The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  The clarification of her feelings for Rafe had achieved nothing. It was simply the confirmation of something she had known subconsciously all along. Of course, if her grandmother had not died, if she had not gone down to Castle Howarth for the funeral and met Rafe again, the situation would have been entirely different. Obviously, Nan would have died eventually, but by then she would have been married to Adam, he would have been with her, and any unwilling attraction she might have felt towards Rafe would have been strangled at birth. In addition to which, her grandmother would have had to change that clause in her will. She might still have left Castle Howarth to Rafe, but their marriage would not have been a condition.

  But life was never as uncomplicated as that. To start counting the ‘ifs’ in her past was a thankless task. If her parents had not been killed, if she had not conceived that schoolgirl passion for Rafe, if that scene in the meadow had been avoided … The list was endless, and futile. She could not alter events which had determined the person she had become. After all, the past few years had not been unhappy ones. She was fond of Melanie; she liked her job; she was proud of the achievements they had made. She had even convinced herself that she could make Adam a good wife. But was that because there had been no alternative …?

  Yet, what real alternative did she have now? Rafe had offered her marriage, it was true, but she now knew his sole intention had been to get her to agree to her grandmother’s plans. Wasn’t that what his objective had always been? Even that long-ago summer, when he had taken her heart and squeezed it dry of all emotion, he had only been obeying her grandmother’s edicts. He had never wanted her for himself. If she had been a little less naive, she would have known it. A leopard didn’t change its spots, and Rafe had always delighted in tormenting her. He was doing it now —making love to her, using her body, playing with her emotions. He was a past master at getting his own way with her sex, and she must be crazy to allow herself to be seduced by his guile.

  Melanie hadn’t appeared by a quarter to ten and, after making herself a cup of hot chocolate, Helen went to bed. Succumbing once again to the temptations of a sleeping draught, she took two pills before sliding under the quilt. It was such a relief to feel oblivion creeping over her, and she knew nothing more until Mrs Argyll shook her awake.

  ‘Miss Michaels! Miss Michaels! Och, are you all right? Did you no hear the phone ringing?’

  Helen found it difficult to focus. The combination of the drinking chocolate and the sleeping pills must have been quite powerful, she reflected dully. She could hardly remember what day it was.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Miss Michaels?’ The little Scotswoman was regarding her anxiously, and Helen struggled to drag her thoughts together.

  ‘What—oh, the telephone, you said, didn’t you?’ she mumbled, struggling up against her pillows. ‘I’m sorry. I must have overslept. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s nought but five minutes past nine,’ exclaimed Mrs Argyll, clicking her tongue, and now Helen could see the telephone receiver in her hand, the mouthpiece securely covered by her palm. Heavens, she thought, pushing back her hair with a slightly shaky hand, the phone was beside the bed, but she hadn’t heard it ring. She had obviously slept more deeply than she thought.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked, wishing she had had a chance to drink the cup of coffee, cooling on the table beside the bed. Maybe then she would have felt more human. As it was, she had an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and a thumping headache.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mrs Argyll ruefully. ‘I didn’t ask. I was worried about you. It’s not like you to sleep so soundly.’

  ‘I took a sleeping pill,’ explained Helen, massaging her temples with soothing fingers. She saw no point in telling the Scotswoman she had had two. The way she was feeling right now, she wouldn’t be doing it again.

  ‘Och, a young woman like you needing sleeping pills!’ Mrs Argyll was evidently disgusted. ‘In my day, we didn’t resort to drugs every time we had a sleepless night. If you’re tired, you’ll sleep. That’s what my old mother used to say.’

  Helen bore this tirade tolerantly, and then reached for the phone. ‘Male or female?’ she mouthed as the Scotswoman handed it over, and then wished she hadn’t when the woman responded: ‘Male,’ before making herself scarce.

