Not to Be Trusted

by Jessica Ayre

  He smiled at her, warmly this time, and an unusual twinkle came into his eye. 'You don't smoke, do you?' He took the cigarette from her gently and put it out in the car's copious ashtray. 'Come, let's go closer.'

  The drive took them round to the other side of the house, the front in fact. Close to, Lynda could see that the stucco was run down, windows and wood needed work. But the lines were clean, straight, and the wide wooden doors opened on to a beautifully proportioned hall with a vaulted ceiling pierced to give a circular gallery on the upper floor.

  'Strange,' said Lynda, 'this is precisely the house I started drawings for.'

  'That's lucky,' Paul commented matter-of-factly, and led her through the rooms, saying little, only occasionally drawing her attention to some special features. She felt a mounting joy as she walked round these rooms with their light airiness and their cunning variation of shapes.

  What had once been the library, as she remembered from the plans, quite took her breath away. Its gently arched ceiling, screened apse and panelled walls still spoke of the gracious comfort of another epoch, as did the orangery with its glazed wall beckoning out to grass and trees.

  Lynda wished she could simply sit for a few minutes and let the charm of the atmosphere invade her. Paul seemed to read her mind, for suddenly two chairs appeared from nowhere. She sat and mused for what must have been some time, only made aware that she had been alone by the sound of Paul's returning footsteps.

  'Good, isn't it?' he commented.

  She nodded, her eyes bright.

  'If you can tear yourself away, I'll show you something which will make you laugh. I've done what I needed to do.'

  He let her out through the French windows and she followed him down the hill towards the footbridge. It was only when they were a few yards away that she realised the whole thing was an optical illusion, a bit of landscape fantasy. The bridge had only one side. It was quite unusable.

  'It's wonderful!' she laughed, and this time she let Paul take her arm as they trudged back up towards the house.

  He began to talk animatedly about the history of the place. The initial structure had been there since Jacobean times, but in 1749 the present building had been commissioned by a wealthy banker, John Ruys, later ennobled. Then additions had been made throughout the century—a final one, Paul pointed to an outlying wing, as late as 1840. Paul's features, now that he was wholly wrapped up in his saga, had taken on an expressive mobility, and Lynda wondered how she could have thought him cold, sardonic.

  'Had enough?' he glanced at his watch. 'We could get some lunch. There's a rather good inn not far from here.'

  He held the car door open for her as she took a final look round the grounds. It occurred to her that to turn this idyllic location into a commercial venture was something of a desecration, and she voiced her feelings.

  'Better that than total disrepair. You're a dreamer,' Paul said brusquely, giving her a scathing look.

  Lynda was startled by the sudden change of tone, rendered speechless. Not a word passed between them during the drive to the inn. She noticed that they were leaving the house by a different route, but the winding hedge-lined lanes now gave her no pleasure. She wished she hadn't spoken. Paul's icy distance made talk impossible and she dreaded having to face him over lunch.

  The inn was a large rambling one nestling under luxurious shade trees. Inside a warren of rooms greeted them. Paul seemed to know the place well and led her to a cheerful dining room where they were ushered to a corner table overlooking a large flower-filled garden.

  'They seem to know you here,' Lynda offered, looking up at him as he took her jacket.

  'Yes,' he answered absently. Then, 'Will you excuse me, I have to make a phone call.' She watched him move across the room with long strides, noticed too that others looked up as he passed. Her mother's refrain about men came back to her. Paul Overton was certainly not to be trusted. Those temperamental shifts in mood, that sudden iciness, boded no good.

  She tried to relax into her chair and glanced at the menu. Almost as if he had read her thoughts and were bent on disproving them, Paul returned with a warm smile on his face.

  'A drink? A bottle of wine, Miss Harrow?' The force of his blue eyes focused fully on her made her skin tingle. 'Lynda, I mean,' he smiled mischievously.

  She looked up at him, defiant. 'I don't usually drink at lunchtime,' she said.

  He chuckled. 'Perhaps you can make another exception today.' He gestured at the table. 'There are no files to worry about.'

