by Jessica Ayre
'I keep this for tourists,' he chuckled, giving her hand a squeeze as he manoeuvred the car outrageously through traffic.
Lynda determined to enjoy herself. Claude was pleasant enough and certainly very attractive, and she wondered a little that she didn't find herself more drawn to him. The thought brought Paul's presence dangerously close and she steeled herself to listen to Claude's explanations about the sights they were passing.
He proved to be a wonderful guide, full of anecdotes both current and historical. As her ear grew attuned to his French, she was able to catch his quick-witted asides and respond in kind, if a little slowly.
By the time they reached the restaurant, they were chatting away merrily. But the pomp of the place took Lynda's breath away: white-wigged doormen parading as eighteenth-century footmen, a gilded interior with heavy furniture and enormous mirrors. She wondered at Claude's lack of discomfort in his casual clothes.
He chuckled in her ear. 'It's for the tourists, but I enjoy it and the food isn't too bad.'
The maitre d'hotel greeted him by name and showed them to a quiet corner table which looked out on to the woods. Lynda let Claude order; a plate of charcuterie and crudités, a Chateaubriand steak with pommes dauphines and leeks for two.
'The simplest things here are what they do best,' Claude whispered to her. 'Never have their sauces.'
When the food arrived, he asked her about the outcome of the meeting.
'Good, good, then I can come to England and see you again, on your native ground,' he smiled.
Lynda's stomach tightened and she changed the subject. 'Tell me about the history of this place.'
'It used to be the summer residence of one of our estimable dukes. But then, the story goes, he squandered his money on one of the great turn-of-the-century artistes, or coquettes, I should say. The house was sold at a public auction just before his death. They say she held his hand at his deathbed, so perhaps it was all worth it for him. The moment he died, she went off with another duke, of course. Being an ageing coquette is expensive.'
Over coffee, Claude asked, 'Shall we do something silly like climbing to the top of the Tour Eiffel?'
'I didn't dare ask,' Lynda chuckled. 'I thought you'd laugh at me. But I've never been up on top.'
'Well, I haven't been for years, so let's go.'
They took the lift, then climbed the remaining stairs to the top of the tower, laughing like children, allowing themselves to be photographed by an old man who said he would send them the pictures. Claude gallantly gave the man a large tip. 'That way I sometimes get the pictures,' he whispered to her.
As they got back into the car, he turned to her, 'What shall it be next, my English Miss, country or city?'
'Give me a list of the various attractions,' she replied, playing into his mood.
'Well—city: nightclubs, dancing, shows, dinner, the lights playing on the Seine, couples embracing in dark corners… Country: fast motorway, narrow lanes, villages with wonderful food, Chartres, our country house… Take your pick.'
'Both,' Lynda answered. 'I can't possibly decide.'
'Greedy,' he said, flashing his smile at her. 'What time do you leave tomorrow?'
'Around noon,' she lied.
'Well, if you pack your bags now, we can do both. Paris by night tonight, then a drive down to the country and the sights in the morning, if we wake early enough, that is.'
'Sounds wonderful,' said Lynda, realising that this way she could be almost certain of avoiding Paul. But suddenly she was struck by a guilty thought. If she agreed to spend the night in Claude's country house, didn't that suggest…
She decided to confront the issue. 'If I come with you to the house, Claude, that doesn't mean… I'm not committed… I don't want you to get the wrong impression…' She scrambled for words, her French failing her.
He chucked her under the chin and looked into her eyes with his satin ones, smiling, 'Don't worry, my English Miss. Don't worry. Things will take their course or they won't.' He made one of those swirling gestures with his hands which signified, 'Whatever happens will happen.' His good humour disarmed her, and she laughed, imitating his gesture.
They drove back to the hotel, joking all the way. Then Claude went to sit in a cafe while Lynda got her things ready. Walking through the lobby, she tried to make herself as small as possible, afraid that she might bump into Paul. She managed to get to her room without seeing him. There she threw her things into her bag and changed into her crepe-de-chine dress. She realised as she brushed her hair that she must leave some word for Paul.
