"Nicky Barratt," Mr. Browne murmured and then looked thunderstruck. ou don't mean you're the singer chap my daughter's always raving about?"
"I didn't know she raved about me," Nicky grinned, "but thanks for saying so! After last night, my ego could do with a lift."
Mr. Browne looked at his daughter in bewilderment and Valerie, knowing an explanation was due, searched for the right words.
"I—I met Nicky Barratt last night. I didn't mention it because there—there was nothing to tell. But Mr. Vane—Mr. Barratt's manager—rescued me when I got caught in a crowd of fans outside the stage door. They gave me a lift in their car and took me back to the Savoy Hotel for a drink."
"You were lucky not to end up in a hospital," her father said irritably. "I thought you had more sense than to get mixed up in a crowd of screaming teenagers."
"All's well that ends well," Nicky intervened easily. "But I thought I'd drive down today and make sure your daughter was feeling fine after her little adventure. And I can see she is." His smile held a hidden meaning and Valerie avoided his eyes and left the room, murmuring something about making the coffee.
As she set the cups on a tray, she could not help wondering what lay behind Nicky Barratt's visit. She refused to believe he had come here simply to see her. As she moved across the hall she saw her reflection in the mirrored hall stand. Pale and slim in a cotton dress that had seen service over many summers, she knew that the plainest girl in Nicky Barratt's suite last night had looked more attractive than she did now. Yet he had traveled sixty miles to see her. Pushing the incredible thought away, she went into the drawing room and found both men installed in armchairs, chatting like old acquaintances.
"I don't know much about your kind of work," her lather was saying, "and personally I've never been able to stand—"
"Daddy!" Valerie interrupted hastily. "Wouldn't you like your pipe?"
"I've got it in my pocket, dear." Mr. Browne turned to the younger man again. "As I was saying just now, your type of singing doesn't—"
"Daddy!" Valerie repeated. "Your tobacco. Shall I get your tobacco?"
Mr. Browne frowned. "No, no, I've got it here. I do wish you wouldn't keep interrupting me. You'll make me forget what I was going to say."
"I rather think that was the intention." Nicky said dryly. "But you've said enough for me to realize you're not partial to singers of my type."
Mr. Browne looked discomfited and, recollecting his position as host, made the amende honorable. "I can't stand the majority of 'em—that's true enough— but at least you sing melodic songs! And your voice isn't raucous!"
"It's an adequate one for the kind of use I give it. But to be honest, I've never been able to understand the reason for my success."
With a bang Valerie set the tray on the table. It nauseated her to hear him talk so deprecatingly about himself. The one thing she had learned in the past twenty-four hours was that Nicky Barratt was anything but modest! She poured the coffee, aware of the men speaking behind her. Evidently the Barratt charm did not only extend to women: there was no question but that her father had thawed considerably to him. She handed round the cups and as Nicky took his, he let his hand rest on her fingers.
"How about coming for a run in the car?"
"I can't. I have to fix dinner."
"Nonsense. It'll do you good to get some fresh air," her father interrupted. "And bread and cheese will suit me fine for tonight, after the enormous lunch you cooked."
"There you are," Nicky said. "All your arguments have been cut from underneath you. Get your coat and I'll let you take me to a nice farmhouse for tea."
Sitting in the luxurious sports car, Valerie had to pinch herself to make sure she was not dreaming. But the trees whizzing past them and the breeze blowing her hair away from her face were real enough and she sighed contentedly.
At once Nicky glanced at her. "I've never had a girl refuse to come out with me before. It was quite an odd feeling."
"Perhaps I'm an odd girl."
"Or one who's clever enough not to run after me."
She saw the meaning behind his remark and reacted to it with anger. "My reluctance wasn't an act, Mr. Barratt. I didn't want to come out with you. I didn't see the purpose."
" You may not have one," he said lightly, "but that doesn't mean that I haven't." He moved one hand from the wheel and took a gold cigarette case and a lighter from his pocket. "Light one for me, will you?"
