by Jessica Ayre
Lynda gazed at his broad shoulders in dismay, searching vainly for her tongue. But then anger at his sudden brutality stirred her.
'And what about your own fidelity, then, Mr Architect Overton? I don't really care for one-night stands with other women's men!' She brought it out slowly, waiting until he turned to look at her, and then slamming the door behind her as he moved to answer.
CHAPTER NINE
Lynda paced her room, her blood boiling, unable to calm herself enough to sit or lie down. Then she heard Paul's door slamming and his feet walking determinedly down the corridor.
'The rat!' she exclaimed out loud, and then as she remembered the mingled force and tenderness of his passion, she burst into tears.
Huddled into her pillow, she cried for a long time. Self-pity, anger, self-contempt, and then finally a pure longing took their turns in her. I should have taken up Claude's offer and avoided all this, she thought to herself at last as she looked at her watch through tear-stained eyes.
It was two in the morning and tomorrow was a working day. She went to stand in the shower, letting the strong stream of water wash the tension from her skin.
I'll never be able to face him now, was the thought on which she finally closed her eyes.
The next morning she woke early and dressed hurriedly in her new terra-cotta dress. She left her room quietly, hoping to avoid Paul, and went to a cafe to drink a morning coffee and gaze mournfully at the Seine.
A soft mist was rising from the waters. The streets looked freshly washed. There was an unnatural stillness about everything, broken only by the revving of an occasional car or the clackety-clack of a woman's high-heeled shoes along the pavement. Each sound distinct.
Lynda glanced at her watch. It was only seven-thirty. The meeting was scheduled for ten. She ordered another cafe-au-lait, munched halfheartedly at a jam-laden tar tine and tried to look at her situation coolly.
She couldn't avoid the meeting; that would be professionally unethical. So she would have to see Paul. The very thought of his presence suddenly overwhelmed her. Her pulse throbbed with an alarming insistence and she could see her hands tremble visibly as she brought the cup to her lips.
She took a large gulp of the scalding liquid, and the tears rushed to her eyes, but she blinked them back.
'Ça va, mademoiselle? Are you all right?' The elderly waiter had caught her gesture. She tried a watery smile and nodded.
'Ah, les chagrins d'amour! Love problems, no?' He made a sad little pout with his mouth and then gave her a warm, flickering smile. 'He has left you, hein? But he will come back.' He moved to pat her hand gently. 'Tout s'arrange. Everything will come right. You are so young, so charming. There, there, wipe your tears and give me a smile.'
Lynda suddenly realised that the tears had been flowing down her cheeks. She wiped them with a tissue she found in her bag and smiled at the old man.
'No, nothing will come right!' she wanted to shout. 'He won't come back, because he hasn't really been there in the first place.' But yes, she loved him— God, how she loved him! She wanted to run her fingers through his thick hair just once more, feel the weight of his body pressed against her. She shuddered.
What was the good of that? Yes, of course, she could have him, for a night, for two or three. His passion, she knew, had been real enough. But then, not to have him always, to know he was with, belonged to, another woman. No, she couldn't bear that, the pain of it. Better to go away, to forget.
She reached for her purse. Suddenly the waiter was by her side, holding out a fragrant white rose to her.
'For the melancholy young lady of the morning,' he said with an old-fashioned grace.
Lynda smiled her thanks and pulled the flower through a buttonhole on her dress.
She strolled away from the Seine along the narrow cobbled streets of St Germain. The shops were beginning to open and she paused for a moment in front of a tiny boutique, so small and so crowded with jewellery that there was almost no room for customers. Beautiful objects in silver crowded the window space, finely crafted antique pendants with flower-like ladies, bracelets alive with vines.
Looking at the tiny price tags, she realised that the jewellery must be reproduction and she went in. Yes, she would buy something for Tricia who had been so kind to her, and for her sisters.
