At this Hope could only stare. “Repeat yourself?”
A waiter came with their drinks, and when he had gone she prompted, “Repeat yourself?”
“You have not read the article that caused so much offense?” Jude asked, with a faint air of disbelief. “I thought that was why we were here.”
“What article? I haven’t read any article.”
Hal Thompson laid down his menu and intervened. “Jude writes an architectural column now and then for the Globe. He reviewed The Rotunda when it was unveiled, and I’m afraid Norman didn’t take his criticisms in good part.”
Hope turned to Jude again, opening her eyes wide. “A newspaper column now!” she marvelled. “Where will it end?”
Her father launched into his usual paean of praise for his protégé. It gave Hope a curious sensation to realize that Hal Thompson really had no suspicion of her dislike of Jude, while Jude was fully aware of it. Just as she was aware of his dislike of her. This fact lent to their exchanges an intimate quality—two people talking in code—that Hope did not recognize for what it was.
“Since I haven’t read it,” she said, when her father had finished, “perhaps you’d give me a brief précis of your comments, because I really can’t see any flaws.”
“When you walked around the edges of those transparent inserts in the floor, no flaw occurred to you?” Jude prodded gently.
She was startled that he had noticed.
“That’s hardly the architect’s fault! The maitre d’ shouldn’t take people right over those areas.”
“It does not occur to you that those circles have no reason to exist?”
“Well, of course they’re letting the light through!”
“And yet the dome itself is smoked glass. There is in any case no undiffused natural light in the place.”
“People who look up can see the top of the dome, though,” Hope tried. The centre of the dome carried a modern design in coloured glass, like a church window.
“And for a consideration like this it is fair to make every woman who dines here uncomfortable,” Jude said levelly.
“He was trying to make an artistic whole,” Hope protested. “You can see that his theme is repeating—”
Jude interrupted without apology. “It is not the job of an architect to sacrifice the comfort of human beings for the sake of art. The art of architecture is to facilitate living, not to build a monument to an individual artistic ego.”
“I’m sure Norman is well aware of the importance of the end user! He hardly needs you to tell him.”
He looked amused. “I have not told him. I have told you.”
When the waiter turned up at her father’s elbow, Hope hadn’t yet so much as glanced at the menu. Hastily she opened it and ordered almost at random. Beside them, with a screeking of metal chairs on glass, a party of four was arriving. The restaurant was filling up, and the sound levels increased proportionately.
There was the sound of a breaking plate behind her, and Hope involuntarily turned her head, but there was nothing there—their table was beside the smoked glass exterior wall.
“That’s strange,” she said, half to herself.
Jude handed his menu to the waiter and grinned at her. “Norman’s acoustics provide the diners here at the outer edge with the privilege of hearing all the noises from the waiters’ workstation. In some positions it is easier to hear a waiter scraping plates down there in the centre than the voice of your companion two feet away.”
She was suddenly able to identify the noises she had been hearing for the past ten minutes. Jude was right—she could hear dishes being scraped and stacked, the clank of silverware being dropped in metal bins. Every sound had a high, scraping, treble note that she had not consciously noticed at first but which was becoming slightly uncomfortable over time.
“Next time I’ll book a table downstairs,” she said lightly. Jude really was making a big case out of nothing. Noisy restaurants were in at the moment, and why should Norman Cooper be blamed for an entire trend?
She had a headache at the end of an hour, but she attributed that to the stress of being in Jude Daniels’ company.
Jude had a secretary, as did her father, but, as Hope discovered on her first day, it was the job of the office manager to supervise both of them, as well as their support staff.
She did not really enjoy the work, and was sorry almost immediately that she had agreed to take it on. It was all Jude Daniels’ fault, of course: he had dared her, as if knowing she would refuse the dare, and instead of doing the sane thing, she’d been suckered by pride into proving him wrong.
And yet, until she made up her mind what her future was going to be, what else should she do? There was no point setting up a studio here in Toronto if she did not in the end settle here. And one stopgap was probably as good as another. Any woman stepping into Eleanor’s job would have had difficulty, and Hope at least had a year of architectural college behind her, so she could console herself that she was being useful to her father.
She was uncomfortable, though, feeling out of her element. Sometimes she wished she had never come home, and yet her life had been too fragmented during her time in Europe for her to feel there was a solid base to return to there. And she was a different person now, as much there as here. Whatever she chose to do now, she would on some level be starting over.
Sometimes on a weekend afternoon she took her paints and easel down to the lake front or out to the island and painted boats, but without the urgency to commit the images to canvas that she had once felt. Whatever the future held, for the moment her focus was not in her paints.
The one thing about which she felt any urgency at all was men. Hope was dating every night, and loving it. For the first time in her life, men were falling over themselves to get to her. For the first time, too, she did not suffer pain in her hip if she stayed up late, or drank too much, or danced. For the first time she could wear clothes that were sexually enticing without feeling that she looked like a fool or was being a cheat: now she had the right to dress as a woman who assumes in herself the power to attract—and she could, if she wanted to, deliver on the promise of such clothes. Before her operations she had always avoided any hint of sexual potential in the way she dressed. This new freedom to tempt was intoxicating.
