`I—I'm sorry. I'm not making much sense. Even to myself.'
Helen hesitated. 'Want to talk about it?'
Candy shut her eyes. 'I'm not sure I can.'
What would it be like? What could it possibly be like? She had never in her remotest dreams imagined herself going to bed with someone like Justin. Even Dave—well, she had had her fantasies, of course, but mostly they consisted of his rescuing her from dire peril or—occasionally—the reverse. She had never allowed her imagination to touch on anything physical. Whereas, after Justin's laughing proposal, she could not banish it.
Helen said worriedly, 'You look pole-axed. Having problems with the parents?'
Helen knew that Candy wanted to work at the Centre full time—that she was waiting for the right moment to tell her family. Candy, with the reticence of a lifetime, had not said there would be difficulties. But Helen must have deduced it.
She said wryly. 'Not in the way you mean.'
Helen offered again, 'If you want to talk—'
But almost the only belief that Judith had in common with her husband was that you didn't discuss family `Don't wash dirty linen in public,' Gran Neilson used to say. And Candy had got used to keeping her own counsel.
She had not told anyone about the fights, the enmity, the accusations, the reproaches. And now she could not tell kind, concerned Helen what was wrong. She had never had a real friend because she had never been able to tell anyone else what her real life was like—except, she realised with a little start, Justin Richmond last night. What had happened to her last night?
She shook her head. 'I haven't the habit. But thanks, Helen.'
`Maybe you should talk to Dave,' Helen said doubtfully.
Candy shook her head again, more vigorously. If Dave Tresilian had come with her to that party as she had asked, she thought with a glimmer of indignation, none of this would have happened. Except Judith's gambling
would have happened. Except Sir Leslie's threats would have happened. Only, if she and Justin had not met, he would not have offered her this frightening bargain as a solution.
Why did it have to be marriage? It had turned her father into a tyrant and her mother into a cringing slave. Candy didn't want to be any man's slave.
'No,' she said, 'not Dave. Look, Helen, I'm really not feeling great. Could you ... ?'
`You go home and lie down,' Helen told her. 'I'll organise cover. Don't worry about it. You look like death.' `Thank you,' said Candy drily.
She went back to the Mayfair mansion, but not to lie down. She hesitated for a moment, then went to her mother's room.
Judith was fidgeting round her boudouir, hollow-eyed and grey under the make-up. Sir Leslie had not rung.
`Darling, will you ring your father for me? Tell him...'
Candy couldn't bear the anxious expression, the pleading. She had done it all too many times before. She looked down at Judith's desk, littered with unopened letters, witness to her empty, anxious morning.
`Mother, why is it so bad if he goes? He's not exactly an ideal husband.'
Judith said hopelessly, 'You don't understand.'
`No, I don't,' Candy agreed. 'He's rude and demanding and he has a foul temper. And you're afraid of him,' she added shrewdly. 'What's worth hanging on to?'
Judith stared. 'He's my husband. My life.'
`Then maybe you ought to find something better to do with your life.'
But it was hopeless. Judith became hysterical at the very thought of Leslie Neilson leaving for good.
In the end Candy left her, her own dilemma unconfided and unresolved.
If only someone would listen to me, she thought. I can't run a courier service between my parents for the rest of my life. But what am I going to do? And then, sneaking in under cover came the thought, if only Justin Richmond weren't who he is, I could ask him.
In the end she compromised, giving Dave Tresilian a carefully edited story later that evening. They were alone with the telephones while the other helpers took the vans of hot food and drink round the streets. For once, the phones were silent.
Candy perched on the corner of Dave's desk and told her tale. Or most of it. She did not tell him about Justin. For some reason that she was not quite sure about herself, she suspected that Dave's famous sympathy might run out if she described Justin's proposal.
`What do you think I ought to do?'
Dave tilted his chair back, pushing his fingers through his red-gold hair. He was a tall, impressive man with the physique of a prize fighter and the eyes of an evangelist. Or so Candy thought. His presence in a room somehow made it smaller.
