by Jessica Ayre
Not to Be Trusted
By
Jessica Ayre
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
NOT TO BE TRUSTED
Lynda Harrow was a very talented interior designer—without conceit, she knew it; and she ought to have worked very well with the equally talented architect Paul Overton. So it was very disheartening when he seemed to be doing all he could to disparage her and her work. It was even more disheartening when she fell in love with him—and realised that the glamorous Vanessa Tarn had got there first!
First published 1982
Australian copyright 1982
Philippine copyright 1982
This edition 1982
© Jessica Ayre 1982
ISBN 0 263 73797 7
CHAPTER ONE
'Men,' Lynda heard her mother's tired voice saying, 'are not to be trusted.'
The words came back to her now as she felt herself being eyed appreciatively by the man next to her. She strode firmly out of the lift without looking back, swinging her large bag over her shoulder.
She had never discovered exactly what it was in her mother's life that had led this generally quiet, reticent woman to such an observation. But it had nonetheless become part of her legacy. Like her long legs and quick dark eyes. Perhaps it was only her mother's sense of being betrayed by her father's early death; being left alone with three young girls and a farm to run. She had run it, too, and in the process given the three of them a living example of the value of independence.
Lynda pushed open the office door, to be greeted by a blaze of sunlight. After two months here she was still thrilled every time she walked in. It was so unexpected, this vast light-filled space on the top floor of what had once been a dingy factory building. Very elegant too, now, with its girded glass roof, giant hanging plants proliferating everywhere and brightly coloured desks and chairs. She returned smiles and nods from all sides as she made her way to her corner.
Her corner. Just over three months ago she had sat with trembling hands and dry mouth while Mr Dunlop had paced in front of her explaining with stern gestures what would be required of her if Dunlop Associates were to take her on. It was a new departure for this architectural firm to have their own interior designer. But the younger architects in the group had thought it would facilitate certain projects and possibly attract clients who wanted the extra service. It had to be someone young, with fresh ideas, someone who could think up projects on her own as well as work within the group. Could she do it?
Lynda had swallowed hard. Mr Dunlop had stopped pacing to look her directly in the eyes.
'Above all,' he had said giving her an almost paternal once-over, 'will you be able to stand the pace?'
She had understood at once that he was referring to her inexperience. Was she going to be able to manage alone in a city like London? Trying hard to hide her own fear, she had stammered out what must have been a yes. And here she was now, in her own corner, with the rest of a year's trial contract still to go. She cast a glance at the blue of the canal waters just visible from the window and at the greenery above her desk before perching on her high stool. More reassuring these sights than the memory of the prizes she had won at art school for work she now thought amateurish. Still, all those years of sketching to scale had helped, as did her colour sense. She looked down at the design she had begun yesterday, only to hear a 'Hello, Lynda,' at her side. It was Tricia, Mr Dunlop's secretary and her flatmate.
When Lynda had first got her job and was flat-hunting, Tricia had suggested she move in with her. She could use some help with the rent money. Lynda had accepted gratefully but with a little trepidation. Tricia was the kind of woman she had thought existed only in fashion magazines: a coolly poised blonde who seemed to walk through rooms and men with equal ease. She rarely came home before the small hours of the morning, if at all, but still managed to be at her desk, efficiently bent over typewriter or file by nine a.m. So far things between them had gone quite smoothly, though Lynda always felt she wanted to vanish when Tricia tried to engage her in what she laughingly termed 'women's talk', which seemed to be mostly about men…
Now Tricia placed a file by Lynda's side and with a meaningful smile said, 'Orders are that you familiarise yourself with this. And quickly!'
Lynda took hold of the file, but before she had a chance to open it a deep voice rebounded from Mr Dunlop's room at the other end of the large open plan office.
'I won't have it! I simply will not allow this project to be thrown away.' The words were clearly audible, even at Lynda's distance, and they were followed by the slam of a heavy door.
'Oh-oh,' said Tricia. 'It's himself again. I'd better get back and see if I can soothe Mr Dunlop's nerves.'
'Himself was of course Paul Overton. It hadn't taken Lynda long to discover that. He was Dunlop Associates' rising star, and though he seemed to spend less time in the office than the others, when he was there it didn't take more than thirty seconds for everyone to be aware of his presence. Not that he always created scenes; there was only one other that Lynda could remember. But he generated electricity. They all felt it. Even when he was having a quiet chat with some of the other architects, a hush of expectation would fall over the group. Lynda had observed him on occasion and had done her best to keep her distance. She didn't want those aloof steely blue eyes fixed on her or her work—both would wither.
Tricia, filling her in on office names and faces, had given her a picture of Paul Overton's meteoric rise. He had joined Dunlop Associates some three years back after working in France and the United States. Almost immediately he had won the firm a contract for a new Northern theatre. 'Won by competition,' Tricia stressed. 'Picture all over the papers.'
Overton had never looked back. He seemed to be as adept at private as public housing and his name was now one to be reckoned with. 'As for the rest,' Tricia put on her wry women's talk voice, 'I hear he's no slouch. But not a glance at any of us in the office. Believe me, I've done my best,' and she playfully crossed and uncrossed a smooth leg.