Jude Daniels knew about her late nights. He and her father often discussed work over dinner at the Thompson house. Hope usually went in to say good-night to her father before leaving the house on a date, and she made a particular point of it when she knew Jude was there.
Knowing Jude would be seeing her always added a certain extra rush to her blood as she dressed, and although of course she dressed for her date, on nights when he was with her father it was Jude’s eyes she imagined gazing at her as she pulled on sheer black stockings, Jude’s decorum she thought of shaking up as she buttoned a sheer shirt, Jude’s negative reaction she imagined as she slipped on a designer dress that left an inch-wide strip of bare skin visible down her side between armpit and hem, or was cut so low her warm, tanned breasts seemed to be on offer on a plate.
She took pleasure in flaunting her beauty in front of Jude Daniels because she was very sure he disapproved of her and her frivolous lifestyle. Jude was one of the worker ants of the world, with an instinctive contempt for those whose function was butterfly, Hope was certain. And he had made up his mind that she was a butterfly.
“We’re going to Nina’s,” she would tell her father caressingly on such evenings, naming Toronto’s latest in club. “And afterwards Johnny’s promised to take us for a midnight sail on that fabulous new yacht he’s taking to the Med in September....”
“Enjoy yourself,” Hal Thompson would order her with a tolerant smile, though she knew that even he did not understand what it was that drove her now.
“Hello, Jude,” Hope would say, opening limpid eyes at him and making sure he got the full benefit of whatever outfit she had on.
His face when he returned her greeting was always inscru
table. Hope did not have the satisfaction of scoring many points. Since Jude never admitted by so much as a raised eyebrow to disapproving of her lifestyle, her flaunting of it seemed merely gratuitous.
Yet she knew she was getting to him. She would glitter and shine and swing her pampered, expensive hair at him, and every now and then there was something deep behind his eyes that told her she had scored. She was absolutely certain that Jude had the urge to slap her, as if he was impatient of her, as if she were living her life half-asleep.
She wasn’t. She was wide-awake and alive for the first time, and not even Jude’s black gaze could take away the pleasure of it. But sometimes she imagined him trying to slap her, imagined the stinging blow she would give his cheek in return. Sometimes she wished he would say or do something—anything—that would justify such a reaction from her.
Other men did not hide their opinion of her. To her astonished delight, men were falling around her like flies in a room mined by Vapona No-Pest strips. They wanted to sleep with her, to live with her, or marry her and have beautiful daughters just like her, depending on their natures. But Hope was sixteen again and getting permanent with no one. “My father won’t let me go steady,” she joked with one persistent suitor, and was surprised by the thrill that went through her at the words. It wasn’t true that you couldn’t relive your life.
She was crossing a magic landscape that had been closed to her before—there had never been any need, or chance, to say those words eight years ago, when she was really sixteen. In those days Hope had always been a popular member of the group, but never singled out by any boy. And she had never tried to single one out, though of course she had had crushes. What had she had to offer? She couldn’t even dance. The fear of rejection had always kept Hope determinedly in the buddy category.
No more. She had no buddies now, no pals, only men who wanted her, whether they were her date or another woman’s.
Except Jude Daniels. He was not a pal, but nor did he want her. He was the only one in whose eyes she never once saw sexual interest or appreciation. Hope didn’t want him wanting her, she’d have hated it if he did, so that was all right.
Jude Daniels was firmly in the category enemy.
Chapter 3
Of course her social life took its toll on her effectiveness in the office. She was sometimes late, sometimes inefficient, and her father gave his secretary a raise because she complained she had more of a workload now, and was doing some of Eleanor’s work.
For example, Lena had taken over the job when a new draughts man had to be hired, running the ad and booking and screening the applicants for Hal Thompson to interview. That wasn’t in her job description, but Hope had been taking a four-day weekend to take part in a sailing regatta when Hal and Jude decided to hire an extra hand, and then was off sick an extra day, and when she came back it made sense to let Lena continue what she’d begun rather than try to take over the job in the middle.
Small incidents like that made Hope seem more and more merely the boss’s daughter. Everybody knew that she’d really been off with a celebratory hangover on the last day. Nobody minded—her father was rich, and the job was only till Eleanor came back, and why should Hope bust her ass over it? As for Lena, she was very happy with Hope’s lack of dedication, since it had meant a raise.
Anyway, Hope was great to have around the office. She laughed and joked with them all, and except when Jude was there the atmosphere was easy and friendly, and after a few weeks Hope was firmly in the role of the office pet. They joked when she came in with dark circles around her eyes and groaning every time the phone rang, they loved to hear about the places she went at night, and who had been there, and she painted a terrific portrait of Jude’s secretary to give to her mother on her birthday, and now everyone wanted one.
The hot July night of the day that she took the completed portrait into the office to give to Sarah, she was, for a change, at home for dinner.
