by Anne Weale
'It's Robert South wold conducting Hoist's Planets at the Barbican Hall. He's been giving special tutorials to selected students at the college and Angie thinks he's wonderful.'
'From what I hear he is a marvellous conductor. I'm an ignoramus about serious music but even I have heard of South wold. Is he living in England now? I thought Switzerland was his base.' 'It was, but it seems his father is gravely ill and won't live much longer. Robert South wold has been in England, comforting his mother, since the condition was diagnosed. His parents were in their forties when he was born so they're both very old and frail. I shouldn't think his mother will last long after his father goes.'
'What about his own family. Are they over here too?'
'He isn't married,' Clare told her. 'I should think it's virtually impossible to combine the schedule of an internationally famous conductor with a normal domestic life. He is dedicated to music. I've never heard his name linked with any women.'
'Perhaps he prefers his own sex.'
'There's nothing like that about him.' Clare sounded quite indignant.
'It wasn't meant as a slur,' Rosie said pacifyingly. 'More tea?'
'Yes, please. What are you wearing tonight?'
'My taupe silk. And you?'
Their conversation turned to the clothes worn at last night's party and at the wedding and remained on that subject until it was time to bath and change for the evening. Clare and her daughter, who had left the wedding party early to attend a class, set out for their concert an hour before it was necessary for Rosie to leave.
She was ready to go and was having a glass of wine and thinking about the newlyweds, who by now might be watching the sun set from the mirador, when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find Carl in the porch.
It was unheard of for him to turn up uninvited but she saw at once that he wasn't his usual self. In her newspaper days she had seen too many people reacting to various kinds of trouble, from bereavements to house fires, not to recognise the signs that something bad had happened to him, and very recently.
'Carl! Come in. . .is something the matter?' she asked, stepping back to admit him.
'You can say that again! I've been fired. Me and five others. Since the take-over last month there's been what's called "a rationalisation". In plain language, six jobs have been axed. Rationalisation, my foot. The word I'd use is bloodbath. I need a stiff drink, Rosie... and a shoulder to cry on.'
By now it was apparent that several stiff drinks were already circulating in his bloodstream.
'How about a nice cup of tea and something to eat?' she suggested, stepping back to let him come in.
She could see she was going to have to ring the Pelham Hotel and ask them to give Madame Clermont her apologies and say she had been delayed but would get there as soon its possible. She had known other people who had been the helpless victims of mergers and take-overs. She knew what a bombshell it was suddenly to be out in the cold, often with heavy financial commitments which had to be met or total disaster would ensue. As he had no wife and children, Carl's position was not as desperate as that, but the blow to his pride and confidence must be tremendous.
He was a friend she had neglected of late, but that didn't mean she could turn him away when he was in urgent need of someone to sympathise with him.
'What delayed you?' Nick asked rather curtly, when she was shown into the sitting-room of Madame Clermont's suite, full of apologies for keeping them waiting.
'A friend turned up unexpectedly and then I had difficulty getting a taxi.'
'Nick wanted to come and fetch you but I restrained him,' said Marie-Laure. 'It is really of no importance what time we dine,' she added soothingly. 'Sit down and relax, my dear. It is always excessively awkward when people arrive at inopportune moments. Nick will get you a drink.'
Thank God she had restrained him, thought Rosie. If he had come to the house he would have found Carl dead to the world on the sofa where he had collapsed while Rosie was down in the kitchen making tea and Welsh rarebit, the best quick hot snack she could think of for a man who had had a liquid lunch.
At first he had sat in the kitchen with her and begun to talk about his troubles. Then he had excused himself to sway to the loo and from there, being far from clear-headed, had gone back up to the living-room, there to pour himself the hefty slug which had knocked him out. In a way she had been relieved to find him collapsed on a sofa. He would probably still be asleep when she returned. Meanwhile she had loosened his tie, removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket.
She had left a note beside him, in case he woke, and another note for Clare and Angie who had never met Carl and would naturally be puzzled if they returned to find an unknown man sleeping off a binge in the living-room. But with any luck she would be back long before they were.
Possibly sensing that her guest was a good deal less calm than she was trying to appear, Marie-Laure embarked on a series of amusing anecdotes which, judging by the spontaneity of his laughter, were new to Nick as well as to Rosie.
Soon the evening was going with a swing and Nick seemed more like his old self, by which Rosie meant the way he had been during her weekend at Font Vella with Anna and Carolyn.
'Why don't you two young people finish this happy day as we did at the end of the Twenties when I was young?' suggested Marie-Laure.
Dinner was over. A dish of handmade chocolates had been brought for them to nibble with the coffee, served in elegant porcelain demitasses, but now the chocolates word eaten, the coffee-pot empty.
'How was that?' Nick asked her, smiling.
'We would go to a nightclub to dance. Oh, how we danced! The tango, the Charleston, the foxtrot. . . wonderful dances, wonderful music. Surely there must be somewhere in London for a close friend of the bridegroom to take a close friend of the bride?'
'I'm sure there is. Would you like that, Rosie?' he asked.
