by Diana Hunt
‘Well, well, Miss Hunt; we meet again.’
I looked up: it was the American woman, Mrs Greenberg, on her own. ‘How are you doing, honey - waiting for Richard?’ She sat opposite me. She was dressed for the evening - a long frock in dark-green velvet, her neck encapsulated in jewels.
‘Good evening, Mrs Greenberg : going out?’
‘Just waiting for my husband. He’s taking me to some dump called Le Caprice.’
‘I think you will find that it is somewhat more than a dump.’
She gave a loud cackle that resounded through the room. She gave me a hard stare. ‘I guess you’re a feisty girl - certainly some looker, but you’ll know that. Had much experience with men?’
‘And you’re a nosy, rude old lady.’ Again that loud cackle. She looked over her shoulder and stood: an elderly, portly man dressed in a tuxedo was approaching. ‘Ciao, Diana - and take care.’ I didn’t answer.
Richard emerged along the corridor. He said: ‘Was that Mr and Mrs Greenberg I saw leaving the hotel?’
‘I don’t know.’ After all, there were several guests leaving. Richard shrugged. He said: ‘Come on; I want to show you something,’ He took my hand and we entered the lift. We got out at the top floor and walked silently along the deep carpet. Richard took a pass key from his jacket pocket and opened a door - into the same suite that he had shown me earlier when I had the tour. He waved his arm.
‘Apres vous, madamoiselle.’
I walked in and what met me was a blaze of brilliant pinpricks of light across the London horizon through the windows of the suite. I looked round the room: to my right was a small dining-table set with plates and cutlery and two tall candles set upon a scarlet cloth. The light from the candles shimmered through the tall wine glasses; at the side of the table was a wine bucket: it held a swan-necked bottle of champagne (Krug?). To my left was a Japanese screen (cranes and carp and apple-blossom on a blue silk background); I look round it: it was a hiding a large double bed with a blue satin cover: on top, a pair of pyjamas and a white silk peignoir.
Well, if I was going to be seduced, I must as well be seduced first class. Richard was pouring the champagne; he passed me the glass. ‘I hope everything is to madam’s satisfaction?’ He pulled out my chair. (Well, if we were going to play games I might as well join in.) I said:
‘This is absolutely wonderful, Jeeves. But I feel rather under-dressed on this splendid occasion.’
‘Not at all, madam: the pale and dark blue is most distinguished.’
So we played this game all through that wonderful meal and wine; he waited on me like a waiter from his own restaurant, continually jumping up and down - until I said:
‘Stop it, Richard - you’re making me nervous.’ The mask slipped and he laughed: ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Wonderful - as long as it doesn’t stop here...’
‘What would madam like?’
‘Madam would like to be shown to the bathroom; and while I’m in there you can turn down the bed, please.’
(If this was one of those quasi-porn novels I would now be describing what happened thus: ‘‘Pedro Gigolo threw back the sheet; he was naked and she saw that he was already aroused. A thin river of sweat ran down his hairy chest. Suzie Tart climbed on the bed, then unhooked her black lace bra; her nipples quivered; he thrust his hand down her lace panties....etc. Etc.’’)
But it wasn’t and never was. Actually, it was really bizarre. I emerged from the bathroom, wearing this silk peignoir, feeling like some 18th century courtesan. Richard was in the bed wearing pyjamas; he watched me approach. The only illumination was from a bedside lamp and the candles on the table. All very romantic. I slipped in beside him. He said:
‘I have something I must tell you, Diana.’
‘Oh dear, d’you have a problem? STDs, or are you gay? Because if it’s either of those and we’ve come this far, I’ll strangle you.’
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that...’
‘Richard! Come on.’
‘I’m impotent.’
‘Oh - well at least you can’t make me pregnant...’ Which was rather an inadequate reply; but that was all I could think to say at the time. But, oh dear; the male pride taking another blow. I crept closer, undid his pyjama jacket and put my arm round his waist. He sighed. Well at least that reaction was normal. I said:
‘That doesn’t mean to say you can’t...’