He listened carefully, stroking his ginger beard. `Your mother's taking it badly?'
Candy sighed. 'She seems to think it's terminal. Why she isn't glad to be out of it, I don't know.'
Dave gave her a faintly exasperated look. 'Your father's a very rich man.'
Candy stared at him. He looked away after a minute.
He said at last, roughly, 'Look it's all very well to pretend that money doesn't matter when you've got plenty. If you don't know where the next meal is coming from—or where you'll sleep tonight—it's different.'
Candy felt stunned. She said slowly, 'We're not talking about my mother, are we, Dave?'
He flushed an unbecoming tomato colour.
`I thought—I was hoping—that is, I didn't see why your father shouldn't contribute. You were interested and you were his only child. And we need that new hostel,' he added not very lucidly.
`My father . . . ?'
She had not realised that Dave even knew who her father was. She had told them her name when she first went to the Homeless Centre, and they had her phone number for emergencies, but she had never talked about her parents. She never did.
`Ah.' She stood up. 'I see.'
Dave stood up too. He seemed puzzled. But Candy noticed that he would not meet her eyes.
It was true. They did need the hostel. She had spent days in the Centre addressing mailshots to possible donors. It had not occurred to her that Dave had his eye on her father, though.
`Was that why you let me come and help?' Candy asked quietly. 'Why you always had time for me?'
He looked indignant. 'Of course not. I didn't even know you were that Candida Neilson to begin with. You were hard-working and obviously committed. It was later...'
`It was later that you promoted me to confidante and organiser,' Candy said steadily. 'When you realised.'
Her throat was beginning to burn. Some of it was rage, of course, but some was straightforward grief. How could he? She had thought he'd recognised her determination and promoted her because of it. And all the time it was because he knew she was a rich girl whose father might be induced to fund the next project. He could not have told her more clearly that she did not matter—either as a colleague or as a woman.
At the thought of her romantic dreams of this man, Candy's whole body flinched. Well, at least he did not know. At least he had never guessed that she was in love
with him. She almost hated him for a second or two for that blindness.
Dave was saying, 'Look, you can do us a lot of good, Candy. The Centre isn't glamorous, though it's desperately needed. Someone with your background actually helping—well, it's a gift. If you could talk your father into putting up some money we'd be in a whole new ball game.'
`Yes,' said Candy in a cool, precise little voice. She felt as if she were bleeding to death. 'Yes, I see what you mean. And if I married Justin Richmond I could ask for a brand new hostel as a wedding present, couldn't I?'
Even in his absorption, he noticed that.
`Marry Justin Richmond? But I thought he and your father were at daggers drawn!' he exclaimed.
There was a nasty silence while she looked at him. `How very much more you know about my family than I realised, Dave,' Candy said, marvelling.
He looked flustered. 'It's been in all the papers. Everyone said your father was trying to unseat the top guy at Richmond
s and take the group over. That's Richmond, isn't it?'
`That's him,' confirmed Candy grimly.
Dave drew a long breath. 'And he wants to marry you?' He sounded awed. 'That's wonderful. We need a higher profile chair—' He caught sight of her face and stopped dead. He gave her a weak smile. 'Of course you mustn't marry anyone you don't want to, love.'
Candy drew a long breath. That careless, meaningless endearment was the last straw. She had been building a lot of dreams on those 'loves' and 'honeys' of Dave Tresilian. She was suddenly savage.
`Thank you,' she said coolly. 'Disinterested advice is so hard to come by.'
He winced. But Candy was already gathering her things. She ignored him.
Candy went home in a cold rage such as she could not remember experiencing before. It was nearly two when she got in. Her mother had gone to bed. There was a plaintive note on the hall table. Candy glanced at it cursorily and then screwed it up. She looked at her watch.
It was a crazy hour to telephone anyone. Impetuously she picked up the telephone. Justin answered on the fourth ring. She was surprised. So he wasn't in bed either. Or he had a phone by the bed. Though he didn't sound sleepy.
