by Jane Corrie
Her spirits were low as she prepared herself an evening meal. Everything was so different from what she had imagined it would be. She had been hoping
she would hate his flat, and had made up her mind she would spend her evenings elsewhere, returning only to sleep there, but there was a strange kind of comfort there, and she found she had no wish to leave her surroundings. She did not analyse these feelings. The place that had once been home to her had been sold shortly after her mother's death, since when, she had been sent to boarding school, and from there to university.
After her sparse meal, she discovered she was more than ready for bed. The long flight back, plus another adjustment to the time factor, and lastly her emotional outburst of the night before, when alone in her room at the Lawns', she had come to the heart-aching decision that no matter where she went she would go on loving Matt King, had taken their toll.
Pride, and the fact that he didn't want her, had nothing to do with it. Only now was Kent able to understand her mother's patient waiting and heartache at the numerous partings, and the consequent happiness when the man she loved returned to stay.
Not that she would ever experience any of these emotions, at least not in that order. She would only know the goodbyes, the final and unequivocal farewell.
At ten to nine the following morning Kent, dressed in a navy pinafore dress with white piping round
the shoulders and matching blouse, took the lift down to the offices.
The office premises were larger than she had expected and the area seemed to stretch quite a way back from the front of the building, and for the first time she realised just how big the business was.
Since his accident, her father had rarely moved far from his home, which had been at Peckham, and conducted all business affairs by telephone. She had never visited the firm, for her father kept his private life and business matters on separate levels.
Mr Brown had been keeping a watchful eye out for her, and joined her as she stepped out of the lift. After making polite inquiries as to how she had settled in, he escorted her on an introductory tour of the firm's headquarters.
It was 'strange finding herself continually ad dressed as Mrs King, and being introduced as such to all employees. She was keenly aware of their reactions, and a little embarrassed by the surreptitious looks she received from the female staff, and knew they were experiencing some difficulty coming to terms with the fact that she was Matt King's wife.
Wistfully, she thought that perhaps if she had been a raving beauty, or a redhead—her lips trembled slightly on this thought—then they might have understood, but the slight, unsure girl with overlarge eyes following in the wake of the office manager had no such recommendation, and Kent was well aware of this fact.
She surmised that Matt's attitude towards the fair sex would be a byword among the staff, particularly the female section, and she found herself wondering if his rule of not mixing business with pleasure had come unstuck with the sophisticated blonde introduced as his secretary, and now fixing Kent with a glacial expression in her china blue eyes.
She certainly had all that it took to catch a roving eye, she thought, as she turned away from that microscopic inspection she was receiving. Her polo-necked sweater was just a little too tight across the chest, highlighting her well-endowed bosom, her skirt just a little too short, but showing her long shapely legs off to perfection.
With a guilty start, Kent realised why she was noticing these things. She was jealous, and she had no right to be. For all she knew that cool beauty might love Matt too. In all probability she had more cause to feel that way than Kent had. Gail Eden was not likely to pass unnoticed anywhere, and Kent simply could not see Matt passing up the chance to get acquainted with his lovely secretary—if the chance was there, of course, and judging by Gail's distinctly unfriendly welcome, the chance had most certainly been there.
Kent's office was just off Mr Brown's, and she was relieved when the introductions were finally over, and she could actually begin to start work. Soon they would accept her as one of the team and not a nine-
day wonder, as she was sure they thought of her then.
As Tony was with Matt in Bolivia, Kent wondered whether she would get his work to keep up to date until his return, and was slightly surprised when Mr Brown assured her that Arthur Jameson, an elderly accounts clerk working in the office next to hers, had everything in hand. With this knowledge came a horrible suspicion that she would be spending her time there looking for work, a dismal prospect indeed, and her depression deepened until Mr Brown, murmuring apologetically that certain work had been put aside for her, somewhat lightened her gloom.
Mr Brown was an apologetic person, with a tall sparse frame and features, that held a permanent look of doleful expectancy of the worst kind of happening waiting to leap out on him at any given time. He was really rather an old dear, as Kent was to find on closer acquaintance.
The rest of the day passed quickly for her and in no time it was five o'clock, and everyone was making for the exit, rushing out of the building to catch either trains or buses to their respective homes.
Refusing Mr Brown's kind offer of a meal with his family, Kent excused herself on the pretext that she was still a little tired after the journey home, but would be pleased to accept some other time.
Once in the quietness of the flat, she breathed deeply, thankful for the welcome it seemed to offer
her. She knew it was quite irrational of her to feel close to Matt as she entered the flat, but people in love were irrational, there was no guide rule to go by, you had to accept things as they were—would always be, for her at any rate.
The following morning, Matt rang Mr Brown and Kent had to stand by in agonised embarrassment, hoping against hope that Matt wouldn't ask to speak to her, but of course he did.
He also heard Mr Brown's, 'Your husband wants a word with you.'