Lynda chose the purchases with care. A heavy pendant with a graceful long-haired sylph for Tricia; a bracelet replete with tiny flowers for her sister Caroline; and a bird-shaped pin for Sarah. Then she spied a small ornate silver box. Its lid bore the image of a man, head thrown back, sitting at a piano. The energy of the music was visible in every indentation the jeweller's hand had made.
David, Lynda thought. I must get it for him. The price was far more than she could afford, but she must have it. On an impulse, she took his ring from the chain round her neck and placed it in the small box. Yes, that was right. She couldn't give David hope where there was none. She couldn't marry him feeling what she did for Paul—even if he only became a ghost flitting through the crevices of her memory.
She shivered slightly and again the tears leapt to her eyes. But she stilled them determinedly, asked the shop attendant if he could wrap the gifts separately and securely. Then she took a bit of notepaper from her bag and wrote a brief message to David. Better, she thought, to do this now, or I might weaken.
'David,' she wrote, 'it would be unfair for me to keep this, to pretend to hope. But please believe that I value our friendship above anything.' 'Yes, above anything,' she said out loud, as she folded the note into the cardboard box the attendant had given her. Then, asking for directions, she made her way to the nearest post office and posted the gifts, keeping only Tricia's behind.
The streets had now filled with people. Lynda glanced at her watch and saw it was time for the meeting. She hailed a taxi and tried to compose herself for the inevitable confrontation with Paul.
The taxi took her beyond the Eiffel Tower, over the Seine to a modern office block set well back from the street. Large contemporary sculptures decorated its grounds. She took the lift to the tenth floor and stepped out into a carpeted hall bounded on one side by ceiling-to-floor windows. The view was breathtaking and she paused for a moment to look out on the intricacy of Paris roofs, the graceful lines of the plane-tree-bordered streets.
When all's said and done, she thought to herself, I'm terribly lucky, and as the receptionist asked for her name, she plastered a wide smile on her face and gave it. Then she strode firmly into a long boardroom, whose large windows now gave her a fresh aspect of the city.
Stanford Rees, Monsieur Debray and Northrop Shaw were already in the room and rose to greet her. They shook hands all round, slightly more formal today, in keeping with the atmosphere of the boardroom.
'The others should be here in a moment,' Monsieur Debray said to her, 'and then we can begin. We have so many things to go through.'
Just then the door opened and Paul strode in, followed by the jovial Frenchman, the German and behind them a young immaculate woman who Lynda deduced to be Monsieur Debray's secretary.
Paul shook hands with the men and greeted her cordially, but with a businesslike air. She thought she detected a flicker in his eye, a tiny flicker of anger or reminiscence. But it was gone as soon as it had come and she couldn't be sure. She noticed again the energy of his movement, the piercing intelligence of his eyes as he rested them on whoever came into view, the clear even tones of his voice in whatever language he used. Last night Lynda had heard him, to her amazement, speaking German with the same assurance as he handled English.
She swallowed hard and focused her mind on the business at hand. Paul was carrying a large folder— of course, the drawings and plans, she had almost forgotten them—and he placed these at the centre of the table as they all sat down.
At each seat Lynda saw there was a printed agenda and next to it a pencil and small notepad. Monsieur Debray sat at the head of the table, his secretary next to him. Stanford was a
t the other end and she and Paul opposite each other.
Monsieur Debray cleared his throat and began. He said, for accuracy's sake, that he would make his opening comments in French. If anyone felt he or she needed clarification, his secretary would be pleased to act as interpreter.
He then summarised the point of the meeting. They had all agreed to go ahead with two buildings in the project. The point was now to determine the size and scale of their remaining collaboration. He called on Paul to refresh their memories.
Paul spoke in French, putting the case for the full development of the project clearly and succinctly. His argument gathered in force as he passed out sheets of figures, pointing out the advantage of buying now while councils and trusts were in need of funds, before more deterioration had taken place, while employment schemes might be made use of. Then with a slight air of drama, he brought out a slide projector from his case and asked whether they would like to see the houses.
