The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  She arrived home on Tuesday evening to find she had an unexpected visitor. Trying to side-step Jim Saunders, the commissionaire, she was astonished when he confessed to allowing her young man to go up to the flat. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, Miss Michaels,’ he murmured, although his expression revealed his doubts. ‘Anyway, I just thought I should warn you. So’s you wouldn’t get a shock, I mean.’

  Helen managed to remain polite, but going up in the lift, she was rather less controlled. Although her pulses had raced at the thought that it might be Rafe who had come to see her, common sense told her the commissionaire would not regard her ‘cousin’ as her boy-friend. Therefore, she was hardly surprised, when she let herself into the apartment, to find Adam standing by the windows, watching for her return.

  Even so, she was surprised that he was here. It was over seven weeks since his return from Africa and the severance of their relationship. She didn’t even want to remember the row they had had in this very room, and she wished she had had the foresight to explain the facts to Jim Saunders.

  He turned at her entrance however, and his arching brows mirrored the fact that he had not observed her entry into the building. Probably because she had taken a taxi, she reflected now. The Porsche was safely parked in the underground garage.

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ he said, and she saw he had helped himself to a drink in her absence. He raised his glass. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Adam?’ Helen was too tired to face another confrontation. ‘If you had wanted to speak to me, you should have rung. It’s been a long day, and I’d planned on having an early night.’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam finished his drink and bestowed the glass on the tray before looking at her again. He was wearing a dinner-jacket, and the formality of his attire made Helen intensely conscious of her own dusty appearance. But she had been shifting packing-cases around all evening, and her beige corded pants and tan silk shirt were smudged with dirt. ‘How are you?’

  ‘How am I?’ Helen Came down the steps into the living area. ‘I don’t believe you came here just to ask after my health. What do you want, Adam? I really am very tired.’

  ‘Not surprising, in the circumstances, is it?’ he insinuated darkly, and suddenly Helen understood.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Antonia Markham,’ she said tautly. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘Antonia did advise me of your—how shall I put it?—interesting condition,’ agreed Adam smoothly. ‘If not, then no doubt someone else would have done.’

  Helen dropped her bag and jacket on to a chair and flopped down on to the couch. ‘So?’

  ‘So—I want to know whose child it really is.’

  Helen gasped. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Oh, I am. Deadly serious.’ A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘If it’s mine, you should have told me.’

  ‘Well, forget it. It’s not,’ said Helen flatly. ‘Now do you mind——’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know what?’

  ‘That it’s not my child, of course,’ exclaimed Adam shortly. ‘You can’t be sure.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can.’ Helen was surprised at how composed she felt. ‘And you know it.’

  Adam’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t contradict her. ‘You can’t intend going through with this. You must know Fleming’s only marrying you because of the child. Antonia says——’

  I don’t care what Antonia says,’ declared Helen coldly, rising to her feet again. And forgetting all the doubts she had had since Melanie departed for Zurich, she added: ‘Rafe and I are getting married, and that’s an end of it!’

  Adam gazed at her frustratedly. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way, Helen. Look,’ he spread his hand, ‘I know I’ve said some pretty rotten things to you in the past, but you deserved them. However, that doesn’t mean that we can’t put the past behind us.’

  Helen was astounded. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Get rid of the child, Helen. You don’t really want it. Have an abortion and be done with it. My own doctor can recommend someone. We can start again, and no one need ever know.’

  ‘No, Adam.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t love you.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘No, I only thought I did,’ she corrected him levelly. ‘It’s no use, Adam. It’s over.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re in love with Fleming?’

  He was scornful, and Helen, wary of Antonia’s involvement, was cautious. ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything,’ she replied a little wearily. ‘Now, will you please go?’

  She thought he was going to persist with the argument, but with a careless shrug of his shoulders, he walked up the shallow steps. ‘Very well,’ he said, turning at the top to face her once again. ‘But I shan’t believe you’re actually marrying Fleming until you have his ring on your finger.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RAFE rang on Thursday evening. Helen had just got in from work, and when she lifted the receiver and heard his voice, her heart flipped a beat.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked at once, and she thought how ironic it was that both he and Adam should have the same opening. But in Rafe’s case, the inquiry was genuine, and she wished her condition could be the same.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion about her health. ‘How nice of you to ring.’

  ‘It’s not nice at all,’ he retorted shortly, and she wondered apprehensively what was coming next. ‘I thought you would have been in touch with me. As it is, I’ve been trying to get you for over an hour!’

  ‘Oh, I’ve just got home,’ explained Helen at once. ‘Melanie’s gone on holiday, and I’m in charge of the shop. It’s been pretty hectic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve been run off your feet?’ demanded Rafe tersely. ‘It was pretty unthinking of her to go off and leave you like that, wasn’t it? I hope you haven’t been overdoing it.’

  ‘No. No, I’m okay,’ protested Helen, angry with herself for arousing his concern. ‘Did—er—did you get to see the vicar? Is everything arranged?’

  ‘The banns were called last Sunday, if that’s what you mean,’ he confirmed, the hard edge to his voice unmistakable. ‘So, when can I expect you? Or do you intend to stay up there until the day?’

