No Provocation

by Weston, Sophie

  Forgetting her own companion, Candy strained her ears.

  `I need you to understand.' Lizbeth's voice rose in her agitation. 'Please understand, Justin.'

  He looked worried. He murmured something, leaning towards her. Evidently Lizbeth didn't find it soothing.

  `I can't go on like this.' Her voice spiralled. 'I don't care what you say. I can't.'

  It hit Candy like a blow in the stomach. Her head went back. She made to rise, to go over to their table,

  when Lizbeth's next announcement pinned her to her seat.

  `Nothing must hurt her,' Lizbeth hissed. 'She's so frail. She's so vulnerable. What about me? Don't I count? Doesn't it matter if I get hurt?'

  Justin took her hands and held them between his own on the table. It was a tender gesture. He seemed to be trying to reassure her. But Lizbeth shook her head and glared at him

  `You're all the same. You think a career woman is cast iron. We can take anything you hand out. It's not fair.'

  She sounded fierce. But Candy could see the tears in her eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LIZBETH could just have been confiding her problems in an old friend, of course. Candy told herself that over and again throughout the rest of the day.

  But she could not forget the look on her mother's face. Judith Neilson was an expert on two-timing husbands, and she had looked as if she had uncovered a disaster. She denied it, of course. She did not admit to having overheard any of that revealing conversation either. But she could hardly wait to pay the bill and leave.

  Candy went to the Centre and flung herself into filing and typing. Judith had protested mechanically at the decision, but had not really tried to dissuade her. She'd said she had a headache and was going home to nurse it. She'd certainly looked ill, Candy thought.

  Candy herself was trying to ignore an uneasy feeling that crisis was approaching. She did not even notice Dave's slight self-consciousness when he perched on the corner of her desk. And every time the telephone rang she jumped in case it was Justin. It never was.

  She went home eventually when there was nothing else to do and the evening group were beginning to arrive. She went reluctantly, negotiating the Underground in a sort of daze.

  Her preoccupation ended abruptly when she reached the flat. From the drawing-room, a solo violin was pouring passionate lamentation into the night. So Justin was home. Candy hesitated.

  She did not want to face him. There was too much between them: the astonishing, undisciplined passion of

  the night before, the morning's sophisticated indifference—and now that meeting with Lizbeth which she had so unwillingly witnessed.

  Candy squared her shoulders. There was something to be faced and nothing to be gained by putting it off. She went resolutely into the sitting-room.

  Justin was not sitting in the armchair as she had expected. She knew the pose so well, head tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed as he listened to the music. She had crept around him so often as he listened.

  But this time he was standing in front of the window. He had discarded his jacket. The dark waistcoat and slim trousers skimmed his lean length, making him look impossibly tall. He was looking out into the street. In his right hand he held a violin.

  Candy stopped dead, all her confused thoughts flying out of her head.

  `That was you?' she blurted out.

  Justin swung neatly round. His face was in shadow, but she had the feeling that he had slipped a mask into place.

  `Yes,' he said indifferently.

  She came further into the room. As she watched he bent and opened the violin case, putting the instrument away with care. Candy watched, fascinated by the deft movements. She remembered the way those long, sensitive fingers had touched her skin last night. A deep inner trembling began.

  She cleared her throat and said too loudly, 'I haven't heard you play before.'

  Justin gave her a quick, unreadable look. But all he said was, 'No, I've been neglecting it.'

  It was an excuse to talk about anything but last night. Candy seized it eagerly.

  `Have you always played the violin?'

  It sounded stupid, the sort of question a nervous schoolgirl asked a new acquaintance. To achieve the sound she had heard he must have been playing all his life. She bit her lip miserably.

  He watched her, eyes narrowed. But he answered icily, `From the age of three. My mother thought I ought to play an instrument as insurance.'

  `Insurance?' Candy echoed blankly.

