
“Make yourself at home, Mother.” The tone was indifferent. “I’m taking Gayle to look at the gardens.”
“Gayle?” A frown was in the word.
“Gayle,” her son replied firmly. He extended his hand, waiting for his guest to put hers into it. That guest was now torn between so many passions, emotions and peculiar physiological manifestations—unsteadiness in her legs, a palpitating heart, a difficulty in breathing and a fierce, engulfing anger at her hoist’s mother’s superciliousness—she had no choice but to put her hand into the outstretched one, if only to gain its support in her shaky state.
Mrs. Pascall watched their progress from the room with as much joy as she had shown when the ill-fated model gown Carla had acquired for her had been presented to her with a great shrivelling stain splashed across its front. And if she had dared, she would have ranted about her son’s and his guest’s apparent togetherness as much as she had raged about the ruined dress.
“Your mother,” Gayle faltered as Ewan led her through the French windows on to the patio, “doesn’t like me.”
“I’m not blind,” Ewan said tersely.
There was silence for a while as they wandered past flower beds filled with sweet-smelling blossoms, through the rose gardens and up stone steps with wisteria clustering around each column of the balustrade. Ewan still held Gayle’s hand.
“Do you own all this?” Gayle asked with a sweep of her arm.
“All mine.”
“Don’t you ever feel—well, lonely? I mean, don’t you sometimes want to share—” She was cut off by his mocking smile.
“You wouldn’t be offering your—company?”
“I meant,” she said fiercely, “your fiancée.”
He smiled at her anger. “Yes,” he said, swinging her hand and gazing along the avenue of trees through which they were walking. “I feel lonely occasionally. I’m not a hermit by nature.”
“Then why don’t you get married?”
This time the look he gave her told her distinctly that it was his business, not hers, whether or not he retained his bachelor state.
“Let me turn the tables and question you. When are you getting married? Surely there’s little to stop you? You would have a choice of two houses to share—your future mother-in-law’s or your father’s?”
“Mel won’t marry until his exams are behind him and he’s got the offer of a good job which, as he says, could be anywhere in Britain. It would be stupid to settle into a place—even if it’s a couple of rooms—only to move again in a few months. So we’re waiting.”
“And you don’t find it a strain?”
“No,” with a frown, “why should I?”
“From a man’s point of view, I could think of one very good reason.” He stopped, stood in front of her and tipped her face. “Shall I demonstrate?”
She shook her head free. “Don’t be silly!”
“As I’ve said before, a wise employee doesn’t call her boss silly.”
“A wise boss doesn’t keep kissing said employee,” she commented with a smile, “especially an engaged one. She might misconstrue his meaning.”
“What’s a kiss?” he asked carelessly, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “A coming together of lips, a giving and taking of warmth and pleasure between two willing parties. You must have carried out the action many times with your boy-friend?” He was mocking her and angering her. She snatched her hand from his.
“It’s a great deal more than that and you know it!” she burst out. “I’m not like you. I can’t take love as lightly—”
”Love?” He stopped and made her face him. He was frowning. “Who’s talking about love?”
She bit her lip. How could she have allowed her tongue to run away with her, revealing to him—what? How much had he learned from her outburst?
In the house the phone rang. Ewan walked towards the french windows, leaving her to follow. His mind was on the caller. Gayle thought disconsolately, ‘He’s forgotten me entirely.’
“Anastasia Pascall speaking,” they heard Mrs. Pascall say. “Who’s that? Carla? Oh, my dear girl, how delightful to hear from you! Where are you now? Geneva? How you do get around! Oh, Carla, you don’t know how I miss you!”
As they passed through the french windows into the house, Ewan motioned to Gayle to sit down somewhere, anywhere ... His thoughts were in the hall, with his fiancée in Switzerland. Gayle Stuart had ceased to exist. He looked thoughtful, worried, even. No doubt he was wondering how long his mother would monopolise the girl he loved...
“I wish you were back at the store, Carla dear. You know my tastes, my little whims and fancies. How you used to go out of your way to please me! It’s no good now, Carla.” She lowered her voice, probably thinking she could not be heard. “That girl Ewan’s got in your place, she’s useless. I don’t know how long Ewan intends putting up with her—”
”Mother!” In a few strides Ewan was beside his mother. “Let me speak to Carla, please.”
Of course, dear.” To Carla, “Your beloved is longing to speak to you, Carla. In fact, he’s taking the phone from my hand ... Goodbye, my dear. Come home soon, then we can have that wonderful wedding we’re all waiting for. I don’t know why you had to go away...” Mrs. Pascall s voice tailed off as her son took the conversation over. “Carla?” His tone was low and intimate.
Gayle, standing at the french windows which were still flung wide, looked out at the mid-May evening. Although the setting sun had not yet loosened its hold, and was still gilding the foliage and flowers and shedding a glow across the sky, the dullness in her eyes brought premature dusk to the surrounding scene.