There were nods all around and the secretary rose to draw the curtains and push a button which released a large screen on to one wall.
Lynda found herself thrilling to the images. Paul had taken slides of the houses from various perspectives, and each slide of the existing house was followed on the screen by a slide of plans or occasionally a watercolour rendition of what it would be turned into.
Lynda had never seen these latter and she was amazed anew at Paul's skill and imagination. A pang of loss shot through her, but she made herself think coolly. Lucky the woman who has him, and with a wry afterthought that made her feel a little better, if she can have him to herself!
Suddenly she noticed one of her own drawings flashing on the screen and Paul explaining that the following slides showed the interiors of the first two houses. He turned the meeting over to her.
Lynda forced her voice nervously to the surface, apologised for speaking English, and then began to comment on the slides, her assurance growing as she spoke.
When the slides were finished, she asked whether the meeting would like her to comment on plans for the remaining houses. Monsieur Debray's nod gave her the cue, and remembering her discussions with Paul in almost total detail, she talked fluently about the forthcoming work. When she finished, Paul passed round photo-copies of the notes she had made, together with projected budget figures, and opened the folder of drawings for closer examination.
Amazed at her own coolness, Lynda then asked for questions. They came, fast and furious, addressed both to herself and to Paul, but she coped, adequately she felt. When there were no more, she glanced at Paul. He was smiling and gave her a long, slow wink. It gave his face a mischievous, boyish quality and she found herself disarmed, returning his smile.
Stanford then made a brief statement, saying that he, for one, was ready to support the project fully. Northrop Shaw voiced his agreement. The two Frenchmen looked at each other mutely for a moment, then Monsieur Debray, clearing his throat, said yes, he too agreed. Mr Overton and Miss Harrow had convinced him both by the thoroughness of their argument and the excellent plans. He looked at Herr Spengler and Monsieur Resnais, and they both nodded consent.
'Well, that's decided then,' said Monsieur Debray.
'It calls for a little celebration. I invite you all for an aperitif next door.'
As they left the room in single file behind him, Lynda felt her arm being squeezed and Paul's voice whispering, 'Good work, Miss Harrow!' She turned to meet his wide smile. His eyes were sparkling behind his thick lashes and he seemed to have forgotten anything that might have gone on between them the night before.
Lynda wished she could separate her personal feelings from her work with quite such ease. But as she tried to return Paul's smile openly, enthusiastically, she knew she couldn't; the very strength of his attraction made it impossible. Each of his gestures called forth another one, from another more intimate setting. She wanted to run away or run into his arms. And she could feel the smile growing false on her face.
She turned away from him to follow the others into a bright attractive room in which stood a table laden with canapés and drink. There were people she didn't recognise already in the room, drinking and talking, and she wondered who they might be.
Stanford approached her with a glass of champagne. He handed it to her and they clicked glasses.
'Congratulations. You must be a very pleased young woman,' he said.
Lynda nodded, 'I am.'
But something in the shrill pitch of her voice must have alerted him and he looked at her quizzically, deeply, for a long moment. He seemed to be able to read her thoughts and she lowered her eyes.
'Still having trouble with that man?' he gestured in the general direction of Paul, who was standing by the table.
Lynda could feel the colour rising to her cheeks.
'He's an idiot. Shall I give him a talking to?'
Lynda's mouth dropped. She shook her head vigorously. 'No, it's not like that.'
'Well, what is it, then? Are you playing hard to get?'
This time she blanched, but she shook her head again.
He shrugged and then, putting his arm protectively round her shoulders, said, 'Well, if you ever want to get away from it all, just come to the United States. I wasn't joking, you know. I'll give you a job tomorrow.'
Suddenly a plan began to take shape in Lynda's mind. Yes, why not? Go to the United States, like her father. Then she could forget Paul.
'Perhaps I'll take you up on that sooner than you think,' she said to him.
