by Lilian Peake
Rosalind reproached herself for sniping at him, using hurtful words as ammunition. Her brother, of all men, was certainly not the kind of person she had accused him of being. He had lost his life partner. In taking on a new business partner and thus saving his company, his brain child, he had had to sacrifice more than his sister—his pride, for instance, in being pushed into second place.
He had been denied, by misfortune, of the loving companionship of the wife to whom he had been devoted. He could go to no one for advice and reassurance.
‘Patrick.’ Rosalind waited until his hand moved from his eyes. ‘Please don’t let it upset you—my engagement to Slade, I mean.’ She still could not believe she would actually be marrying the man. Her smile was a bright, brave effort to convince her brother that all was well. ‘I’m resilient—I can take it. I always give as good as I get, you of all people should know that. Remember the way we used to fight when we were kids?’
He smiled back and nodded and his hand covered his eyes again.
Slade arrived just before supper, his suitcases in his hands, his coat flung over his shoulder.
‘Front bedroom?’ he asked as Rosalind let him in.
‘Yes. I’ve made your bed.’
‘Thanks. No,’ as Rosalind made to show the way, ‘don’t bother. I’ve seen the room.’ He went up the stairs and Rosalind followed him with her eyes all the way to the bend in the staircase.
His back was broad and daunting. And unforgiving. A niggling sense of irritation nibbled at her mind. He was, as Patrick had said, her fiancé. He might at least try to behave like one.
The atmosphere at the evening meal was disturbingly pleasant—disturbing because, Rosalind thought, feeling as resentful as she did about Slade’s power over them and the way he had used it so ruthlessly, it should have been the very opposite of enjoyable.
Slade leant back in his chair as if fully satisfied with his new fiancée’s cooking. He eyed her flushed face, the inviting outline which was emphasised by the smooth fit of her blue tee-shirt. ‘This is—almost—like the old days,’ he said. ‘By the way,’ Rosalind looked at him, ‘I anticipated your acceptance and bought you an engagement ring.’
Slade’s casual attitude annoyed her. ‘Shall I throw my arms round your neck and thank you a thousand times for your thoughtfulness and generosity?’
He countered her sarcasm with his. ‘You can leave out the thanks, but I could do with some female arms around my neck.’
Rosalind gave him a reducing look, but it only made his smile grow larger. ‘I would have thought,’ she said, ‘that you’d have a spare engagement ring lying around somewhere which some other woman had given you back. I know it would be secondhand, but as long as it fitted me, that wouldn’t matter, would it?’
Slade glanced at Patrick. ‘I think your sister’s trying to be sarcastic. She seems to be getting surprisingly emotional over what is, after all, just a business deal.’
Rosalind stood, thrusting back her chair. ‘Thanks, thanks a lot, both of you!’ To Patrick, ‘I suppose you realise how you’ve messed up my life?’ Tears threatened, thickening her voice. ‘I hope you see now what you’ve forced me into.’ She rounded on Slade. ‘What happens if a time comes after we’re married when I decide I can’t stand it any longer and want a divorce?’
‘Patrick loses his job.’
‘And I’d lose mine?’
‘Personnel officer, aren’t you? You certainly would.’ His half-smile maddened her.
She gazed white-faced at the man who was soon to become her husband. ”All right, maybe you could sack me, but you couldn’t throw out your business partner!’
‘I shall be the senior partner. If he refuses to go, I’ll simply withdraw my financial support and start up a company of my own.’
Which, as Patrick had already told her, was something which he feared most of all. Competition from a man as brilliant as Slade Anderson would mean ruin for a company with such a rocky foundation as Compro’s.
‘You think you’ve got it made, don’t you?’ Rosalind flung at Slade.
‘I don’t think, sweetheart, I know.’
‘Don’t call me—’ She checked herself. She knew what Slade’s response would be to that. ‘You’re rotten, Slade Anderson, rotten to your very roots. I’ve always thought so and always will.’
