by Anne Mather
‘Sara!’
The male voice was faintly familiar, and she struggled to identify it. One of Vicki’s friends, she decided. Since her friend had become engaged to a French aristocrat, there had been several calls from erstwhile boy-friends wanting to know what was going on.
‘Yes,’ she said now. ‘Who’s that? I’m afraid Vicki’s not in at the moment.’
‘I don’t want to speak to Vicki. I want to speak to you.’ The man sounded impatient now. ‘This is Tony Korda, Sara. Surely you remember me!’
How could she forget? She took a steadying breath before replying. ‘Oh—Mr Korda,’ she said composedly. ‘Er—of course I remember you. I expect you’re wondering why I haven’t been in touch with you since I got back. Well, things have been rather hectic here, what with Vicki’s engagement, and my looking for another job—’
‘That wasn’t why I rang.’ Tony’s terse words broke into her nervous babbling. ‘I want to see you, Sara. Is there any chance that you could have dinner with me this evening?’
‘Dinner!’ The word was almost squeak, and Sara tried to recover her equilibrium. But to have dinner with Lincoln’s brother was the last thing she wanted to do, and it was difficult to sound indifferent when her heart was palpitating so badly. ‘I—er—I’m afraid——’
‘It is important, Sara,’ he interrupted her again. ‘Look, I know Vicki’s in Paris at the moment. If you won’t have dinner with me, couldn’t I at least come round and see you for half an hour?’
‘Come round?’ Sara knew she was repeating herself, but it was such a shock to hear from him.
‘Yes.’ Tony was determined. ‘I think you ought to know, there’s been a—hitch in Jeff’s recovery. I’d like to talk to you about it. What do you say?’
She put a confused hand to her head. ‘What kind of a hitch?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Can I come round?’
In the thirty minutes Tony said it would take to get from his studio to the flat, Sara made a few improvements to the living room. It was days since she had dusted or vacuumed, but she was suddenly glad to have something with which to fill her time, and when Tony rang the bell downstairs, she was reasonably pleased with her efforts. She checked her own appearance after speaking to him on the intercom, and while he came upstairs, she restored her hair to a semblance of its usual neatness. The narrow skirt and sweater she had worn to her interviews was plain, but attractive, and only the hollows beneath her eyes betrayed a certain fragility she could not disguise.
‘Sara!’ Tony exclaimed, when she opened the door to his knock. ‘How good of you to see me.’
Sara could have said that he hadn’t given her much choice, but instead she made a deprecating gesture and offered him a drink. ‘I’m afraid it has to be sherry,’ she appended ruefully. ‘We don’t appear to have anything else. Do you mind?’
‘Sherry’s fine,’ Tony assured her, and eschewing her offer of a seat on the couch, he perched rather restlessly on the arm.
Sara, pouring their drinks with a somewhat unsteady hand, noticed that he looked tired, too. The tinted brown hair was showing definite signs of grey, and there was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth which she was sure had not been there before.
Handing him his drink, she said: ‘What’s the matter with Jeff? Please—tell me! We write to one another, you know, and in his last letter he sounded so optimistic. I thought everything was going so well.’
Tony took a sip of the sherry, then he said flatly: ‘It is. Jeff’s fine.’
Sara blinked. ‘What did you——?’
‘I said Jeff’s fine,’ he said swiftly. ‘It’s Link I want to talk about, but I guessed if I told you that, you wouldn’t agree to see me.’
Sara’s legs were suddenly not strong enough to support her. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she whispered, and then sank down weakly on to the edge of the couch.
‘I said——’
‘I heard what you said,’ she exclaimed tremulously. ‘Tony, if this is some joke——’
‘Joke!’ he snorted. ‘I wish it were!’
Sara shook her head. ‘What can you possibly want to tell me about—about your brother?’
He regarded her steadily. ‘That he’s ill! That he won’t see a doctor! That I’m worried sick about him!’
She blanched. ‘Ill? How ill? What’s wrong with him?’
Tony sighed. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me that.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. According to Jeff, you’re the only one who might know.’
Sara gulped. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Is it?’
‘Of course. I—your brother’s illness is as much a shock to me as it is to you.’
Tony hesitated. ‘And you can think of no reason why he should be drinking himself to death, hmm?’
‘Drinking himself to death!’ She caught her breath. ‘You’re not serious!’
‘Oh, I am.’ Tony was frighteningly solemn. ‘Again, according to Jeff, it all began when you walked out on him. Don’t you think that’s a coincidence?’
She gasped. ‘I—I didn’t walk out.’ She shook her head. ‘As you’ve just said, Jeff was going to California. My job—such as it was—was over. I—I just came home, that’s all.’
Tony studied the liquid in his glass. ‘As I understand it, Link asked you to stay. To go to New York with him.’
Sara stiffened. ‘Did Jeff tell you that, too?’
‘He offered you a job, didn’t he?’
‘Why ask me? You seem to know all the answers.’
‘And you refused it. Even though, as you’ve just told me on the phone, you’re still looking for employment.’
She straightened her spine. ‘That’s my affair.’
‘Hmm.’ Tony was thoughtful. ‘And it didn’t occur to you that that was a strange thing for Link to do?’