She sat down at the little secretaire to write a note, but it proved to be more difficult than she had imagined. What could she say? Finally, when all formulas failed, she decided to be honest.
'Paul,' she wrote, 'I simply can't face you… after all this. So I'm taking an early plane back to London.' Then, as an afterthought, she added, 'I wish I could separate my working life from my feelings as easily as you.'
She signed it, put it into a hotel envelope and made her way quietly to the lift. She left the note for Paul at reception. As she walked out of the hotel, she saw him coming up the street with Stanford Rees and Yvette. She turned in the opposite direction and fled, not stopping at Claude's cafe table at the corner of the street until she heard him shouting, 'Slow down. I'm right here and there's no plane to catch just yet!'
Lynda turned and slumped into a chair beside him. She was breathless, pale. She felt as if she'd narrowly escaped with her life.
Claude looked at her with concern. 'What is it, Lynda? You look as if you've just seen a ghost.'
She shrugged and tried a smile. 'I thought I'd kept you waiting far too long,' she said lamely. 'Shall we head off now?' She was afraid if they stayed here, Paul might turn up again.
Claude eyed her quizzically, but he drained his glass. They got up and walked to the car.
'I thought we might take a stroll through the Montparnasse cemetery before the light gives out,' he suggested.
Lynda voiced her approval. A cemetery, she felt, was just what she needed now to bury this part of her life.
CHAPTER TEN
It was drizzling as Lynda walked the short distance from the tube to the flat. Somehow she welcomed London's grey anonymity. It gave her space to hide, to think.
Her evening and last hours with Claude had not been a success. She had felt drained, uncommunicative, and Claude's incessant chatter had begun to grate on her nerves. He had sensed her withdrawal and, apart from a kiss, he had not pressed his attentions on her. The Debray house, Chartres cathedral, had been magnificent, but even in front of these Lynda had not been able to manifest more than a false enthusiasm. She was haunted at each turn by the decision which awaited her.
When Claude finally dropped her at the airport, she was relieved. She expressed her gratitude as best she could, apologised for her ill-humour and promised to return his hospitality if he ever came to London.
'I may just keep you to that,' he had said, and flashing the smile she had grown tired of, had walked away.
Now as Lynda climbed the stairs to the flat, she wished only for a little quiet in which to take action on the decision she had arrived at in the plane. Tricia, she prayed, would be out and she would write her letter of resignation to Mr Dunlop immediately— before she got cold feet.
But as luck would have it, Tricia was in. She got up from the sofa the moment Lynda came through the door.
'Where on earth have you been?' she demanded.
'Paris, of course.'
'I don't understand it, then. Paul's rung from Paris continually last night and this morning. He sounded furious, at first, anyhow. This morning he simply sounded concerned.'
Lynda blanched.
'I said I'd leave a message for him as soon as I had news of you.'
Lynda looked at her watch and then flopped on to the sofa, relieved. 'Well, he'll have left the hotel by now and he won't be back in London until much later. There's a delay at Immigration.'
Tricia looked at her questioningly, 'What's up between you two, in any case?'
Lynda tried to answer calmly, 'I'm quitting,' but the tears welled up in her eyes.
'What on earth for? You must have been doing the right thing if Paul took you along to Paris.'
'It's not that. I… I just can't work with him.'
'Why ever not? He's not that terrible, and from the, look of things, I thought the two of you were getting on rather well.' Tricia gave her a sceptical glance.
Suddenly the tears poured down Lynda's face. She was sobbing, letting flow all the pent-up emotion of days.
Tricia put an arm around her. 'Tell me about it, Lynda,' she said gently, 'It might help.'
'I… oh, God, I'm in love with him,' Lynda stammered out between sobs.
Tricia squeezed her arm. 'I suspected as much. What about him?'
Lynda shrugged and wiped her tears with her sleeve. 'Oh, he'd have me in bed soon enough,' she tried a watery smile. 'But there's Vanessa, and lord knows how many other women milling about.' She thought of Yvette. 'And I don't want to be part of a harem,' she brought it out with a sob. Then controlling herself, she got up to pace. She felt she had to move her limbs.