  Lynda was about to make an angry retort, but he put his hand over hers. 'I'm only teasing,' he mouthed the words softly.

  She pulled her hand away, acutely aware of his touch which seemed to linger even after her hand was free. She lowered her eyes. No appropriate words came to her.

  He cleared his throat and before she could determine whether he was mocking her or not, he said in an even, gracious tone, 'The food is good here, simple but good. I hope you're hungry. Would you like me to order for you?'

  Lynda could only nod gratefully. She suddenly realised she was ravenous, having had nothing but a cup of coffee that morning and some scraps of leftovers the previous evening.

  Paul called the buxom waitress over and chatted with her quietly about the day's menu while she eyed him adoringly. Lynda realised that his manner was impeccable, that his charm could be devastating. But only when he puts his mind to it, the swine, she commented to herself, mustering her forces against him.

  The soup, when it came, was thick, creamy and substantial, and Lynda felt her equanimity return.

  'Will you join me in some white wine now?' Paul asked as they waited for the next course.

  She nodded, and when it arrived found herself savouring its dry, nutty flavour.

  'This is good.'

  'Yes, one of my favourites.' Then, looking at her curiously, he asked, 'Does that locket you always finger have some special significance?'

  Lynda was a little taken aback by his observation and rapidly moved her hand away from her throat. Then thinking better of it, she reached to remove the locket, opening its delicate clasp to show him the image within.

  He looked at it reflectively for what seemed a long time. 'Handsome woman,' he said. 'She has your eyes.' He passed the locket back to her.

  'My mother. She died last year.'

  Lynda could feel the tears coming to her eyes and she struggled to smile.

  'I'm sorry,' he said gravely.

  The food arrived to distract them, a veal casserole smelling wonderfully of fresh herbs. Lynda dug into it with relish and wanting to move the conversation away from herself said, 'You seem to know this part of the country very well.'

  'Yes, my family, or rather my grandparents, used to live around here, quite some time ago now. I'm always happy to find an excuse to come back.' He watched her move the fork to her mouth and she. swallowed with difficulty.

  'Have you ever been to the United States?' he asked.

  Lynda shook her head and Paul began to regale her with tales of the American countryside, its architectural curiosities. His eyes flashed and his droll expression brought to life vast glass domes and drive-in churches. By the time coffee arrived Lynda found herself enjoying his company thoroughly. Dangerous man, she thought. You never know whether he's going to breathe hot or cold.

  'That wasn't so bad, was it, Miss Harrow?' he questioned her with a playful gleam in his eye as he helped her into her jacket.

  'Not bad at all, Mr Overton,' Lynda managed this time. 'There was never any question of your conversational charms.'

  He gave her shoulder a rough squeeze. She shook off his hand and without looking at him, slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out of the room. At the inn door, she stopped herself.

  I'm behaving disgracefully, she thought. Paul caught up with her and eyed her oddly.

  'Come on, we can make our escape back to London together.'

  Talk was desultory in the large comfortable car. Lynda m
ade an effort to reintroduce their former good humour, but it was gone. As he pulled up in front of her flat, she attempted a casual, 'Thank you, I did enjoy that. I'll bring the drawings in next week.'

  'They'd better be good,' he muttered, giving her a curt goodbye.

  And so they will be, you insufferable bully, Lynda thought to herself as she unlocked the door.

  With the splendid rooms of the house still in mind, she made immediately for her desk. Her hand was surprisingly sure as she began some more rough sketches.

  By the next afternoon, she felt confident about the project. She was ready to embark on some final drawings when the telephone rang.

  'Hello, beautiful, where have you been hiding yourself?' She searched in her memory to place the voice.

  'Forgotten me already? I'm the man who ogles you in the lift.'

  She laughed. 'Hello, Robert. I've had the week off to work at home.'

  'Do you think you can tear yourself away to come and have dinner with me tonight?'

  'Yes, why not?'

  'Good, I'll pick you up at eight.'

  Lynda stopped working early to give herself time to dress. She liked Robert's company. He was easy to be with, made her feel comfortable. Not like the wretched Paul Overton, she added to herself. And it was nice to feel admired, unlike some insect pinned up for critical inspection.