  ‘Hello,’ she said cautiously, sure that her recriminations of the night before must have summoned Rafe to contact her, and then caught her breath as her voice echoed in her ear. A long-distance call had only one interpretation, and she was barely recovered when Adam’s terse tones answered her.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Where have I been?’ Helen was briefly blank or the censure in his voice might have aroused an entirely different reaction. ‘I haven’t been anywhere. It’s barely nine o’clock.’

  ‘I know what time it is,’ retorted Adam grimly. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the past two hours. Now, I’ll ask you again—where have you been? Or have you been too busy to answer your phone?’

  Helen blinked. ‘Adam, I’ve told you——’

  ‘I know what you’ve said, Helen, but quite frankly, I find it hard to believe. Are you saying I’ve been dialling the wrong number for two whole hours?’

  ‘No. I’m not saying that.’ Helen was beginning to understand. ‘Adam, I should explain, I took two sleeping pills last night.’

  ‘Two sleeping pills!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Helen gasped. ‘Because I couldn’t sleep, of course. Why else would I take them? For heaven’s sake, Adam, I’m not lying! Ask Mrs Argyll. She’s just woken me up.’

  Adam was silent for a moment, and then he said coldly: ‘You surprise me, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’ Helen’s head was really throbbing now. ‘You know I sometimes do have a sleeping problem, Adam. That’s why I have the pills.’

  ‘As I understand it, it’s not a problem you’ve had all the time I’ve been away,’ responded Adam harshly, and Helen’s stomach plunged at the oblique implication.

  ‘I—beg your pardon?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ said Adam brusquely. ‘But then, I suppose it depends who you’re sleeping with.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, Helen. You know what I’m talking about. Let’s try—cousin, shall we? The so-called black sheep of the family you discovered at your grandmother’s funeral. That was your story, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I—found out that—Rafe was my cousin when my grandmother’s will was read, yes,’ agreed Helen nervously, her mind racing ahead of her tongue. How had Adam found out about Rafe? she asked herself blankly. Unless Rafe himself had told him!

  ‘And do you deny that you and he have got very cosy since I left the country?’ inquired Adam bleakly. ‘My information is that your—cousin spent Thursday night at the apartment. Is that true?’

  Helen’s thoughts were in chaos. Mrs Argyll? she pondered. Could the little Scotswoman have inadvertently let something slip? But what? And to whom?

  ‘Helen!’

  Adam was getting impatient, and Helen’s fingers tightened on the receiver. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, Rafe did stay at the apartment on Thursday night. He brought some toys and things I’d left at Castle Howarth. I was late getting home, it was pouring with rain, so—I invited him to use the spare bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Adam was furious now, and she wondered again who his informant could be. Melanie? Oh, surely not. Of all people, she would have trusted Melanie. ‘You make it sound almost reasonable! I realise I should have waited until I got back to face you with it. The telephone is such an inadequate form of communication!’

  Helen was taken aback. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘That you and he occupied separate bedrooms? What do you take me for, Helen? I know all about Mr Fleming! And celibacy is not one of his strong points!’

  Helen felt sick. So it had been Rafe then. In spite of wh
at she knew of him, she was disappointed. Somehow informing had not seemed part of his character, however flawed that character might be.

  It was an effort to go on, but she had to. ‘Wh—what did he tell you?’ she asked dully, only to flinch when Adam swore into the phone.

  ‘Fleming?’ he snapped. ‘Fleming didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t need to. As soon as you came back from Wiltshire, all hollow-eyed and nervy, after attending the funeral of a woman you had only seen a handful of times in the last God knows how many years, I knew there had to be a reason. And there was.’

  Helen gulped. ‘Are you saying—you had me investigated?’

  ‘Not you. Fleming. It was very interesting actually. You omitted to tell me the old girl had plans for you and Cousin Rafe to consummate the family reconciliation!’

  ‘Because it meant nothing,’ declared Helen tremulously. ‘I—have no intention of marrying Rafe Fleming. Whatever your spies may have found to the contrary.’ She quivered with distaste. ‘And I must say I find the idea of your spying on me quite—disgusting!’

  ‘Ah, but I didn’t. At least, not directly,’ retorted Adam grimly. ‘As a matter of fact, I found out quite by accident. Mac told me.’

