The Paper Marriage

by Flora Kidd

  Yours,

  Kevin.”

  Brooke folded the letter back into its creases and laid it down on the settee. She picked up the cup and sipped some tea. She sat for a long time staring at the glowing bars of the electric fire which glowed brighter as dusk crept into the room.

  After about half an hour of thought she stood up and stretched her stiff legs and arms. Then she left the room and went downstairs to the hall. She picked up the telephone receiver, thinking of that other evening when she had phoned Wendy and had said she would go to Gwen’s party.

  Slowly she dialled the number of the hotel where Owen Meredith was staying.

  When the switchboard operator at the hotel answered Brooke gave her the number of Owen’s room and then waited, listening to the persistent buzz as the phone rang, wondering what she would do if he didn’t answer.

  At last the receiver was lifted at the other end of the line. She heard his voice saying something to someone who was obviously in the room with him, and then he spoke into the phone, curtly.

  “Owen Meredith here.”

  “This is Brooke Marston, Mr. Meredith,” she said as coolly as she could, unable to quell a spurt of curiosity about who was in the room with him. “Are you free this evening?”

  There was a short silence. Then he said warily,

  “I could be.”

  “Then would you like to come to dinner, here, with me?” she asked.

  Another short silence. She tried to imagine the expression on his face. Was he surprised? Was he amused? Or was he complacent and self-satisfied because he had expected the invitation from her?

  “Will it be to my advantage if I accept?” he asked, still wary.

  “I think it will. My friends consider me to be a good cook,” she replied, not committing herself yet.

  “Then I’ll risk it. What time?”

  She gave him a time and hung up. She looked at her watch. Six-thirty. She had invited him for eight - an hour and a half in which to prepare a meal and also to prepare what she was going to say to him. She ran up the stairs lightly, refusing to think beyond the moment, a tall well-made girl who walked well, shoulders back and head up and who smiled a quiet smile; a girl who looked sensible, calm and competent, in control of herself and of any situation in which she might find herself.

  He surprised her by coming too early before the food was ready and before she had had time to change from her housecoat into the dress she intended to wear; before she had had time to brush her hair. He caught her unprepared and she was annoyed.

  “I said eight o’clock,” she said as she let him in.

  “Unlike you. I’m always early for an appointment,” he murmured as he stepped past her into the living room and looked round appreciatively.

  “Pleasant room,” he observed, then sniffed. “Good smell,” he added, and looking at her with that oddly impersonal glance taking in her flushed face, old quilted housecoat and scuffed slippers he said with a flicker of a smile. “Attractive hostess,” and held out a transparent box to her in which something glowed with vivid exotic colour.

  Trying to preserve her poise, Brooke wished she hadn’t invited him to her flat. The place was suddenly too small. The table, set for two in the window bay was too intimate.

  “Please sit down,” she said stiltedly. “I’m not quite ready. I have to change.”

  “You look all right to me,” he said carelessly. “Is there anything I can do? My friends also consider me to be a good cook.”

  “No, no.” She almost panicked, thinking of the tiny kitchenette. He would fill it. “Please sit down. There’s sherry on the coffee table. Thank you for the gift.”

  Thank heaven he was moving towards the table in front of the fireplace. But in helping himself to sherry he noticed the painting on the wall above the mantelpiece, a view of the Welsh Hills from the Cheshire side of the River Dee.

  “That’s a familiar scene,” he said. “Who painted it?”

  Brooke didn’t answer, so he looked more closely and found the name in the corner.

  “Kevin Daley,” he murmured. “The fellow with the blarney. He’s

  a good artist. I’d like you to bring that with you when you come out to Caracas. It will serve to remind me of the land of my fathers.”

  That really shattered her cool, calm manner. Her breath caught in her throat and nearly made her choke.

  “What makes you think I’m going to Caracas?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  Owen spread his arms wide in a curious foreign gesture and sherry from the glass in his hand slopped on the carpet.

