by Anne Weale
After her father bought the apartment, Fran had supervised the redecoration and chosen the furnishings. She had done the same at their home in the country. Her mother, a dedicated gardener, had no interest in interiors.
Occasionally Fran had toyed with the idea of taking a course in interior design and starting a business. But always something had happened to distract her. Anyway her most serious and important ambition had been to be Julian’s wife.
As soon as she got back to the flat, she changed out of the businesslike black suit she had chosen for the interview with Reid Kennard. Under it she was wearing a white bodysuit, a flesh-coloured bra and sheer black pantyhose over micro-briefs. She stripped them off, stuffed her thick mane of hair into a plastic cap and took a long hot shower.
After putting on fresh underclothes and the apricot sweatshirt and jeans she had brought in her overnight case, she began to feel better, calmer, capable of reviewing the episode more rationally.
Coming back in the taxi, too upset to remember that taxis were a luxury she could no longer afford, she had found herself trembling with rage...and some other emotion not as easily defined. Now the most sensible course was to put the experience out of her mind. Forget it. Get on with the job in hand, clearing the flat of her father’s things and her own.
Her mother had never come here. Daphne Turner disliked London. Big cities had nothing to offer her. Even the famous Chelsea Flower Show didn’t appeal. She was a country person. Which was just as well because sometimes George Turner had entertained other women at the apartment.
Once, five years ago, Fran had arrived in London unexpectedly and found him in bed with an unknown woman at four in the afternoon. She could still remember the horrified looks on their faces when, thinking the flat was empty and puzzled by the strange noises coming from her father’s bedroom, she had disturbed a scene deeply shocking to a seventeen-year-old virgin.
She had already guessed that her father was unfaithful, but to catch him in the act had been traumatic. Her affection for him, never as strong as her love for her mother, had turned to revulsion.
Her own experience of sex had been limited to a few kisses. By that age most of her friends had gone all the way, but Fran had been saving herself for Julian. She had known since she was fourteen that he was the love of her life and also that he wouldn’t like it if she let other boys do more than kiss her.
The day his mother had told her he was engaged had been the worst day of Fran’s life. She had always believed that he loved her but, because he was the son of Jack Wallace, her father’s chauffeur, was keeping it under wraps until he had established himself.
Two months ago, she had been a guest at Julian’s wedding. By the day she heard him say ‘I do’, she had pulled herself together enough to get through the service and the reception without showing the misery she felt. A week later her father had died. Soon after that, when the truth about his business came out, her mother’s world had caved in.
Recently, life had been a series of disasters. But that was the way it went. One damn thing after another. And it wasn’t over yet. She had to find somewhere affordable for her mother to live and the means to support them both. A tall order.
She was on her way to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee when someone pressed the front-door buzzer. Answering it, Fran found a motorbike messenger outside.
‘Ms Turner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Package for you. Would you sign for it, please?’
Fran wrote her name on the form and took the padded bag. There was nothing to indicate where it came from, only a plain white label with her name and address printed on it. Perhaps it was something she had ordered and forgotten about?
She closed the door and, walking back to the living room, pulled the tab that opened the bag and peered at the contents, immediately recognising the file Reid Kennard had said was a résumé of his life. Now there was a sheet of headed paper clipped to the cover.
Aiming at the sofa, Fran flung the package from her. Bloody cheek! Infuriating man! As soon as she’d had her coffee, she’d find some sticky tape and a label and send the file back, unstamped, with UNSOLICITED, UNWANTED BUMPH written large above the address.
She went to the kitchen, half filled the electric kettle and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. Usually she drank herb tea, being on a more or less permanent health kick. But sometimes, on days like this, she allowed herself a shot of caffeine.
Postponing dealing with the package, she spent the next hour going through her father’s wardrobe, making sure there was nothing in the pockets of his suits before she folded them. Rather than giving them to a charity shop, she hoped to sell them. The chaos he had left behind him made it essential to raise money in every way possible.
With the hanging cupboards empty, the next job was the drawers...but after another cup of coffee, or maybe a glass of white wine.
She opened a bottle of Muscadet and filled a glass. Instead of taking it back upstairs, she couldn’t resist her curiosity about the letter that man Kennard had sent with the file.
Later she debated going to a movie to take her mind off her problems for a couple of hours. But there was still a lot to be done and she had already wasted half an hour reading the contents of the file.
She decided to phone for a pizza and concentrate on the job in hand. Some time during the evening she would telephone her mother. Mrs Turner didn’t know about the interview with Kennard. Fran had felt it best not to mention it. She’d been trying to play down the financial side of their situation.
Her supper arrived sooner than she expected. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t a pizza delivery man who stood outside. It was Reid Kennard.
Fran’s friendly expression froze into a mask of dislike. ‘What do you want?’ she said curtly.
‘I thought you might have calmed down a little by now.’
‘I haven’t...and I’m busy.’
She started to shut the door but he put a foot across the threshold and the flat of his hand on the door to hold it open.