Not even the final desperate fling of the sun to assert its authority could touch Gayle’s heart with the warmth which still suffused the air. She drew in her shoulders and pressed her elbows to her sides, moving her feet in an unconscious imitation of someone braving a freezing winter’s day.
The impression of Ewan’s lips still lingered on her own. But those lips were now speaking softly, tenderly to the woman he loved. She must have made a joke because he laughed.
“Am I alone?” he said. “No, my mother’s here. Another woman? How did you guess?” He was teasing her to make her jealous. “Remember Gayle Stuart, the girl who took your place? Yes, she, no more, no less. I brought her here for a—business talk. Another name for it?” He laughed. “Do I always associate in private with all my female buyers? No, only the selected few. The lucky ones? That’s a question you’ll have to ask them. Yes, darling, it’s part of my technique. Anyway, sweetie, there’s no need for you to worry, is there?”
Of course no
t, Gayle thought miserably, wandering round the room, staring unseeingly at the titles of the books. She’s wearing his ring, isn’t she? When she returns, they’ll be married and his mother will have that wonderful wedding everyone is waiting for.
“Where are you now?” she heard Ewan ask. “Geneva? Tomorrow Montreux? Whose clothes? Hirondelle? Pierre Hirondelle? Is he a man or a swallow? Male, designer and—what? Got everything? Delighted to hear it, sweetie.” His voice was dry. “That should keep you occupied—modelling his clothes, I mean! Come and see you? Maybe. You want me there desperately? All right, if I can get away.”
He lingered over his farewell, promising again to do his best to visit her. As he replaced the receiver, his mother called softly from another room.
He answered her impatiently, “Gayle’s waiting, Mother.” Nevertheless he obeyed his mother’s summons.
They must have been standing in the doorway because Gayle heard a whisper. “Ewan darling, you mustn’t encourage that girl. She’s only an employee. And there’s her father, working-class, both of them. What a background, darling! You mustn’t let her think—well, things. These girls from the back streets get ideas above their station, even if a man in your position so much as looks at them...”
The son must have pushed his persistent parent into the room and closed the door. Gayle, fists clenched in her pockets, handbag swinging from her wrist, walked up and down the hall. How much longer would he be? What was he doing, reassuring his mother that he was just playing with ‘the girl’, using her as a stop-gap? He had to have someone. After all, Carla was away...
As Gayle’s hand reached out to turn the front door handle, Ewan came into the hall.
“Where are you going?”
Gayle did not answer. She ran down the steps into the drive and sped past Ewan’s car. He caught her up and swung her round, holding her arms so that she could not escape.
She raised a white, bitter face to his. “Take your hands off me! You might get them dirty. I’m from the back streets, didn’t you hear your mother tell you so? I’m an employee, something to be trampled on...”
She twisted and turned like a dog being restrained from chasing a cat. “Leave me alone!” she shrieked, knowing that his mother was listening and that such behaviour would only confirm to the woman how right she had been to say so many insulting things about her.
But Ewan pulled her back, flung open the passenger door of his car and bundled her in. He swung the car round the semicircular drive and pulled out on to the road.
“All right, so you overheard. I’m sorry you did so.”
“But it was meant for my ears, wasn’t it? And if you were honest, you’d admit it. I don’t know why she’s so worried. All right, so you’ve kissed me. But I’m engaged, remember, and so are you. So what do a few kisses from a playboy like you mean to me?”
In the dusk he turned as white as she was. “You’ll apologise for that, my girl. Either you’ll retract that statement voluntarily or I’ll force you—”
”Retract? Apologise? To you, after your mother’s calculated insults?” They were driving at speed, but her hand searched for the door handle. His hand shot out to stop her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Trying to kill yourself?”
“If I did,” she cried, “at least you’d be rid of me!”
He slowed the car to a standstill and turned to face her. “Calm down, will you? I’m sorry this had to happen. I didn’t bargain for a visitation from my mother. I intended taking you out to dinner.”
“Why? To pay for the overtime I was doing before you stopped me?”
“Will you stop flinging my good intentions back in my face?”
Now it was Gayle’s turn to apologise and she did so, reluctantly.
“Well,” his fingers drummed on the steering wheel, “will you dine with me?”
“Thank you, no. I have a date with my boy-friend,” she lied.
When the car drew up outside her house, Rhoda came out of her own front gate. She waved cheerily. “You’re not expecting to see Melvin, are you, dear? You know he’s at his evening class tonight.”
Gayle nodded and Rhoda went on her way.
Gayle turned a scarlet face to Ewan, who regarded her with narrow, contemptuous eyes. “There’s no need to lie to me when I offer you a meal. Next time tell me the truth, will you? That’s all I ask. I value honesty above almost everything else. That’s something, it seems, you have not inherited from your father.”
