"I thought you were wonderful," she said sincerely. "I've got all your records at home, Mr. Barratt."
"Call me Nicky," he said easily. "Are you a member of my fan club?"
"No, I'm not. I'm afraid I don't see the point of fan clubs. I like listening to you sing but I never get the urge to collect your pictures or pull a button off your suit!"
He chuckled. "It's good to know I'm safe with you!"
She smiled and took the glass of orange juice Bob was holding out.
"Where do you live?" Nicky asked.
"In Sussex. In a village called Kerring. I don't suppose you've ever heard of it."
"Nicky loves villages," Bob interrupted. "He's a great guy for that kind of relaxed living."
Nicky Barratt swung round to the mantelpiece again and Valerie eyed Bob Vane dubiously.
"I thought you said he could only relax when he was in a crowd?"
"I was talking about after he's given a performance. Than he does like to have lots of people around him. But for day-to-day living he's a country boy at heart. Aren't you, Nicky?"
"Sure I am." Nicky's face was still averted. "I'm crazy about village life. Everyone hobnobbing with the vicar while the retired major tries to have an affair with the postmistress's daughter!"
Valerie laughed. "Actually our major has just married the postmistress herself!"
"There you are!" Nicky exclaimed. "What did I tell you?"
Suddenly the door burst open and a crowd of men stomped in. Within a moment there was pandemonium. Waiters appeared with sandwiches and coffee; a young man set up a bar and began to dispense drinks; a fat man commandeered the piano and thumped out the latest hit tunes and somebody else switched on the radio full blast.
"They're Nicky's group." Bob Vane murmured to Valerie.
"They do the backing for all his records and most of his shows. They're a noisy lot but they're good- hearted, and they think the world of Nicky."
Before she had time to reply he was called to the other side of the room and she remained where she was on the settee, the empty glass still in her hand. More people started to come in: men in well-cut suits with flashy ties; daringly dressed girls and a spattering of celebrities. Valerie watched Nicky greet his visitors with easy familiarity and guessed that this was a nightly procedure. She sat there a long time but nobody took any notice of her. It seemed that both Nicky and Bob Vane had forgotten she existed. Suddenly she could bear it no longer. She knew that in her country-made dress she was as out of place in this gathering as an onion in a petunia patch, but that was no reason for these people to treat her as though she were an inanimate object. Standing up, she reached for her handbag and walked out of the room and down the corridor.
She was almost at the end when she heard someone running and calling her name. Startled, she looked around and saw Nicky Barratt.
"You can't be going so early?" he asked.
"I'm surprised you noticed."
"Sure I noticed."
"Well you could have fooled me!" Anger flushed her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle. "I didn't want to come here in the first place, Mr. Barratt—it was your manager who insisted. But since I did come I think the least you could have done was to introduce me to your friends—not ignore me as though I was a—" she searched in her mind for a symbol "—as though I was an antique piece of furniture."
"That's exactly what you are. I couldn't have put it better myself."
For an instant Valerie gaped at him, then her hand shot out and gave him a stinging slap across his cheek. He fell back, then stepped forward, his eyes glittering.
"Why, you little-"
Not waiting to hear any more, Valerie raced swiftly for the stairs, not pausing until she had breathlessly reached the lobby. So much for her evening with Nicky Barratt.
CHAPTER THREE
As she jolted in the bus toward Bayswater, Valerie stared unseeingly through the window and tried to force her mind away from the scene that had just taken place. How could she have smacked the face of the famous Nicky Barratt? It was fantastic. But then the whole evening had been a fantasy. The only trouble was that her behavior at the end of it had turned it into a nightmare. If only she hadn't lost her temper when he had agreed that he had treated her like a piece of antique furniture. Yet thinking about it again made her hackles rise once more, and had he been sitting beside her, she would probably have hit him again. Yet the worst thing of all was the letdown she had suffered. No longer was Nicky Barratt a talent and personality she would worship from afar. She had come close to her idol and seen his feet of clay.