She had never expected to hear herself saying, ‘How dare you?’ to anyone, but it was what sprang to her lips, followed by, ‘Get out!’
‘I’m not inside yet,’ he said blandly. ‘We have things to talk about. May I come in?’
‘We have nothing to say to each other. You have no right to pester me like this. If you don’t go away, I’ll call the security man and have you thrown off the premises.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Making a nuisance of yourself.’
Reid Kennard smiled, but it wasn’t a kind or amused smile. It was the sort of expression she associated with sadists about to do something which would give them pleasure but cause excruciating pain to their victim.
‘I think you’re bluffing.’
He stepped into the hallway. To her chagrin, Fran let him. Not that she had much option. He was far too large and muscular for her to use physical means to deny him access. She had muscles of her own, but not in the same class as his.
He had looked a strong man in his office, but that might have been partly good tailoring. Now that he had changed out of his city suit into chinos and a dark blue cashmere sweater over a cotton shirt, it was clear that the breadth of his shoulders owed nothing to clever padding.
‘This is outrageous,’ she snapped, while instinctively backing away to avoid coming into contact with that tall and powerful male body as he closed the door.
‘Don’t pretend to be in a panic. You know perfectly well I’m not going to harm you.’
‘How do I know that? You’ve already shown signs of derangement.’
‘Not really. I’ll admit to being unconventional. You’ll get used to it.’ He glanced round the hall and then, with a gesture at the open door of the living room, said, ‘After you.’
Having no choice but to act on her threat or let him speak his piece, Fran walked ahead of him. If he expected to be invited to sit down, he could think again.
Grinding her teeth, she saw that she had left the file on the low glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Even worse, it was open, proving she had looked through it.
But the first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the file. It was the half-full glass of wine—her second—she had left by the telephone.
‘A bad habit...drinking alone,’ he remarked, with a sardonic glance at her hostile face.
‘I don’t as a rule. It’s been a trying day. I’m not used to dealing with people who think they can trample roughshod over the rest of the world.’ She folded her arms and glared at him. ‘You have to be the most objectionable person I have ever met.’
‘Because I want to marry you? Even if they don’t wish to say yes, most women regard a proposal as a compliment.’
‘Not when it comes from a stranger who regards women as chattels.’
‘There are cultures where it’s the custom for girls not even to see their husband’s face until after the marriage ceremony. Marriage is a practical institution. It’s because our culture ignores that that we have so many divorces. Wouldn’t you rather stay married?’
‘I’m not interested in marriage...certainly not to you.’
‘Why not, if there’s no one else in your life? Or did my investigator slip up there?’
At this point the buzzer sounded again. She saw him looking displeased by the interruption as she went to answer the door. This time it was the takeout delivery man. She took the box to the kitchen before paying him the money she had ready in her pocket.
Rejoining Kennard, she said pointedly, ‘My supper’s arrived. I’d like to eat it while it’s still hot.’
Ignoring the hint, he said, ‘You ought to keep your door chained until you see who your caller is.’
‘Normally I do. It’s only because I thought you were the man with the pizza that you were able to barge in.’
‘That was lucky...for me.’ He began to look round the room, taking in the colour scheme, the books and paintings, and the mirrors. Fran loved mirrors, especially antique ones. As a child, her favourite book had been a copy, inherited from her grandmother, of Through the Looking-Glass. Somehow the wrong-way-round view seen through a mirror always looked better than what was really there. She had often wished she could step through the frame of a mirror into a world where things were the same but different; her parents’ marriage a happy one and herself a model pupil like her elder sister.
‘Nice room. Who designed it?’ asked Kennard.
No one had ever remarked on the way the room looked. She couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of gratification that someone had finally noticed the effect she had spent a lot of time and thought achieving.
‘Nobody well known,’ she said. ‘Please...I want to get on with my supper and I have to have everything packed by tomorrow afternoon. I really don’t have time to talk...even if we had anything sensible to talk about.’
‘A pizza’s a poor sort of supper...especially if you’re eating alone. Let me buy you a decent dinner and try to convince you that my plan makes a lot of sense. Then, if you like, I’ll give you a hand with the packing.’
‘Absolutely not! No way!’ Fran said emphatically, but not with much hope he would accept her refusal.
He didn’t. ‘No to dinner, or no to help with the packing?’
‘No to both...no to everything. Have another look through some magazines and pick out some other woman. I’m not for sale, Mr Kennard.’
‘Do you like music?’ he asked.
Disconcerted by the seemingly irrelevant question, she said, ‘Some music...yes.’
‘How do you feel about Smetana?’
‘Never heard of him.’ It was an exaggeration. She had heard the name but that was the limit of her knowledge.
‘He was a Bohemian composer who lived in the last century. His most important work was done in Prague, helping to form a national opera. He had a nasty end...went deaf and died insane.’
‘If I wanted to know about the lives of obscure composers I’d borrow a book from the library.’