He looked at her closely. 'You really mean it this time, don't you?'
She nodded, 'Yes, I think I do.'
'Well, I'll be back in my New York office on the twentieth. Just call me. I can put you up in the company apartment and we'll take it from there.' He smiled at her. 'Don't look so glum! You'll enjoy New York, you know.'
Lynda had just spotted Paul in a corner of the room on Rees's left. He was holding forth animatedly to a woman she was sure was the same as the one she had seen him with in the hotel bar. A sweeping jealousy enveloped her, made her lips tremble.
Stanford followed her gaze and then looked at her and whistled under his breath. 'You've got it bad…! Pull your face together and I'll bring you over to meet the enemy.'
Lynda drew back and gasped.
'Come on,' he encouraged her, 'prove your mettle.
If you can't get across the room, you'll never get across the Atlantic!'
She knew he was right and she let him take her arm and manoeuvre her across the room.
'Her name is Yvette Dorléac. She's one of Debray's crowd, has something of a reputation as a painter and is, I'm told, quite a good designer. Worthy competition.'
Lynda blanched.
'But I've never invited her to the States, and she's given me many an opportunity. So buck up girl.' He gave her arm a squeeze. 'And never forget you're with a very attractive man.'
She looked at him, coyly now, suddenly at her ease. 'Yes, very attractive indeed.' She said the words loudly enough for Paul, whom they were approaching, to hear. Stanford gave her a knowing smile, winked, and then turned seriously to Paul.
'I thought it might be appropriate for Yvette and Lynda to meet, given that they share interests.'
Lynda thought she could detect a momentary hesitation in Paul. But perhaps she was mistaken, for he introduced the two women with that absolute courtesy which seemed to come so naturally to him when he chose to use it.
The two girls eyed each other up and down before Yvette said, 'Ah yes, you are that miraculous young assistant Paul has been telling me so much about.' She managed to give the words a patronising edge that turned them into insult.
Lynda looked at her for a moment before responding. Then with a proprietorial air that startled her, she put her hand on Paul's shoulder. 'No more miraculous than the man I work with, I'm sure,' she answered coolly.
She could see a wide smile breaking over Rees's face as he leapt in to fill the widening gap in the conversation. It ga
ve Lynda a moment to glance secretly at Yvette. Damn Paul for his taste, she thought to herself. Yvette was a formidable woman.
Suddenly Lynda felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to face Claude.
'I thought you might forget to ring me,' he said, his eyes flashing warmly in his bronzed face, 'so I came round. Can I get you a drink? Your glass is empty and these gentlemen seem busy.'
'Yes, please,' said Lynda, and turning to the little group, 'You'll excuse me for a moment…' She could sense Paul tensing angrily, but he said nothing.
That's that, then, Lynda thought as she followed Claude across the room. 'Goodbye, Paul Overton, goodbye to all that.'
Tears rose to her eyes, but she forced them away. A plan had begun to shape itself in her mind. She would let Claude take her sightseeing. He was heavensent as a getaway and she might as well see something more of Paris while she was here. Then she would take an early plane back to London. She couldn't face the idea of talking politely to Paul, making superficial gestures.
Claude handed her a glass of champagne.
'Shall I take you away from all these dull people?'
She nodded.
'Drink up, then.'
Lynda felt a little guilty leaving without saying a word. But Stanford would understand, and luckily at the door they met Monsieur Debray, who waved off her apologies and told her to have a good time.
Claude's car stood in front of the building, a gleaming silver Porsche, its roof down, a large aerial swaying in the breeze. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed casually, in perfectly fitting jeans, blue and white checked shirt, a soft suede jacket thrown over his shoulders.
She relaxed into the car's upholstery and answered Claude's brilliant smile as he swung in beside her.
'I'll take you to a charming place I know in the Bois de Boulogne, and then we can make further plans over lunch…' He put a tape into the car radio and the mellow tones of a Charles Aznavour song flowed out over the street.