  She looked in her wardrobe and decided on what she considered her most sophisticated dress, a soft black garment with straight lines and a wide black belt which set off her slim waist.

  Not bad, she thought as she examined herself in her dressing table mirror. She rummaged in her top drawer to find her favourite earrings, rarely worn.

  The doorbell rang just as she heard Tricia's grandfather clock chime eight. Robert's punctuality pleased her, as did, though she hated to admit it, the long low whistle with which he greeted her.

  'The country lass transformed!' he made a wide sweep with his arm as if presenting her to a music hall audience.

  She laughed.

  'Are you going to offer me a drink?'

  'I'm afraid there's only a half bottle of white wine.' He followed her into the kitchen, his burliness making it seem even smaller. 'And not a terribly good white wine at that,' Lynda added, remembering the bottle she had shared with Paul Overton.

  'Anything with you,' Robert continued in his mock theatrical tone and raised his glass to her in a grand gesture. They heard the door opening.

  'Anyone home?' It was Tricia.

  'In here,' Lynda replied.

  Tricia stiffened visibly as she walked into the kitchen and saw the two of them.

  'Entertaining, are you?' She gave Robert a hostile look.

  'We're just going out to dinner.' Lynda offered Tricia a glass of wine.

  'No, thanks,' Tricia replied abruptly, and as she walked away murmured meaningfully to Lynda, 'I'll talk to you later!'

  'Don't think the lady approves of my presence,' Robert commented, trying to keep his tone humorous.

  'What have you done to her?'

  He shrugged his shoulders. 'It would take too long to explain. Besides, we have other things to talk about. Shall we go now?'

  Lynda nodded. But a pall had fallen on the evening which not even the cheerful intimacy of the Italian restaurant to which Robert took her or his funny stories could altogether dispel.

  In the car on the way back he asked, 'Would you like to come back to my place?'

  Lynda glanced at her watch. It wasn't late. But then she remembered Tricia's hostility.

  'I think I'd better get back to talk to Tricia.'

  'Right.' He glanced at her quickly and then said in a low voice, 'But, Lynda, don't take everything she says at face value.'

  His tone chilled her. 'Do you two share a dark and hidden past?' she tried to be humorous.

  'It's not that.' Robert didn't rise to her attempted humour. 'It's just a misunderstanding which doesn't seem to have been cleared up, or at least, that's how I see it. But I'd better let Tricia tell you her side first.'

  He pulled up in front of the house.

  'I won't come up—might get my head bitten off!' He smiled at her a little sadly and reached for her hand. 'Too bad. All this has rather spoiled the evening, but I'd like to see you again soon.'

  Lynda moved for the door before he could say any more. 'Yes, all right. And thanks.'

  She climbed the stairs slowly, preparing herself for a confrontation with Tricia. Robert seemed generous, kind, but Lynda didn't think she was up to defending him. Nor did she particularly fancy a long evening of women's talk and revelations. Still, it would have to come.

  She let herself in quietly, hoping on the off chance that Tricia might already be in bed. But no, there she was, curled up on the long modern sofa in front of the television. Even in repose, like this, Tricia looked like a starlet ready to be photographed and the long room with its carefully chosen arrangement of cane chairs, lacquered Chinese-red dining table, large plants and soft lights was an appropriate setting.

  Robert must be mad to take me out rather than her, Lynda found herself thinking, just as Tricia, flinging a strand of silky blonde hair back over her shoulder, uttered a cool, 'You're back early?'

  'Yes, I was tired. Would you like some coffee?' Lynda offered, to make up for her lame excuse.

  Tricia followed her into the kitchen. 'Did Robert take you somewhere lavish?'

  'Mmm. Food was good.'

  'Robert's nice, isn't he?' Tricia said it laconically, but Lynda felt she was angling for something.

  'Yes, very.' There was a silence between them which Lynda filled by grinding coffee beans and washing out mugs.