  “Why all this? Why the invitation to dinner? You said it would be to my advantage if I accepted, so I broke a date with someone else to come. I guessed you’d made up your mind. Tomorrow is the deadline I gave you. Well, am I right? Have you decided to marry me?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have, but ... ”

  “But you were going to tell me when you’d dined me and wined me. You were going to tell me in that grand manner of yours as if you were conferring a great honour on me, and possibly you were going to demand conditions. Isn’t that so?”

  She was utterly confused because once again he had guessed correctly at her thoughts. She saw the twinkle in his eyes the beginning of a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth and to her own surprise she lost her cool and stamped her foot like any schoolgirl.

  “Oh, you’re impossible!” she exclaimed, and swept out of the room into her bedroom.

  With hands which shook a little she opened the box he had given her and stared down at the single flower it contained. It was an orchid. Its thick, waxy petals, which were frilled at the edges, were pale lilac in colour, scattered with golden freckles. It was the last flower Brooke would have chosen for herself or would have expected anyone to choose for her. Like the man who had given it to her, it took her breath away.

  Hurriedly she dressed in a simple short black dress. Made of soft clinging material, it made her look slimmer than she was. In its deep v-shaped neckline she pinned the exotic flower. Then she arranged her hair into smooth shining waves and returned to the living room.

  Her guest was still admiring Kevin’s painting, but when he heard her, he turned and picking up the glass of sherry he had poured for her offered it to her.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re wearing my offering,” he said with a flicker of a grin. “That shows you’re still friendly.”

  “It’s a beautiful flower,” she replied rather stiffly. “Thank you.”

  “They come in all sorts and sizes in Venezuela and are the national flower, so I thought it would be appropriate to give you one since I’m a Venezuelan by birth and I’ve asked you to marry me and come out there to live. I take it I can inform Megan tomorrow that she’ll be coming to Caracas with you in a few weeks’ time?” he said coolly.

  Brooke took a deep breath and plunged.

  “Yes, you can,” she said, looking at him steadily.

  “Good. I’m glad I’ll see her smile before I leave.” Owen raised his glass. “To our future together with Megan,” he said.

  She raised her glass in answer.

  “To the future,” she said simply, and sipped some sherry.

  “There’s a lot to plan and do before I go on Friday,” he said.

  “We have all this evening and tomorrow to make plans,” she replied.

  “That’s what I like about you, Brooke. You don’t panic easily. So we have all this evening, but not tomorrow. Tomorrow I have other things to do - including going to see Glynis’s parents to tell them about you.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “To satisfy them that I’m doing the right thing. I’ve told you I think that they would like Megan to stay here with them. They don’t like me and they don’t trust me. I hope that when they learn about you they’ll realise that she’ll be in good hands.”

  “May I ask why they don’t like you or trust you?” she asked.

  “No, you may not,” he replied icily. “Now,
how soon can we eat? As usual I’m famished - forgot to eat at lunch time.”

  It was almost midnight before they had finished discussing the arrangements, and by then it was decided that they would be married by special licence in a registrar’s office on Friday morning, after which Owen would leave for London to catch the next plane to Venezuela.

  As she accompanied him to the front door of the house Brooke felt tension rising between them. Owen must have felt it too, because he turned towards her after he had opened the door and took one of her

  hands in his.

  “Scared?” he asked in that half-scoffing way he had asked the same question at their first meeting.

  “Naturally.” She tried to speak lightly and coolly, but her voice came out in a hoarse croak.

  “There’s no reason to be,” he said softly.

  “Any woman would be scared at the thought of marriage to a stranger,” she countered. She found that she liked the touch of his hand on hers. The muscular fingers gripped and held strongly. He would not let go easily anything which he considered to be his.

  “It won’t be for long,” he answered gently, and bent his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “Good-night, Brooke. See you tomorrow, when we’ll tell Megan. Sleep well.”

  He left her, and as she closed the door she pondered in puzzlement on his last few words. It won't be for long. What had he meant? That they wouldn’t be strangers for long or that they wouldn’t be married for long?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The big silver plane with the blue insignia on its tail circled once more before making its approach to the runway at Marquetia airport, on the northern coast of Venezuela.

