Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  `You look like a mediaeval shepherd boy,' Shelley giggled. `All you need is a lute.'

  `And the sheep?' Pamela struck another pose which instantly banished the illusion. It was doubtful if any mediaeval shepherd ever flaunted that particular shade of scarlet or looked so provocatively feminine as Pamela did at that moment. 'I'm going to wear it now,' she announced.

  The vendeuses were as youthful as their clients and were well used to requests to wrap the old things. A few moments later Pamela and Shelley emerged into the sunshine and stood for a moment giggling at each other. Then Pamela suggested a coffee as they still had some time in hand before they met Quinn.

  `You know, you are lucky,' she said enviously when they had settled in a coffee bar near the Sloane Square end of the King's Road. `To be free! Here !' Her slender dancer's arms embraced the scene expressively. 'I wish I was training full time at one of the modern dance schools here. If only my folks would let me off the hook. Got any ideas for talking them round?'

  Shelley sighed and shook her head. 'Only nagging and begging. It took me nearly a year to persuade Aunt Lou to let me come.' She fell silent, reflecting that her freedom was liable to end any day now, once Aunt Lou arrived. She pushed the dampening thought out of her mind and looked up to find Pamela regarding her with speculative eyes.

  `What's the matter?'

  `I'm curious.'

  `What about?'

  Pamela fidgeted. 'Oh, nothing.'

  `Well, go on!' Shelley wasn't proof against youthful intrigue.

  `Don't throw anything, then.' Pamela leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. 'Are you really living with Quinn?'

  Shelley's mouthful of coffee went down the wrong way. By the time she had recovered from the resultant splutters she had also recovered from surprise. Not looking at Pamela, she said, 'What if I was?'

  'Oh, nothing.' Pamela was airily casual. 'Personally I'm all for experimental relationships before one commits oneself irrevocably. It's so blatantly obvious I can't understand why people fuss and disapprove. After all, you don't buy the first pair of shoes you try on in the shop, do you? So how can you form an ideal relationship unless you know what the person's like to live with? Take my brother, for instance; Julia often says that if she'd known about his habit of leaving every door open after him when he's working in the garden, or leaving sopping wet towels in the bath, she'd have thought twice about marrying him. Don't know what she saw in him, anyway, he's always beastly bad-tempered in the morning,' she added with sisterly candour. 'No, I think you're very wise.'

  Shelley's mouth opened, then closed again several times during this unexpected confidence. The unconcealed admiration on Pamela's worldly little face was so gratifying that it overcame the shock of her immature philosophy and the desire to bask in it was tempting, but only until horror and sanity prevailed a moment later. Heavens! If Pamela got carried away with this impression and opened out to Julia, or— Shelley gulped. 'Yes, but listen. I'm—'

  'Oh, I won't tell a soul. Don't worry. I know what people are. Of course Julia's wondering. About you, I mean. She was on about it the other day and saying that Quinn has turned as close as an oyster these days, since—'

  'Yes, but you don't understand! It's—'

  'I know, it's a secret.' Pamela nodded wisely. 'I expect it's

  because of Quinn being a lot older than you. People talk, don't they? And of course after that affair with Myra. That's the trouble with picking an older man; they always have pasts. But I can understand you falling for Quinn. You're the type to prefer an older man. I can tell.' Pamela hesitated. 'You know about Myra, of course?'

  'Myra Delane?' said Shelley weakly, retreating before this whirlwind of information, imagined and otherwise.

  'Uh-huh. I wasn't sure if Quinn was keeping his secrets from you, but if you know, then it's all right.' She looked relieved.

  Shelley didn't know, and suddenly it became vital that she did know. Deciding that her own clearing up of the misunderstanding could be postponed for another minute or so, she said cautiously: 'As a matter of fact, I have met her, but only once. She is very beautiful, but a bit upstage to other women, I'd say. Actually, Quinn's been a bit cagey about her and I don't like to—you know—actually ask him about her.'

  `You needn't tell me! She's a cousin—on our side, not Julia's—and you can't tell me anything about our dear Myra.' Pamela put her elbows on the table arid leaned forward, agog to impart information. 'She and Julia have been friends for ages—that's how Julia met our Derek and how Quinn got to know her. She was bridesmaid at Julia's wedding and that's when it all started with Quinn.'

