Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  "Joanna, this is -" the man looked at Nicola. "I don't know your name."

  "Nic -" She thought fast. "Nicky Rose."

  "Welcome to the Centre, Nicky," Joanna said, putting the tray on the desk. Her voice was as cool as the look in her hard brown eyes, though they grew warmer as they rested on the man. "I've brought you some supper too, Barnaby. You ate nothing tonight."

  "I was busy talking."

  "You should relax at meal times."

  "I can't. It's the only chance I get to see everybody here."

  The girl gave an angry sniff and walked out, and the man moved to the desk. "Will you eat over here, Nicky, or have it on your lap?"

  "I'll come over," she said, and doing so, stared in dismay at two mugs of cocoa and several thick slices of bread and butter and jam. "Is this what you're eating too?"

  "Of course. Why not?"

  "I thought you'd have something special - after all, you do run this place."

  "I don't think that would be fair," he smiled. "If I didn't have the same food I'd have to eat on my own."

  "Would that be so awful?"

  "I prefer to eat with everyone else. Then people can see me and talk to me any time they like."

  "It doesn't sound much of a life."

  "It's the one I chose."

  "Do you wear a hair shirt too ? "

  He chuckled and held out the plate of bread.

  Masking her distaste, she took a slice and forced herself to bite into it. She was unexpectedly hungry and remembered that her discovery of Jeffrey and Deborah had made her miss the buffet. It was hours since she had last eaten.

  "I'd give anything for a steak," she murmured, and bit back the rest of her words as she saw his expression.

  "I'm afraid we don't run to steak here," he said gently. "But I can promise you won't go hungry."

  Annoyed at her runaway tongue, she picked up the mug of cocoa. It was too strong and too sweet and after a couple of sips she set it back on the tray.

  The man did not seem to find his unpalatable and drained the cup to the last drop, looking at her half-full one admonishingly. "Drink it up, it's made with milk."

  "I hate milk."

  "It'll do you good."

  "I hate eating things because they'll do me good - and I hate people who want to do good!"

  "You must lead a pretty hateful life!"

  "On the contrary. There aren't that many do-gooders in the world! Most people only care about themselves."

  He moved back to stand in front of the fireplace, hands in the pockets of his trousers. "You're very cynical for a kid."

  "I'm twenty-one."

  "You look younger."

  "How old are you}" she demanded.

  He was surprised by her question, and she realised it must be unusual for a recipient of generosity to question the giver of it. But after a slight pause he answered her. "I'm thirty-three. Old and ancient to the likes of you."

  "I like older men," she said. "Marty's sixty and -"

  "Marty?" The sharp question made her realise that once again her tongue had run away with her.

  "A friend of mine," she said hastily. "I met him when I - at the last place I worked."

  "What did you do?"

  "I was a ladies' maid." She said the first thing that came into her mind, and was unprepared for his sudden shout of laughter.

  "You don't expect me to believe that!"

  "I don't see why not!" She tossed her head. "You need to be very skilful, you know. You have to sew clothes and do hair and make-up. I'm interested in things like that."

  "Why did you lose your job?"

  "What makes you think I lost it?"

  He caught his breath and began again. "Why did you leave your job, then?"

  Crossing her fingers, she said: "The girl I worked for was too - too bossy. She went to parties nearly every night and expected me to wait up for her. I rarely got to bed before three. I wouldn't have minded if she'd appreciated it, but she was spoiled and took everything for granted."

  "Most rich girls do!"

  "Do you know many?"

  "None."

  "I'm sure that's helped you to form an opinion."

  He glanced at her sharply, but she kept her expression artless and he relaxed. "What did you do after you left your job?" he asked.

  She paused, wondering what her own maid Maria would do in similar circumstances. Probably take the appreciable amount of money she had saved and return to find, a young man in Italy! But this was not the answer to give the man in front of her. Her eyes roamed the room and came to rest on the tray. "I was a waitress," she said brightly, "but it was terribly hard work."