‘What?’ Sara was bewildered.
‘To offer you a job.’ He hesitated, then went on: ‘Forgive me, Sara, but you’re not exactly executive material. I mean, all right, you can type and do general office duties, but you’re not the kind of career female Link would normally employ. Believe me, his staff are hand-chosen, graduates all of them, with the kind of academic background he himself has. You—well, your talents lay in an entirely different direction, didn’t they? Until—until fate intervened.’
Her face burned. ‘That’s true, of course, but——’
‘I’m not belittling your efforts, Sara, honestly. The work you did with Jeff was nothing short of miraculous. He appreciates that—we all do. But Link’s offer—that was something else.’
She trembled. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The fact remains, Link is sick. Are you going to take the chance that you might be the only person who can help him?’
‘That’s not fair!’
Tony regarded her shrewdly. ‘But you do care about him, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘You know, when Jeff first put the idea to me, I thought he had to be wrong. Now—now, I can see he was a lot more perceptive than I gave him credit for. For God’s sake, why did you leave him?’
Sara got abruptly to her feet. ‘What do you expect me to do?’
He hesitated. ‘Go and see him.’
‘Jeff ?’
‘Link,’ he said laconically. ‘Don’t play games, Sara. This is too serious.’
‘But what if you’re wrong?’ she persisted. ‘What if it’s someone else?’ She paused. ‘Rebecca, for example.’
‘The Steinbeck girl? Don’t be foolish. Link’s had plenty of opportunities to marry her. For God’s sake, it was what the old man wanted. But it wasn’t what he wanted.’
‘And Michelle?’
‘Michelle means nothing to him. I could have told you that three months ago.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘Perhaps because I didn’t want you to get hurt,’ said Tony drily. ‘How was I to know that my hitherto sensible brother might possibl
y be attracted to a girl young enough to be his own daughter?’
Sara’s flight landed in New York in the early afternoon, local time. It was an afternoon at the beginning of February, and New York was as cold and damp as it can be at that time of year. A chill mist hung over the river, and along the sidewalks, ice glinted on frozen pools. Even the tugs’ sirens had a mournful air, and to Sara, who had never visited the city before, the gloominess of the day only accentuated her mood. She felt decidedly apprehensive when she emerged from the arrivals hall and summoned a taxi.
Tony had told her she would find Link at his apartment, but Sara had insisted on checking into a hotel before going to see him. After all, he might refuse to speak to her, and she had no intention of standing in some strange foyer with her suitcase only to be turned away by a smug commissionaire.
Lincoln had apparently not been into his office for days, but, with her luck, Sara thought he might well have changed his mind today. She had decided to phone his apartment before actually visiting the building. It was all very well for Tony—and Jeff—to say confidently that Lincoln would want to see her. But they wouldn’t have to face the humiliation if somehow they were wrong.
As they crossed the river, the imposing skyscrapers of Manhattan briefly claimed her interest. The familiar skyline, seen in dozens of films and television programmes, was just as impressive as she had expected. But her attention span was short, and aside from speculating how many floors above the street level Lincoln’s apartment might be, her thoughts soon returned to the reason she was here.
What if Lincoln wasn’t at his apartment? What if he wasn’t even in New York? How far was she prepared to go to see him? And what was she going to say to him when she did?
Tony had arranged for her to stay at the hotel he generally used when he was in New York. The Pierre wasn’t far from Lincoln’s apartment, and a uniformed bell-boy showed her into a pleasant room that overlooked the park.
‘Is that Central Park?’ Sara asked him, looking down on the tops of trees, bare now of all their greenery, and the young man nodded.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘And over there, that’s where they have outdoor concerts in the summer time. You staying that long, Miss Fielding? Or is this just a business trip?’
She smiled. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she murmured, sorting through her dollar bills to give him a tip. ‘There you are. And thank you.’
‘Thank you, Miss Fielding,’ he responded happily, slipping the bills into his pocket. ‘Now, you have a nice day, you hear? And anything you want, you just ask for me.’
After he had gone, Sara returned to the window, but the scene outside no longer had any appeal. Behind her, the telephone was waiting, and without giving herself time to have second thoughts, she crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
The phone seemed to ring for a long time before it was answered, and when the connection was made she was on the point of ringing off. But she hung on as a familiar voice gave the number, and she realised with a panicky sense of alarm that Lincoln himself was at the other end of the line.
‘Hello,’ he said, when there was no immediate response to his pronouncement. ‘Can you hear me?’ And she realised, with uneasy conviction, that he didn’t sound at all as if he’d been drinking.
She had to answer. Either that or ring off and accept that she was too cowardly to go through with it. In which case, she had flown over three thousand miles for nothing, and wasted the fare Tony had insisted on financing.
‘Lincoln?’ she said, in a thready voice, and then more firmly: ‘Link? It’s me, Sara. How are you?’
The silence that met this announcement was even more nerve-racking than the first. She had committed herself now, and there was no way she could back out without making some explanation. He would know she was in New York. There had been no time lapse on their conversation, and there was none of the singing on the line that sometimes characterised transatlantic calls. She couldn’t even pretend she was calling from England, and just at that moment, she wished desperately that that was where she was.