  He shrugged. 'Where my mother came from there wasn't much in the way of education. Or job security, for that matter. Her view was that a man who can play the fiddle can always earn a crust somewhere.'

  `Where your mother came from?'

  He looked at her levelly. 'She's Magda Steinitz. The opera singer. Didn't you know?'

  Candy was chilled. Here was further evidence, if she needed it, of how little she knew about him

  `No,' she said with constraint. 'When you took me to meet your aunt, I sort of assumed that you were an orphan.'

  Justin laughed. 'Oh, Magda's alive all right. You'll meet her one day.'

  `You didn't want her at the wedding?' Candy asked with an effort, trying to banish the hurt from her voice.

  `She's not that sort of mother.' He hesitated. 'She has a very demanding career. They book themselves up years in advance. She and my father broke up when I was a child. Long before I came to live in England. I hardly saw her. We're quite good friends but ...' he shrugged again you can't pretend an intimacy that isn't there.'

  It sounded amazingly cold. Candy clasped her arms round herself.

  `Your father?' she asked after a moment.

  `He was a philosopher so he was bit of a wanderer too. He taught at various universities in Europe and the States. He died. In the end he was worn out, I think.'

  The handsome face was grim with memories. Suddenly he didn't look cold so much as hurt.

  She asked, 'Was he trying to keep up with her?'

  His mouth twisted into a hard line. 'With Magda? Maybe. He never accepted that she'd really gone. He was always getting ready for her to come back.'

  Candy had a quick vision of the boy trying to make his clever, obsessive father realise that the idolised mother wasn't going to return.

  She said gently, 'It wasn't your fault'

  Justin sent her an impatient look. 'Of course not. Any more than your parents' problems are yours. That doesn't stop you running round after your mother, does it?'

  Candy winced. It wasn't so far from what she'd thought herself more than once. That didn't make it any more acceptable from Justin.

  She said coldly, 'She needs me.'

  He was unabashed. 'Perhaps. What of other people's needs? Or even your own?'

  For no reason at all, her hands began to shake. She put them swiftly behind her back before he could see it and draw the wrong conclusions. After last night he would have some justification for believing that that deceptively soft note in his voice could make her shake. She searched his face. It was expressionless. As usual.

  `Shall we have a drink?' she asked, with a brightness that sounded horribly contrived even to her.

  She would not have blamed Justin if he had exploded at the falseness. But he did not. He ignored it.

  He said steadily, 'You aren't going to forgive, are you, Candy?'

  That threw her.

  `Forgive?'

  `My ungovernable lusts,' Justin explained with precision.

  `Oh .'

  It took her utterly by surprise. She could feel the hot colour flooding up under her fine skin. The consciousness of it made her blush harder. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, her eyes daring him to mock. But Justin's cool expression did not waver.

  There was another of those terrible silences. Candy fought for composure, for something—anything—to say that would take them back to a civilised exchange. But all she was aware of was the jumble of shameful emotions she had experienced se
eing him with Lizbeth—the deadly accuracy with which Justin had deduced that Dave had kissed her, the whole gamut of feeling she had experienced in his arms last night, her own realisation this morning that she loved him and wanted his love. Above all that she wanted his love. None of that was in the least civilised.

  She turned her burning face away.

  `I can't—talk about it.'

  He said something under his breath. She was not sure what. She tensed. And then the telephone began to ring.

  Candy jumped and made an instinctive move to answer it. Justin caught her hands.

  `Let it ring.' His voice was unexpectedly urgent. `Candy, you must see—this can't go on—I—damn, why doesn't the blasted machine answer?'

  `I forgot to set it,' she said, tearing herself away. 'It's my fault. I'm sorry. I must..:

  And she fled from him to the far end of the room, turning her back on his expression. The furious frustration that she had glimpsed had to be an illusion, she thought, answering the telephone at random.

  It was her mother. She sounded desperate. Candy listened with half an ear, aware of Justin's silent presence behind her. Candy kept her back firmly turned.