‘Er, no - it’s just that I’m a lot out of practise at...’
‘At shagging? Well let’s see what we can manage. Here, let me help you.’
I woke in the early morning: by my watch, 4.45. Richard slept quietly. I thought, fancy him going to all that effort and then having to admit...God, it certainly took him a helluva long time to get going; I found it hard work; my wrist still ached. It was all right for him - all he had to do was lie there with his eyes closed and enjoy himself. But once we got going - or rather, once I got us going, it was a lovely, long slow love-making. I slid out of bed and went to the bathroom.
Going home in the taxi in the dark (before the coach turned into a pumpkin), I felt like a real naughty girl, a Cinderella? - all that lovely food and booze, in that luxurious suite. I had to hand it to Richard, he knew to treat a girl and in real style. At home I snuggled my own innocent bed and giggled to myself, then fell into a deep sleep. It was nearly nine a.m. when I woke (late for me), but I didn’t hear Max moving about. Fully dressed and clean like a good little girl, I wandered through the house, looking for Max: he was in the kitchen, eating toast and drinking tea from a large brown teapot.
‘Ah, ha! The wanderer returns to her nest. Safely, one trusts. Would you care to share my meagre breakfast?’
‘Very funny. Good morning, Max.’
I eventually got him out of my kitchen by taking fresh tea and the Sunday Telegraph into the sitting-room. That would get him out of the way until mid-morning. I didn’t know whether I could face another large meal after last evening; but I had a duty to Max and his daughter. I had roasted the ham and prepared the vegetables yesterday afternoon; so I sliced and sauteed the peaches in butter, sugar, and spoonfuls of beaume-de-venise to be spread over the ham on the plates. The dessert was, typically, hot apple pie and cream.
I took coffee into the sitting-room and joined Max in front of the fire. I held his hand. ‘Now then, Mr Gilbert - were you all right last night?’ (I thought I would pre-empt him, for he was bound to say something.)
‘Tush! Of course. More to the point, Diana, did you have a pleasant evening? You obviously got home safely.’
‘Yes, it was a lovely evening.’
He picked up a newspaper. ‘Talking of safety: there’s a story in last evening’s Standard about two youths found drunk opposite the Tate who claim to have been beaten by a young woman - they are both badly injured. It seems most unlikely to me.’
I went cold. ‘What do the police say?’
‘From what I can gather, the police are sceptical of their story; more likely they were fighting between themselves. Young hooligans! Serves them right - outside the Tate as well!’ Max was outraged. I returned to the kitchen, collected cutlery and plates and set the table in the dining-room. All was ready, so I sat at the kitchen table, staring out of the window.
‘What are you doing?’
The voice came from behind me. It was a little girl. She looked at me expectantly, Underneath her arm she carried a stuffed soft toy of doubtful identity. ‘Oh, hallo; you’re Laura, aren’t you?’
‘Yes; what’s your name?’
‘Diana.’
‘I know: you look after my grandpa.’
‘That’s right. And who’s that?’ I pointed to her arm.
‘This is Frump.’ She held him tighter.
‘Why is he called Frump?’
‘Bec
ause that’s his name.’ Silly question. I got that wrong. Laura moved round the table, closer to me. She pointed to the wording on my apron.
‘What’s that mean?’ She was looking at ‘Je taime Paris’.
‘I love Paris - it’s French.’ She didn’t seem really impressed with that. Then Laura said, suddenly remembering: ‘What are you doing?’
I stood. ‘Finishing lunch.’
‘What are we having?’
‘Ham and vegetables.’
‘I mean for pudding.’
Ah, ha - now we were getting to the important bit. ‘Apple pie and cream.’
‘I love apple pie.’
Well, at least I got that right.
She looked at me. ‘My mummy’s a doctor. She makes people better.’
‘I know. That is very good.’