It was nearly one a.m. when she reached her aunt's house, and she let herself quietly in and tiptoed toward the stairs.
“Is that you, Val?"
Only then did Valerie see a line of light under the drawing-room door, and realizing her aunt was still up, she opened it and went in.
Mrs. Pafford, a small, plump woman with gray hair and a smooth pink face, looked up from her chair. Her spectacles had slid to the tip of her snub nose and she pushed them higher as she spoke.
"I was getting worried about you, dear. I thought you'd decided to wait at the theater for tomorrow's performance!"
Valerie smiled. "There isn't one on a Sunday." She hesitated, reluctant to tell her aunt the strange events of the evening.
"Well?" the older woman prompted. "How was the show?"
"Wonderful." Valerie sat down in front of the fire. "But I don't suppose you'd have thought so."
"On the contrary, I like Mr. Barratt's songs. I think he's a very talented young man." Mrs. Pafford smiled at her niece's expression. "Don't look so astonished, my dear. Appreciating a good melody isn't only the prerogative of the young."
"I wish Dad could hear you say that."
"Your father always was old-fashioned. Even as a young man your mother and I used to call him a fuddy-duddy!"
Valerie giggled and Mrs. Pafford smiled indulgently and rose. "Now you're in, I'll go to bed. Can I get you something to drink first?"
"No thanks, darling. But I'd be happy to make one for you."
Her aunt shook her head and the two of them went upstairs. "I do wish you'd come here more often, Valerie. It's lovely having you with me."
"It's lovely to be here. But I don't like leaving Dad."
"He's more self-sufficient than you think. Besides, you can't build your life around him. You'll get married one day and then he'll have to manage without you."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile let's decide what we should do with ourselves tomorrow." Valerie regarded her aunt. "Is there anything special you'd like to do?"
"I'd like to window-shop."
"On a Sunday? At least wait till Monday—then you might be tempted to buy something!"
"That's what makes Sundays safer."
Valerie kissed her aunt good-night quickly and went into her bedroom. If only her well-meaning friends and relations would stop trying to change her attitudes or her clothes. Why didn't they see she was perfectly content the way she was?
Wriggling out of her dress she walked over to the dressing table and began to unscrew the pearl studs from her ears. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror: pale, slim, with soft dark hair falling on either side of a rounded face. She half turned her head. Her face wasn't quite rounded, her cheekbones were high and her chin delicately pointed. She had good bone structure in fact, and though she could never compete with the stunningly lovely girls who had been in Nicky Barratt's suite, that didn't mean she should be dissatisfied with her appearance. Or was she the exact opposite? Too smug, perhaps. Too self-righteous and self-satisfied. A homebody who enjoyed being unfashionable and dowdy. Defiantly she tossed back her head. Well, what if she did? She had found her niche and she was happy in it. She would never want to mix in a pop star's world, any more than a pop star would wish to mix in hers.
With a sigh she finished undressing and climbed into bed. The sooner she forgot about this evening, the better it would be for her peace
of mind.
Unused to late nights, Valerie overslept the next morning and it was noon before she and her aunt set out to window-shop in Knightsbridge. It was disquieting to see the beautiful clothes and it made her realize how narrow she had become. Working at the Taverners had at least kept her partially aware of the outside world, but in the past two years she had closed in on herself to an alarming degree.
She thought of this off and on throughout the rest of the day, and she was still thinking about it when she reached Kerring Cross the next morning. She had done some food shopping in London, finding the choice marvelous and, laden with parcels, she staggered along the platform to the exit.
She was crossing the cobbled square when she heard the tooting of a horn and, looking round, recognized Mark's blue station wagon parked on the opposite side of the road. He jumped out and came toward her.
"Hello, Mark. Are you meeting someone here?"
"Only you. I've been waiting an hour. Your father said you'd be back on the early train." He took her parcels and dumped them in the back of the car, then took his place beside her.