  ‘Mr Maclaren?’

  ‘That’s right. When I couldn’t get in touch with you last week, I had Maclaren come round to the apartment on Thursday evening; just to assure myself that you weren’t—pining!’ He was openly sarcastic. ‘Imagine his surprise when the commissionaire informed him you already had company—your cousin!’

  Helen hesitated. ‘He didn’t come up.’

  ‘Oh, no. Mac is nothing if not discreet,’ remarked Adam scathingly. ‘Instead, he retired to the car to wait for your—visitor to leave. He didn’t.’

  Helen took a deep breath. ‘How do you know? Mr Maclaren wouldn’t recognise Rafe if he saw him.’

  ‘The commissionaire would. Mac and he have become quite good friends during the course of our relationship.’

  ‘You mean he kept an eye on me!’

  Adam sounded indifferent. ‘Believe what you like!’

  ‘As you do, you mean?’ Helen was suddenly blazingly angry. It was bad enough that Adam should have hired some slimy private detective to poke about in Rafe’s affairs, without the added humiliation of knowing he was quite prepared to endorse similar activities on his chauffeur’s behalf towards her. ‘How dare you spy on me?’ she demanded, her voice rising with emotion. ‘This is my apartment! I pay the rent. Who I choose to entertain here is my affair!’

  There was a pregnant silence, and then Adam, more conciliatory, said: ‘So you deny that anything happened between you and this chap, Fleming?’

  Helen’s brief spurt of anger flickered and then died. ‘Would it do any good if I did?’ she asked dully.

  ‘Very well. If you tell me you slept in separate rooms—I’ll believe you,’ said Adam stiffly, but suddenly Helen didn’t want him to be generous. What did she have to lose, after all? She couldn’t marry Adam now. She couldn’t marry someone who paid people to watch her, no matter how unforgivable her own behaviour had been. If only he had told her. If only he had voiced his doubts to her. Who knows, perhaps she might have confided in him. As it was, she just felt empty; as empty as their relationship had suddenly become.

  ‘We did,’ she said now. ‘Sleep in separate rooms, I mean. But—we did make love.’

  ‘You cow!’ Adam’s violence was abrupt and total. ‘And you’ve been stringing me along for the last five minutes, pretending——’

  ‘I never pretended anything,’ said Helen quietly, but Adam wasn’t listening to her.

  ‘You let me feel a rat for suspecting you were having an affair with that jumped-up bastard, and all along he’s been screwing you behind my back——’

  ‘No——’

  ‘Don’t bother to deny it! According to the locals, it began when you were still at school! Of course, I didn’t believe it then, but now——’ He broke off with a savage expletive. ‘You precious bitch! And I thought you found sex a bore! I didn’t know I was having to compete with the Wiltshire stud!’

  There was more of the same. Bitter, ugly words that Helen could no longer stomach. With infinite care, she replaced the receiver on its rest, and when it rang again, she ignored it.

  Of course, the rest of the day was awful. As luck would have it, Melanie didn’t turn up for work that morning, and when her father phoned later, it was to inform Helen that she probably wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.

  ‘Something she ate last evening, I believe,’ he remarked, after explaining his daughter had been vomiting most of the night. ‘She had dinner with some shaggy-haired member of the socialist left. They probably ate suspect hamburgers on the Embankment, or some such thing.’

  ‘Oh, poor Melanie!’ Helen was sympathetic. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Mr Forster reassured. ‘I’ve called the doctor, but I’ve no doubt he’ll just recommend a light diet and lots of liquids. All being well, she should be back on Wednesday. But, in any case, she’s asked me to tell you, you’re welcome to come here at any time.’

  Helen sent Melanie her love and promised to go round to the Forsters’ house the following evening. Then, realising this was probably just what she needed, she put all thoughts of Adam aside and applied herself to the business. But first, she phoned the florist and had them send some flowers to her friend. Melanie loved flowers, and in her present condition they were the only things she might enjoy.