In the midst of her anger she asked herself, dazed by her own words, have I thought so—ever? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything except that this was the man whose life she would be forced to share into the distant future.
After washing in the bathroom that night, Rosalind pulled on her ankle-length robe and went on to the landing. Patrick’s door was shut but she could see the line of light which indicated that he had not yet gone to bed.
Slade’s bedroom door was open and the room was in darkness. It seemed he had remained downstairs. There was the hiss of the kettle coming to the boil and Rosalind assumed that he was making himself a hot drink. If, she thought, they had really been a loving couple, whose engagement was merely an impatient prelude to their coming marriage, she would have run down the stairs and thrown her arms about him.
Realising with alarm the whisper of wistfulness in the thought, she crushed it out of existence by thinking, who could love a man like Slade Anderson? A man who pushed people around as if they were chess pieces, each move coldly considered, deliberated upon and brilliantly conceived.
He came up the stairs empty-handed. Rosalind said, ‘I. thought I heard the kettle boiling.’
‘You did. I changed my mind.’
Now he was at the top—and for a few seconds she thought it was a stranger beside her, a stranger she knew yet did not know, who once had been her shadow, devoted, adoring, worshipping from an unbridgeable distance her pitiless, adolescent self … She looked at him and the years fell away. He wore glasses. The difference was that the eyes behind the lenses did not look on her with love and longing. Instead they were emotionless, remote—and strangely tired.
He went into his bedroom, switching on the light. Rosalind followed, staring, watching unthinkingly as he pulled off his round-necked sweater and started to unbutton his shirt. He stopped, fingers on the final button.
‘Enjoying the striptease?’ he asked curtly. ‘As my bride-to-be are you waiting to view the goods before you buy?’
The sarcasm penetrated like a thorn from a bush, but she bore the pain as if she were under sedation. ‘Your glasses,’ she said. ‘I thought you didn’t need them any more …’ Her voice tailed off.
Her eyes were blurred—with tiredness, she guessed— and it seemed that the old Slade Anderson had come back to haunt her. But the younger Slade had loved her—had told her so in so many different ways. The younger Slade had been jealous every time she had talked or laughed or danced with any other boy. Why had he disappeared? Where had he gone? And—no, it couldn’t be true. She couldn’t—under any circumstances—be wanting him back. Could she?
‘My eyes haven’t changed,’ Slade was saying. ‘I wear contact lenses, but after a certain number of hours I have to take a rest from them. Consequently I need my glasses.’
He pushed the last shirt button through and peeled off his shirt. She had been right about the muscle, the filling out, the greater solidity and strength. Dark hairs spread across his chest, over his chin there was already a faint stubble. With dismay, she felt a tug at her emotions, a twisting of her heartstrings as the magnetic pull of the man reached out and she wanted to stretch out her arms and catch it like a drowning man a lifeline.
He came towards her and stood, arms folded, looking down at her. His deep brown hair fell forward. She wanted to push it back. This man was daunting, enigmatic, and she did not dare.
A faint smile curved his mouth. ‘You think I’m the old Slade come back, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘No way. That untried, slightly pathetic young man has gone for good.’
‘Pathetic?’ Her voice was not her own.
‘In th
e way he worshipped and idolised one woman. I’ve got that woman out of my system. I can now look upon her dispassionately, unbiased, neutral …’
She began to grow desperate, with the situation, with his attitude, with her own perverse emotions. He was approaching slowly. Moistening her lips, she said, ‘But—but why?’ He was against her now and his intention was clear. Back away, she told herself, get away while there’s still time. But she stayed right where she was.
‘Why?’ he echoed, lifting her chin. ‘Never ask questions. That way you won’t get answers you don’t like.’
His mouth, full, sensual, was, as it closed on hers, unbelievably caressing. A kiss was taken, then another. When he lifted his head and saw the surprise in her blue eyes, he smiled. It was the smile of an artist beginning to capture an image, at present formless, but who, with his artist’s vision, saw that the object of his creation was beginning, if only faintly, to take shape.