Lynda chuckled, picturing Tricia's mock seductive gesture, and then remembered the file she had been 'ordered' to look through quickly. Stately Homes, it was entitled. She read through the introductory pages.
Given increasing maintenance costs, it was becoming impossible to keep some of Britain's most beautiful houses—even with the aid of Government grants—in good repair. But if proper planning permission were obtained, and suitable backers, many of these homes could be turned into exquisite period hotels along the lines of the paradors in Spain.
Conversion and extension would vary from home to home, but in all cases the original houses and grounds would be kept intact. There followed pages of detail on the potential properties.
'Wonderful idea,' Lynda thought, then glanced at the back leaf to see who had initiated the project. Paul Overton's name was at the top of the list.
Suddenly she tensed. Without looking up she knew he was standing over her.
'Find the project interesting, Miss Harrow?' He emphasised the r's in her name, putting a space around it as if it were an odd name to settle on his tongue.
She turned to face him, meeting the steely deep-set eyes, the slightly sardonic turn of the mouth. 'He's deliberately trying to make me uncomfortable,' she thought to herself. She took a deep breath, remembering to pace her words, and confronted him, coolly, she hoped.
'I've barely had time to take it in, but yes, it does seem interesting. Ambitious.' She
added the word as an afterthought.
He looked at her curiously. 'Good. Good, Miss Harrow.' Again the space around her name. 'Take fifteen minutes to take it in, as you say, and then come and talk to Mr Dunlop and myself about it.'
'Yes, sir,' she muttered under her breath, noticing for the first time the width of his cheekbones, the lightness of his step as he moved away.
'Insufferable egotist!' she thought, glad that her colouring didn't allow too much of the warmth she felt to creep into her face. She buried herself in the papers, hoping that she could absorb at least a little of the detail.
Fifteen minutes later, she got up, smoothed her dark trousers, made sure her shirt was neatly tucked in and began to walk, file in hand, towards Mr Dunlop's office.
Ted, at the desk just next to hers gave her a warm smile and large wink. 'Courage, girl,' he stage-whispered, and she realised that Overton's visit to her corner must have been widely observed.
As she knocked at Mr Dunlop's door, it occurred to her that Overton was the only person in the office who called her Miss Harrow. Another device to draw attention to his superiority. She steeled herself to the interview.
'Ah, Lynda. Come in, come in, sit down here,' Mr Dunlop's voice ushered her into his large tidy office and pointed her to a comfortable chair opposite Paul Overton's. He sat there, long legs stretched luxuriously in front of him and scarcely looked up as she walked in. 'Rude so-and-so!' she thought.
'Lynda, you know Paul Overton, of course, and you have some inkling of why we've called this interview?' Mr Dunlop's voice trailed off as he tried to ease the tension of the moment by lighting his habitual pipe.
'Yes. Well, no, not exactly,' Lynda tried to calm herself by focusing on Mr Dunlop alone. 'It's to do with the Stately Homes file?'
'Yes.' Mr Dunlop took several puffs at his pipe and concentrated his gaze just above her head. 'You probably realise that if the project comes through, it will be the biggest contract the group has taken on in years and it will keep us busy for some time to come.
'It's Paul's doing, of course,' he glanced quickly at the near-slouching figure at his side and cleared his throat. 'There are problems, innumerable ones which we're not here to discuss now. But one, and it's a significant one, does concern you.' Mr Dunlop glanced at Paul again, looking as if he hoped for some help.
'The clients are more or less willing to go ahead with two of the homes in question, but they want us to oversee the entire project from roofs and landscaping down to the last chair. The interior design work will be difficult and administratively complicated, not only because of the sheer number of details, but because everything must be right. In keeping with period flavour, you know.' He puffed at his pipe again, got up and began to pace.
'In all fairness to you, I should tell you that Paul doesn't think you're up to it. Too inexperienced… He feels we should contract the work out to an established design firm. I've been trying to convince him that you're here for exactly such projects. We would, of course, eventually get you some freelance help…' He paused for a long minute, waiting for Paul, who finally stirred himself into motion.
Casually he reached for his cigarettes—Gitanes, she noticed—lit one without offering them round, and tucked cigarettes and lighter into a tight trouser pocket. Then he fixed his eyes on her, giving her an insolent once-over.
'What Mr Dunlop has omitted to mention is that by using you, Miss Harrow, Dunlop Associates will be saving a not inconsequential sum. Whereas I do in fact have a vested interest in the project being done well.' On the last word, he put out his half-smoked cigarette and raised himself to his full height.
'I have nothing more to say. You can discuss the matter further between yourselves. The decision, finally and unfortunately, is not mine alone.' With that he strode out of the room.
Mr Dunlop cleared his throat again. 'Yes, well, I'm sorry about that, Lynda. Politeness is not always one of Paul's virtues. A little hot-blooded, in fact. But a fine architect. We're lucky to have him.' He looked at her firmly with a quiet smile.