  "You've been out of a job a long while, haven't you?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "From the way you're dressed. No one would go around like that if they could afford better."

  Her mouth twitched and she lowered her eyes quickly.

  "Don't cry," he said unexpectedly, and for the second time that evening put his hand on her shoulder. "I suggest you go to bed and get a good night's sleep. We can talk again in the morning and you can let me know if you'd like to stay on."

  "I am rather tired," she admitted, glad to end the catechism, and followed him out of the room to the hall.

  Looking at it with clearer eyes she saw that several rooms led off from each side, as well as a staircase going down to what was obviously a basement, and another leading up several floors to the bedrooms.

  Beckoning her forward, Barnaby Grayson went up to the first floor and along a linoleum-covered corridor to a room at the end. He knocked on the door and opened it, then stood aside for her to enter.

  Nicola did so and saw four beds, three of them occupied. A girl in one of them lifted her head and then with a grunt fell back against the pillow.

  Nicola stepped back into the corridor so hurriedly that she bumped against the man. "I'm not going to sleep in there!" she said vehemently.

  "Why not?"

  "Why not?" Words failed her. "Because I'm not used to sharing a room with anyone," she said at last. "That's why not!"

  "I'm afraid all the suites are occupied," came the sardonic answer.

  "Then I'll go." She marched down the stairs to the hall and stood there shivering until he came abreast of her. "What have you done with my fur?"

  Without a word he went into the sitting-room and returned with a limp, mud-stained stole that bore no relation to the glossy mink it had been earlier that evening.

  Without comment she took it from him and wrapped it round her, unaware of the pathetic picture she made in her tattered dress, with her large eyes glittering like jewels in her pale face.

  "You just need a tray and you'd be the original match- girl!" he grinned involuntarily.

  "Are you always so rude to the people you're supposed to help?" she snapped.

  "Only when they throw my help back in my face!"

  His remark caught her by surprise, and she hesitated. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. But I can't share a room with so many strangers. It makes me - makes me nervous."

  "Where will you go?"

  On the point of saying "Home", she stopped, and instead opened the front door. Fog billowed like smoke and the man behind her reached out and banged it shut again.

  "It's impossible for you to leave," he said flatly. "You can't see a hand in front of you."

  "I'm not your responsibility."

  "You are while you're here."

  "Then let me go!"

  He frowned, looking down at her from what seemed a great height. "You'd better sleep with me."

  "How dare you!"

  For an instant he looked taken aback, then his firm but well- cut mouth creased into a smile. "You have got a nasty mind! But I meant the offer literally. Sleep - not sex!"

  Unused to such blunt speaking - the young men in her circle were frequently flirtatious, occasionally passionate, but rarely so bluntly matter-of-fact - she felt her cheeks flame. "Thanks for the distinct
ion, Mr. Grayson, but I don't want to sleep with you either."

  "Well, I've no intention of letting you leave." He took a deep breath. "For heaven's sake, be sensible. It's already past one o'clock and I've an early call in the morning."

  Catching her arm, he propelled her purposefully behind the stair well and through an alcove into what appeared to be an annexe. Here several more rooms led off a white-painted corridor, and he pushed her into the one at the end.

  Austerely furnished - he seemed determined to make no concession to himself merely because he ran the place, Nicola decided - this room was nonetheless more pleasant than the others she had seen. White walls were given colour by large, unframed oil-paintings, one of which acted as headboard for a narrow bed, its navy blue counterpane contrasting with the dark red curtains and large square rug that covered the floor.

  "You're fond of red carpets," she remarked, keeping her eyes away from the bed.

  "Beggars can't be choosers," he said cheerfully. "All the rugs in the house come from one of our benefactors, and she had a penchant for red!"

  "Or a hatred - maybe that's why she gave them to you!" Nicola pointed to the walls. "Are the paintings yours ? "

  "A gift from someone we helped," he said vaguely, and advanced towards her. "You'd better get undressed."

  "No, thank you."

  "You can't sleep in your dress, it's soaking. Take it off."