“Well, hello!” said her father appreciatively, coming into the sitting room to find her lounging on a sofa in shorts and shirt, watching the news. “No parties tonight?”
“I thought it would be nice for a change to have an evening with just the two of us,” Hope said.
Jude Daniels appeared in the doorway. Hope’s face lost all expression as she turned her head. “Hey, Jude,” she acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.
“Good evening, Hope.”
“Something to drink, Hope?” asked her father, moving over to the drinks tray.
“A vodka martini, please, very dry.”
There was silence while her father mixed the drink for her, and the anchorman talked about starving refugees.
“Shall we have that off, Hope?” her father chided gently as he offered her a glass, and Hope woodenly picked up the remote and the screen went black.
“Jude? Your usual?” asked Hal, just as Hope said with formal sweetness, “Do sit down, please.”
Jude nodded at Hal. To Hope he said, “My clothes are dirty.”
She looked him up and down. He must have come straight from the Rose Library site, because he was in work clothes—work pants and shirt and boots, and there was dust in all the creases and caught in the curling hair of his forearms and his eyebrows. His dark hair was ruffled and slightly damp with sweat; he’d been wearing a hard hat. He looked like a manual labourer.
“I’m sure Bella is quite used to getting dust out of the furniture by now,” she told him. As he sank into one of her father’s luxurious armchairs, Hope was conscious of a little thrill of pleasure at the contrast he made with the background of sophisticated wealth.
Her father poured whisky over ice and handed it to Jude, then poured a drink for himself. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll make that call to Vancouver now,” he said, and carried his drink out of the room across the hall to his study.
Hope’s foremost emotion was irritation with her father for having asked her to turn the TV off. She sipped her drink and the silence grew thicker. She hadn’t noticed before what a strong body Jude had. Lean, but firmly muscled. The dust of labour emphasised his physicality as a business suit never could. He was very different from the fresh, gymmuscled lawyers and stockbrokers she dated. It only made her like him less, if possible.
The silence went on, but Hope didn’t care. She was damned if she would make social conversation with the man. Let him suffer.
At last Jude said, “Sarah showed me a portrait you have done of her.”
“Did she?”
“I didn’t know you painted portraits.”
“I don’t, much.”
“It’s very good.”
“Are you surprised?” She carefully kept all trace of the pleasure she felt at his praise out of her ironic inquiry. Why should she be affected by what Jude thought?
“I am surprised that you are working in the office instead of painting. What is the reason for this?”
She tilted her head and eyed him. “What’s the matter, Jude? You don’t like having to revise your opinion of me? I told you weeks ago why I wanted a job—as a stopgap while I work out what I want to do.”
He drank some whisky and looked at her, ignoring the challenge. “This was understandable when I imagined you had only amateur talent. You are not sure that you want to paint? Why?”
“There are a lot of ifs in my life at the moment, and I have some adjusting to do. Painting is just not the first thing on my mind right now. There was a time when it was everything to me, and it might be again, but not now.”
“I’d like to see your work,” he said.
Just at that moment she said involuntarily, “I suppose you wouldn’t sit for me.”
There was a little silence while she hated herself. She could not imagine what had possessed her to ask him. She didn’t even want to paint him. It was as though someone else entirely had spoken.
He looked at her. “Why not?”
She did want to paint him. As he was now, in the silk chair, with the dust of labour o
n him, forming so strong a contrast to the background of the room. She was silenced by surprise as she realized it. How could she possibly want to paint Jude Daniels? Why?
“I’ll get a sketchpad,” she said.
She was grateful to find her father still absent when she returned. Hope adjusted the blinds before picking up the pad and pencil. His natural posture was four-square, legs spread, both feet flat on the ground, his arms resting on the chair arms, the glass of whisky held lightly but securely in that long, sensitive, anything-but-labourer’s hand.
She wanted to present him head-on, emphasising his impact, and moved a chair to a position directly facing him.
She began and abandoned three sketches. Hope put down her pencil and gazed at him for a moment, then took a sip of her martini. Something wasn’t working and she wasn’t sure what.
“I’ll start with a study,” she muttered, and decided on his hand. She picked up her pencil again, and began flicking little glances between his hand and her paper as she worked.
“May I drink?” he asked after a few moments. She looked up to find him half smiling.
“Oh!-yes-no, I’ll get another glass.” Hope went to the drinks tray and brought another whisky glass, taking the other and offering it to his left hand, placing the empty one in his right hand.
The little transaction ruffled her, she didn’t know why. It was the first time she had touched him; they had never even shaken hands before. She was always put into a sense of heightened awareness of anyone or anything she was painting, but she felt now as if an electric field around her had been disturbed. She didn’t like it.
She began sketching again. His hands were a curious mix of the sensitive and the practical—they half belonged to the silk chair and the room and half to a work site. An eighteenth-century ruffle around the wrist would not be out of place, and yet there was undeniably a musculature of use over the long thin bones.
“I’m sorry I can’t get the sketch done tonight, because I don’t suppose you’ll have a lot of time to sit for me,” she said.
Wife On Demand Page 3