  Helen’s throat felt dry. ‘Until—until the day?’ she echoed faintly. ‘Do—do we know what day it is?’

  ‘Provisionally, two weeks today,’ responded Rafe flatly. ‘What about invitations? I assume you do have someone you’d like to invite.’

  Helen sank down on to the arm of the couch. ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ she admitted, unable to tell him that she was still trying to come to terms with what she had done. ‘I—I’ve been so busy, you see. Perhaps we should wait a little longer.’

  ‘For what?’ Rafe’s voice was cold. ‘The situation’s not likely to change, is it? Not unless you intend to do something about it, that is.’

  Helen’s tongue circled her lips. ‘Do something about it?’ she echoed unsteadily. ‘What do you mean?’ What had Antonia told him?

  ‘You could be considering getting an abortion for all I know,’ he retorted grimly. ‘Don’t even think about it, or you’ll have me to deal with.’

  Helen’s throat constricted. ‘It would get you off the hook,’ she ventured. And me, too, she reflected miserably, but Rafe was harshly negative.

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ he declared, his hard voice filling her with despair. ‘I suggest you come to Castle Howarth for the weekend. That will give us plenty of time to sort out all the details.’

  On Friday morning, an elderly man came into the shop and showed a gratifying amount of interest in the rosewood bureau Helen had bought at the Derbyshire sale, faults and all. ‘You know, my old mom used to have one of these,’ he said, running his gnarled hands over the scarred wood. ‘My father brought it back from Australia, would you believe? All the
way to Chicago. I guess one of those early settlers must have had it shipped out there with them.’

  ‘Yes.’ Helen was endeavouring to keep her mind on her work, but it wasn’t easy with the thought of Rafe and the coming wedding making everything else seem futile. ‘You’re from Chicago, then.’ She forced a smile. ‘The windy city!’

  ‘So they say, so they say.’ The man grinned. ‘Yes, I’m from Chicago. My mother’s family settled there over one hundred years ago. Oh, I know that doesn’t sound long by your standards, but for us it’s quite an achievement.’

  ‘And you’re on holiday?’ asked Helen, linking her hands together in an effort to disguise her nervousness.

  ‘No. I’m here on business actually,’ the man replied. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t mix an ounce of pleasure in with it. And this here bureau would surely look good in my wife’s sitting room back home.’

  ‘Funnily enough, my grandmother owned one, too,’ murmured Helen, warming to him. ‘That’s really why I bought it. Because it reminded me of her.’

  ‘Sounds like you bought this for yourself,’ remarked the American with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to sell it? ‘Cause I tell you, I’d really like to have it.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said, suddenly realising she would soon be able to sit at her grandmother’s desk again. ‘I—we—still have the original. And really, we’ve got no use for two.’

  ‘Then this little beauty is mine,’ declared the man, turning the key and opening it up. ‘Look at that! Those pigeon-holes don’t have a mark on them. I’ll get the outside renovated just as soon as I get it back to Chicago, and then it’ll look really something. Wait till my old lady sees it! She’ll be so proud…’

  Helen’s smile was genuine now. ‘I’m so glad it’s going to someone who’ll care for it,’ she said, touching the wood with loving fingers. ‘You’ll use it, won’t you? I get the feeling it’s been well-used in the past.’

  ‘That’s what it’s for,’ agreed the American nodding. ‘But, hey, look here! What’s that sticking out of the seam? Look’s like a pamphlet or something. Dammit, I do believe it’s got one of those secret drawers!’

  Helen watched as the man’s experienced fingers probed the lining of the pigeon-holes. For a few moments it seemed as if he had been mistaken, and that the scrap of paper poking out of the seam was just coincidental. But then he gave a triumphant cry, and with a little click, the lower part of the cabinet moved forward, and there behind was a perfect hiding place.

  ‘Will you look at that!’ The American shook his head, lifting out the folded sheet which proved to be a pamphlet as he had surmised. It was an advertisement for a fete to be held in the grounds of St Margaret’s vicarage, and it was dated June 15th, 1935.

  Helen was amazed. ‘I had no idea that was there.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ The man grinned. ‘Well—let me tell you something: these old bureaux often have places like these. I guess they had more to hide back then. You know—old love-letters, that sort of thing. I guess Alexander Graham Bell’s got a lot to answer for. People don’t write letters these days. They just pick up the phone!’

  Helen shook her head. ‘It’s quite exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it.’ With an air of satisfaction, the American slid the pigeon-holes back into position. ‘See!’ He drew her closer and pointed out the tiny catch which was scarcely more than a depression in the grain. ‘Just press that and out she comes! Exactly like a cash register!’

  The sale was completed, and preliminary arrangements made for shipping the bureau to the United States. Helen wished Melanie had been there to share the novelty with her, but so far there had been no word from her friend, either to say how much she was enjoying herself, or to let Helen know when she would be back. It was so unlike her that Helen felt it that much more and, in her present state of tension, she would have welcomed Melanie’s advice.