  `Your father's bought her a house in the country. This is the end,' Judith was saying. 'I simply can't bear any more.'

  It was a familiar refrain. But for once Candy did not feel responsible. She felt she had no room for feelings about anyone else at that moment. Ears stretched for Justin's every movement, she answered mechanically.

  `Oh, darling, he was unspeakable last night. You don't know how glad I am that you're married to Justin and out of it.'

  `Yes,' said Candy hollowly.

  Behind her there were small rustling movements as if Justin were picking up papers or—her throat dried—getting undressed.

  `I suppose you haven't seen him, today, Candy? I couldn't get him at the office, and from something that cat of a secretary said I thought he might be with you,' Judith was babbling.

  Candy was startled. 'Who, Mother? Justin?' The movements stopped.

  `Your father. Has he told you...?'

  `No.'

  Judith did not even attempt to disguise her disappointment.

  `Would you—I mean, do you think you can talk to him, darling? I mean—just find out what he's going to do. About the house and me and everything.'

  The door was being opened. Candy swung round. Justin stood there for a moment, watching her broodingly. He had resumed his jacket. His handsome face looked suddenly harsh, as if he were going into battle. Their eyes met. Something tugged at her heart and she reached a hand out to him. But he had already turned away.

  `Could you, darling? Please? I'll never ask again,' Judith said in her ear.

  The door closed behind him Involuntarily Candy stepped forward, then paused, looking at the telephone in frustration. In the distance, the front door closed with a thunk. It was like a coffin lid closing, she thought.

  On the other end of the telephone Judith was becoming hysterical.

  `Candy, you've got to help me. You've got to. He'll listen to you...'

  For the first time in her life, Candy withstood that appeal.

  Top has never listened to me in his life, Mother,' she said wearily. 'You know it as well as I do.'

  Taking the telephone with her, she went to the long window, pushing aside the heavy brocade curtain to see out into the street. From the entrance to the underground garage, the nose of Justin's Mercedes emerged.

  Candy flattened herself against the window, trying to catch his attention. But he did not look up. Or at least not until he was in the stream of traffic and waiting at the traffic-lights. And even then she could not be sure, though she thought the dark head turned back to look up at the windows.

  Even if he did, he would probably not have seen her, Candy knew. Certainly he would not have been able to make out her frantic gesturing, she thought wryly. Especially as she was not sure what she was trying to convey—other than to stop him from going, of course.

  In her ear, Judith had calmed a little.

  `What am I going to do?' she was wailing.

  Candy thought it was as much to herself as her daughter, but she answered anyway. It sounded harsh, but Candy had come to the end of the emotion she could spare on her mother's troubles.

  `Get yourself a lawyer and change the locks.'

  She put the phone down gently in the middle of Judith's exclamations.

  It was not surprising, in the circumstances, she thought, that her mind was not wholly on the soup run that night. She had spent a fruitless evening trying to find Justin, and then a horrible half-hour trying to compose a note to him that explained, apologised, opened negotiations for the future, and all without hinting at the shameful truth.

  Because there was no getting away from the fact that she was in love with him. Watching him drive away, Candy had felt a physical pain as if someone had plunged a hand into her breast and tried to haul the heart out of her. It had shocked her into gasping aloud. It was astonishing, she thought, that her mother had not heard it. But Judith was deaf to any troubles but her own, and the realisation was too new to Candy for her to tell anyone.

  By the time she got to the Centre she was very nearly sure that she would never see him again. With a superstitious shiver, she remembered the advice she had given her mother. Maybe the next communication she had with Justin would be from a lawyer. Nobody noticed her distraction, though. They were all too busy.

  `We're short-handed tonight,' Mel said over her shoulder. She was loading the catering packs of soup and coffee into the van. 'Dave's got an interview on Eveningtime. He forget to tell anyone.' She was carefully neutral.

