Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  On the threshold Nicola paused. It was imperative that she telephone her godfather. It had been impossible to leave the hostel during the day and equally impossible to use the telephone she had noticed in the office when she had gone there with Joanna. But now she was sure the office was empty, and she sped towards it. It was in darkness, and though reluctant to put on the light, she had to do so in order to dial. Hurriedly she did so, her heart beating more loudly than the ringing of the telephone. If only someone would answer it quickly before

  Barnaby Grayson came in search of her! After what seemed I an eternity the receiver was picked up and she heard her god- I father's voice.

  "Marty," she said. "It's me - Nicola."

  "Good grief!" his voice boomed down the receiver. "Where on earth have you been? I was giving you till midnight. If you I hadn't shown up by then I was going to call the police."

  "Thank heavens you didn't. I'm perfectly safe."

  "Where are you?"

  "In a hostel."

  "Be serious, Nicola," he begged.

  "I am."

  Quickly she told him of the events that had brought her I here.

  "I'm glad you found out about Jeffrey," Marty commented gruffly. "I know it hurts, but you'll get over it. Now give me I your address and I'll send a car for you."

  Reluctantly she told him where she was. "But I'm not I coming home yet," she repeated. "And you're not to come 1 after me."

  "Why not? You're not in any trouble, are you?"

  "No, but I might create a bit!"

  "Don't do anything foolish, Nicola. Remember who you are."

  "They don't know it here."

  "What does that mean?"

  From the corner of her eye she saw Barnaby Grayson come out of his bedroom. What a fool she had been not to remember that his room was directly opposite the office. He could now hear every word she said. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. "Don't come after me," she said yet again.

  "I don't like it, Nicola. It's dangerous for you to be wandering around alone."

  "I'm in no more danger than I was with you," she said, and saw Barnaby stiffen.

  "Now look here," her godfather said tersely, "you're too old to go acting so irresponsibly. I'll come and fetch you myself."

  "Leave me alone, Marty. I'm not coming back!"

  There was a momentary silence and she could hear her godfather breathing heavily.

  "Will you call me again soon, Nicola?"

  "Yes. Goodbye." She put down the telephone, aware of the man in the doorway. "Do you always listen to other people's conversations?" she asked.

  "Only if I can't avoid it. I assume it was the boy-friend?" He went on before she could reply, "I'm glad you were firm about not going back to him."

  "I was very firm," she said. "He isn't good for me."

  "I agree with that" Barnaby retorted crisply. "A man who can let you go around the way you -"

  "I left all the clothes he bought me," she interrupted. "When I left him it didn't seem right to take them."

  He gave a grunt. "Now you've made your call we can have our chat."

  "I don't intend regaling you with the history of my life."

  "I'm sure you'll find something to talk about." She tossed her head and he gave a warm chuckle and slipped his arm across her shoulders. "I keep forgetting what a little thing you are. I suppose it's because you've got such a long tongue!"

  "You're not so bad at talking yourself."

  "It's my job," he commented.

  But when they were both in the sitting room he made no effort to question her, nor even to speak, and Nicola - tired from a day of unaccustomed work - found it difficult to keep her eyes open. Not even the thought of having to share a room with Gillian could detract from the pleasure of being able to rest her aching limbs. She must have washed and dried a couple of hundred dishes today, and ironed at least a dozen sheets. Not bad going for a girl who had never done either before.

  She yawned and tried to hide it, but not before the man saw it and smiled.

  "You look exhausted. We'd better postpone our chat for another night."

  She stood up before he could change his mind. Though she would have liked to talk to him she was too tired to do so. Besides, he was so astute that she would need all her wits about her when she did.

  "Aren't you going to bed, too?" she asked.

  "I've some notes to write up first." He sighed without realising it. "It's a good two-hour job."

  "Can't you dictate it to your secretary?"

  "I only have one in the hospital and it's more than I dare do to use her for my work here. And don't ask why I haven't got one here as well, because the answer should be obvious to you."

  "Money," she said promptly.

  "You catch on quick!" He grinned and, wishing her goodnight, went down the hall.

  Slowly Nicola made her way to the top of the house. It grew progressively colder with each floor she mounted and she was shivering, despite her sweater, when she entered the room she was to share with Gillian. It was furnished with the bare necessities - two narrow beds, a strip of rug between them and a central bedside table for them to share. She was glad to see Gillian already asleep, and she hurriedly undressed and climbed into bed. It was a far cry from the posture-sprung luxury of her Belgravia one, but she was too tired to care, and hardly had her head touched the pillow when she fell fast asleep.

  Wintery sunlight, shining full into her eyes through the uncurtained attic window, woke her up to another day, and she was shivering as she pulled the blanket more closely around her and thought how staggered Marty would be if he could see her now, sleeping in her petticoat on a lumpy divan. If she was going to stay here the week as she had planned, she would have to get a change of clothing and a nightdress.

  Her second day was almost a replica of her first. There did not seem to be any set rules and everyone was free to come and go as they liked, providing they put in an appearance at the discussion group which was held either in the afternoon or evening, depending when Barnaby was free.