Where, Rosalind wondered dazedly, was the brutality he had shown her yesterday, the ruthlessness in his approach to women at which he had hinted? This was a kiss which was so gentle, so tender that, far from triggering off her defences it undermined them, seeking out and discovering with a sure hand the reflexes over which she had, in such circumstances, only little control.
Only little because, to her bewilderment, she found herself responding, melting, allowing a stroking hand to fondle her breast, found her hands lifting to touch the hardness of his shoulders, slide over his bare back, lifting her head and straining to meet the growing demand of her enemy’s mouth and increasing desire.
He grasped her upper arms and freed himself, putting her from him roughly. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the truculent little filly who reared and pawed the air the last time the young ardent Slade Anderson attempted to make love to her has vanished from sight. Now she’s older and less impetuous she has grown to appreciate all that the male of the species can offer in the way of sensual satisfaction. In other words,’ his hands rested on his hips and Rosalind found her muscles tensing at the attractions of his body, ‘she’s developed an appetite for lust.’
‘That’s not true,’ she cried, ‘and you know it.’
He eyed her robe which had fallen edge to edge, revealing a glimpse of the filmy nightdress beneath. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes, and you’re using provoking words just to see how far you can goad me before I hit out at you.’
His eyes glinted and he began to unfasten the buckle of his belt. ‘Hit out at me. Now that sounds interesting.’
She looked uncertainly at his movements. ‘W-what are you doing?’
‘Undressing. What did you think I was going to do—take my belt to your backside? It’s an idea …’
‘What’s happened to you, Slade?’ she asked in anguish.
‘You never used to be like this. Once you were—’
‘Such a fool that I let you walk all over me? Never again, sweetheart. I’m the master now. I’ve taken you over together with the company, remember?’
‘Will I ever forget?’ she whispered, her eyes large with apprehension.
‘Never, if I have anything to do with it,’ he said as she retreated.
The warning in his voice followed her into her dreams.
They went to work together next morning, walking to the nearest Underground station. Rosalind was between the two men, but they talked over her head.
As they emerged from Tottenham Court Road station into the light of day, she blinked to adjust from the artificial brightness they had left behind.
They walked as briskly as the early morning crowds and tourists would allow, along New Oxford Street to the suite of offices in an old converted house which belonged to Compro. Patrick opened the main door which led into a small lobby off which rose a flight of stairs. Slade followed, checked himself, and seeming suddenly to remember the presence of the girl to whom he was engaged, stood back. With a mocking gesture he invited Rosalind to precede him into the building.
‘Thanks,’ she said tartly, ‘I thought you’d forgotten my existence.’
Slade’s mockery invaded his smile but he stayed silent. Patrick went ahead up the stairs and unlocked the door of the office he had shared with John Welson. It was carpeted with the best they could afford, but even so, here and there were worn patches. The furniture was secondhand and its age and past maltreatment could not be hidden.
Slade glanced around, but instead of remarking on the dowdy image the office presented, as Rosalind was certain he would do, his eyes moved to the two grey filing cabinets. The fact that the keys had not been removed from the locks did not, Rosalind was certain, pass his notice.
He studied the position of each desk as if deciding which to choose. Patrick made the decision simple by pointing. ‘Mine,’ he said, ‘but from now on, yours. I’ll have the smaller desk which John Welson occupied.’
‘Patrick,’ said Rosalind, standing in the doorway, ‘you can’t!’
Until that moment she had been ignored. Now two pairs of crushing male eyes swung towards her. ‘Can’t what?’ asked her brother irritably.
‘Let Slade have your desk.’
‘I can do what I like.’
‘But you—you built up this business, you and John. All right, John left three months ago, but you’re still here and you should be the top man.’
‘This is a partnership,’ Patrick said wearily.
Rosalind looked accusingly at Slade. ‘A very unequal one.’
An eyebrow lifted and Slade queried, ‘You want me to withdraw my money from Compro and go?’
Patrick said furiously, ‘For heaven’s sake, Rosalind, would you get out and let the two of us settle down to work?’