Was he merely being polite? Fulfilling his final duty as the best man? Yet his eyes seemed to hold the same warm glint she remembered from the afternoon when he had scooped her into his arms in a secluded corner of the garden at the monastery.
For a moment she was tempted to say there was nothing she would like more, and then she remembered Carl and forced herself to answer, 'Any other night I should have liked to go dancing, but not tonight.'
'Why not tonight?'
'I—I have an important meeting early tomorrow and these last few days have been so busy that I haven't prepared for it as well as I should have done.'
'Well I'd hate to interfere with the onward and upward progress of your career,' Nick said, with a hint of sarcasm. 'I'd better take you home.'
'It's kind of you, but quite unnecessary.'
'Nick is right. At this time of night, in London, I think he should go with you,' said Marie-Laure. 'One reads of deplorable things happening to unprotected women. How different it was in the Twenties. Then one could stroll where one pleased in full evening dress and jewels. It was a wonderful time to be young.'
'If you were rich,' Nick said drily.
'I was rich then,' she agreed. 'Or my father was. But now I am poor. I shouldn't be staying here if you had not insisted on paying the bill, mon cher.' She turned a mischievous smile on Rosie. 'One of the compensations of my great age is that I can no longer be compromised, as we called it in my day. I doubt if you even know what that expression means.'
'Oh, but I do,' said Rosie. 'When I was twelve and thirteen I used to spend hours reading novels belonging to Granny, some of them years old. The heroines were always getting themselves compromised. I think those days must have been rather restful and nice.'
'You'd have hated them,' Nick told her flatly. 'Your only options would have been marriage or spinsterhood, which would have meant staying at home, helping your mother.'
'I don't agree. I should have stood on my own feet no matter what period I had lived in,' she retorted with spirit, annoyed by his crack about her career.
'But you will let
Nick see you home... if only to please me,' the old lady pressed her gently. The figurative clash of swords which had just taken place seemed to amuse her. Her dark eyes were twinkling.
'If Nick puts me into a taxi I shall be perfectly safe. Clare may be back before me. Thank you for a nice evening. I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here... and in Paris.'
Although they had met for the first time little more than twenty-four hours ago, Rosie bent to kiss her goodnight.
A taxi had just brought a middle-aged couple and their luggage to the hotel's porticoed entrance. Nick and Rosie stood by while the cases were taken by a porter, the fare paid and goodnights exchanged.
Then Nick gave the driver her address and Rosie stepped into the back and sat down next to the door, leaning forward to bid him goodnight before he closed the door for her. Instead she was forced to jerk back as Nick dipped his tall head and followed her in, pulling the door shut behind him.
'There's really no need—' she began.
'I think there is...if only to put Marie-Laure's mind at rest.'
At this point the driver, behind whom the glass panel had been open, reached backwards to slide it shut, sealing them into the curiously private world of the back of a London taxi after dark. 'Don't worry,' Nick said. 'I shall behave impeccably... as if we were back in the Twenties when the only things that happened in taxis were proposals of marriage and a little light necking.'
He slid his tall form into the opposite corner where he sat slightly sideways to give maximum room to his long legs. This time there was no mistaking the bite of sarcasm in his voice.
'I never imagined otherwise,' Rosie said coolly.
'No? In that case why were you so anxious for me not to come with you?'
'Simply to save you the trouble.'
'Since when has it been a trouble for a man to see an attractive girl home? We're not taking the last bus to darkest Wimbledon and I shan't have to walk back,' he said drily, adding,
'Although I probably shall, for the exercise.'
'I don't think that would be wise... not in a dinner-jacket. This isn't rural Spain.'
'Nor is it the lower east side of Manhattan.'
Seizing the chance to sidestep personal topics, she said, 'Have you spent much time in New York?'
'I've been there a couple of times. Have you?'
'Only once. I thought it was a marvellous city.'
You would. It's a mecca for career girls and seethes with ambitious women competing for the top jobs.'
'I don't know why you have the impression that my job is the only thing which matters to me.'
'Isn't it?'
No, you are... damn you! She thought.
Aloud, she said, 'No more than your career as a writer is to you. And I'm in a position you have never been in... I employ several people. If I fall down on my job, they will be out of work, which is no joke.'
Reminded of Carl, who was now in that unhappy state, she wondered if he were still sleeping or had woken with a splitting head and was at this moment rummaging around for aspirins.
What on earth was she going to do if Nick insisted on coming in with her? A thought occurred which was like biting on a tooth with an exposed nerve. It was possible that he was here with her now because he hoped to see Clare.
He said, 'OK, let's come to terms. I won't make any more cracks about your career if you'll get it out of your head that I'm an in veterate womaniser. I'm not.'
'All right. . . agreed.'
'Shake on it?' He extended his right hand
She put her hand into his. As his finger closed over hers, a slow shiver of pleasure ran through her. If he could do this to her merely by holding her hand, what would she feel if he took her in his arms and kissed her?