  Listening to the way everyone spoke about him, she realised how highly he was regarded. He was not thought of as a doctor looking down on them from some lofty pedestal, or an intellectual working out his own particular problems by trying to work out theirs. Rather he was seen as being their equal, with a deep understanding that made him able to appreciate other people's troubles without condemning them or even advising, unless he was asked to do so.

  It was this lack of advice, this determination to proffer no counsel unless it was sought, which seemed to be his greatest asset. And hearing Gillian and Carole, as well as several of the young men, refer to it, she wondered why he had been so quick to give both his opinions and his counsel to her. Was it because of a subconscious recognition that she was different, or because she had shown more defiance than anyone else?

  Joanna was far less liked than Barnaby, and though accepted by the dozen or so young men, was barely tolerated by the girls. Nicola could not believe that Barnaby was unaware of the lack of empathy that existed between Joanna and the occupants of the hostel, and surmised he was in no position financially to turn down anyone who offered to help him run his project. The question was whether Joanna would be successful in running Barnaby!

  Nicola was pondering on whether or not Joanna would remain at the hostel if she did not achieve her ambition, when the object of her thoughts walked in carrying a bulging linen sack.

  "Clothes from the cleaners," Joanna said. "Would you give me a hand with them?"

  Nicola complied, helping the girl tip the things on to the kitchen table. There was a preponderance of jeans and sweaters, with several threadbare coats and jackets. Rummaging through them, she found her dress, hiding a smile as she saw its clean but wispy tatters.

  "This is yours too, I believe." Joanna held out Nicola's fur. No longer flattened by damp and stained with mud, each pelt was luxuriantly thick and glistened like satin.

  Nicola went to take ho
ld of the fur, but Joanna stepped back, still firmly clutching it.

  "It looks quite different now it's cleaned. If I had realised what fur it was I wouldn't have sent it to be machine- washed !"

  "I think it's come up very well," Nicola said casually, and put her hand on it.

  But Joanna still held it firmly. "Even so, one doesn't normally send mink to the dry-cleaners."

  Nicola could not prevent the colour rushing into her cheeks, and seeing it, Joanna gave an unpleasant smile.

  "Where did you get a fur like this?"

  "I bought it."

  "Pull the other one!" "It's true. I didn't steal it, if that's what you're implying. I bought it."

  "What did you use for money?"

  "It's none of your business!"

  "Everything you do while you're here is our business, Nicky, and if you stole this mink then you're liable to go to prison."

  Nicola thought quickly. This was a situation she had not anticipated, and for the first time her nimble brain could not find an excuse to get her out of trouble. She could not let Joanna think she was a thief, yet equally she could not tell her the truth. There must be something she could say to explain how she had come to be in possession of the mink.

  "I was -" she began, and then stopped as Barnaby Grayson came In.

  "Coming to the discussion, Nicky?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said quickly, and went to hurry past him, but Joanna stepped to one side and barred her way.

  "You're not going yet. I want to get to the bottom of this first."

  "Bottom of what?" Barnaby enquired.

  "Nothing," Nicola mumbled, but was interrupted by Joanna who held out the mink stole.

  "Nicky was wearing this when Mrs. Thomas brought her here. I had it cleaned with her dress."

  "So what?" Barnaby shrugged.

  "It's mink," Joanna explained irritably. "It's quite obvious Nicky stole it."

  "I didn't steal it," Nicola said hotly. "You've no right to call me a thief !"

  "Then why won't you tell me where you got it? Or do you seriously expect me to believe it's part of your wardrobe?"

  "Joanna - let me handle this." Barnaby was no longer placid, and there was a serrated edge to his voice.

  Dropping the fur on the table, Joanna walked out, and Barnaby leaned against the wall and looked at Nicola.

  She waited for him to speak, but the seconds passed and she knew he intended her to do so first.

  "I didn't steal it," she repeated. "I -1 - found it."

  "In your Christmas stocking?"

  "Don't be funny," she replied haughtily. "I wouldn't expect you to believe that."

  "Yet you expect me to believe you found it!"

  "Yes. I was a waitress - you already know that - and one of the customers went out and left it on her chair. It was a discotheque," she added quickly. "One of those dark noisy rooms - you know the sort of place I mean."

  He nodded but did not answer, and she knew he was waiting for her to continue.

  "I suppose I should have run after her with it, but I - it was too much of a temptation. I've never had a fur before, never even possessed a piece of rabbit skin." Nicola made herself look forlorn, drooping her shoulders and letting her hands hang limply at her sides. "When I picked up that mink I just couldn't give it back. I had to keep it - even if only for a night."

  "When did you intend to return it?"

  "I was going to do so the night that Mrs. Thomas knocked me down." She looked him fully in the face, making her eyes as large and guileless as she could. "I didn't intend to keep it. You've got to believe me."

  She went on staring at him, all at once feeling it was terribly important that he did. Breathlessly she waited for his reply, and when it came - a mere nod of his head - she felt an inexplicable surge of pleasure.

  "As you intended sending it back," he murmured, "I as-sume you know to whom it belongs?"

  "Of course. The girl was a regular customer."

  "You'd better give me the address and I'll see it's returned today. I'd better explain how you came to have it - that you were on your way to return it when you were knocked down."

