by Anne Weale
She had long ago learned what suited her and what didn't, and by half-past four she had acquired two large carriers and was feeling like a cup of tea. She went to the Justin de Blank cafe which was not far away and where they had chocolate brownies as good as her mother's. It was one of those days when her taste-buds craved something sinful. As she drank her tea, she admitted to herself that it was because Nick was coming to the wedding that she had just spent a lot of money on a new outfit when there were several which would have done in her wardrobe.
The discovery that the divine Madame Clermont was far too old to play the part in his life she had thought she did was an enormous relief. But now, stupidly, she had made Nick believe there was a man in the background of her own life. How was she to disabuse him of that idea without proving herself a liar?
The night before Sasha's wedding, Rosie gave a party for her.
Nick and Madame Clermont had arrived in London that morning and were staying at the Pelham Hotel in Cromwell Place. They were spending a week in London before going to Paris together. According to Sasha, he thought Marie-Laure too frail to revisit that city on her own. While they were away, Tom and Sasha were going to return to Font Vella for their honeymoon. After which they would leave for Australia and a new life together. So the party was the last many of Sasha's friends would see of her except if she came back to Europe for a holiday, but that was unlikely to be for a long time. As usual, Clare had taken responsibility for all the preparations for the party. Rosie had come home from work to find everything under control and nothing for her to do but have a bath and dress.
From the moment when Nick's flight was due to land, she had felt a mounting excitement because he was in the same country, not at a safe distance in Spain. As she reached behind her to fasten her pale grey silk taffeta dress which, with its lace collar and cuffs, looked demure, even prim from the front but was cut to show off her back, she glanced at the clock by her bed.
In less than half an hour the guests would start arriving and Nick and the Frenchwoman might be among the first comers. How, how was she to undo that fatal mistake she had made the last time they spoke on the telephone?
In fact there were about a dozen people in the flower-bedecked living-room when some sixth sense told her that the only guest who mattered a whit to her had arrived. Standing at the far end of the room, she turned her head and saw Tom and Sasha, who had stationed themselves near the door to welcome everyone, greeting a woman of outstanding elegance.
Although it was a warm summer evening, coming from a hotter climate and being built with the graceful slenderness of a whippet, Marie-Laure Clermont had chosen to dress in a dark red velvet like the petals of Clare's favourite roses.
Rosie could tell at a glance that the dress must be half a century old, not only because it was cut in the style of the Thirties but because such velvet, supple silk velvet, was no longer made even for the great couture houses.
The rich colour set off to perfection its wearer's sugar-white hair. Her thin hands, weighted with perhaps a dozen rings, were brown. But her face she must keep protected from the sun's rays, for it was much paler, and her make-up was put on with great discretion so that she did not have the mask-like visage of some of her generation.
Behind her, Nick, in black tie, looked so compellingly attractive that Rosie felt herself tremble inwardly.
She said, 'Would you excuse me?' to the group she had been talking to and went to be presented to Madame Clermont.
'This is my great friend Rosie Middleton, Marie-Laure,' said Sasha.
'How do you do, madame! Having seen your house in Font Vella and read about you in Nick's book, it's a great pleasure to welcome you to this house,' said Rosie, holding out her hand. The claw-like fingers which gripped it were unexpectedly warm and strong.
'And for me to be here, Miss Middleton. But as we are both close friends of this one—' her other hand fastened on Nick's arm '—shall we be informal and call each other by our first names?'
Rosie smiled and nodded, then raised her eyes to meet his. 'Hello, Nick.'
'Good evening. You're looking very beautiful tonight.'
'Thank you.'
His compliment gave her no pleasure. She recognised it for what it was, a smooth piece of flattery, suitable to the occasion but not sincere or only to the extent that he liked her dress. He did not like her any more. She felt sure of it. Perhaps he was piqued that she preferred to cycle in France with another man than to visit him in Spain, making up—although he had not explained that—a foursome with Sasha and Tom.