She knew then that what she longed for, more than anything in the world, was to arrive at her house, invite Nick in for a drink and keep him there for a night of unimaginable bliss. But that was impossible on two counts. Carl might still be there and, even if he had woken up and gone home, it wouldn't be long before Clare and Angie returned. The only person who, if there had been no other obstacles, would not have interfered with that lovely but impossible consummation of a ten-year-old dream was Marie-Laure.
She was much too worldly wise to worry if Nick failed to return to the hotel. Rosie felt sure that she knew, without being told, how Rosie felt about Nick and, had she been in her place, would have used all her arts to enchant him. She had said as much last night at the party. But apart from the fact that Rosie knew she lucked the qualities which made women irresistible, she also felt times had changed since Marie-Laure had been her age. Then, women competed for men far more ruthlessly because their futures hinged on whom they married. Whether their lives were easy and interesting or hard and dreary had depended on their husbands. That was no longer so. And it was no longer 'on' to lure a man into bed when he seemed to be drawn to another woman who might make him a much better wife. Anyway there could be no question of tacitly inviting Nick to stay with her tonight, Rosie thought glumly as the taxi approached her road. If the light was still on in the living-room she would know that Carl was still prostrate on the sofa.
To her dismay, when they arrived at her house, not only was light showing through the living-room curtains but the first-floor rooms, were alight although not those on the floor above.
'Do you always leave all your lights on?' Nick asked, as he stepped out and glanced at the house before turning to help her alight.
'I came away in a hurry. Thank you for bringing me back. Goodnight, Nick.'
'I'll see you inside.' He bent to the nearside window and handed the driver some notes.
'There aren't any muggers around. You're fussing,' Rosie protested. 'Please keep the taxi. Marie-Laure will be waiting for you.'
'No, she won't. I'm coming in. I want to talk to you.'
'What about? Can't it wait till tomorrow? I've got work to do.'
'So you said, but I don't believe you.' He handed the driver a tip, put the other coins in his pocket, said, 'Thanks . . . goodnight,' and took a firm hold of Rosie's arm above the elbow. Torn between wanting to know what it was he wanted to talk about and nervous about what the lights upstairs portended, she saw it was useless to argue. He was determined to come in.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'WOMEN living in cities are advised to have their latch-keys ready before they arrive at their doors,' Nick said, as Rosie fumbled in her bag while slowly mounting the steps up to the front door.
'On my own I do have it ready.'
Her evening bag was smaller and less well organised than her day bag. Damn! Why did the wretched key have to elude her tonight of all nights?
When she found it, Nick took it from her and unlocked the door which, Carl being there, she had not double-locked as they usually did when leaving the house empty. He pushed the door open and waited for her to precede him. Two steps inside she could see that Carl was no longer lying on the sofa, nor was her note propped against the lamp base on the table near his head.
She had removed the empty whisky glass before she went out, but there was a distinct whiff of whisky in the air. She hoped Nick would think it was left over from last night's party. Where was Carl? Had he woken, gone to the upstairs loo, forgetting there was one in the basement, and then flaked out on her bed or Sasha's? Sober, he was not a man who did things like that. But badly hung-over, perhaps he might. At any rate he wasn't snoring. Perhaps, if she kept cool, this contretemps would blow over.
'You look like a schoolgirl who's been summoned to the headmistress's study, Rosie. What are you expecting? A lecture? That's not what I have in mind,' Nick said, smiling slightly. What did he have in mind? That lift at the corner of his mouth made her even more uneasy. She said, 'Let's have another drink. I'll have a brandy and ginger. I think the ice tub is empty. You know where the fridge is, don't you? Would you mind filling it while I go upstairs to turn off the lights I left on.'
Nick moved to the drinks tray, picked up
the insulated tub and was turning towards the stairs going down to the basement when there was a sound from above. She recognised it at once as the noise made by the pedal-bin in the bathroom when the lid was released and fell back on to the bin. To him it was a sound which he did not expect to hear in an empty house.
'Are you sure you left the lights on?' he asked, in an undertone.
'Certain... it's a failing of mine.' She crossed to the foot of the stairs, ignoring Nick's, 'Stay where you are. I'll take a look.'
Their drinks table was at the other end of the living-room and, as he strode towards her, Carl emerged from the landing door of the bathroom. Seeing Rosie looking up at him, he said, 'I've been taking a bath in your spa tub. You two girls believe in pampering yourselves.'
He began to come down the stairs just as Nick reached the newel post. Carl stopped short, looking surprised. Obviously it hadn't occurred to him that someone might have brought her home.
Nick's face had become a hard mask of angular bone and taut flesh, all expression erased except from his eyes which turned from Carl to her with a look which made her hear sink. There was a pause which seemed endless, Then Rosie pulled herself together. 'This is Carl, the friend I told you about, who arrived unexpectedly just as I was leaving. I told him to make himself at home until I or the others came back. Carl, this is—'
'Nick Winchester,' Carl supplied, coming down and holding out his hand. A sleep followed by a bath had sobered him up. He looked back to normal, a bit heavyeyed perhaps, but spruce and in full control of himself, not the verging on legless, distraught man who had come to her for sympathy a few hours earlier.
'I've often seen you on TV,' he said, offering Nick his hand. 'I didn't know Rosie knew you.'