‘All right, I’m making a nuisance of myself.’ To her dismay tears brought a waver to her voice. ‘But why shouldn’t I? You used me as part of the bargain.’ To Slade, ‘And you.’
Slade gave a forced sigh, came round the desk, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped each of her eyes. His long fingers closed on her arms, his mouth descended to rest for a few seconds against hers. He lifted his head and asked, ‘Better now?’
The light touch of his lips aroused such errant feelings inside her, anger became her only means of quelling them.
She struggled free. ‘No, worse, much worse.’ He smiled. ‘Each time you touch me,’ she went on, goaded against her better judgment to retaliate viciously, ‘you make me feel defiled!’
His smile gave place to narrowed eyes and tightened lips. ‘Nevertheless,’ his voice was cold, ‘the engagement stands. Get it? Now, as your brother says, will you kindly leave us to get on with our work, while you get on with yours.’
Rosalind opened her mouth to give an acid reply, thought better of it and snapped her mouth shut.
‘Good,’ said Slade curtly. ‘You’re learning.’
She swung round and made for the door.
Gerry Alton, one of the company’s computer staff, arrived fifteen minutes late, but this did not deter him from making his customary call into Rosalind’s office.
He was fair-haired and of medium height and even though two years had passed since he had graduated, he still clung to his ‘student’ image, refusing to conform in dress and behaviour to the world of business in which he now found himself.
He was, Rosalind had been told by her brother, of average ability. When in difficulties with his work, as he often was, he relied heavily on Rosalind’s relationship to one of the bosses to get him out of trouble by seeking her brother’s assistance. How long she could go on protecting him by pleading his case with Patrick, Rosalind did not know.
‘Hi,’ he said, standing at Rosalind’s desk and bulging at the rear with the rucksack he still carried about with him instead of the conventional briefcase. He glanced at Rosalind. ‘You look,’ he said, ‘as if you’d just lost someone dear to you.’
‘I have,’ she answered, her voice still taut with unexpressed anger. ‘My alter ego, my other self. You know, the one who laughed a lot and hadn’t
a care in the world.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Gerry, lowering himself into a chair and sliding his rucksack to the floor.
‘A ghost from the past reappeared this weekend. From now on, he’s going to haunt me night and day.’ Rosalind frowned. ‘Not that the shadow of him has exactly let me alone during the past eight years.’ She had been speaking half to herself, the words surprising her even as she had spoken them.
‘Ah, Miss Rosalind Prescott’s past is finally catching up with her. Hey,’ he leant forward, ‘what about our beautiful friendship? I thought we were contemplating a closer relationship?’
‘Contemplate,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thinking about—that’s a good word …’
‘But Rosalind, tonight—you promised—’
She broke in hurriedly, ‘You know I did no such thing.’ Then she saw his grin.
‘If you’d let me finish the sentence,’ said Gerry, pretending reproach. ‘You promised—to come to a show with me. Tell me which one and I’ll book seats.’
Rosalind was confused by the promise she had made. The changed situation both at work and in her private affairs had wrecked the untroubled waters of her life like a canoe overturning in the rapids. Where Gerry was concerned, there were two paths she could take. She could tell him outright that she was now an engaged woman and, moreover, engaged to the new and more powerful boss. Or she could remain silent on the subject for as long as possible and keep Gerry as a friend—a friend at a distance.
With her open nature, she preferred the first option, of telling Gerry the truth. But her wish to repay Slade in kind for his hints of unfaithfulness even after they were married made her bitter, and determined to assert her own rights in respect of his threatened disregard of the marriage vows.
Rosalind recalled his words. I never did want to be tied down by the woman I married. She rose from her chair and moved to stand in front of Gerry, smiling brightly. Gerry was not astute enough to see the effort behind that smile.
‘There’s one show I’d like to see.’ She named the play and the theatre.
Gerry smiled delightedly up at her and reached for the telephone. ‘I’ll book seats now, before you change your mind.’