'Does he know?' Tricia asked.
Lynda looked at her aghast. 'How could he? Anyhow, it's hopeless. I'm going away. Stanford Rees has offered me a job in New York.'
'Just like that?'
'Just like that. I'm going to write a letter of resignation to Mr Dunlop now. You could bring it to him on Monday. Would you? And gather up my things for me?'
'Aren't you going to speak to Paul?'
'Oh, Tricia, I couldn't! I simply couldn't.' Lynda realised quite clearly that if Paul were to use his power over her to persuade her that professionally she had to stay put, she probably would. And then the whole miserable process would begin again.
Tricia shrugged her shoulders, 'Well, if that's the way you want it. But it doesn't seem right to me, running away like that. Think it over a little more.'
But Lynda was adamant. 'I have. I've been thinking of nothing else. It's my only hope.' She got up and walked to her room. 'I'm going to change now and write to Mr Dunlop.'
She decided to take a bath first and ponder the phrases she would use. 'For personal reasons… Sudden offer in the U.S… Sorry, insufficient notice… Have terminated the first part of the project successfully. It should not be too difficult to find a replacement… Please convey my gratitude to Paul Overton for all the help he has given me, for all that he has taught me…' She was rather pleased by this last. It struck the right professional note.
She lay down on her bed to relax for a little while, but deep sleep overtook her and she woke only late the next morning. Her mind was a blank. Only the phrases of her letter to Mr Dunlop flitted in and out of it in a repetitive pattern.
She put on a pair of old jeans, made herself some coffee and sat down at the small portable typewriter to write her letter. Once it was finished she addressed it and went to give it to Tricia, who was having a late breakfast in the kitchen.
'Will you give this to Mr Dunlop first thing tomorrow?'
Tricia nodded, 'But I don't promise not to speak to Paul. After all, he's obviously been worried about you.'
'Worried about his project, not me,' Lynda said savagely. Then seeing Tricia draw back at her tone, she apologised, 'I'm sorry Tricia, I didn't mean to bark, I'm just nervous.'
The day passed uneventfully and Lynda went to bed early. She slept in a stupor and woke feeling drugged. A heaviness encased all her movements. She washed her clothes, slowly, deliberately, tidied up, then sat in a daze on the kitchen stool sipping coffee.
She had a week to waste before ringing Stanford Rees and getting a ticket, and she wasn't too sure how to spend it. Perhaps she could go home. But no, she didn't feel she could confront David either. She would write to him instead, at length.
She picked up a pencil and began doodling automatically on a scrap of notepaper. The telephone rang, but she didn't pick it up. Perhaps it's Paul, she thought distantly. And then what? There was not much point in talking.
She suddenly noticed that she had drawn his portrait on the scrap paper: the straight nose, strong, cleft jaw, wide cheekbones, deep-set eyes.
She went to her room to get some proper drawing paper and began to sketch again, this time more deliberately. As a child, she had learned that the best way to get something off her mind was to draw it—almost as if her fingers were engaged in an act of exorcism. And now she drew semi-consciously, drew Paul over and over, and then, before she quite realised it, her father as she remembered him in his Air Force uniform, and her mother, as an ageing woman before her death.
She did not realise that Tricia had come in until she heard her voice directly in front of her.
'Have you been sitting here all day?'
'My goodness, I had no idea it was so late!' Lynda's watch showed six o'clock.
'And you didn't answer the telephone?'
Lynda shook her head. 'It only rang once, I think…'
'Mr Dunlop's been trying to reach you. And Paul,' she added. Tricia looked over Lynda's shoulder at the desk. 'Good sketches. Very good. I'm sure Paul would be pleased to see them.'
Lynda shuddered and made to tear the drawings up, but Tricia stopped her. 'Don't. Leave it,' she said quietly. Then in a more official tone, 'I think you'd better come in tomorrow. There are all kinds of things to clear up—pension forms, National Insurance, not to mention some individual clients you've been handling…'
'How stupid of me! I'd completely forgotten. Yes; yes, of course I'll come in,' Lynda uttered. There was no avoiding it.