‘Sara,’ he said at last, and she breathed an uneasy sigh for the detachment of his tone. ‘This is an unexpected—surprise.’
She noticed he didn’t say pleasure, but what could she expect? After all, he had no way of knowing why she was here. She could, conceivably, be on holiday—at this time of the year?—or accompanying an employer, she argued with herself.
‘Do you—er—do you mind me calling?’ she ventured weakly, then chided herself for her chicken-heartedness. What possible response could he make to a question like that? She should have asked if she could see him, she told herself impatiently. She had to be positive, or she was going to get nowhere.
‘What I’m wondering is how you got this number,’ replied Lincoln after a moment. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me that.’
Sara nervously cleared her throat. ‘I—well, I could have got it from your office,’ she demurred.
‘I think not.’ He was disturbingly grim. ‘My office does not give my private number to anyone without my consent, and I am quite certain I did not authorise you that privilege. So—I must assume Antony is responsible. I don’t think even Jeff would trespass upon my privacy.’
She felt as if he had struck her. ‘All right,’ she said, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘So what if Tony did give me the number? I’m here in New York to see you. I could have just come to your apartment without warning you first.’
He took a swift intake of air, then said: ‘Do you imagine it’s as simple as that? Sara, this is New York, not Leamington! We have security guards here.’
‘I know that.’ In truth, Tony had told her she would have to check in with the commissionaire first. She paused. ‘Does that mean you would have refused to see me?’
There was another ominous silence, then he said wearily: ‘What are you doing here, Sara? Who sent you? Don’t tell me you just decided to surprise me, because frankly I won’t believe you.’
‘Why?’ She had to force herself to go on. ‘Why shouldn’t I want to see you? I thought we were—friends. At least, that was my impression when you offered me a job.’
‘The job’s filled,’ said Lincoln flatly, and Sara had to grab hold of the back of a chair to support herself. ‘I’m sorry. If that’s why you came, you’ve had a wasted journey. Give Antony my regards when you get back to London.’
‘Wait!’ She caught her breath. ‘You’re not going to see me?’
‘What would be the point?’
She quivered. ‘Don’t you—want to see me?’
‘No, damn you!’ snarled Lincoln thickly, and her ear rang as the connection was heavily severed.
She looked at the phone for several seconds after replacing the receiver, as if half expecting it might ring. But of course, it didn’t. Apart from anything else, Lincoln didn’t know where she was. And Tony had said he would wait until she contacted him. She could do that now, she reflected bitterly. She could even take the evening flight home, if she chose to do so. But no, she decided, after a moment’s consideration. She was too tired to go through the hassle of cancelling her hotel room and getting an alternative booking on the plane. For tonight, she would pretend that she and Lincoln were lovers, and at least the half mile or so between them was infinitely cosier than three and a half thousand miles.
With that decision made, she unlocked her suitcase and took out her toilet bag. Then, discovering the shower in the adjoining bathroom, she stripped off her clothes and turned on the jets. A fresh start was what she needed, she told herself firmly, and for the present she closed her mind to the emptiness of tomorrow.
She was tempted just to slip into her nightdress and dressing gown after her shower. With a towel tied sarongwise about her body, she sat at the vanity table brushing her hair. But the idea of her own company tonight of all nights was not appealing, and persuading herself that this might be the one and only chance she had to dine in New York, she det
erminedly put the temptation of room service aside.
Instead, she made a booking in the downstairs restaurant, and rummaging in her suitcase, came out with the simple black jersey gown she had brought for just such an occasion. Only she had thought she might be dining with Lincoln, she reflected painfully, before once again banishing such thoughts to the realms of her subconscious.
Her booking was for half-past seven, and in spite of the lateness of the hour in London, she felt artificially energised as she took the lift down for dinner. It was as if the things Lincoln had said to her had destroyed any chance that she might sleep tonight, and she didn’t feel the least bit tired as she took her solitary seat.
The restaurant was elegant and discreetly lit, but she noticed she was the only person dining alone. She guessed the waiters were curious to know who she was and whether there was some exciting reason for her to be visiting New York at this time. If they only knew, she mused, before the hateful thought could be suppressed, and she deliberately ordered a gin and tonic to numb the edge of her humiliation.
The alcohol was soothing, and she emptied her glass while she studied the menu. The giant shrimps sounded interesting, and she decided to start with them. Then an entrecote steak, served with mushrooms, and a bottle of Californian wine, just to be cosmopolitan.
The waiter took her order, and Sara turned her attention to her fellow diners. They were couples, mostly. Evidently, the Pierre catered to a business clientele, for there was a predominance of men in the room. But when her innocent gaze encountered a less-than-innocent response, she hastily transferred her interest to the appointments of the table in front of her.
The shrimps were delicious, but her appetite did not do them justice. Likewise, the steak was returned to the kitchens half eaten, and she only managed one glass of the rich claret before her stomach revolted.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised to the head waiter, when he came to assure himself that she was not dissatisfied with the service. ‘It must be jet lag,’ she added, folding her napkin and getting to her feet. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with the food.’