‘My daddy’s a doctor too - but he makes hundreds of people better. He’s a epi...’
‘An epidemiologist?’
Laura was very impressed by that. But still looked at me as if to say, How did you know ?
‘So that’s where you are, young lady.’ It was her mother.
‘Mummy! This is Diana, and she’s made apple pie for lunch!’
Her mother smiled. When I had met Patricia an hour ago I noticed immediately that she had the same fine grey eyes that was in the portrait of Mrs Gilbert. She said:
‘I hope she isn’t being a nuisance, Diana.’
‘Not in the least: she was just extracting information.’
Patricia frowned at her daughter; but Laura was taking off. ‘I’m going to see grandpa!’ And she ran down the hall. Patricia said:
‘May I help?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Look, Patricia, can I tell you something. It’s...’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yes. I just wanted to put your mind at rest.’
‘Heavens, how’s that?’
‘I don’t want you and your brother to get the wrong idea about me. I am not after your father’s money or his body - I’m not going to try to seduce him out of anything. He’s been very good to me - given me a home and, well everything...’
‘Diana! We never thought any such thing. I’ve never seen Dad so looking so good. He thinks the world of you.’
‘I feel the same, Patricia. Even if he is an awkward old rascal at times.’
She laughed again. ‘You’ve noticed, have you? And I’ve also noticed how he’s been spoilt. Don’t you ever say no to him?’
(Me? Never saying ‘No’ to a man? That’ll be the day.)
Chapter 14
MONDAY MORNING AND THE RAIN SWEEPING DOWN THE STREET. I collected the mail as it dropped through the letter-box - and caught it all before it hit the floor tiles. All the letters and one small packet had damp edges (poor postman: who would want a job like that on a day like today?)
I put Max’s mail on the hall table; I was surprised that I had two letters; I received very little mail. The small package was also for me, but it had no stamp. It was marked ‘Personal. By hand’ (wait a minute, was it under the sheaf of letters and fell when the postman pushed the other letters? Yes). I took them into the kitchen, poured my tea and opened the package. It held a hard, string-like object. I folded back the tissue paper carefully; a trickle of diamonds fell into my hand: they flashed under the kitchen light. A necklace. I gasped. There was a short hand-written note:
Darling Diana
This comes with my love, in memory of a night I shall never forget.
Richard
Crikey!
Oh, my God, Richard - what have I done? Has he suddenly, madly fallen in love? This really threw me; I didn’t expect this. Then I remembered Mike. Have I made the same mistake? I should be saying to myself, You silly cow; yet again, were you seduced by the setting, and just went to enjoy yourself? Not thinking about his feelings? If so, you really were behaving like a tart. Oh, bloody’ell. Now calm down: is it really that bad? You like Richard; and from what you know, respect him. Come on, you gave of your body generously (which is more than he could until you got him going).
Maybe he is ‘the One’ (you could do worse, Diana). With this consolation (or, self-deception), I tried to put it to the back of my mind. And then I stopped. I realized I couldn’t accept the necklace: if I did, it would mean that I would be obligated to Richard. No way would I allow that to happen. Now what do I do? There was only one way. I would have to return it as soon as possible. The other letter had a hand-written envelope. It was from my brother, Peter, and his wife, Penny. But she had written it (typical man, too lazy to write to his sister), in reply to mine.
Dear Diana,
Thanks for your letter. Sorry I’ve been so long in replying, but things have been rather hectic First of all, my news. I’m pregnant! I tell you, it was quite a surprise. I didn’t think it would happen this soon. That’s what comes of making whoopee... Even so, Pete and I are delighted.
The ‘autumn blows’ have come early to Lynn this year; the weather’s been awful. The Ouse has swept over the street and swamped the tourist office.
More news. Pete has been promoted to assistant manager at a new branch in Downham Market, so he’ll be commuting for a while. We may decide to move. But with a baby on the way - who knows?
