Rachel Lindsay - Love and Lucy Granger

by Rachel Lindsay

  He tapped one of the prints with his hand and she bent to examine it more closely. It showed a street in Mayfair: a famous one that housed a well-known couturier and expensive antique shops. With a start she realized it was the street where the dealer who had bought the jade was situated. She drew back, her heart pounding.

  ' Look closer,' he ordered.

  'What for?' she said bitterly. 'Will I see the vase in the window?'

  All the same she did as he asked, noting a Rolls-Royce and a Morris Minor parked to the left and an elderly woman with a poodle walking along the pavement on the right. She lifted her head. ' I've looked, but I can't see anything special.'

  ' Look again,' he said, and pointed to the entrance of the shop.

  Once more Lucy bent her head and saw that the figure of a woman was emerging from the door of the antique shop.

  ' This picture was taken on the same day that the jade was sold,' Barry added.

  ' I still don't see what that proves.'

  ' You will in a minute.' He reached behind him and handed her another print. ' This is the same picture enlarged three times. It gives a clearer view of the woman. It's a bit blurred, but there's no doubt that the coat she's wearing is chinchilla.'

  Lucy caught her breath. ' What are you trying to say?'

  ' That by a fluke I happened to photograph the street not only on the same day that Paul's jade was sold to Drymans, but also at the exact hour that a woman wearing a chinchilla coat came out of the shop.' He dropped the print on the table and caught her by the shoulders. ' Don't you see what this means, Lucy? If I can enlarge this print even more we might be able to make out the woman's face.'

  It took a moment for the meaning of his words to penetrate, then Lucy gave an exclamation of joy. ' Oh, Barry, if only you could!'

  ' It'll depend whether or not she was moving her head at the time I shot her. If she was, then her face will only show up as a blur.'

  ' How soon will we know?'

  ' In a couple of minutes. I'm going back into the darkroom to find out.'

  He disappeared through a door and Lucy prowled restlessly round the studio. The time dragged by with maddening slowness and she had almost reached screaming point when Barry reappeared, a print still wet from the developing fluid in his hand.

  He put it on the table and together they bent over it. Lucy knew a sickening sense of disappointment. There was no doubt now that the coat was chinchilla and the styling identical with her own, but the face of the woman was almost hidden by dark glasses and it was impossible to recognize her.

  ' Oh, Barry!' Lucy choked and turned away. ' It's hopeless. It could be me or anyone else.'

  ' I'm not so sure,' Barry said, and there was something in his voice that made her turn sharply. He was bent over the picture again, scrutinizing every detail of the blow-up through a magnifying glass.

  ' Come and take a look at the legs,' he said slowly.

  Lucy did so. They were slim and shapely, and she did not know what Barry meant.

  ' Look through the magnifying glass,' he said, and handed it to her.

  Lucy peered through it and her breath caught in her throat. Clearly beneath the stockings there was the outline of an ugly scar, a scar she had seen before…

  ' Beryl Phillips!' she gasped, and turned to look at Barry. ' I never thought of Murray's sister I'

  ' She was the obvious suspect!'

  Lucy shook her head. ' Beryl isn't the sort of woman you'd associate with a chinchilla coat.'

  ' Not a coat, Lucy, your coat.'

  She nodded, following his thought. How stupid she had been never to have suspected this. Nothing could have been easier than for Murray, who had the run of Charters and who spent hours alone in the room that Paul had given him as a studio, to have taken the coat from her bedroom and replaced it again without its absence being noticed.

  ' It's so obvious,' Barry went on. ' The moment Murray knew Cindy had no money of her own, he must have started to plan this. There's no doubt he intended to make you the scapegoat from the very beginning. He had his eye on the jade, he was probably able to find out from Cindy where Paid kept the key and then when you and Paid were both away it was a simple matter for him to get the jade, borrow your coat and give it to Beryl.'

  ' How honible,' Lucy shivered, and the happiness she felt at knowing her name could be cleared was dimmed by the knowledge that in doing so she would ruin Cindy's life. ' Poor Cindy, it will break her heart.'