Nervously she put a cigarette between her lips and fumbled with the lighter. She inhaled and felt her eyes water as she tried not to cough. "I'm afraid I'm not very proficient at this," she stammered, and handed him the lighted cigarette.
He put it in his mouth and as his lips closed around it, she was aware of the intimacy of the action. In all the years she had known Mark, he had never asked her to light a cigarette for him in this way.
"It's funny," she said, stumbling over the words, 'but I feel as if I've known you for years. I suppose I have in a way. I've followed your career almost from the moment you began."
He was so long replying that she turned to look at him. His mouth was set in a straight line, his dark eyes narrowed so that no expression was visible in them. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking and she realized that though she might know many intimate things about him—the shaving lotion be used, his favorite foods, his hobbies—he was still a stranger to her in many other ways. He was far more worldly than any man she had yet encountered. He was also considerably more mixed-up! Last night he had been boorish and rude, but today he had driven sixty miles to see her. Which behavior bespoke the real man? It was a question to which she could find no answer.
"Penny for your thoughts." His voice startled her and she sat up straight.
"I was wondering whether we should go for a walk," she lied.
"A walk?"
"Yes. The Downs are lovely at this time of the year." She glanced down and could just make out his elegant suede shoes. "But I don't think you're dressed for the country."
"Of course I am."
A few moments later they drew to a stop in a narrow lane and he helped her out and strode beside her along the road until they came to a stile.
"If we climb over this we'll get to the Downs," she said.
He looked at the stile. "Can you manage it?"
"Of course, I'm not wearing a tight skirt."
He grinned. "I was forgetting you are a country girl."
He watched as she clambered over and then followed. His foot went straight into a patch of mud and streaks of it spattered his trouser leg. He muttered under his breath and made futile attempts to shake the mud off.
"I'm awfully sorry," Valerie apologized. "I didn't realize it had been raining here this morning. We'd better go back on the road."
"Not now, we won't. Nobody's going to call me chicken!"
She laughed and, conscious of his hand clasping her elbow, walked by his side across the meadow, her feet sinking into the thick, soft grass.
"Look," she said, pointing at the hedge. "Ragged Robin. Isn't it pretty?"
"Where?" He peered in the direction of her finger. "I can't see a bird."
She tried not to smile. "Ragged Robin's a flower." She walked to the hedge and touched the tall stems with the pink, divided petals.
He stared at it. "I can see I'd better keep my mouth shut, otherwise you'll think I'm ignorant."
"Only when you're in the country," she said demurely. "I'm the one who's ignorant in town. Do you know I couldn't name a single restaurant or theater without looking it up in a paper?"
"That's the best news I've heard. These young girls who've been everywhere and done everything are the biggest bores in the world."
She tried not to read more into his words than he might mean. "Naïveté can be equally as boring."
"Not if it's coupled with intelligence."
"And I'm really very intelligent, of course," she mocked.
"Intelligent, honest and lovely."
/> Color seeped into her cheeks and quickly she began lo walk again. In silence they climbed uphill, their feet slipping on wet grass and knotted tree roots. At the lop they paused and leaned against the trunk of a massive oak to survey the countryside below them. Undulating pasture land rolled away to the sea, which could lie seen sparkling in the distance, while half a mile to the right an untidy mass of trees, all whorls and spirals like a child's drawing, changed from green to blue as they receded into haze.
"It's worth the climb, isn't it?" Valerie said.
"What is?"
"The view." She studied him "Don't you like it?"
For the first time he stared around him. "Oh, the view? Sure, it's great; haven't seen anything like it for years. But now we've admired it, let's get some tea."
Faintly chilled by his obvious lack of appreciation of the scenery, she set off down the other side of the hill. "There's a farmhouse on the way to Dovewell. It's only about a mile from here."
"Okay. Let's go to the car."
"I'm afraid we can't go there by car. It's across the fields."