Your life in London as you describe seems very quiet for someone living in the wicked city. I know it’s horribly early. But where will you be for Xmas. We’d like you to come to us. But perhaps you will be sunning yourself in the Caribbean....
We hope you are happy even so.
Love - Penny and Pete.
So - things never stand still. And Penny’s expecting! And Pete’s going up in the world. Well, good luck to them. If they do move, that will be the final break with Lynn, not only for them; but I feel also for me. Caribbean, indeed.
The other letter was from the estate agents, outling the details of my proposed purchase of the flat - three pages of it. Which I read three times. Finishing with a request for the name of the solicitor acting for me. It was signed by Monique Barre. Max came in at an apportune moment. He sat at the kitchen table, and I poured his tea and made toast and a boiled egg. I put it in front of him with a napkin and a copy the The Daily Telegraph. I said:
‘Did you collect your mail off the hall table?’
‘Er, no...’
So I left the kitchen, collected his letters and placed them in front of him, then sat opposite. He looked up at me. ‘Such excellent service, Diana...’
‘I’m glad you appreciate it.’
‘I always do - you know I always appreciate all you do.’
‘Good. Now I need a favour from you’.
‘Anything at all.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, Max. You haven’t heard what I want.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Do you have a family solicitor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll need him for my flat purchase.’ I showed him the letter from the estate agents.
Max read it. ‘Of course. I’ll phone him this morning.’ He passed the letter to me. I studied his face as he ate his breakfast and read his newspaper. After a while, I said:
‘Max?’
‘Yes?’
‘Anything wrong? You seemed thoughtful.’
‘No. No,’ then he sighed, and put his paper down. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Diana?’ So that was it.
‘You know you will always have a home here.’ God, he looked really sad. I went over to him, put my arms over his shoulders and hugged him. ‘You know I will never leave you on your own, Max, don’t you?’
‘You’re young - you’re entitled to a life of your own - not just looking after a grumpy old man.’
Now we were entering the arrea of emotional blackmail, but I coul
dn’t stamp on it and upset him. He continued: ‘And what about your young man?’
‘There’s nothing in that really, Max. No grand passion there.’ Now Max was embarrassed that he had caused so much fuss. But he was a tough old bird and soon recovered his equilibrium.
‘Diana! I have an idea!’
‘Oh, yes. What’s that?’
‘Will you sit for me?’
‘Pardon?
‘Sit for me - sit for your portrait.’
‘Oh, well: I don’t...what do you mean - my face?’
‘Yes, head and shoulders.’
‘So this wouldn’t be some nude study - flashing my boobs like last time?’
He didn’t like being reminded of that and he blushed. ‘Certainly not.’ Max left the kitchen and me with the idea as I washed the breakfast things.
About 10.30 that morning I left the house by my scooter and headed for the Quest-Ritson. What was I going to say to Richard? I parked the scooter at the rear of the kitchen, walked in past the larder and found the Ladies’ loo. Using a cubicle, I retrieved a skirt and shoes and changed from my damp trousers and boots. Then freshened my war paint, and strolled into the lobby. The receptionist looked up as I approached the counter. She said:
‘Do you wish to speak to Mr Templeton?’ Damn: she was the one on duty when I was with Richard.
‘Yes, please. Is he in his office?’
‘Yes, but...’ I ignored her and headed for it. I opened the door without knocking. He was sat at his desk, speaking on the telephone. He put his hand over the mouthpiece, smiled and waved me to a chair. I fumed while he chatted amenably to some client; but then, I shouldn’t have barged in (I know, as is my usual habit). He eventually put the phone down.
‘Darling Diana! This is nice!’ He was full of himself. ‘Couldn’t you keep away?’
God, the man was so happy. But I had to stop this. ‘Richard: please listen to me. I can’t accept this’. I let the necklace dribble on to his desk. Puzzled he said:
‘Don’t you like it, Diana?’
‘Yes, I like it very much. But don’t you see: I can’t take it.’