  Pamela frowned. 'It's funny, he had known her before, but it seems as though he saw her for the first time that day, if you know what I mean. He went absolutely pie-eyed over her and she'd just moved down to town, so he had a clear field—which Myra kept clear, of course. Anyway, she kept him on a string for ages—she didn't want to get too tied up and she had an American in tow as well that Quinn never knew about—then they got engaged and Quinn bought the house where you are now—he used to have a flat, but it was too small for Myra. They were going to be married the following spring, then Myra got this marvellous job in Rome and it went to her head. They had a fight over that, and away she went, then she started putting out feelers through Julia and they made it up again.'

  Pamela paused, her eyes reflective. 'We were all a bit intrigued about it because Myra's affairs had never lasted as long as this one and we thought Quinn was going to tame her, but he seemed to be just as putty-soft in her hands as all the others. Anyway, he took a long holiday that summer, rented a lush villa in Alassio and she spent her vacation with him. Then she met the film crowd and that Norval man—you know, the one who won that international award last year—and the next thing we heard it was all off again and Quinn landed home. Julia never got to the bottom of it, because Myra swore she never had an affair with Norval, but Myra would fib her way out of anything if it suited her, and she definitely had a whirl with that Italian dreamboat.'

  For a moment Pamela wore a dreamy look. 'Did you see him in Ordained? I saw it three times. M-m-m-! Ravishing!'

  `Who?' said Shelley, wishing Pamela would get back to the important point.

  `Gino Mariello,' breathed Pamela. 'Who else?'

  'I think I like Steve McQueen best—but what happened next?'

  'Oh . . .' Pamela pulled a face, 'that's all. Quinn dropped out of circulation as far as we know, until— That's why Julia's sort of hoping you and he might-,-you know. But she thinks you're a bit young. And there's another thing . .

  'What?' Shelley was instantly alert to the note of warning.

  'Myra's expecting a transfer later this year. She's hoping for Paris, but it might be London, so you'd better watch out,' Pamela added warningly, 'you never know with Myra.'

  Shelley's heart contracted as she tried to sort out the chaotic whirl of conjecture these divulgences had brought. She looked down unseeingly into her cup of cold coffee and tried to subdue all the questions that clamoured for answers. But first, she had to right this dangerous misunderstanding before it got out of hand. She looked up.

  'It isn't exactly like you think,' she said, slightly breathless. 'I haven't known him very long. We're just beginning to—to get friendly.' (Well, that was the truth, wasn't it? She could say he was a new friend. It wasn't her fault that Pamela had an imagination like a scandal sheet writer.) 'We're not having

  a violent affair, or anything like that. Just ...'

  `Just friends.' Pamela did not appear convinced, and Shelley said desperately : 'Yes, and don't you dare say anything to Julia, or anybody, do you hear?'

  `I've promised, haven't I, but mind you write to me and tell me everything. Or I will tell—Oh ! Whoever's that?'

  Pamela turned sharply and Shelley became aware of the man outside who was tapping on the window and waving to attract her attention. She gave a small indignant exclarnadon, then stood up as she recognised the smile in the
straggling beard and a shirt she should have noticed a mile away.

  `Good heavens!' she giggled as Ocky thrust at the glass door and came across the café towards them.

  `So my disguise fooled you—or were you day-dreaming as usual?' he teased, his enquiring glance encompassing the vivacious Pamela.

  `You've no room to talk,' said Shelley. 'You've forgotten to shave for months, by the look of you. I don't like it.'

  `No, they're not very original these days.' He stroked the beard in question and glanced again at Pamela, and Shelley made hasty introductions.

  He bowed solemnly, and Pamela said gaily : 'I've often thought I'd like to be sculpted—do you do the traditional kind? You know, what the world sees. Or do you interpret the impressions of the artist's mental eye?'

  `Well now ...' Ocky assumed an intense expression. 'If you mean, do I add the hidden dimension the camera fails to record—yes.'

  `She means do you carve recognisable objects or do you fashion strange shapes round a lot of holes,' said Shelley with a flippancy engendered by the relief of distracting Pamela from the subject of Quinn.