  ' She's young enough to get over it,' Barry said bluntly. ' You're the one I'm concerned with. I'm going to show this photograph to Paul.'

  ' It won't change anything.'

  'Why not? He still loves you.'

  'Maybe, but even if he begged me, I'd never go back to him.'

  ' Paul would never beg anyone.'

  ' That's true,' she said drily. ' The most I'd get from him would be a stiff little apology as if a regrettable mistake had been made in the Minutes of an Annual General Meeting report of one of his companies!' Her voice cracked and she fumbled for her handkerchief. ' I don't want his apologies now. I wanted his faith in me.'

  ' All right then, so you and Paul won't get together. But that still doesn't stop me from showing him this photograph. Knowing Paul, he'll fly to Tangiers at once. If anything will bring Cindy to her senses this should.'

  Barry pulled Lucy round to face him. ' Don't worry about Cindy. Murray's not only a rotter, he's a, crook. He's already proved he won't stop at anything to get what he wants, and heaven knows what he might do the next time he's up against it. The sooner Cindy realizes the sort of man he is, the better.'

  ' What makes you so sure Paul will go after her? I thought you said he won't even have her name mentioned.'

  'Cindy living with a malicious-minded scoundrel is one thing, but this photograph shows he's a good deal worse. He's got money now from the sale of the vase, but I bet he'll have blown the lot in a few years, and when he needs more money there's no telling what he'll do.'

  'Then you'd better show Paul the photograph at once,' she said breathlessly.

  ' I'll go straight to the City. I'll be in touch with you later.'

  She did not contradict him, though she had already made up her mind not to let this happen. The last thing she could endure was the thought of Paul attempting a reconciliation. If he had really loved her he would not have needed proof of her innocence before coming in search of her. No happiness could be built on a foundation that did not have faith as an integral part of it, and she was convinced that in running away again she was doing the only thing possible.

  As soon as Barry left she returned to her bed-sitting- room, packed her bags, paid a week's notice and booked in at a small Bloomsbury hotel. Then she telephoned the manager at the shop and explained that because of her aunt's illness she would not be able to return.

  Throughout the night Lucy tossed restlessly, wondering what would have happened if she had remained where she was and Paul had found her. But as dawn broke she pushed the betraying thought away and as soon as she had breakfasted she paid her bill and left the hotel. If she remained in this part of London there was a chance she might bump into Barry again, so she made her way south of the river to a hostel where Meg had once stayed.

  Within a few days she got a job serving in a coffee bar, and was so busy handing out capuccinos and heaped plates of spaghetti that she had no time to think. It was much harder work than serving in the bookshop, but the atmosphere was lively and she learned to laugh again with her lips, albeit her eyes retained their sadness.

  Although she tried to live in the present, the newspapers made it impossible for her to forget Paul entirely, and it was from an evening paper that she learned he had gone to Tangiers, ostensibly on a business trip. Later, in the same paper, she saw a small headline saying he and his sister had returned from a Moroccan holiday which they had spent with an artist friend and his sister. She could not help smiling bitterly at this description of Beryl and Murray Phillips, and from the
depths of her apathy spared a thought for Cindy. Was she still the same exuberant creature, Lucy thought, or had her bitter experience reduced her to the same level of uncaring as herself?

  * * *

  Knowing Cindy was safely in England seemed to bring Lucy's relationship with the Harlow family back to full circle, and in the next few months there were whole days when she was able to stop thinking of them. She was tempted to return to Bloomsbury, but decided to wait till Meg came back from America and they would be able to live together in their old flat. Surely it would be safe enough then to pick up the threads of her old life ? After all this time surely Paul must have given up all thought of finding her? Yet remembering his thoroughness and tenacity, the way he hated to be defeated in anything he undertook, she was still not sure that he had stopped searching for her. A man with Paul's conscience would not rest till he had made the necessary apology. But no apology would be able to make up for his earlier doubts, and though it might have eased his conscience to have proffered them, she was too bitter towards him to let this happen.