  By the time she got home that night, Helen was exhausted. She and Mr Stubbs had spent most of the day moving the smaller items she had bought in Derbyshire into the front of the shop. Her purchases had been delivered at the weekend, and she and the little caretaker took some time discussing the possibilities of restoring the rosewood bureau. Like Melanie no doubt, when she saw it, Mr Stubbs was inclined to raise his hands at the price. But he did admit it was a pretty thing, and Helen knew she had found an ally.

  There was a message at the apartment, from Mrs Argyll, saying that Lord Kenmore had phoned again that afternoon. He says that perhaps he was a little hasty this morning, the daily woman had written, and Helen guessed she must be eaten up with curiosity as to what Adam was talking about. He wants you to ring him. He says you have the number. He sounded most disturbed. He says he can’t get a flight until Wednesday, but he should be back in London early that morning.

  Wednesday!

  Helen blinked. That was the day after tomorrow. Adam was coming back two days early, and he expected to see her! The weight of depression descended on her shoulders once again. She had thought it was over. After the things Adam had said that morning, she had believed there was no way he would ever forgive her. But, apparently, he was prepared to try. She just wished she felt the same.

  The idea of ringing him and telling him that so far as she was concerned their relationship was over, was not one she pondered long. It was obvious, if she rang, Adam would think she didn’t mean it; that she was simply sounding out the possibilities of their going on as before. In addition to which, she felt she owed it to him to see him, if that was what he wanted. But just to keep the record straight, she drove round to Adam’s elegant town house that evening, and delivered the ring Adam had given her into Mr Maclaren’s somewhat discomfited hands.

  ‘But what am I to tell His Lordship?’ the man protested, his red face bearing testimony to at least a trace of embarrassment at his involvement.

  ‘Just tell him I don’t feel I should wear it any more,’ Helen replied distantly, refusing his invitation to step inside. ‘I’m sure you know why I’m returning the ring. And I’m sure you’ll think of some way to justify your part in the proceedings.’

  On Tuesday, with Adam’s return overshadowing the rest of the week, Helen went to see Melanie. As luck would have it, Mr Forster was spending the evening at a fund-raising dinner, and the two girls made themselves comfortable before the fire in the drawing room. It was
one of the things which had always drawn Helen to this house, the chance of sitting, toasting her toes, beside a real hearth. It always reminded her of Castle Howarth, and tonight was no exception.

  ‘Thanks for the flowers,’ said Melanie, handing her a glass of sherry. ‘They really cheered me up. As you’ll have gathered, my evening wasn’t exactly an unqualified success.’

  Helen smiled. ‘But you look better now. Have you eaten anything yet?’

  ‘A little.’ Melanie raised her eyebrows. ‘Have you?’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning that,’ said Helen drily. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I had some lasagne before I left. I guessed you wouldn’t be in the mood for a Chinese take-away!’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me!’ Melanie cringed. ‘I’ll never face kebabs again!’

  ‘Is that what upset you?’

  ‘I think so.’ Melanie grimaced. ‘We ate at this rather doubtful Turkish restaurant. The food tasted all right, but afterwards …’ She shuddered. ‘But never mind about me. How are you coping?’

  ‘At the shop?’

  Helen spoke without thinking and Melanie frowned. ‘Where else?’ And then, just noticing: ‘You’re not wearing your ring!’

  ‘No.’ Helen lifted her shoulders in acknowledgement. ‘I gave it back to Adam’s man last night.’

  ‘You mean—that chap Maclaren?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Melanie blinked. ‘Unless you and Rafe——’

  ‘It has nothing to do with Rafe,’ said Helen flatly. And then, realising how ludicrous that was, she added: ‘At least, it has—but that’s not why I gave Adam the ring.’

  ‘Go on.’ Melanie was intrigued, but Helen hesitated.

  ‘Do you really want me to?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I came here to see how you were feeling. Not to unburden myself on you.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can’t get away with a thing like that.’ Melanie pulled a face. ‘Of course I want to know what’s going on. Is Adam back? Have you seen him?’