  `Really! Such blasphemy!' Ocky raised shocked brows. `I'm surprised at you, Shelley. Somebody's been having a bad effect on you while I've been away.'

  `Oh, yes, I know who that is—my brother-in-law twice removed,' giggled Pamela. 'She—look, we're making her blush. She's—'

  `Shut up!' Shelley bent her scarlet face and glanced at her

  watch. 'It's time we were weaving, anyway..We—'

  `We've got a date. I'm playing chaperone. We—'

  `Look, what is all this?' protested Ocky. 'You can't run away just yet. What's all this about you falling out with Samma and the gang? And who's this Harley—'

  `Honestly, we've got to move. We're late. I'll ring you and tell you all about it some time. Come on, Pamela!' Shelley seized her bag and her friend's arm and almost dragged her away under Ocky's startled gaze.

  `But what's the rush?' protested Pamela. 'Quinn will wait for us. It's only quarter to twelve.'

  'He mightn't.' Shelley looked anxiously along the road and wondered how she was going to get through lunch in Quinn's company if Pamela was going to keep her silly teasing going like this!

  `So what ! We'll buy our own lunch.' Pamela's attention was caught by a Peter Jones window display and she stopped. `Don't you know you haven't to appear too eager at the start of an affair? Myra used to keep him guessing all the time.'

  `But I'm not Myra!' Shelley hissed. 'Come on.'

  `Calm down.' With infuriating slowness Pamela dawdled along by the shop windows. 'You must compose yourself. Adopt a demure, ladylike mien. Quinn's sure to take us to some dull, frightfully staid old place where we'll have to sit like good little girls and look as though we were frightfully bored with it all.'

  But Quinn did not take them to some 'dull, frightfully staid old place' and Shelley could not resist a sly, told-you-so dig at the unrepentant Pamela as they entered the lift and were launched nearly six hundred feet towards the dizzy heights of the G.P.O. Tower restaurant.

  `Better than going down,' whispered Pamela, pulling a grimace which reduced Shelley to giggles and sent Quinn's brows quirking.

  He lunched them in style, somewhat in the manner of a favourite uncle indulging a couple of schoolgirl nieces up from the country for the day. Afterwards he took them out on the observation platform and pointed out famous landmarks in the vast panorama that stretched below like a great planner's board of a concrete and steel metropolis.

  The novelty of lunching and revolving so far aloft, the fun of signing each other's official certificates of orbit, and Quinn being his most urbane and charming self all combined to induce a somewhat heady effect. But Shelley could not help noticing that he seemed to be bracketing her with Pamela in this indulgence. After all, she was nearly three years older than Pamela, and while Pamela looked and behaved as though she were much older wasn't she awfully precocious? Does he think I'm childish and precocious as well? she wondered. This, and the fear that Pamela would betray her unconsciously even if not by intent with those knowing sidelong glances, worried her more and more as the day drew on. Despite her efforts she became increasingly self-conscious during the drive out to Hampton, where they had tea, until she was miserably afraid even of glancing at him or responding to his teasing chaff. By the time they returned to Julia's, tarried there for coffee and sandwiches, and set off for home conversational ability had deserted Shelley completely.

  Alone with Quinn as the Bentley purred home and acutely conscious of his presence across the space of cool soft silvery leather between them, she sought to break down the barrier within herself but the more she tried to summon and voice a few brilliant observations on the day's outing the more tongue-tied she became. She could only think of the ghastly exchange with Pamela and the even more ghastly fear that at this very moment that particular exchange was being recounted syllable by syllable to Julia. She knew instinctively that Pamela had evolved a highly romanticised idea of her relationship with Quinn and it would take a great deal to convince Pamela otherwise. The worst of all was the guilty knowledge that it was really her own fault for succumbing to the temptation to pretend for those few wistful moments of longing.

  She was hardly aware of getting out of the car and going indoors, passing Bruno on his way out to garage the car, until Quinn came behind her and gently slipped her jacket off her shoulders.

  `Well?' he murmured.

  'Oh ... it was all super,' she mumbled, completely unable to meet his eyes. 'I enjoyed it very much—thank you.'