"You shouldn't have bothered coming to meet me, though I'm awfully glad you did."
"It's no bother. It's my pleasure." He glanced at her and then turned his eyes back to the road. "It's always a pleasure when I can see you, Val. Besides, I wanted to talk to you. Since the other night I've been-"
"Mark, don't! Not again. What I said to you still stands. I haven't changed my mind."
I don't expect you to—at least not yet." He touched her hand lightly. "I just wanted to apologize for my behavior. I'm afraid I rather rushed you."
She could not help smiling. "After knowing me all my life! What a silly thing to say."
"Maybe I am silly." He frowned. "Still, you know the old adage—slow but sure wins the race."
Their eyes met for an instant and the old familiar intimacy was reestablished between them.
"I'm glad we're friends, Mark. Let's keep it that way."
"For the time being only. I'm not going to make any promises about the future. I love you, Valerie, and I'm willing to wait until you realize I'm the only man who can make you happy."
She did not answer and stared at the road unwinding in front of her. Was she being a fool not to marry
Mark? Although she did not love him she was very fond of him and she knew how deep his feelings were for her. But was it enough on which to build a marriage? Unbidden, a picture of Nicky Barratt flashed into her mind, his face pale, the marks of her fingers standing out clearly on his cheek. Unlike Mark, he was not the sort of man on whom a woman could rely. Yet how magnetic he was—how vibrantly alive. And how cruel.
With a sigh she refocused on Mark, noticing his hands clenched on the wheel and a muscle twitching nervously in his cheek. Her throat contracted with compassion but it was no good; he would never be able to make her pulses race or her heart beat faster, and no matter what he said, a marriage without mutual love could never work out.
With a feeling of relief she saw they had reached her house, and as the car pulled up outside the gate, she swung open the door and got out. "Care to come in for some coffee?"
"I have to get back. My new manager started this morning and I'd like to be around for the first week."
Relieved by his refusal, she lifted her hand in farewell. "Thanks again for coming to collect me. It was sweet of you."
Humming to herself, she entered the house. Although she had only been away two days, it bore the indefinable air of neglect. There were many drooping flowers in a cut-glass vase, ashtrays full of burnt tobacco and an array of dirty dishes that would have done credit to a regiment, let alone one solitary man. If she had ever wanted proof of being needed, it was here in plenty. Discarding her suit for - volumnious wrap-around apron, she busied herself cleaning the house and preparing the lunch, managing to erase both Mark Chariot and Nicky Barratt from her mind.
It was only when her father returned home and they were sitting down to a preluncheon drink that she recalled the strange events of the night before.
"I expected you to be full of your trip," Mr. Browne commented. "Was this Barratt chap as good in the flesh as you expected?"
"Better." With an effort she smiled. "His new show is marvelous."
"Lots of noise and flashing lights I suppose?"
"You're confusing your singers, Dad. Nicky's the one who doesn't stomp and scream around the stage."
"Is that so?" Mr. Browne took his rebuff in good part. "Well, he's still not my type, although he's obviously yours. You look much better today than you did on Saturday."
"That hasn't anything to do with Nicky Barratt."
"I didn't think it had. It's the trip to London I was referring to. Why don't you go and spend a week with Alice?"
"And leave you alone?" Valerie raised her eyes to the ceiling. "If this morning's a sample of what you can do to the house after a weekend_________________________ "
"You fuss too much. Anyway, I wouldn't attempt to look after myself for that long. I'd ask Mrs. Jakes to come in. She managed all right when you were away last summer."
Valerie's reply was drowned by a violent screech of brakes outside, and pushing back her chair, she went to the window. A silver-gray Lotus had pulled to a stop by the gate and as she watched, the car door opened and a young man stepped out. Astonishment kept her rigid and she went on staring at the tall, slender figure in light gray flannels and impeccably cut dark gray sports jacket. What had brought Nicky Barratt here?
"Who is it?" her father asked.
Without replying she ran from the room and stood on the doorstep as the singer came up the path.