  "There's no need for you to take it. I'll do it myself."

  The look that flashed into his eyes told her she had said the wrong thing, and hastily she back-tracked. "It isn't that I don't want you to return it - it's just that it's an imposition to bother with it."

  "It would be more of a bother if the police came looking for you."

  "Can't we send it through the post? That way you wouldn't have to answer any questions."

  He rubbed a hand through his hair, and she noticed that though it was thick, it was very fine and soft. "There's no reason why we can't post it, I suppose. As you say, it will save explanations."

  He took a notebook from his pocket and looked at her. Keeping her voice expressionless she gave him her own surname and address, deliberately omitting the Christian name in case it struck him as being too similar to her own.

  "Rosten," he muttered. "Isn't that the cereal heiress?"

  Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

  "Someone like that makes my shackles rise." He slipped the notebook back into his pocket. "I don't see how anyone can morally justify having so much money."

  "She probably inherited it."

  "Makes no difference. It's hers now."

  "Do you think she should give it away?"

  "I would if it were me."

  "Spend it on houses like this, I suppose?"

  "Or other projects. I certainly wouldn't let it lie in the bank multiplying itself like a cancer."

  "What a cruel thing to say!" Nicola could not keep the tremble of anger from her voice. "That money gives employment to thousands of people. It isn't just left in the bank - it's invested in factories and equipment - and lots of other things, I suppose," she concluded hurriedly.

  "I didn't think you were the type to defend the bloated rich." Barnaby Grayson looked definitely amused.

  "I didn't think you were the type to condemn them out of hand," she said hotly.

  "It seems we don't know each other very well."

  "Are you a Communist?" she accused.

  For a split second he looked astonished, then his mouth widened in a grin, showing his white teeth. "I'm a dyed-in-the- wool capitalist, Nicky. I've got this beautiful house and my aim is to have as many more as I can!"

  "Only because you want to turn them into shelters," she said with a toss of her head. "That isn't answering my question at all."

  "I didn't think it worth answering. I believe in the freedom of the individual, and that precludes a police state." His grin became wider. "Does that answer your question?"

  She nodded and he went to the door, still holding the fur.

  "You aren't going to deliver it to the house yourself, are you ? " she asked impulsively.

  "We'd already decided I wouldn't do that. I'll insure it and send it through the post."

  Later that night, as she thought about her scene with Barnaby, Nicola wondered whether he really believed she had intended to return the mink. If she had been in his position she certainly wouldn't have done so; but then women were generally more suspicious than men, and unlikely to give their own sex the benefit of the doubt: as Joanna had clearly shown.

  Nicola frowned. What was there about Joanna Morgan that set her teeth on edge? Surely it was more than just her bossy manner and proprietorial attitude towards Barnaby Grayson? It was amazing the way he didn't appear to mind it, or perhaps habit had dulled his perception. There was no denying she would make him an excellent wife, able to share his private, as well as his working life.

  "Fat lot of private life he's got," she said aloud, thinking of the evening that had just passed, with Barnaby sharing his sitting room with a dozen youngsters all vying for his attention. Yet despite it, he had tried to single out Nicky to talk to, and it had required all her adroitness to avoid him. But sooner or later he would expect to hear the full story of h
er life. She half smiled, and pulled the blanket around her. She must be ready to hand him a good one. Then, when he had swallowed it, she would tell him the truth. The anticipation of doing so was becoming more and more pleasant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nicola's opportunity to talk to Barnaby Grayson alone came the following morning.

  Gillian had been restless during the night - a nightmare, she had explained apologetically, when her sudden sharp cries had woken Nicola up at three o'clock in the morning - and Nicola had taken a long time to fall asleep again, still unused to her hard-sprung bed, so that the morning sun failed in its usual task of waking her up and, hearing Gillian noisily dress and go downstairs, had mumbled that she would follow in a minute, and then promptly fallen asleep again.

  It was considerably later when she sped down to the kitchen. The steamy air was already full of the smell of cooking vegetables, and abandoning all thought of breakfast, she went over to take out the ironing board.

  "You'd better leave that," Carole Stritch called out. "Barnaby left word he wants to see you."

  Nicola jumped guiltily. "How long has he been waiting?"

  "Does it matter? He's not your boss."

  Acknowledging the truth of this, she hurried upstairs to the sitting room.

  He was at the table writing, but looked up and smiled as she came in. "Had a good sleep?"

  She flushed. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I -"

  "Why do you always think I'm criticising you," he interrupted. "I'm not running a boarding-school. You're free to get up any time you like." He beckoned her forward. "Come and sit by the fire. You look frozen."

  "You keep the house too cold."

  "I'm lucky to keep it at all!"

  Annoyed at her runaway tongue she said: "Why do you want to see me?"

  "For our chat - or were you hoping I'd forgotten?"

  He came over and sat in an easy chair opposite her. He looked relaxed and pleased with himself. The benign psychologist, she thought crossly, all ready to sort out the problems of a mixed-up girl. Well, she intended to make herself as mixed-up as a bowl of spaghetti.

  "What would you like to know, Dr. Grayson?"