“You’re—you’re despicable!” she choked, guilt making her indiscreet and abusive.
She got out of the car and he wound down the window.
“You’re not exactly a bundle of charm yourself.” He revved the engine loudly and drove away, leaving her staring after him.
News went round the store that the managing director had gone abroad. He was visiting his woman, the model he was going to marry.
Gayle heard the news with dismay tempered with relief. To meet him face to face after their quarrel the night before would have been too embarrassing to. contemplate.
In an effort to increase sales and to. keep her mind away from thoughts of Ewan with his beautiful fiancée, Gayle visited fashion shows in London and other large towns. She ordered a handful of model gowns in the near-couture price range. Then, lowering her pride and following in her predecessor’s footsteps, she contacted the customers for whom, in the past, Carla had done so much. A few of the women showed interest and promised to call.
Some of them kept their word and went so far as to buy one or two of the high-priced gowns. News got around in their rather select circle and so, slowly, the clientele built up again. Sales increased mainly because of the high prices of the clothes, rather than the quantity of stock sold, but, Gayle told Mrs. Carrington, it was better than falling or even static sales.
Gayle ventured to purchase dresses—about two dozen, no more—in the lower price range, and most of them sold quickly, as she knew they would. This time she had not made the mistake of buying too low or asking for the garments to be made up from inferior fabric, and there were no frightening repercussions.
In fact, customers were so pleased with their purchases, they asked if there would be a repeat of these slightly cheaper dresses. So, crossing her fingers, Gayle ordered another batch from the manufacturer. As soon as the managing director returned, she was determined to confront him with the success of the cheaper line and ask his permission to continue stocking them, forcing his hand by informing him that she had placed another order for the dresses, anyway.
But events did not happen in quite the sequence she had anticipated. When Ewan had been away for ten days, Gayle called in to her father’s office, hoping he might know the date of Ewan’s return. The sooner she could ask about stocking the cheaper models and thus pacify the insistent customers, the better it would be for them—and her sales returns.
“Mr. Pascall’s back,” her father told her. “He apparently returned from Switzerland last night and came in to work this morning. Why, dear?”
“I want to see him.”
He made a face and looked up at his daughter fondly. “More fireworks?”
She frowned. “What do you know about our—our quarrels?”
Herbert looked a little embarrassed. “I hear.” But when his daughter pressed him he said, “Mr. Pascall calls in sometimes and chats. He—well, he tells me. Says I was right about your fiery temper, and where did it come from?”
“He didn’t,” she hesitated, “he didn’t say anything about—about dishonesty?”
Her father took a few minutes to reply. “If you’re talking about disobeying orders and buying those dresses the customers made so much fuss about—”
”So he has told you I’m—I’m dishonest?”
“Not exactly, Gayle. He was annoyed, though, that you had so blatantly disobeyed instructions.” He sat back and looked up at her. “I did warn you, dear.”
Herbert’s hand moved as if to cover somet
hing on his desk. Gayle ignored the gesture, then something clicked in her brain. She bent down to see what her father was trying to hide. He made a hasty attempt to slip something out of sight, but she was too quick for him.
Her eyes read, but her brain, unbelievingly lagging behind, did not immediately take in, a draft advertisement for a new buyer in the dress section of the fashion department. In the left-hand corner were the words, underlined, ‘Keep in readiness.’
“Dad,” her hand fastened over the neck of her dress, “he’s not—he’s not throwing me out of my job?”
Her father ran an agitated hand through his thinning hair.
“Gayle, you weren’t meant to see this. I should never have let you. It was just in case, Mr. Pascall said, but keep it quiet.”
“Just in case what?” she asked, aghast.
Herbert shrugged unhappily. “How do I know what he has in mind, love?”
“I’ll find out what he has in mind!” Gayle said, hurtling to the door. “I’m going to see that—that man. I’ll—”
”Gayle,” her father went after her, “think what you’re doing. You could be out of a job before the morning’s over. Don’t do anything rash, dear. For your own sake, for my sake...”
“Look, Dad, it wasn’t your fault that I saw the advertisement. I’ll explain. I’m going to see him and nothing, nothing’s going to stop me!”
Nothing did stop her, not even her own better judgment. She did not ask permission through his secretary, Miss Potter. Instead, her knuckles hammered on the managing director’s door and she entered to a surprised, “Come in.”
When the occupant of the room saw who it was, he stood slowly, his eyes cool and watchful, his face empty of expression. Despite her anger, the sight of him after so long an absence had Gayle’s pulses hammering. Instead of quarrelling with him, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and feel them holding her, returning kiss for ardent kiss. Her emotions momentarily checked her, but his coldness, his detached, unapproachable bearing provoked her beyond endurance.