"Hi," he called. "So I've found you at last."
"What do you want?" "That's not a very friendly greeting! Aren't you pleased to see me?"
"I'm surprised," she said dryly. "How did you find out where I lived?"
"It was easy. You said you lived in Kerring, so I drove to the station and mentioned your name to the porter. He told me your address at once."
"Why do you want to see me?"
"Study a couple of biology books," he grinned. "They'll give you the answer! Besides—" his hand went to his cheek "—I'm still smarting from that right hand of yours."
"I'm sorry about that," she said stiffly. "I owe you an apology."
"You sure do. You misunderstood me completely. When I agreed that I'd regarded you as a piece of antique furniture, I only meant that I'd been comparing you with all those cheap phony articles in my suite last night. Excluding Bob and my players, of course, you were the only thing of value that was there."
Uncertainly she regarded him. His eyes held hers, dark brown and intent, with little flecks of gold in them that gave them an unexpected glitter.
"Well, Miss Browne, aren't you going to ask me in? It's the least you can do after I've driven all this way to see you."
Conscious that he was laughing at her, she held the front door wide and he walked past and stood in the hall.
"You'd better come in here." she said, and led the way into the drawing room. Seeing it through his eyes, eyes that she knew were accustomed to palatial hotel suites, she felt it looked small and cramped, with too many ornaments and too much furniture.
"Nice little place you have here," he remarked.
"There's no need to be hypocritical!" she flashed.
"I wasn't."
"Yes, you were. You don't think this is a nice house at all. After what you're used to, this must be like a hole in the wall!"
"Stop it!" He stood in front of her, the mocking laughter gone from his eyes. "I may be used to living in luxury hotels but that doesn't mean I don't get I n od of them. If you only knew the number of times I've wished for a place like this. A house that's a home and not a showpiece."
Valerie turned away and nervously straightened an ornament. "I'm sorry. I had no right to be bad- lompered. I suppose it's because you make me nervous."
"You don't look a nervous type." Once a
gain there was a note of mockery in his voice and she swung around.
"I'm not a nervous type, Mr. Barratt. I'm just nervous of someone like you. You're a stranger to me— not only you yourself, but your whole way of life."
"You know nothing of my life. The rubbish you read about me is just—rubbish." He caught her hand, squeezing the fingers so hard that she winced. "I can sec it's going to be an uphill battle to win your friendship."
"What do you want my friendship for?" Angrily she pulled her hand away. "Don't you think this joke has gone far enough?"
"What joke?"
"Coming here like this and pretending you want to be friends with me. What game are you playing? I don't understand you, Mr. Barratt. We've nothing in common."
"We've everything in common."
His expression was determined as he put his hands on her shoulders and swung her around to face him. "You like my voice, my songs, and so do I! If you can think of a better basis for friendship than that, tell me!"
In spite of herself she smiled and he smiled back at her. It was amazing how it altered his expression, making him look far less sultry and younger.
"That's better," he said. "Now you can offer me some coffee and we can have a chat."
"Wouldn't you rather have a drink?"
"Not this time of the day. Or do you think I always have a glass in my hand?"
"I wasn't making any innuendos," she said quietly. "But last night I couldn't help noticing that water wasn't a liquid with which any of your friends seemed to be acquainted."
For a moment he looked annoyed, then he smiled again. "You've got a razor-edged tongue, haven't you? I hope I can prevent it cutting me to shreds." He turned his head as the door opened and Mr. Browne came in.
For a moment the two men stared at one another, then Nicky moved forward, his hand outstretched. I
"I take it you're Valerie's father. I hope you don't mind me barging in like this?"
"Not at all. Any friend of Valerie's—" Mr. Browne stopped short. "Your face looks familiar. Have you been here before?"
"It's Nicky Barratt," Valerie said hastily, and then because she was not sure if her father understood the significance of the name, she repeated it.
Rachel Lindsay - An Affair To Forget Page 3