‘Is reading one of your pleasures?’
‘Yes, as it happens it is, but—’
‘That’s good. It’s one of mine and I have a large private library.’
Feeling her temper starting to simmer, Fran said impatiently, ‘I shouldn’t think it includes the kind of books I enjoy and if Smetana is one of your favourite composers your CDs would send me to sleep. I had enough of that stuff in musical appreciation sessions at school. I only like pop music.’
It wasn’t true. Julian had taught her to share his love for classical music, but if Kennard thought she was what he would define as a Philistine so much the better. It might put him off this insane determination to marry her.
Not visibly deterred, he said, ‘The reason I mentioned Smetana is because his most famous opera is called The Bartered Bride. Barter, the exchange of goods, was how people traded before money was invented. I’m not trying to buy you, Francesca. I’m proposing a trade-off...things I need for things you need. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come out to dinner?’
‘Definitely not!’
‘In that case I’ll leave you to your pizza and take myself off for some Arbroath smokies at Scotts, or maybe their Loch Fyne smoked salmon.’ As he mentioned two specialities of one of London’s best restaurants, the hard eyes warmed with malicious amusement.
Could his private detective have found out that she adored fish and seafood?
On his way to the door, Kennard added, ‘I’ll call you in the morning. After you’ve slept on the idea, you may find it more appealing.’
‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll take the phone off the hook,’ she snapped, as he let himself out.
CHAPTER TWO
SINCE Julian’s wedding, Fran had had a lot of sleepless nights, prowling around in the small hours, tortured by thoughts of Julian making babies with Alice...babies which should have been hers.
All she had ever really wanted was to be Julian’s wife and the mother of his children. Not the kind of ambition applauded by the teachers at the expensive boarding-school where she and her sister had been sent to learn to be ‘ladies’.
That had been Gran’s idea. Though Gran’s own origins were humble, she was a tremendous snob and hadn’t approved of her eighteen-year-old Daphne marrying a rough diamond like George Turner, even if he had gone on to make pots of money.
Gran wanted to see her granddaughters marrying men who were not only well off but also what she called well-spoken. To that end she had chivvied her son-in-law into sending the girls to one of the most exclusive schools in England. To Gran’s disappointment, her eldest granddaughter, Shelley, had fallen in love with a young man who had once spent a summer working in her mother’s garden. He now had his own plant nursery and was a contented man, but he didn’t make a lot of money. John and Shelley couldn’t afford to support her mother. With two small children and another on the way, they didn’t even have a spare bedroom to offer her.
Had Gran known of Fran’s secret passion for the chauffeur’s son, she would have disapproved, at least until his achievements at university had signalled an impressive future.
The irony was that Gran would probably regard Reid Kennard as a wonderful catch. She didn’t think much of love as a basis for wedlock. She wouldn’t admit it under torture, but her granddaughters suspected there had been a metaphorical shotgun in the background of her wedding, and the marriage hadn’t been happy.
In the morning Fran woke with a headache, the result of too little sleep and too much wine the night before. Staying up late, she had finished the bottle.
She spent the morning sorting out things in her bedroom and waiting for Reid Kennard’s call. When the telephone remained silent, she should have been relieved. Instead she felt oddly uneasy.
What if he’d changed his mind? What if her animosity had made him have second thoughts? During his solitary dinner he might have decided he couldn’t be bothered to wear
down her opposition when there were plenty of women he could have for the asking.
The longer she considered this scenario, the more it seemed to Fran that she might have rejected in haste an opportunity she would live to regret turning down.
As things stood, all the future offered was relative penury for her mother and a dull job for herself. It wasn’t an attractive prospect.
The trade-off Reid had suggested—suddenly she found herself thinking of him by his first name instead of his surname—would mean that if they were miserable, they would at least be miserable in comfort.
But what about her side of the trade-off: being the wife of a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her?
Well, love, for long the first item on her private and personal wish list, had been crossed off the day Julian married Alice. So that brought it down to the question of whether she could face having sex with someone other than Julian in order to have some babies. They wouldn’t have the father she had dreamed of, but any father had to be better than none.
Thinking about sex with Reid, Fran felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. He had all the physical makings of a good lover; his aura of animal magnetism deriving from a great body, a sensual mouth, hands that looked strong enough to crush, but also capable of performing the most delicate and subtle caresses. Just thinking about the components of his disturbing personality sent strange little quivers through her.
Even though still a virgin, her innocence saved as a gift for her first and only love, Fran knew all the theory, knew what those frissons meant. She had recognised the passionate depths of her nature a long time ago. From the beginning of adolescence she had been excited and moved by amorous scenes in books and movies, recognising her capacity to feel the same fiery emotions as the women in the stories and on the screen.
But she had also had a strong streak of idealism. After falling in love with Julian, keeping herself inviolate for him had seemed more important than indulging her natural curiosity about what it felt like to do the things many of the girls in her class had experienced as soon as they were sixteen.