`Candy,' she said curtly.
`Ah.' His voice warmed. 'Solved it?'
`I'll marry you.'
She could feel his startled withdrawal down the wire. `You,' she reminded him harshly, 'suggested it.'
`So I did,' he said slowly. 'But I didn't expect ...'
So he hadn't thought she'd agree. Perhaps he didn't
even want her to agree. Two rejections in one evening,
Candy. Well done. Just as well you don't think you're
irresistible, she told herself fiercely.
`Second thoughts?' she mocked, transferring her anger and humiliation into sarcasm.
Justin gave a soft laugh. 'Lots. And third and fourth thoughts. And all—interesting. I take it you've been thinking along the same lines yourself?'
Candy ignored the gentle teasing. She noted the sensual suggestion in his voice and it infuriated her. He wasn't baiting the trap with spurious affection, like Dave. But no doubt he was quite as clear as Dave had been about what he wanted from malleable Candy Neilson.
She damned all men and their nasty, conniving minds. Under her breath. She said coolly, 'I've taken advice. It's unanimous. I'll marry you.' And, when there was silence, added in a sharp tone, 'I'm convinced.'
Justin was thoughtful. 'That's a pity. I'd hoped to convince you myself.'
It surprised her. How had she allowed herself to forget his talent for wrong-footing her? Candy shivered. There was a blatant promise in the husky voice that, in her present frame of mind, felt more like a threat.
To hide the sensation—as much from herself as from him—she said in a crisp voice, 'We'll need to talk, of course. When and where?'
There was a pause. She could feel that sharp brain working, calculating. There was something here he did not understand, and he did not like it.
At last he said smoothly, 'Yes, I think you do need to talk. Why don't you come over here? I'm happier on my home territory.'
`Fine.' I don't believe I'm doing this, Candy thought. I must have taken leave of my senses. 'When?'
`Why not now?'
`Now?' Her mouth went instantly dry. 'You must be out of your mind. It's too late.'
`It wasn't too late to phone,' he reminded her. 'And I'm not sleepy. Are you?'
Candy swallowed. She had, she supposed, asked for this. She had not expected to have her hand called so soon, but she had known it must happen. Cold shivers were running up and down her spine. She would have to stop that before she saw him.
She replied slowly, 'I suppose not.'
`Good girl,' he said surprisingly. 'Where are you? I'll come and get you.'
`No!' It was a fierce reaction, surprising her. 'No,' she said more calmly. 'I've got my car. Give me the address.' He did so and she put the phone down.
Rather to her surprise, Justin's home turned out to be in a side-street in Kensington. She had expected something grander and more private. The last place that
would have occurred to her was a simple door at the side of a block of high-street shops. It was, she thought wryly, hardly his image, living above the shop.
She told him so, a little breathlessly, when he answered the bell. Justin looked amused.
`Hardly my shop,' he pointed out gently. 'Can I take your coat?'
Reluctantly, Candy surrendered her thigh-length denim jacket. It was no great protection against the cold, but as he hung it up in the cupboard she began to shiver again. She had had bouts of that convulsive shivering all the way here in the car. He noticed it, frowning.
`You're cold. Come upstairs. I'll get the fire going.'
She followed him up pale carpeted stairs. When she got to the top she stopped in amazement.
`Oh,' she said, looking round.
It was a long room, running the length of the parade of shops below, she judged. For the moment the windows were hidden by great swaths of apricot brocade that fell from ceiling to floor, but clearly the place would be full of light during the day. The opposite wall, however, was the really startling thing. It was entirely covered by a stylised tiger picked out against a spare brushed landscape of bamboo and thin trees. And it was gold.
`I told you I didn't put my works of art in prison and forget about them,' Justin reminded her softly.
She gave him a sharp look. He met it blandly. He crossed the polished wooden floor to the grate at the far end of the room. He bent, and she heard a match strike, a whoosh, and there was a flickering fire.