Kent's low 'hallo' obviously sounded as nervous as she felt, as his first words were, 'Hi, wife! You're quite safe, I'm still in Bolivia! '
Having no answer to this taunt, she kept silent; if Mr Brown thought her response to her husband's call a little odd, she couldn't help it. She ought to have been prepared for this eventuality, but somehow she hadn't thought he would bother to ask to speak to her. For all the office staff knew, Matt could ring her in the evenings at the flat, so why he should make a point of speaking to her now was beyond her comprehension.
'Are you still there?' Matt demanded.
'Of course! ' replied Kent, still at a loss for words.
'Good!' he said satirically. 'Don't overdo the enthusing welcome my voice must have brought you! If you're not careful folk might think you care! Have you settled in all right?'
'Yes, thank you,' Kent said quickly, hoping that would be that, and breathing a sigh of relief as she saw Mr Brown leaving the office, obviously of the opinion that she was too shy to speak frankly in his presence.
'By the way,' Matt went on, 'there's some records at the back of the sideboard in the dining room,' adding dryly, 'I hope you like my taste.'
Kent swallowed. Now he was at a distance he could be kind to her. Even feel sorry for her? Shrugging off these unwelcome thoughts, she listened to that soft drawl of his.
'Much as it may surprise you, I'm a choral addict.'
Murmuring that she was sure she would like them, Kent felt a slight surge of relief that the question asked earlier had been about the music, not the flat. She would have hated to confess she loved it; he would be sure to take it the wrong way.
She wanted to ask about the annulment and whether he had started proceedings, but Mr Brown came back and the opportunity was lost.
Later that evening, Kent found the records Matt had mentioned that morning, and carried them through to the lounge where the hi-fi unit was installed. She was not averse to choral music; where music was concerned she was very liberal. Selecting three, she placed them on the turntable and switching on, sat back to listen.
As the last echoes o
f the Hallelujah Chorus died away, she sighed and felt a great sadness envelop
her being. The music, the flat, Matt's phone call— all were a source of wonder to her. It was as if she were on a voyage of discovery, a voyage, she thought miserably, that could only lead to further heartache.
In some indefinable way she felt Matt had meant her to feel this way. The man whose home she was living in, and the man she knew as Matt King, appeared to be two different personalities, one tough and uncompromising, not to mention ill-mannered, and the man who owned the beautiful things around her and whose taste in music bordered on soul-searching rhapsodies.
Closing her eyes, she recalled her last sight of him standing by the door of her room with that satanic grin of his, his words also came to mind, particularly his last thrust about absence making the heart grow fonder, and two large tears slid down her cheeks as she recalled yet another remark of his given in cold distaste, 'If you know what's good for you, you'll keep away from me.'
'I'm trying, Matt King,' she whispered in the silence of the empty flat, 'but you keep standing in my way.'
Again she thought of the annulment, and wished desperately that he would ring her at the flat where she could talk without inhibition.
Her soft lips twisted, but no—it had to be at work, just another way of getting back at her Her brow creased. It didn't make sense really, and she couldn't
understand why he persisted in keeping up the farce.
Why hadn't he paid her off at the start? He could have done so without any strain on his finances, in spite of what she had said to John Lawn about his wanting to 'look out for her', she was sure he had another motive, doubly sure now that John Lawn had offered to take her off his hands and had been turned down.
By now, Kent was in possession of the full financial position of Stainer Construction; it was not only healthy, but booming. At the age of thirty-four Matt was an exceedingly wealthy man, wise investment of his share of profits from the Company having steadily amassed a small fortune.
Kent had not had to pry to find out his personal credits; the account she had been given to work on was his personal account. Stocks and shares held by him, and she knew she would not have been allowed to see the accounts, let alone work on them, had not Matt given precise orders that she should do so.
Again the feeling assailed her that it was all part of an ingenious plan—but why? Somewhere there had to be an answer; it wasn't to prove his worth to her, he was not that kind of man, and it certainly wasn't to influence her to a better understanding of him.
Frowning, she made herself go back to their earlier relationship, remembering how often he had taken offence where none was meant, and the way he
said, 'Thank you', sardonically when she had remonstrated so violently against her father's plan for her future.
Sighing, she recalled her exact words on that occasion—they had been strong, but the circumstances warranted her outburst, although, she thought sadly, she could have framed them a little better.
So that was it, she thought wearily. Matt was a proud man and had taken exception to 'a kid' as he'd called her, not only branding him as totally undesirable, but throwing her weight around as the boss's daughter.
Nodding sadly, she could now see how it had all come about. This was his way of levelling the scores. If he had come to the conclusion that she still loved him, it was a cruel way—but he could be cruel, she knew that much about him. Of course he wouldn't buy her out; she was being made to work for her inheritance all the way—and that included being tied to one Matt King!
With sudden clarity she saw that he wouldn't lift a finger to free her from that bond. He would even enjoy the thought that as his wife she would have to watch not only her words, but her behaviour.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE weeks, then the months flew by, and Kent, now getting a fair proportion of the firm's accounts, was as content as it was possible to be under the restrictions placed on her.