'Robert's coming over later. I'll cook us some dinner.'
'Wouldn't you rather I went out?' Lynda asked vaguely.
'No. It will do you good to talk, snap out of this daze.'
Lynda helped Tricia to get dinner ready and when Robert arrived, they joked and chatted casually, mostly about the U.S. and what Lynda had to prepare herself for. She excused herself early, wanting to prepare for tomorrow's office ordeal.
'See you before you go, then.' Robert gave her a brotherly kiss. 'Don't just vanish.'
She smiled and promised not to.
The next morning Lynda woke early. But she still felt dazed, her head foggy with the effort of keeping Paul out of it. Her face in the mirror looked pale and she put on some blusher. 'The point is,' she told herself over and over again, 'to look excited about going to New York.'
She felt cold and put on some wintry clothes, jeans tucked into high boots and a warm black woolly which came right up to her chin. Then she brushed her hair to a sheen. Mustn't look demoralised, she thought, and with a final gesture of self-possession, she put some shadow on her eyes and gloss on her lips.
'That's better,' said Tricia as she saw her coming into the kitchen. 'You look yourself again. You worried me yesterday.' She poured a cup of coffee for her. 'I've got to be in early today, so I'll dash. See you there. And make sure you get there,' she added in a threatening voice.
Tricia had only been gone some five minutes when the doorbell rang. Lynda went to answer, thinking Tricia must have forgotten her keys, but the door opened on Paul. She moved instinctively to slam it again, but he was too quick for her. He caught her wrist until she released the knob and then, still gripping her wrist, slammed the door behind him. He towered over her, his eyes steely, his face slightly flushed.
'What do you mean, running out on me like that? And with that coxcomb?'
She turned her back on him, unable to meet the pressure of his eyes.
'You seemed otherwise engaged,' she shrugged. 'Happily engaged.'
He took hold of her shoulder and shook her hard.
'What kind of professional behaviour is it to walk out on Rees like that, without so much as a goodbye? How do you think I feel?'
She wriggled out of his grasp and turned on him coldly. 'I'm sorry if I embarrassed you… but I don't care two bits f
or your professionalism. And Stanford will understand.'
Paul's face looked dangerously hot now, his broad shoulders tensed beneath the leather jacket. He paced the length of the room with long strides and turned back to her.
'And what, may I ask, is the meaning of your cryptic little note? Why can't you face me? What have I done to you? I try to treat you with consideration on all fronts, professional and personal,' she could hear him swallow, 'help you, and what do you do? You continually walk out on work commitments, taunt me like a little vixen, only then to throw your engagement in my face. And on top of all that you run off and sleep with the boss's son!'
He was standing close to her now and before she knew what she was doing, Lynda stretched out her band and slapped him hard, across the face. She was angry now and her words came shrilly, tumbling out one on top of the other.
'I slept with no boss's son, how dare you? And I'm not engaged—you never stopped to ask, just assume everything in your high and mighty fashion. You're the one who's attached… attached several times over.' She spat it out venomously. 'And I don't make a habit of casual night-time encounters with men whom I happen to work with. And I can't…' Her words suddenly choked as they caught a sob.
He stood there, rubbing his face where she had hit him.
Lynda ran to hide from him, her heart pounding, the tears falling furiously from her eyes. She stumbled blindly on to the sofa and flung herself down on it, hiding her streaming face in her arms.
Suddenly he was beside her, lifting her face gently away from her arms. His eyes were bright as she looked into them through her tears, the pupils darkly distinct against the blue.
'Lynda,' he murmured softly, 'what are we doing to each other?' He kissed her tears away and drew her towards him into the hollow of his arm. She snuggled against his chest, abandoning herself to the roughness of his sweater, burying her face in its warmth.
She felt she could no longer resist him. Her mind buried the Vanessas and Yvettes and countless others. Only one thought was clear to her—she couldn't do without him, and she pressed herself against him, making herself into a compact ball.