  'Good.' He gave a slightly twisted little smile. 'I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost your voice up there—that rarified air, you know.'

  'N-no, it was wonderful.'

  He seemed to be waiting for something else. She stood awkwardly, fiddling with the folds of the jacket he had put over her arm, then managed a smile But there was none forthcoming in response and with a mumbled 'goodnight,' she sidled towards the stairs, then gave way to the impulse that carried her with quickening steps upwards to her own room.

  It had all gone wrong. It should have been a wonderful, blissful, perfect day. After eight whole hours in his company she should have felt like dancing over the moon. But she didn't; she felt flat, scared, uncertain and achingly unsatisfied!

  By the next morning she was still trying to convince herself that it wasn't Pamela's fault. Without Pamela there'd have been no outing—or Quinn for eight whole hours, she thought crossly as she nibbled toast. And now there was Myra!

  The luscious Miss Delane was no longer a misty, hardly known entity in Quinn's life; she was a sharply defined presence that spelled unease and vain envy. Maybe she was now only part of his past but that was poor consolation if he still felt pie-eyed about her. As long as he still hankered after his lost love he wasn't going to notice anything else coming over the horizon, or even right under his nose. Not that he's likely to notice you, she told herself with despairing cruelty. Even Bruno had warned her quite bluntly that his guv didn't play with little girls.

  It only needed the letter to sound the final knell that morning.

  The post slid through the letter box as Shelley hurried downstairs to leave for the office. She read it on the bus—twice, to make sure the date was right.

  Aunt Lou was coming today. She was coming on the early train, but Shelley wasn't to come to meet her; she had some tiresome business to see to first, then a little shopping, so she would see Shelley early that evening.

  Which meant she intended seeing Silverlane Mansions!

  Gone were Shelley's vague hopes of waylaying her aunt, perhaps heading her off, or even persuading Linda to come along and hint that she was part of the new abode. There wasn't time for anything. How was Aunt Lou going to react to the new pad? More important, how was she going to react to H.Q.?

  When the time came to put the cover on her machine and join the tumbling exodus into the rush hour Shelley was having wild thoughts of just
disappearing somewhere until it was all over. A sudden rush of affection for the office and all her workmates rushed over her; maybe she'd be handing in her notice tomorrow. Maybe she'd be on the train! If Aunt Lou decided to cart her back home there and then. She'd often had arguments with her, but she'd never dared to defy Aunt Lou outright. For the first time in her life she glimpsed with personal insight the plight of a certain unfortunate character of mythological fame; what did happen to poor old Damocles, anyway?

  Well, she would soon know ! Unless Aunt Lou had changed her mind or got lost in London. Ashamed of the trend of her thoughts, Shelley let herself into the house, listened to the peace apparently prevailing, and sighed with relief. She was first home; there was time to tidy up and have another mental rehearsal of her argument should Aunt Lou prove difficult. Then she saw the familiar blue umbrella in the hallstand and at the same moment the study door opened and Quinn said:

  `Oh, there you are. Your aunt is here.'

  Trying to read his expression and failing to receive a hint of red, green or amber, she walked past him into the room and was enfolded in Aunt Lou's arms.

  The touch of the soft cheek and the faint fragrance of Muguet—the only perfume Aunt Lou had used for as long as Shelley could remember—brought a rush of nostalgia. She

  clung to her a moment longer and murmured: 'Oh, I've missed you, Auntelouise'—falling back into the old childhood way of running the name into one long word of unstressed syllables.

  `I've missed you too.' The older woman stood back, her blue eyes misted but none the less shrewd. 'Shelley, you've gone thinner. A lot thinner. Are you sure you're eating proper meals?'

  `Oh, yes. I—you look different, Aunt Lou. I suppose it's with being away. Are you—'

  Quinn broke in: 'I'll leave you to talk now. Bruno will bring you some tea, Shelley—we've had ours.'

  Shelley had noticed the daintily set tea tray and the thin triangular sandwiches left over. How did Bruno do these uncharacteristic chores so perfectly? She turned abruptly. `No, don't bother, please. I'll take Aunt Lou up to my place and make some up—'