  Indeed, bitterness was the only emotion she felt—all other emotions seemed to have been drained from her —and though she occasionally went out with one of the girls working in the coffee bar, she felt all the time that only her shadow was living and that she herself—the very essence of her—remained aloof. One day perhaps the two halves might come together again and then she would be a whole woman, able not merely to laugh with her lips, but with her heart as well.

  An unexpected news picture of Paul with a laughing Sandra Pearce by his side gave the lie to her hopes, for the sight of him with Sandra awakened such a storm of jealousy that the tray she was holding crashed to the ground and coffee, cakes and soup splashed on the floor in ugly confusion.

  It had not taken Paul long to return to his old love, she thought bitterly as she cleared the mess and threw the broken crockery into the dustbin. But why, of all the women he could have had, had he chosen to return to one whom he had professed not to care about any more? Or had he perhaps found it easier to pick up old threads rather than spin new ones?

  A few days later there was another picture of Paul taken with a group of people. Sandra was again prominent, clinging to his arm, and they were smiling tenderly at each other. No need to wonder any more if Paul was still looking for her. The sight of his picture indicated that although she was trying to forget the past, Paul had already forgotten it!

  She wondered whether he would marry Sandra and thought cynically that they would be worthy of each other: a man who did not know the meaning of love and a woman for whom love had only one meaning!

  She wrote something of what she felt to Meg, and her friend's reply—when it came—was so unexpected that it gave her a shock.

  ' Sandra Pearson is not the only woman for whom love has just got one meaning,' Meg wrote. ' It's got one meaning for you too! A different meaning from Sandra's, of course, but an equally rigid one none the less. To you, love means Paul, and you won't believe that in a few years' time, maybe even less, love could mean another man entirely. You're determined to live the rest of your life mourning for the might-have-been, and honestly, Lucy, you'll end up bored and boring! If you're determined that you'll never forgive Paul for thinking you were a thief, then face the fact that he's in the past and concentrate on the future. But for heaven's sake, stop wallowing mawkishly in the past. In the words of one of our illustrious countrymen: " what's done cannot be undone ". Face that fact and start living again.'

  Angrily Lucy tore up the letter and flung it away. But it was not so easy to forget the contents and they burned in her mind like the searing brand mark on a calf, making her analyse her behaviour of the past few months and finally bringing her to the realization that Meg was right. She was wasting her life. Even though she believed she would never love any man again, the way she had loved Paul, she had no right to abdicate the years that remained to her.

  It was an easier decision to reach than to implement. The habit of spending all her free lime alone in her bed-sitting-room was too ingrained to be easily overcome and the first evening that she decided to go to the cinema was a mixture of unease and increased loneliness. But it had to be faced. She could no longer continue hiding. Like a swimmer taking the plunge on Christmas morning, she dashed into activity head first: theatres, cinemas, museums, galleries. Every free hour of her time was defiantly occupied, but defiantly her emotions remained untouched and there were many times when she felt like the Ice Maiden, aloof and suspended from human contact.

  The urge to give up the effort of reshaping her life was so strong that she almost succumbed to it, and was only prevented from doing so by the advent of a gala opera season at Covent Garden. Music was the only form of emotion that could touch her, the one place where she could forget her own sadness in the melodious sorrows of the heroines of Mozart, Verdi and Puccini. Ironically, the memory of a conversation she had once had with Cindy came back to haunt her as she queued for a ticket in the gods. They had sat chatting late into the night in front of the library fire at Charters, and had finally got on to the subject of music.

  'You mean you really enjoy opera?' Cindy had exclaimed. ' I've always thought of it as a social thing —like going to Ascot.'

  ' It might be social to the people in the Grand Tier,' Lucy had replied, ' but it isn't to those who queue up for the gods. I've sometimes stood for six hours in order to get a seat.'

  ' In the gods?' Cindy opened her eyes wide. ' But it's miles from the stage!'

  'I couldn't afford to get closer! Anyway, I don't have to see it. It's hearing it that counts.'

  Cindy had giggled. ' The next time you hear it, it'll be in a plushy gilt box with you swathed in sable!'