  'Look, Lynda,' Tricia finally said, 'I'm sorry I growled at you before. It's just that—well, it's all over now, but I used to be potty about Robert. And then something went wrong.'

  Lynda felt this was her cue. She should ask what, but she couldn't quite bring herself to it. 'I see,' was all she said.

  'No, you don't,' Tricia snapped back, then caught herself. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I'm not ready to talk about it either.' She put her arm round Lynda's shoulder. 'It's not that I'm jealous—well, maybe just a little,' she smiled, and then abruptly frowned. 'It's simply that I can't quite bear to see him here, in this flat.' She took a large gulp of the scalding coffee. 'It brings back too much.'

  Lynda warmed to her honesty. 'You know, Tricia, if you'd rather I didn't see Robert, I'll stop.' As she said it, she realised it wasn't just an empty gesture. She meant it.

  Tricia gave her a long look. 'You would too, silly girl. But don't be too hasty. He's a splendid man,' she smiled a little wickedly, 'and I'll get over him… in time.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lynda walked into the office on Monday morning with only momentary trepidation. Greetings of 'good to see you back' came from all sides, and the large portfolio of drawings which she clutched gave her a sense of well-being.

  She had worked hard and she was on the whole pleased with what she had done. The trip to the country house had proved an inspiration. She really should show Paul Overton a little gratitude for that.

  She remembered to look round for him, but he didn't seem to be at his desk. A little anxiety suddenly wormed its way into her mind. Perhaps he was already with Mr Dunlop, prejudicing him against her. But no, that was silly. And in any case, she felt confident that the work was good.

  She sat down at her desk, placing the portfolio carefully at her side, and glanced at her watch. Still ten minutes to go. She rearranged some things and sharpened pencils to pass the time. Then promptly at ten, she knocked at Mr Dunlop's door.

  'Come in,' Mr Dunlop's warm voice inspired ease.

  She opened the door half expecting to see Paul, but no, there was only Mr Dunlop smiling at her kindly and asking her what kind of week she had had. With a confidence unusual to her, she told him she had worked well.

  'Good, I'm pleased. I won't look at the work myself just yet. Paul Overton rang this morning to ask whether you wo
uldn't mind bringing the drawings straight over to his house—that's if you're not afraid of contagion! He's at home with what sounds like rather nasty flu.'

  Lynda was a little taken aback. To go through the drawings with Paul on neutral territory was one thing, but to have to confront him in his own house was something else. She wanted to say no, she would wait for Paul to be back in the office. But one look at Mr Dunlop's face told her that that would be a mistake.

  'Yes, yes, of course I'll go,' she mumbled.

  'That's the spirit, Miss Harrow,' Mr Dunlop encouraged her. 'And it's a house worth seeing, you know.' He wrote the address down for her. 'Do take a taxi and charge it to expenses,' he added, and then looking her straight in the eyes, 'And stand up for yourself!'

  Lynda left feeling slightly bewildered. This was not the scenario she had foreseen. I might as well enjoy it, though, she told herself defiantly. Riding in a London taxi still gave her a little girl's thrill. She hailed one, gave the driver Paul's central London address and settled back into the seat, garnering her energies for what might await her.

  The taxi pulled up in front of a large fine house in one of London's most elegant squares. Lynda rang the bell a little nervously, bracing herself for Paul Overton's appearance. Instead, a stout middle-aged woman opened the door to her, welcoming her by name.

  Lynda found herself being led through an ochre-coloured hall to a high-ceilinged drawing-room. Three matching windows, stretching almost the full height of the room, overlooked the green of the square. She looked round appreciatively at the mellowed parquet floors covered by a rich Chinese carpet, the marble fireplace framed by two large porcelain vases, the exotic Oriental wall hangings interspersed with modern prints and paintings.

  The room was spacious, sparsely furnished, yet gave off a lived-in warmth. Paul's taste was obviously faultless. Lynda sat down in a tawny leather armchair, feeling slightly dwarfed by its size, and waited. Her nervousness returned as the minutes passed, a growing apprehension which made her temples begin to throb. She glanced at her watch and started to pace the room, stopping now and again to examine Paul Overton's prints.