  She shook her head, and his expression became so angry that she backed away. The hard edge of a narrow settee dug into her calves, and she sat abruptly down on it before her shaking limbs made it obvious that she had to do so.

  "You may have been able to prevent me leaving here, Mr. Grayson, but you can't force me to undress - not if I have to share your bedroom!"

  "I'd have suggested you slept in the sitting-room, except that we like to keep it free in case anyone comes into the house during the night. That way there's always somewhere for them to doss down. It's the only reason I offered to share my room with you. I also like to sleep alone, Miss Rose, and I assure you I've no designs on your virtue!" He crossed to a chest of drawers, took out a pair of pale blue pyjamas and draped them on her lap. "Get into these."

  "You're very kind," she murmured, touching the jacket. "I thought you meant me to - to -"

  "Sleep in the nude?" His laugh was dry. "It wouldn't matter to me if you did. I'm used to women's bodies."

  "You talk as if you've seen a lot."

  "I have," he confessed. "Hundreds."

  Disbelieving, she stared at him. "Aren't you ashamed of making a remark like that?"

  "Why should I be? I'll probably see hundreds more."

  "And loving them all, no doubt," she said scornfully.

  "Love's too strong an emotion. Interest is more like it."

  With an angry exclamation she stood up, clutching the pyjamas in her arms. The joke she had begun so lightheartedly was wearing thin, and the thought of her house in Belgravia and her own bedroom was infinitely inviting.

  "Please let me go," she pleaded.

  "In the morning. For tonight you're staying here."

  "I've no intention of sharing your bed."

  "I'm glad to hear it. That will save me from declining your offer!" He bent to the settee and tugged at its back. It glided down to form a narrow but adequate divan. Still without a word he went over to an old-fashioned wardrobe and from its base took out a pillow and some blankets. "I'm sure you can make this up for yourself," he said, dumping them down and going to the door. "I'll be back in five minutes. You'd better be in bed by then."

  "The b-bathroom," she stammered. "Where is it?"

  "The door next to the wardrobe."

  "So you do treat yourself differently, after all," she could not help retorting.

  He walked out, a slight smile his only acknowledgement of her sarcasm. For a moment she stood in the centre of the room considering his behaviour. She had never met a man like him before; he must be a social worker of some sort. She pulled a face. She had always run a mile from those sort of people. They usually did that kind of work to compensate for their own inadequacies or guilt complex. Not that Barnaby Grayson seemed either inadequate or guilty! Barnaby. What an old- fashioned name it was. A bit like the man himself, in his timeless sweater and baggy slacks.

  A sound outside the door made her realise that a couple of minutes from the five he had allotted her had already gone, and knowing he would come into the room at the end of that time whether she had undressed or not, she ran into the bathroom.

  And she had accused him of giving himself an additional luxury, she thought, looking at the utilitarian shower - a tap in the ceiling - and a large mottled sink below an equally mottled mirror. His own bathroom. Her maid would not even have deigned to use such a place!

  Hurriedly she washed, slipped out of her rags - custom- made by the Queen's own dressmaker - and into the pyjamas. They fell around her like swaddling clothes, the jacket being long enough to serve as a nightshirt. Looping the trouser belt twice around her waist and rolling up the legs, she padded back into the room and hurriedly made up the bed. She was just folding the blankets when he came in.

  "That's better," he said jovially. "Now hop in. I shan't be a minute before I turn out the light." He disappeared into the bathroom, looking strangely different as he returned in dark gold pyjamas. They were unexpectedly resplendent, piped with white and with a monogram on the breast pocket. "They're not really me," he said with a slight smile, showing his awareness of her thoughts. "They were somebody's way of saying a special thank-you."

  "From one of the hundreds of bodies you've seen?"

  "Actually, it's one body I haven't seen." He climbed into bed and switched off the bedside lamp.

  In the darkness the room took on a new shape. The edge of the wardrobe loomed large, the glimmer of its mirrored centre- panel reflecting the moonlight that seeped through the closed curtains; the bulky shape of the desk seemed a long way away, while the end of Barnaby Grayson's bed appeared to be much closer.