  Craning her neck to see through the narrow window beyond Megan, Brooke had a dizzy tantalising glimpse of high mountains, cone upon cone of rose-coloured rock, tilted against a hot blue sky.

  Then buildings swung into view - tall towers of white concrete dazzling in the sunshine, seeming to lean like so many towers of Pisa, as the aircraft banked and changed course. Red pantile roofs glowed brilliantly amongst green foliage, different exotic foliage, the drooping broad leaves of palm trees. Terrace upon terrace of clay-coloured shacks clung to a hillside. It was the city of La Guaira, the main sea-port, being pushed into the sea by the dominating mountains of the coastal range.

  A glimpse of the harbour, of glittering white cruise ships tied up at a wharf, of wicked grey warships lying side by side, and then the plane was out over the sea; the bright white-capped endless blue of the Caribbean.

  The plane landed, settling comfortably on the earth. Glad at last that the long journey was over, Brooke adjusted her watch to the local time. Almost eleven hours ago she and Megan had left Heathrow airport and now it was late afternoon on a sunny day in Venezuela.

  A stewardess approached her and helped her to collect her own and Megan’s hand luggage and then led them first off the plane to the waiting wheelchair, which was pushed by an employee of the airline. Customs and immigration procedure was soon over with surprisingly little fuss and they went into the arrival lounge where they were to be met by Owen.

  Slightly bemused by the sound of Spanish being spoken around her as Venezuelans greeted each other, Brooke looked about the big room. There was no sign of Owen, and as the crowd of people which had surged about them ebbed suddenly, leaving the lounge almost empty, Megan bleated tearfully, “Daddy isn’t here. He hasn’t come to meet us!”

  “Perhaps he’s been delayed somewhere,” said Brooke comfortingly, watching her charge’s big blue eyes fill with tears.

  The journey had been tiring for the little girl, but, buoyed up by the excitement of seeing her father again, she had not complained once. Now the fact that he was not waiting to greet her, so that she was unable to express her joy at being with him again, was an almost insupportable anti-climax, and Brooke made a mental note to speak to Owen about the inadvisability of disappointing his child at this stage in her progress towards recovery.

  In a way she felt let down too. She had also been looking forward to seeing him, if only to be reassured that he really existed. Ever since that rushed and rather hilarious ceremony which had made them husband and wife and which had been followed almost immediately by his departure for London by train, she had often experienced a strange feeling that he was a figment of her imagination. Only the thick band of Venezuelan gold on the third finger of her left hand, the two letters she had received from him and the knowledge that Megan was his, had assured her that he did exist.

  The automatic doors of the lounge swung open. A young woman of about twenty-three stood for a moment just inside the wide doors, her bright alert eyes flickering over the few people who were left in the lounge. She was wearing wide black pants and a pretty flowered cross-over blouse with short puffed sleeves. Over one shoulder she carried a shiny black patent-leather handbag. Her gaze rested on Brooke standing tall and golden-haired beside a wheelchair in which a small fair-haired child crouched. She smiled and came across the shining tiled floor, seeming to bounce on the thick cork soles of her sandals.

  “Buenos tardes, senora y senorita,” she said, holding out a hand to Brooke. “I am Dolores Rojas and I am pleased to meet you. Senor Meredith asked me to meet you. I’m sorry I’m late, but I was a little delayed by the traffic in the city.”

  Her eyes were dark brown and her long shoulder-length hair was also brown, bleached by the sun at the hairline. She was fair-skinned and pretty and her whole face seemed to sparkle with good humour.

  “Where is Mr. Meredith?” asked Brooke, wishing she spoke Spanish as well as the young woman spoke English.

  “He sent a message. He has had to go away for a few days on business. He is sorry not to be here. I work as a secretary for the company and he asked me to meet you and take you to his home. Welcome to Venezuela, senora. Welcome to you too, Chiquita,” she added, bending down to speak to Megan. “We must collect all your luggage and go out to the car. I asked a friend of mine to come and help us. Here he is now. He will find a porter for the cases and I shall push the wheelchair.”