A student Clare had hired to help with the drinks was hovering with a tray of champagne. Bright enough to realise that the lady in red was a grande dame, he bowed slightly as he offered it to her.
'Thank you.' Her rings flashing as she took a glass, Marie-Laure gave him a smile which acknowledged that he was a nice-looking young man with whom, if sixty years younger, she would enjoy a flirtation. And he, perhaps having had his fill of girls of his own age playing it cool and offhand, reacted with a blushing grin.
'Did you have a good flight? Is your hotel comfortable?' asked Rosie as they moved further into the room to make way for more arrivals.
'A marvellous flight and the hotel is delightful, like a private house of excellent style and comfort. I have a suite on the first floor which might be in a chateau. But don't let me keep you from your duties as hostess. I am not one of those old ladies who leaves a party early to say her prayers and go to bed. I am a night owl. There will be time to talk later.'
'I certainly hope so,' said Rosie. 'But let me introduce—'
'Not at all necessary,' Marie-Laure interrupted. 'First I shall look round your drawing-room at all your things, which are of great interest to me, and then I shall cast my eye over your guests and introduce myself to those I think might be interesting. Off you go, pretty Rosie.'
Amused by her guest's forthrightness, and pleased with this second compliment which she did not doubt was sincere because the Frenchwoman had the air of a person who, although she might never be unkind, would never utter false praise, Rosie did as she was told. It was not until supper was served at nine o'clock that she felt that the guests had had enough hostessly attention and that from now on she could relax and, while still keeping a watchful eye out for glasses which needed replenishing, enjoy herself.
There were plenty of places for everyone to sit comfortably, although some had to balance their plates on their laps, using the large Victorian double damask napkins Clare had bought at a jumble sale, to protect their clothes.
As she finished making her selection from the array of dishes Clare had prepared for the buffet and looked round for a place to sit— most people were already eating—Rosie saw that all the seats in the living-room were occupied.
She went downstairs to the overflow areas and saw, in the TV room, her housekeeper next to Nick. Quickly she turned away, finding a place for herself between two guests at the eating end of the kitchen.
It was unlike Clare to sit down before everyone else had been served. Perhaps she had only done so because Nick had insisted. Could it be that Tom was right and he was interested in her?
He was certainly among the most active helpers when the time came to clear away the main course and encourage people to help themselves to the puddings. Rosie noticed him helping her again at the coffee stage, taking cups round on a tray and later removing them. Did he always make himself useful at parties where it was necessary? Or was he exerting himself as a special service to Clare?
Oh, God, what does it matter why he's doing it? She asked herself impatiently. One thing is certain: it isn't for my sake. He hasn't spared me a glance since he arrived. I might not exist for all the notice he's taken of me since we said hello.
After she had rung for a cab for a couple who had to leave early and gone to the door with them when it arrived, she saw Marie-Laure beckoning to her from a sofa.
'Tomorrow night, the honeymooners will be on their way to Sp
ain and you will be on your own. I should like you to come and dine with me at the hotel. Will you?'
'It's very kind of you, but—'
'You are thinking of your other friend... the one who keeps house for you... that she may feel lonely.'
'Yes.'
'I am told she will be going to a concert with her daughter.'
Clare hadn't mentioned this, but nor had Rosie asked what she planned to do after the wedding. She had assumed they would put their feet up together.
'In that case I'd like to dine with you. Will Nick be there?'
'Where else?' The old lady chuckled. 'He may be annoyed with me.'
'Annoyed? Why?'
'For usurping his privilege. Surely it is the custom, in this as in other countries, for the bride's chief attendant, if unmarried, to dine with the best man?'
'I believe it's usual, yes, although as this wedding is going to be very informal I am not really a bridesmaid in the ordinary sense.'
'You are Sasha's closest and best friend. She spoke of you with great affection while she was staying in Spain.'
'We've known each other a long time.'
'And Nick and Tom also, I understand?'
'We knew them a long time ago. We haven't kept in touch although, as you probably know, Tom and Sasha were in love in those days.'