"Across the—" His voice lifted and with an effort he lowered it. "Okay, let's go."
"We can have tea at home if you'd prefer it. Or we can go to the Taverners. It's the hotel in the village."
"I saw it as I drove up to your house. A mock- Tudor affair, isn't it?"
"Not mock," she replied.
"I still don't fancy it." He began to stride along. "If we have tea in the village you're bound to meet people you know, and for the moment I'd like to keep you to myself."
Satisfied, and trying not to be, she walked beside him. They reached level ground and skirted a narrow ribbon of river, then crossed a wooden bridge to where an old farmhouse, shadowed by a group of elms, nestled in a hollow of the Downs. A handwritten notice pinned to one tree bore the word 'Teas', and a few wrought-iron tables were laid ready with bright yellow china.
Valerie settled on a chair beneath a mulberry tree, the dark fruit already ripening in the sun. They were the only visitors and as a white-aproned woman came out to serve them, Nicky hastily donned a pair of dark glasses.
"If it's too sunny for you," Valerie said, "we can move into the shade."
"No, no, I like the sun. But I don't want to be recognized."
She smiled. "You look far more conspicuous in those than you do without them."
"Maybe. But I'd rather be a conspicuous stranger than a recognized celebrity." He half hid his face as the woman approached them. "You order."
Valerie shrugged and, conscious of the woman's stare, looked down at the menu. Although his dark glasses stopped him from being recognized, anyone could have guessed he would be more at home in the West End than in the countryside.
"Would you like one of our special teas?" the woman asked. "We've some lovely new-laid eggs and home-baked wholemeal bread. Or there's scones with homemade butter and cream, if you'd prefer it."
From the corner of her eye Valerie saw Nicky's mouth drop open. When he had suggested tea, he had probably been thinking in terms of Lap Tsan Tchoo Song and almond biscuits. An imp of mischief made her ask for the special tea and, still keeping a straight face, she ordered scones too, and homemade strawberry jam.
"Why did you go and do that?" Nicky asked as the waitress disappeared. "She'll be sore as hell if we leave it all."
"I'm sure you won't leave it. You can't drive back in London without a decent meal. You've got a performance tonight, haven't you?"
"I never eat before a performance. Only afterward."
"But that isn't till midnight!"
"I'm used to it," he shrugged, then shook his head. "Heck, it's years since I've sat down to a meal railed tea."
"You were the one who invited me out for it," she reminded him, and almost felt sorry for him as the woman returned with a laden tray: shiny boiled eggs in yellow eggcups, thin brown bread, wholemeal scones, strawberry jam and bright yellow farm butter: i he whole to be washed down by strong tea, brewing in a massive china teapot.
"You mean we've got to eat all this?" Nicky demanded in dismay, when they were alone again.
"Some of it, at least," she replied. "And next time be more careful when you issue invitations."
He pulled a face. "You ordered this on purpose!"
"You catch on quickly," she answered in his own vernacular and saw his mouth tighten.
For a second he was poised on a knife-edge, then the humor of the situation struck him and he started to laugh.
"You're not as dumb as you look, Val. When
I__ " He colored, seeing his faux pas. "I'm sorry. I
guess dumb isn't the word I meant."
"How about naive?"
"Yes, that's it. Naive."
Almost guiltily he began to eat. Although he had professed himself uninterested in food, once he started, he demolished far more than his share, piling his bread thick with jam and passing his cup to be replenished three times.
"This is the tastiest meal I've had in years," he said, wiping buttery fingers on a fine lawn handkerchief. "I think I'll tell Bob to fix something like this every afternoon."
"It wouldn't taste the same in a hotel."
"I guess not. Still, it'll give me an incentive for coming down to the country. Not that I need any incentive to come and see you."
"Don't," she said quickly.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that. I know you don't mean it."
"I do. I do want to see you again."
"I can't think why." she said slowly. "We're poles apart. And please don't give me all that nonsense about physical attraction. You know far prettier girls than me."