  The friend was a tall young man, slim and straight-backed. His sleek black hair was neatly trimmed and long sideburns made his dark narrow face seem narrower than ever. A black moustache drooped over his upper lip and accentuated the whiteness of his teeth when he smiled.

  “Senora, this is my friend Juan Perez,” said Dolores. “Juan, this is Senora Meredith, the wife of my boss, and this is Senorita Megan, his daughter.”

  To Brooke’s surprise Juan clicked his heels together in a military fashion, bowed and taking her outstretched hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Juan is in the Army,” said Dolores, as if that explained his behaviour.

  “I am charmed to meet you, senora,” said Juan. “You also, senorita.”

  “Won’t you kiss my hand too?” asked Megan, holding out a pathetically thin claw.

  “That is reserved for married ladies only,” he replied gravely. Then with a flash of his brilliant smile, “But I shall kiss your cheek, if I may.”

  Megan was pleased with this suggestion and offered him a pale cheek. The young man’s gesture and his interest in the little girl made up somewhat for Owen’s absence on this rather important occasion, and Brooke was grateful to him.

  “Come now to the car,” said Dolores, beginning to push the wheelchair towards the doors, which opened automatically, and they all stepped out into the heat-laden air of late afternoon.

  The heat struck Brooke like a blow. Her clothing suddenly became too heavy and thick and her stockings felt unbearable. Even her hair, cut as it was in an ear-tip, page-boy bob, felt too warm for her head.

  “Too hot?” asked Dolores sympathetically. “The car has air-conditioning, and you will also find Caracas more comfortable. It is over three thousand feet above sea level and so the temperature is cooler there than here. To-day it has been a pleasant seventy degrees up there, while down here it has been over eighty degrees and humid as we
ll.”

  Juan proved his usefulness by lifting Megan bodily from the wheelchair and placing her in the back seat of the big black car. Brooke and Dolores sat with the child and the young man slid behind the steering wheel.

  Soon they were sweeping out of the entrance of the airport on to a right-hand carriageway of a wide road which rose steeply, seeming to delve right into the heart of the mountains. A signpost bearing the name of Caracas flashed by and the car paused at an automatic tollgate while Juan paid for the use of the road. Further on they entered a tunnel which had been built through the side of a mountain so that the road could go straight up.

  “We Venezuelans are very proud of this road,” said Dolores. “It is considered to be one of the most outstanding engineering achievements in South America. Before it was built it used to take two hours to drive from the coast to Caracas. Now it takes only three-quarters of an hour. Look over there,” she said, as they left the tunnel, “you can see the old road winding through the scrub.”

  Brooke could see the remains of a narrow road twisting off to the left through sparse stunted trees. The new road, straight as an arrow, continued to rise upwards, passing over a steep ravine spanned by an elegant bridge. Hundreds of feet below, a narrow river, a ribbon of silver between dark primeval rocks, wound its way to the sea.

  The sun was sliding down the western sky touching the peaks of the mountains with rosy light, torches of fire against the sky. Behind the car the land tumbled away down to the coast. Ahead the lower levels of the hills were covered with innumerable shacks, almost indiscernible because they were made from the local clay and blended with the rose-coloured rock.

  “Do people live in those huts?” asked Brooke, peering up at the jumbled terraces of dwellings. It seemed incredible that human beings had actually built them. They looked as if they had grown out of the rock.

  “I’m afraid so,” replied Juan over his shoulder. “You will find our country is one of extremes in more ways than one. High frosty peaks and tangled tropical jungles; barren arid plains and semi-tropical valleys; equatorial and polar climates within miles of each other. So too in the social sphere. Here we have primitive housing for the poor. In Caracas you will find beautiful, almost ostentatious homes owned by the rich. Those huts were built by people who flocked to Caracas when oil was first discovered in the area. They came to work, but found nowhere to live, so they built their own houses.”