'Paul is right, you know. The project has to be done well, very well. I have a hunch you can do it. But think it over tonight. Read through the material carefully, and let me know tomorrow whether you want to start on it. We have a little time to play with and if your initial drawings are wrong, there's still time to go elsewhere.' He ushered her out, looking for all the world as if he wanted to pat her on the shoulder.
Lynda hadn't walked more than a few steps before she found Tricia at her side.
'What's up? Has our star been having a go at you? You look as if you're about to burst in tears.'
'I am.' Lynda tried a wobbly grin.
'Come on, I'll buy you a drink.'
Lynda's feelings were in a jumble. She would have liked to steal away to some quiet corner and think things over. But it would be better to sit in a dark pub with Tricia than to meet all the questioning looks on the way back to her desk. So she tucked the file under her arm and allowed Tricia to steer her towards the lift.
Glancing out the window, Lynda noticed two dark barges in the canal. One carried a low crane and was shovelling heaps of black ooze out of the murky water. 'A dredging operation,' she thought with a sense of foreboding. 'Or they're looking for a body.'
'Stop it, Lynda!' Tricia's voice burst into her thought. 'You look as if you've seen your own corpse! You can't let one confrontation with Overton get you down. What happened, anyway?
Lynda took a deep breath as they stepped outside and threw back her shoulders. She began to describe the interview to Tricia, and as she went on, encouraged by Tricia's smiles and groans, the funny side of it took shape for her. Stately homes, indeed, created by a man too uncouth to say hello and goodbye.
By the time they reached the Rose and Crown, the two girls were laughing gaily. They sought out a back table. As they sat down Lynda felt a pair of eyes on her, and looked up to a curt nod from Paul Overton. She returned it with equal brevity, managing not to stop in the midst of her sentence to Tricia.
'I'll get the drinks,' Tricia offered. 'He does seem to have it in for you, doesn't he?' Tricia walked confidently up to the bar and as she passed Paul Overton gave him a scathing look. 'Had a rough morning, then?' Lynda just heard her say.
'It's going to get rougher yet,' he threw at her. Then looking over her head as if he had recognised someone, he moved purposefully away.
'Charming, just charming,' Tricia murmured as she put two glasses of white wine on the table. They both turned to see Paul Overton being lavishly embraced by a striking redhead near the front of the pub. 'One of his theatrical ladies,' Tricia announced.
Lynda excused herself. In the newly-painted ladies' room, she dashed cold water over her face and combed her thick dark hair vigorously. With each stroke she defied the face in the mirror. 'I can do it. I can do it!' And she fingered the fine golden chain which held a small locket at its base.
Pale but refreshed, she returned to her table, to find it flowing over with people—faces that she dimly recognised but couldn't quite place.
'Meet some friends,' Tricia welcomed her. She introduced Lynda round the table, but Lynda only managed to register the name of the man on her left, Robert Sylvester.
He confronted her. 'You don't recognise me, do you? I saw you in the lift just a few hours back. In fact, I see you quite often, usually striding off in the other direction.' He gave her a humorous look. She warmed to his generous face and twinkling eyes.
'Off in your own little dream world, aren't you?'
Lynda returned his smile. 'I guess I've been concentrating on work.'
Robert Sylvester, it turned out, was the production manager of the publishing firm opposite Dunlop Associates. He was a big burly man with a warm engaging face and loose gestures which suggested open spaces. Lynda immediately felt comfortable with him.
'You're not a Londoner?' she ventured.
'How did you guess, girl? Thought I'd buried my roots.' Robert delivered this in the thic
kest brogue she had ever heard. Lynda laughed.
'It must be my infallible instinct!'
They chatted about this and that, about Robert's job, his home north of Aberdeen which he had left at the age of seventeen to come to London. Then Lynda glanced at her watch.
'I must get back,' she said, the memory -of the ordeal awaiting her clouding her face.
'What about dinner tonight?' Robert asked.
Before Lynda could answer she felt a looming presence near her.
'Enjoying yourself, Miss Harrow?' Paul Overton's deep voice was tinged with anger. 'You might just make sure that some of that liquid enjoyment doesn't spill over on our stately homes.' He let his eyes rest momentarily on the file which lay near her on the table, nodded at the group and turned abruptly away.
Robert let out a low whistle. 'Not in the best of moods, the mighty Overton.' He glanced at her curiously. 'Are you working together?'
She forced a wan smile to hide her humiliation and moved to go. 'Hardly seems so.'
'What about dinner, then?'
'Not tonight.' Lynda's mind was already elsewhere. 'I must work.' She took the file from the table, grimaced and tried to walk casually away.
When she came home that evening, Lynda wanted nothing more than to stretch out in a hot bath. She had spent the afternoon burrowed into the Stately Homes file. Paul Overton was obviously not in the office and she was able to focus on the work at hand. She began to dream the interiors, visualising how colours could blend in spacious halls. And as her imagination took free rein, she began to feel more certain of her ability to undertake the project. She made copious notes and began on some rough sketches, letting her hand do the thinking. Her first pause to look round showed her it must already be late. The office was almost empty.
Now she relaxed into her bath, grateful for its warmth, for the emptiness of the flat, for the soothing tones from her small radio. As she dried herself with her large maroon towel, her hand met the locket round her neck.