  Candy said abstractedly, 'The TV programme?' Mel sent her a quick disbelieving look.

  `Yeah,' she drawled, reaching for another substantial carton. 'Hand that up here.'

  Candy complied mechanically.

  `Were they the people here the day before yesterday?' `Second cousins,' replied Mel cynically. 'Mr Tresilian is getting a lot of media attention this week.'

  Candy shrugged, indifferent.

  Mel paused in the loading and looked down at her out of the back of the van.

  `You all right, Candy?'

  Candy almost jumped. 'Of course,' she said in a strained voice. 'Why?'

  Mel hesitated. 'You seem—a bit quiet.'

  Candy shook her head. 'I've got things on my mind,' she said briefly. 'Nothing important. Let's get on with it.'

  Mel looked sceptical. But she said nothing more. And there was certainly plenty to do.

  Normally there were three of them on the van—one to drive and two to hand out the warm food. With Dave's unscheduled absence, there would only be two.

  `I'll have to drive,' Mel told her worriedly. 'You're not licensed for this thing. But who'll stay and mind the shop?

  `I don't think Candy ought to do it on her own,' said Robbie Mason firmly. 'Some odd characters wander in sometimes. It's no place for a girl on her own.'

  'Nor's the van,' objected Mel. 'Some of the clients can be pretty weird too.'

  Robbie looked perturbed. It was obvious he agreed with her. At last he said, 'It's safe enough with two of you as long as you don't leave the van.'

  It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

  Candy listened to the argument with blank indifference. All she could think of was the look of grim concentration on Justin's face as he drove off. He had looked as if he was going to the ends of the earth to get away from her.

  Mel and Robbie settled it between them. Mel slammed shut the doors of the van and twisted the keys sharply in the lock. Then she pulled on her gloves and climbed up into the cab, holding the passenger door open for Candy.

  `You sure you're all right?'

  `Perfectly.'

  `Not in any trouble?'

  `No.'

  Mel grimaced and turned on the ancient engine. 'Oh, well. Your funeral. You look pretty sick, though. Just throw up in the opposite direc
tion, OK?'

  Candy smiled faintly. 'I will.'

  The engine was too noisy for them to talk much as they drove through the city. And when they stopped they were too busy. Candy was grateful for that. Mel was a shrewd observer.

  As usual people were waiting for them: the old drunks, the young drop-outs, the disturbed, the lonely, the hurt. In handing out the warm soup and listening to their odd, dislocated conversation, Candy lost her sense of desolation for a while.

  One of the more disturbed ones was upset, muttering to himself about thieves. Candy could not make it out. `What's wrong with old Tozer?' she asked.

  `Picked up his social security. Had it taken off him,' one of the others said. 'Them two kids. Cheek.'

  And he jerked his head in the direction of the railway arches. The others nodded. They were sympathetic in their way, but they were used to unfairness.

  Candy felt all the pain and frustrations of the last weeks build and concentrate. She looked at the bewildered old man, mumbling into his polystyrene cup, and was swept by a fury of indignation.

  `Who are they?' she demanded.

  They looked at her blankly.

  `Couple of kids from the flats,' one volunteered. 'Seen them before. Not dossers.'

  `Are they still there?'

  `Suppose so,' they agreed. They were looking at each other uneasily.

  Mel was preparing food behind her. She did not appear to have heard the conversation.

  Candy said over her shoulder, 'You carry on here. There's something I want to sort out.'

  `What?' Mel looked up from the soup she was stirring.

  But Candy was already opening the doors of the van and swinging lightly down on to the pock-marked tarmac. Mel cried out in alarm. Candy ignored her.

  The clients didn't like it. They had not seen anyone get out of the van before, and it unsettled them. One or two drew back in alarm.

  Candy did not notice. Her eyes were set grimly on the shadowed arches. She ran down the cracked pavement. Her feet in their supple trainers made hardly any noise at all.