  A spring creaked and her heart pounded, her body gripped by fear.

  "Relax, Nicky," Barnaby's voice, disembodied, was deep and whimsical. "I've never gone in for rape!"

  Furious that he had guessed her fright, she lost her fear. "I'm glad," she said icily. "I'd hate to join the legion!"

  A chuckle was her only answer, and she turned on her side and pulled the rough blanket around her. Hundreds of bodies! What a thing to admit. What a story this would make to tell everyone tomorrow. Suddenly she remembered Jeffrey, amazed that she hadn't thought of him for the last hour. Jeffrey, whom she had been going to marry until he had shown himself to be of the same calibre as the other young men she had known. Marty was right; she was an awful judge of men. But perhaps there weren't many nice ones around. Hundreds of women, indeed, she thought again, and then abruptly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Where on earth was Maria with her hot lemon juice? Nicola thought tiredly, and stretching herself in bed found one of her feet dangling over the edge. Startled, for her bed was six feet wide, she sat up. Only then did she remember she was in a hostel near the Embankment. She stared across at the other bed in the corner. It had been smoothly made and gave no indication of having been occupied. She looked for her watch and realised she didn't have one. As Cinderella she had worn no jewellery, not even her engagement ring, lest it spoil the charade.

  Not that Jeffrey had worried about spoiling his act. Her blond Prince Charming had decided to play the part of Casanova as well as to dress like one. And it was a good thing he had. At last he had shown her what he was before it was too late. Sighing heavily, she got out of bed.

  In the daylight the bathroom was even more dilapidated than it had been at first sight, and with some trepidation she stood under the shower and switched on the taps. Tepid water trickled over her and she hurriedly washed, wrapped herself in a skimpy bath towel - how unlike her own thick fleecy ones at home - and returned to the bedroom to look f
or her dress.

  All her clothes had vanished, and she was peering halfheartedly around the room when Barnaby Grayson came in. In yellow sweater and brown slacks he looked younger than last night, his skin glowing pink, his hair thick and unruly.

  "So you're up," he said by way of greeting. "How do you feel?"

  'Naked without my clothes. Where are they?"

  "I gave them to Joanna. One of the girls will take them to the cleaners with the rest of our things. We send a sackful down each week."

  "You had no right to take them. I've nothing else to wear!"

  "You couldn't put that dress on again," he said gently. "It's in rags."

  "It's meant to be in rags!"

  He grinned, and she realised how silly her remark must sound to someone who did not know it was a fancy dress costume.

  "There's something I'd like to tell you," she began, and stopped as a sharp knock at the door heralded the entry of Joanna Morgan. She looked as practical in the daylight as she had done the evening before, though her tweed skirt had been replaced by a navy dress with white collar and cuffs. An attractive girl, Nicola decided, if you like your women serious. And the man beside her obviously liked them no matter what they wore. It would be difficult to keep up one's standards in the face of so many conquests.

  "I hope these will fit you," Joanna said, and put a bundle of clothes into Nicola's unresisting arms. "They may be a bit on the big side, but they were the smallest we could find." She looked at Barnaby. "Coming down for breakfast?"

  He smiled and joined her, glancing over his shoulder at Nicola. "Get dressed and come down to the kitchen."

  Nicola nodded and, as soon as she was alone, slipped into the clothes she had been given. They were clean, which was the only thing to be said in their favour. For the rest, they were too dark, too bulky and several sizes too big: the skirt shapeless and reaching halfway down her calves, the sweater an unbecoming shade of grey. If Barnaby Grayson's assistant had wanted to find the most unflattering clothes, she couldn't have chosen better, for that they had been chosen deliberately Nicola was convinced.

  Leaving the bedroom, she headed for the front door. But halfway towards it she stopped. It was silly to leave without having a cup of coffee, and she must also thank the people here for their hospitality. Believing her to be destitute, they had shown kindness and compassion; the least she could do was to thank them.