`Phoney,' Justin said cheerfully, but warm. Come and toast your toes.'
She walked the length of the room very carefully. There was not much in it—a couple of large green and black urns, an eight-foot palm in a stone trough, a Chinese silk rug—but she suspected everything was unique.
Candy perched on the edge of the large cane chair he indicated. Justin dropped carelessly on to another rug in front of the flames. He looked alert and interested.
`I think you'd better explain.'
Candy frowned. 'Explain what? You proposed. I agreed. Who needs a post-mortem?'
He gave a soft laugh. 'This morning, as I recall, you were saying that you thought you'd never marry.'
`That was before you offered me your bargain.'
He leaned back and looked at her, a small smile curling his mouth. 'And you haven't even asked whether I'm going to keep my side of it,' he pointed out gently. 'So tell me.'
Candy swallowed. 'Tell you what?'
He made a large gesture. 'Everything. Why you're a rich girl who's scared of parties, a young girl who doesn't know a good burger when she tastes it, a bright girl who sits at home and sews a fine seam. And why I'm your way out.'
Candy stared at him The impulse that had got her here was beginning to waver. She looked at the clever, kind, unreadable face and her resolve disappeared. She felt tears well up.
Justin leaned forward and pressed a switch. The wall lights and the table lamp went out. They were left with just the flickering light of the fire.
The tears, released, began to tumble down her shadowed cheeks. Candy found a crisp white square pressed into her hands. It was Justin's handkerchief. She pressed her face into it. A smell of woodland rose faintly to her nostrils.
He did not try to touch her. He moved back, saying nothing.
When the paroxysm was over, Candy blew her nose. `Thank you,' she said.
He did not answer directly. Instead he told her, 'You really had better tell me what's going on.'
She bit her lip. He looked so self-contained. Now that her eyes had accustomed themselves to the shadows, she could see that the dark hair was a little disarranged, his eyes bright with amusement. The long-fingered hands were very beautiful, she noticed with a slight shock, beautiful and restless.
She pushed a hand through her tumbled hair.
`You must think I'm bei
ng a real pain. I don't know what came over me.'
`Then it was probably long overdue,' Justin said tranquilly. 'As for what I think of you—I'll pass, just for the moment. But what brought on the storm?'
Candy sighed deeply. `It's been a fraught thirty-six hours.'
`And how much of that was my fault?'
`A good question.' She blew her nose again. `So answer it.'
She shifted uncomfortably. `I—I'm not sure. In one way none of it was your fault. In another—it's all down to you.' The words sounded like an accusation. She said hurriedly, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean—'
`Oh, but I think you did.' He sounded quite unoffended. He looked at her frowningly. 'Candida, tell me—what would you have done, if I hadn't asked you to marry me?'
`Done?'
He made an impatient gesture. 'Now. Because you've
been brewing up for some sort of crisis, haven't you?' She almost gasped. 'How did you know that?'
`My dear girl, you were simmering with it last night.
It was evident. You were like a flame about to go up.' She was surprised and not entirely pleased.
`You're very observant.'
`And very discriminating,' Justin murmured. There was a smile in his voice.
Candy didn't understand him But she was not going to say so. She was beginning to realise how little she knew about him.
`Well, I didn't feel like a flame,' she said ruefully. 'I was trying to nerve myself to tell my parents—'
He sat up straighter. 'Yes? Flying the nest at last?'
She gave a choke of laughter at the unexpectedly tart question. 'You sound like Gran Neilson. That's the sort of thing she was always saying. Well, telling me to do, really.'
`She sounds excellent,' said Justin drily. 'But why did you have to nerve yourself? They couldn't have expected you to stay home forever. What did you want to do? Hit the Samarkand trail with the wrong guy?'
Candy gave another watery chuckle. She was beginning to feel better under this bracing approach. `No, I'm not much of an adventurer, I'm afraid.' `Not even with boyfriends?'
The question hung in the air for too long. Candy swallowed hard. 'Particularly not with boyfriends,' she said in a low voice.
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