  But there wasn't anything to remind Lucy of sable as she finally climbed the winding stone stairs of the gallery entrance and took her place between a dark, shaggy-haired girl in jeans and sweater and a timid mouse of a man in a shiny serge suit and bow tie. Strange to think that had it not been for Murray she might—just about now—be putting the finishing touches to an elaborate toilet in the bedroom of Paul's town house. She saw herself turning from her glittering, diamond reflection in the mirror to look at Paul, immaculate in dinner jacket. Slowly he came towards her and kissed her mouth, his fingers trembling as he arranged the fur-lined cloak about her shoulders and led her to the waiting car which sped them through the frosty streets to the glowing entrance of the opera house. The crowds of fashionably dressed people melted away around her and with Paul at her side she floated up the red-carpeted staircase to take her place in their box. The house-lights dimmed, the conductor raised his baton and the first notes of the overture crashed out.

  With an angry shake of her head Lucy threw off the absurd daydream and, ashamed of her own weakness, forced her attention back to the orchestra which indeed was just launching into the overture. A St Laurent dress and diamonds meant nothing unless they were given by the right man. And with the right man, such outward manifestations of wealth were unnecessary. An abundance of love was the only wealth worth having: and if love were riches, then she was certainly a pauper. Not until the overture ceased and curtains parted to disclose the dark stage and distant outlines of a mansion was she able to concentrate fully on the performance, and gradually the beauty of the music seeped through her, softening the bitter edges of memory and enabling her to enjoy the glorious burgeoning of sound that led to the heartbreaking beauty of Donna Anna's aria. It was only as the last notes died away that Lucy had the uneasy sensation of someone watching her, and she glanced quickly round to the nearest exit. In the dimness, she was aware of a man standing in the doorway, but he was too far away to be recognizable. Even as she watched him, he stepped to one side and disappeared, and she turned her head back to the stage. But the action in front of her seemed to move in a region outside her consciousness. Instead of Don Giovanni she saw Paul, and the beating of her heart was so loud in her ears that it drowned the sound of the music.

&nb
sp; The first act curtain fell to tumultuous applause and as the house-lights sprang up Lucy forced herself to look at the exit again. The man had vanished and with a sigh of relief she stood up and slowly followed the crowd outside for a breath of cool air.

  It was stupid to have let nerves get the better of her. As if Paul would listen to an opera from a seat in the gallery! She was crazy to think she had seen him. If she didn't take hold of herself she would start imagining he was behind her every time she went out.

  The sudden pressure of a hand on her shoulder turned her body to stone, and as she remained motionless a figure stepped between her and freedom. So it had not been imagination after all…

  Slowly she forced her eyes up, and in the harsh glare of bare lamps looked into the ashen face of Paul Harlow.

  ' So I've finally found you,' he said. ' Let's get out of here.'

  'No!' She made to move back, but his fingers tightened their hold. ' Let me go, Paul. I've nothing to say to you.'

  ' But I've plenty to say to you. Are you coming of your own accord or must I carry you?'

  Her longing to yield to him clashed with her anger at his attitude. ' You're not in your board-room now! I don't have to take your orders. If you don't let me go, I'll scream !'

  His fingers slowly relaxed their hold and she hastily stepped back and ran inside. She did not need to turn her head to be aware of his slow retreat down the stairs, and though she longed to hurry after him, pride would not let her.

  Lucy was oblivious to the rest of the opera. She did not hear one single note of music, for the word ' Paul' sounded louder and louder in her head until she thought it would burst. As the red velvet curtains rose for the last act, she knew she could not sit through another moment of this make-believe tragedy, and with a muttered apology got to her feet and stumbled along the packed rows towards the exit.

  At the entrance a sharp wind bit into her. She shivered and turning up her coat collar set off along the street. As she did so a dark figure stepped quietly out of the shadows and barred her way. ' It won't do you any good to scream now,' Paul said. She closed her eyes. If only she had had the sense to make her way through the theatre to another exit! But then how could she have guessed that having dismissed him, she would find him waiting like a supplicant outside the gallery entrance?