'And then quarrelled and were apart until Nick brought them together. Yes, I have heard their story. But you, Rosie... you felt no tendresse for my dear Nicholas when you knew him before?'
There was great kindness and wisdom in Marie-Laure's shrewd dark eyes and Rosie longed to confide in her. At the same time she was afraid that if she admitted to tender feelings for Nick, not only in the past but now, the Frenchwoman might pass on the information. That was a humiliation she could not risk.
'I have always wanted, more than anything, to be my own mistress,' she answered. 'Perhaps, one day, someone's wife but, before that, a woman of independent means. It may seem a strange ambition to someone of your generation but it's the way I am.'
'Ma chere, you surely do not imagine that the wish to be independent is something new?
Women have always wanted to stand on their own feet, but sometimes it has been impossible. I am of the opinion that it is better to remain single than to be married to a man who is dull or difficult. But there are some men in the world—a rather rare species, I fear—who have much to offer a woman. When one of those comes along then one should exert oneself to capture his interest. For me there were three such men and each one became my husband. Nicholas is such a man. But alas I am far too old to captivate him.'
Rosie said lightly, 'Have you no granddaughters who would suit him?'
'Unfortunately I never had children, but in any case I suspect—I am not sure, but I suspect—that he has someone in mind but there are certain... obstacles. How tall he is, and how well he carries himself.'
She was gazing down the length of the room and, looking in the same direction, Rosie saw Nick in conversation with a freelance photographer who was a friend of Sasha's. Clan was with them, attending closely to whatever Nick was saying.
The light from a nearby table-lamp was casting an upward glow on his face, now even more deeply tanned than earlier in the year, the mahogany shade of his skin emphasised by the whiteness of his dress shirt in the same way that his wing collar underlined the cleanly cut lines of his jaw and chin.
Almost as if he sensed that he was being watched from afar, he turned and looked towards them, his vivid eyes meeting Rosie's briefly before shifting to her companion. It was at Marie-Laure that he smiled.
A few moments later he came to join them. 'It's been a long day, ma chere. I know you like to keep late hours but perhaps, with a wedding tomorrow, we should go back to the hotel now. By the time we have talked and drunk a little cognac together it will be past midnight.'
'I think you are right. We should leave. Tomorrow night there is another pleasure in store. Our pretty hostess is coming to dine with us.'
Nick did not look as if the prospect pleased him particularly.
He said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'Good: it will be an opportunity to discuss my proposal to buy Sasha's share of the house. She has mentioned it to you, I believe?'
'Yes,' said Rosie. 'She has, and it seems a very good idea.'
'I'm glad you think so. We'll go into the details tomorrow. Now, if you could ring for a taxi...
CHAPTER TEN
THAT night Rosie dreamt of another party, long ago.
Stored in her subconscious mind was a detailed memory of the Christmas Eve after-work party in a pub near the News office, at the end of which Nick had taken her round rosy face between his hands and dropped a casual kiss on her closed lips under the mistletoe. But in her dream it was different. In real life she had stood there, flabbergasted with delight and confusion, while he patted her cheeks and said 'Happy Christmas, Rosie. Don't OD on Christmas pud.'
By then, although new to the job, she had learned from the routine calls to the police and fire stations, made every day by one of the junior reporters, that OD meant overdose. But she hadn't minded his teasing because—or so she had thought—it was the loving teasing she got from her family, not the unkind teasing she had sometimes received at school It had been her first kiss, the light push needed to propel her across the boundary of hero-worship into the raptures of first love.
But in her dream she was not a theoretically knowledgeable but actually extremely innocent seventeen-year-old. She was herself as she was now, and when Nick bent to kiss her she slipped her arms round his neck in eager response.
For a few heavenly seconds their lips met in a passionate kiss until suddenly Nick grabbed her wrists and jerked down her arms.
'For God's sake, Rosie, what kind of behaviour is this? You know how I feel about Clare. Haven't you any loyalty to her after all she's done for you?'
With which he stalked out of the pub, leaving her scarlet with embarrassment as everyone else deliberately turned their backs on her.