  But, would she? she reflected honestly. She knew how Melanie felt about what she was doing, and she was clutching at straws to imagine the other girl might have changed her mind. That was why Melanie had gone away, Helen was sure. Not because she was afraid she would not be able to take a holiday later, but because she could not stick around and watch Helen make a fool of Rafe.

  Helen closed the shop at lunch-time on Saturday and drove back to her apartment feeling sick with uncertainty. Rafe would be expecting her to drive down to Wiltshire today, but the thought of facing all the questions he was bound to ask filled her with trepidation. What price now her claims of emancipation? she taunted herself grimly. She was anticipating their next meeting with as much enthusiasm as going to the dentist. If only she had half of Antonia’s confidence; she went straight after what she wanted, and worried about the consequences later.

  After some consideration, Helen decided she could not drive down to Castle Howarth today. If Rafe rang, she would tell him she had a headache, she decided cravenly. In any case, it was true, and believing that she was pregnant, he was hardly likely to berate her for it. Of course, she would not have time to drive there and back again on Sunday, so their meeting would have to be postponed for another week.

  With this decision made, Helen felt more prepared to face the week ahead. She needed time, she told herself consolingly. Time to consider all the consequences of what she had done; time to decide whether Rafe’s physical attraction to her was really a basis for her to build on. Marriages had been made for less, she knew, but would he ever forgive her for deceiving him?

  The phone rang on Saturday evening and Helen almost didn’t answer it. But it proved to be only the girl from the flat below, ringing to ask if she was having any trouble with her television. ‘It must be our set,’ the girl exclaimed resignedly, after Helen had switched on and assured her that her reception was excellent. ‘Dave’s parents gave it to us when we got married, and I think it must be on its last legs.’ She laughed. ‘Thanks, anyway. It’s so difficult finding anyone at home on a Saturday evening.’

  Helen politely conceded that it was before replacing her receiver. She had probably acquired a reputation as a hermit since she split up with Adam, she reflected gloomily, trying to get interested in the film that was showing now that the set was on. But the girl’s casual comments were an unpleasant reminder that Rafe was unlikely to be spending the evening on his own, and she hated herself for hoping that Antonia had turned him down.

  She took a book to bed with her, and had a reasonably settled night. She read until her eyes would not keep open, and although she couldn’t exactly remember what she had read, it did the trick.

  She had hoped she might sleep in the next morning, but to her annoyance, she was awakened at eight o’clock by someone hammering in the flat next door. ‘Some people have no consideration!’ she muttered, pulling the quilt over her head and trying to shut out the noise. But the hammering persisted, and with an exclamation of dismay, she stumbled out of bed.

  Wrapping the folds of a Japanese silk robe about her, she opened her bedroom door, and only then did she realise the hammering was not coming from the next flat. Someone was knocking on her door—hammering, she amended bleakly—and without even stopping to consider who it might be, she strode across the living room and up the steps to answer it.

  ‘My God! I thought you were dead or unconscious!’ snapped Rafe, abandoning his stance beside the door and brushing past her into the apartment.

  ‘I was! Unconscious, at least,’ retorted Helen, too stunned by his appearance to be tactful. ‘I was asleep. Do you realise what time it is?’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Rafe as she followed him down the steps, and when he turned to face her, the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains illuminated his weary face. ‘But this is late compared to the time it was when I left Howarth. Still, I’m glad you’re pleased to see me. That makes it all worthwhile.’

  Helen’s anger left her. ‘Have you been driving all night?’ she asked, appall
ed.

  ‘No. Just part of it,’ responded Rafe, shrugging off a sheepskin-lined flying jacket, and dropping it on to the couch. ‘Look, do you have a can of Coke or something handy? My mouth feels as dry as a dust bowl!’

  Helen secured the belt of her robe and, observing the gesture, Rafe arched one inquiring brow. ‘You’re feeling okay, aren’t you? My unexpected arrival hasn’t brought on any morning sickness or anything, has it?’

  ‘No.’ Helen couldn’t prevent the deepening colour of her cheeks. ‘No, I’m all right. I—er—would you prefer coffee? I can easily make some.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Rafe, taking in the tumbled beauty of her hair that her bewitching colour had only accentuated. His eyes lingered longest on her mouth. ‘Coke will do for now.’

  ‘All right.’ With a quivering in her stomach, Helen hurried out of the living room and into the kitchen, but when she turned after taking a can from the refrigerator, she found Rafe right behind her. ‘Oh—here,’ she said, holding the can out, and although she thought his mind was on something else, he accepted the diversion.

  He swallowed at least half the contents of the can in a single session, and then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said: ‘Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘Oh——’ Trapped between the breakfast bar and Rafe’s body, Helen had no opportunity to duck the question. ‘I—er—I had a headache. It’s true!’ this as he pulled a wry face. ‘It’s been a busy week. I—couldn’t face the journey.’

  ‘The journey—or me?’ he countered softly, putting down the empty can. ‘I guess I wasn’t very charitable—neither when you came down, nor on the phone. But it isn’t every day you learn you’re going to be a father. It takes some getting used to.’