Her weekends were spent with the Lawn family at their country home in Surrey, giving her the opportunity of a change of scene away from London's commercial environment. She well remembered her visits to the large old Georgian-style house as a child, and the fun she and Oliver had had exploring the woods beyond the boundaries of the house.
It had been a childish wish of hers that one day her father would buy a house just like Pedlar's Lodge, but it was a wish that was never granted. Now, as she walked with Oliver through those self-same woods. listening to his lively chatter, it was as if the years had rolled back.
Oliver had lost his mother when he was twenty-two, a year before his breakdown, and Kent had always suspected it had been a culminating factor to the events that followed. As she had been attached to her mother, so had Oliver been to his. Their two cases were rather similar in as much as their re-
spective fathers had been too busy carrying out successful enterprises to bother with their young offspring. It was only natural that the children's allegiance should go to the parent who was always there, and looked on the man who turned up every now and again, as a stranger, even though one called him 'Father'.
Oliver had always been on the reserved side; only Kent was privileged to see the other side of him, the boy who laughed and spoke his thoughts.
She knew how hard his mother's death would have hit him. Immersed as he was in his studies, he would have quite deliberately annihilated his sorrow by burying himself even deeper in his work.
Sadly she wondered if it would have made any difference if he had been at home when it happened and not at university, or even if she could have been there with him, and he could have unburdened his grief to her knowing she would understand.
As she watched him picking up fire cones, she sighed inwardly. Thoughts like that at this time were useless; one had never to lose hope, and a ray of hope had been given to Mr Lawn by the last specialist Oliver had seen. There was a slim chance that with careful treatment he would recover. It might take months, even years, but was well worth pursuing.
Kent's thoughts took another direction as Oliver announced gravely," These will look better after I paint them, won't they, Kent?'
Realising he was referring to the cones and wanting to make them suitable for Christmas decorations, she felt a tiny shock at the thought that Christmas was so near, one month away; it didn't seem possible that the time had flown so fast.
Inevitably her thoughts turned to Matt—would he be coming home for Christmas? Another thought swiftly following on this made her heart beat irregularly. Alone in the flat with him ! The very situation she had flown from before ! A vision of a very lovely redhead then appeared before her, and she relaxed slightly, and as another fact dawned on her she relaxed even more. They were up against a time factor out in Bolivia, and if the job were to be finished on time, no long break would be taken. Matt had no reason to come home, and an even better one to stay—unless it was to taunt her. She decided not to risk it and made a mental note to accept Mr Lawn's invitation to spend Christmas with them.
She was still thinking of Matt as they made their way back to the house. The weekly phone call was now normal procedure, and Kent had got quite used to it. He was always polite, inquiring after her health and whether she had enjoyed her visit to the Lawns' at the weekend.
She had been surprised that he had known of her whereabouts, and at first was furious that he had taken the trouble to check up on her movements. Later, she had admitted to herself that he was still
taking on the watchdog role, and had probably kept in close touch with John Lawn.
Never once had he rung her at the flat in the evenings, although she found herself traitorously wishing he would. The times she would sit listening to his music with the lights turned down low, lost in his world and longing to hear his voice. She shook herself mentally—there she went again, day dreaming once more, she really ought to go out more; find herself some friends, at least make the attempt to forget Matt.
Knowing there w
as not much chance of that all the time she was surrounded by his personality, she started thinking of the time when the year was up. One thing was certain, she was not staying with the firm. On this point she was adamant, she didn't want to spend the rest of her life mooning for a man that didn't care one whit about her. Not that she was clear what she wanted to do, but felt she needed time for readjustment.
The tall chimneys of the old house came into view and her eyes rested on them fondly. She would like a house like that—not so large, of course, there would only be herself—but it would be her home. No more service flats for her—and she would move out of the city. Her thoughts flowed on gathering speed as she envisaged the sort of house she would like. She would have the money, wouldn't she? In three months' time she would be free; not too soon to start looking, surely? Her eyes swept round the
lovely wooded areas—it must have a garden and trees; if possible a wood nearby. Then Oliver's plaintive, 'Are you coming, Kent?' jerked her out of her musings and she hurried to join him. Why shouldn't she live in this county? Not too near the Lawns, or Mr Lawn would feel obliged to keep looking in on her, but not too far away either, so she could keep in touch with Oliver. Her step was light as she and Oliver entered the house.
Kent found her house a month later, four days before Christmas Day. Although named Beech Cottage, it was a little larger than its name implied.
As she gazed up at the whitewashed walls of the house, Kent presumed it had probably started out as a modest farm worker's dwelling, and had since been modernised and enlarged. On inspection of the interior, she found it badly in need of redecoration. Her earlier surmise proved correct, as she noted the old timber-beamed ceilings, and was grateful they had been preserved by the previous owners in spite of the inodernisations.
It now boasted three bedrooms, whereas it had originally had two, there was also a small room off the main bedroom, listed as a boxroom, and that, thought Kent as she looked at it, could be where she would put oddments of luggage or any article she would not often use. Walking from room to room, she mentally furnished them. She would have all the time in the world to collect the bits and pieces