She woke up, knowing at once that it was only a dream, yet with her heart still beating from the feel of his strong arms around her, the exciting roughness of his six o'clock chin rasping her softer skin, and the fleeting ardom of his kiss.
To dispel the illusion she reached out to turn on her light. Tonight she had brought up to bed a half-full bottle of spring water. Then was some left. She sat up, filled the tumbler and reached over the side of the bed to retrieve the two reading pillows she had thrown out before going to sleep.
For a while she sat sipping the water and thinking about the man now asleep at the Pelham and the woman sleeping upstairs and wondering if Clare was the reason Nick's manner towards herself had become noticeably cool.
Between the ages of ten and eighteen, Rosie had been a bridesmaid at all the village church weddings of her brothers, sisters and cousins.
Privately she found Sasha's and Tom's short civil ceremony in a register office rather soulless.
Afterwards Sasha's parents gave a small informal lunch party at the hotel where they were staying. Their guests were the bridegroom's father, a widower, the best man, Rosie, Clare and her daughter Angie, and Madame Clermont. At two-thirty the newlyweds left for the airport and the party broke up.
'I'm going to have a nap. Otherwise I might fall asleep at the concert tonight, and that would never do,' said Clare, as they entered the house where all traces of last night's party had been tidied up early that morning.
'I might lie down too,' said Rosie. 'I found chatting to the parents rather an effort. How odd that they should have produced Sasha and Tom. I found them terribly dull.'
Her remark reminded her of telling Carolyn, Nick's editor, that journalists were never bored by anyone. Perhaps Mr and Mrs Otley and Tom's father were the exceptions to the rule, or perhaps she was off form today.
'They were rather stiff and inarticulate, weren't they?' Clare agreed, beginning to mount the stairs. 'I'll set my alarm clock for five and bring yo
u some tea. That will give us plenty of time to get ready for the evening.'
But in the event it was Rosie, who, unable to sleep, had spent the afternoon reading, who took a tea-tray up to Clare's eyrie at the top of the house.
Evidently Clare had slept until the alarm clock woke her a few minutes earlier. She was still lying in bed, a little flushed, her hair not as neat as usual. It made her look younger.
'How kind of you, Rosie,' she said, hoisting herself into a sitting position.
'We haven't had much chance to talk about Nick's proposal to lend you the money to buy Sasha's share of the house,' said Rosie. 'Is this a suitable moment or are you still half asleep?'
'No, no. I went out like a light, but I'm wide awake now. Pull up that chair.' Clare indicated a small tub chair she had bought for a song and re-covered with a remnant of chintz. While Rosie was pouring out tea, she went on, 'It's an extraordinarily generous offer on Nick's part. I can't think why he should be so kind. He's also suggested that, while he's away in July, Angie and I should have a holiday at his house in Spain.'
'Where is he going in July?'
'To stay with friends in Italy. He seems to have friends all over the world. Not surprising really. He's such a dear. I can't imagine anyone not liking him. Not many men of his age would trouble to escort an old lady to Paris. He didn't say so himself, but from what Madame Clermont told me most of her contemporaries have died off and going back might be quite painful for her if he were not going to be there to dispel the sadness for her.'
'So you're in favour of his plan?' said Rosie, in agreement with Clare's encomium but finding it hard to listen to her singing Nick's praises.
'Yes, indeed I am. But are you? What he proposes is that I should move downstairs into Sasha's bedroom and Angie into what is now the darkroom, and this part of the house should become a self-contained flat for visitors, including himself. But perhaps you would rather we stayed where we are and Sasha's room became the visitors' room with the darkroom changed to a bathroom?'
'I think his plan is best. I know anything goes nowadays but I have a conventional streak and I shouldn't feel comfortable with the alternative,' said Rosie. 'And anyway I should like to have you and Angie sharing with me, if you won't mind having less privacy? I shall miss Sasha less with you downstairs. So that's settled, all but the legal and financial details. I gather Nick wanted you to dine with us tonight if you hadn't had tickets for a concert. What concert is it?'