"Prettiness on its own can soon become a bore. I'm sorry if that sounds trite but—"
"It isn't trite," she interrupted, "but the life you've led doesn't make me believe you think that way."
"You don't know how I think," he said abruptly.
"Sometimes I'm not even_____ Damn it, Val, why go on about my past? I'm here, aren't I? Surely that means something?"
"Yes, it does," she admitted. "But I don't know what."
He was momentarily silent, his dark eyes searching her face. "It means I want to be with you, Val. That I lind you intriguing and refreshing and—and lovely."
"I'm very ordinary."
"You're not. You don't make the best of yourself, that's all. With different clothes and hairstyle and some makeup, you'd be astonished at the change."
Resentment flared in her. "I don't want to change, thank you very much. If you don't like me as I am, ilien go back to London."
"But I do like you," he said softly. "I just tried to make you see that I don't consider you to be ordinary." He looked down at the empty table. "Now I'll drive you back to Kerring and on the way we'll stop at n madhouse for a drink."
Conscious of her faded cotton dress and woolen cardigan, she shook her head. "I'm not dressed for going out."
"Sure you are. Anything goes in these country places. Let's get Old Mother Hubbard to give us the lull and we'll get weaving."
CHAPTER FOUR
It was almost dusk by the time they reached the Lotus, and shadows pointed long fingers across the lane as they drove toward Kerring. Some few miles on the outskirts of the village the lights of a roadhouse winked at them, and Nicky nosed the car to a stop in the empty driveway.
"It doesn't look as if there's anyone here," he said. "All the better if we have the place to ourselves."
Nervously Valerie followed him through the lighted entrance, wishing she were a million miles away. "Are you sure you won't be late for the theater, Mr. Barratt?"
"Quite sure, Miss Browne." He squeezed her arm. "The name's Nicky. How many times must I tell you?"
Still keeping hold of her, he led her into a rectangular room with peach mirrors and pink-shaded lights. Along one wall there was a bar and in the far corner stood a record player with a pile of records on a table close at hand.
"Two martinis," he said to
the barman, and sauntered over to scan the records. He picked out three and placed them on the turntable. "That should do to get on with," he said and held out his arms.
Nervously Valerie went toward him. "I'm n-not a very good dancer."
"Neither am I," he said into her ear. "But this is the only way I can think of to get you close without scaring you to death!"
Blushing, she lowered her head and he pulled her against him and began to move across the small floor space, cleared for dancing.
"You're so fresh and unspoiled." he whispered. "I've been waiting to hold you like this all day."
With an effort Valerie refused to let herself be carried away by the mood of the moment or the sensuous music throbbing in the background. To Nicky Barratt she was a passing fancy, a girl who, because she refused to be conquered, made him the more determined to conquer.
We've nothing in common, she told herself. No matter what he says, our paths are too divergent ever to meet successfully.
"Relax," he ordered and gave her a little shake. "I'm not going to eat you."
It was nearly seven o'clock before the silver-gray car slowed down outside the Brownes' house, and almost before it stopped, Valerie jumped out. Not for anything did she want Nicky to feel he had to suggest seeing her again. Despite all his honeyed words, today had been an incident in his life, not to be repeated. By tomorrow—with another female in his sights—he would have forgotten her completely.
"Thanks, Nicky." she said gaily. "I've had a marvelous time."
"So have I. When can I see you again?"
"I—I don't know. I don't come to London very often and I—I'm sure you're too busy to come down here."
"I certainly am." His voice held a trace of irritation.
"But if the mountain won't come to_______ You know the rest of it, I suppose?"
"Yes, but-"
"So when can we meet?" Still she hesitated and he glanced at his watch and frowned. "I can't stand around pleading with you, Val. As it is I'll have to drive like hell to get back in time for the performance." He seized her by the shoulders. "I must see you again soon. I'd show you why if I weren't convinced there were prying eyes behind every window in the street!"
Rachel Lindsay - An Affair To Forget Page 4
