Draining his coffee, he was on his feet in a single, lithe movement. ‘Thank you for that. Now I’d best go or you’ll be having me for dinner as well as lunch, which might be altogether too much of a good thing.’
He turned in the doorway and reached out with a long forefinger to push Vashti’s glasses back into place, grinning as she frowned at him for doing so. Then his finger traced a slow path down along her cheek and the side of her mouth before lifting her chin just enough so that he could bend down and kiss her. It was a brief kiss, light and gentle, as one might give a child, yet it somehow held a promise untold, a promise added to by his quirky grin.
‘Been a lovely day,’ he said quietly. ‘But on Monday, wear legs; on Monday it’s back to battle stations.’
Vashti had no chance to reply, could only watch as he moved down the footpath in his long, countryman’s strides to get into his utility and drive off without so much as a wave.
She spent that evening quietly, reading his first novel and realising why Alana had advised her against buying it. By comparison with his later work it was rough indeed, yet already showing the complicated, tortuous mind of the author.
Throughout Sunday, that contrariness of Phelan Keene’s haunted Vashti’s own mind. One minute so friendly, the next too friendly by half, and yet just as quick to turn angry and savage, to withdraw into himself at some real or fancied slight she couldn’t understand at all.
None of which, she thought, should be bothering her at all. She was, after all, in a relative position of power; whatever devious approach Phelan Keene or, more likely, Janice Gentry might dream up, it was she who had the vast powers of the taxation act to back her up.
But she slept poorly on Sunday night, her restlessness only added to by flickering nightmares that melted to nothing each time they woke her, leaving no memory of their content. When the alarm finally forced her awake, she felt haggard and looked worse.
‘Power dressing; that’s what’s called for here,’ she told the hollow-eyed image in her mirror, judiciously applying more make-up than usual to make that image appear bright-eyed and alert. Her hair went into its usual neat French roll.
Power dressing ... and legs!’ She muttered the words like some sort of incantation as she sorted through her meagre wardrobe. It didn’t take long; her best black shoes were in being mended, which left only the best grey ones. Her ‘best’ black suit was at the cleaner’s anyway, and for the image she wanted today the soft dove-grey with the flaring lapels was probably better anyway, especially over the high-necked white silk blouse she had bought specifically to go with it. The skirt was perhaps a bit short, but all the experts had been predicting a return for the mini, she thought with a wan smile. And as for legs, she had one pair of tights that were perfect, with an almost invisible pattern that only enhanced their sheen.
She ignored breakfast, except for her mandatory three cups of coffee, and was ready early enough for a leisurely walk to work, carrying both raincoat and new umbrella just in case.
En route, she collected her morning papers and an egg and bacon roll, which she consumed carefully at her desk, ever aware of how the soft grey suit would stain. The papers told her nothing the radio at home had not; the egg and bacon roll sat like lead in her stomach.
And there just wasn’t any reason for it! The work had been done; there wasn’t a case to be answered, only a few final details to be tidied up and approved. But Vashti was tense, leery of what was to come. Janice Gentry — and if anyone was to blame for the confusion in the Keene family tax matters it was that woman — would be unable to put the matter to rest without some final blow, Vashti thought.
She was certain of it by the appointed deadline, but rather less sure why Phelan Keene and his accountant were late. And when they did arrive, complete with apology, she found herself wishing they’d been later still — like at least a full day later!
Janice Gentry’s version of power dressing was almost identical to Vashti’s own, but there was no compliment in that; not when it was so obvious to any feminine eye that the tall brunette was the one wearing the designer ‘original’, both in the soft grey suit and high-necked silk blouse and even the general style of the matching shoes. Just one of the shoes would have paid for Vashti’s outfit, costly as it had been on a working girl’s budget.
Vashti’s heart sank to join the leaden egg and bacon roll, helped on its way by the smug raising of one elegant dark eyebrow as Ms Gentry swept into the office murmuring a self-satisfied greeting.
If Phelan Keene, himself elegantly turned out in a perfectly tailored suit and a crisp white shirt that glistened against his tan, even noticed the similarity in the women’s outfits, he gave no indication of it.
He greeted Vashti with a smile that was no more than polite, took the seat offered him, and leaned back in it as if to distance himself from the ensuing fireworks.
For her part, Vashti found herself merely taking a deep breath and plunging into discussion of the issues; delaying would accomplish nothing, she thought, so why not get it over with as soon as possible?
Janice Gentry countered almost immediately with a list of complaints — not one of them relevant — about the entire affair. With Phelan there, she was clearly playing to a captive audience, and her litany sounded — must have sounded, Vashti thought — quite valid and even logical. But there was no logic in it, and both women knew it only too well.
Phelan Keene sat in silence, offering no explanations and being asked for none. He was doing, Vashti admitted beneath her growing frustration, exactly what she’d advised him to do; letting his adviser do what she was paid to do.
And throughout the performance — Vashti was certain it was no more than that, on Janice Gentry’s part — lay a growing thread of accusation aimed not at the taxation office, but at herself.
She had missed it, at first, her attention admittedly divided by wondering just what part Phelan himself planned to take in all this. But as his silence continued, she found herself more and more aware that the elegant accountant was leading the discussion deliberately into the highly subjective field of simple harassment.
And Phelan was helping her, if only through his silence. He still took no active part in the verbal exchange, but where his eyes had held that element of distance, even of amusement, now they were icy and cold.
Vashti floundered, unsure of her ground now and not willing to let the arguments degenerate into something totally counter-productive. ‘I think we’re getting well off the subject here,’ she finally said, starting to rise to her feet in a bid to end the interview somehow, anyhow.
She had to! With her attention divided between the Gentry woman’s insidious, deliberate sniping and Phelan Keene’s now almost threatening silence, she was in real danger of making what could be a serious professional mistake.
Help did come, however, if from the most surprising quarter.
‘I think it’s time we gave this a rest,’ Phelan suddenly interjected, speaking virtually for the first time since he’d entered the room. ‘We’re starting to go round in circles now, and it’s accomplishing damn-all.’
‘But Phelan, darling.’ Janice Gentry’s voice was suddenly dove-soft, her mouth almost pouting as she turned her attention from Vashti to focus it upon Phelan.
But it was her words, not the change of attention, that captured Vashti, pinning her in her chair and stunning her to a silence that illogically roared in her ears.
‘We are not just going in circles. It’s just this kind of frivolous harassment, you know, that sent your father to his grave.’
The words seemed to zoom around the office, taking on a life of their own and increasing in volume. It was like a nightmare, a vortex of sound, a cyclone of accusation.
Vashti’s breath seemed caught inside her chest; she felt as if she were gasping, drowning. Her own feelings of anger, surprise — indeed, astonishment — combined to keep her mute, to make it impossible to do anything except stare from Phelan Keene to his compani
on, hearing the accusation over and over again, but unable to really comprehend.
How could this woman say such a thing? Even think it? And how could Phelan Keene, the man who only yesterday, it seemed, had shared a meal with her, laughed with her, kissed her; how could he ...?
‘That’s as it may be, but this isn’t the time to get into it.’ His voice echoed in Vashti’s ears as if coming from some great distance. She forced herself to look at him, to meet those predatory eyes. He couldn’t believe this ... not possibly...
But he did! The belief fairly radiated in the chill look that met her pleading eyes. And suddenly she knew the reason behind his antagonism at their very first meeting, when he’d plundered her with his devilish wolf eyes in the bleak little churchyard on that lonely ridge.
This man truly believed she had harassed his father into the grave! Vashti’s stomach churned just at the thought, and even as she tried to rise from her chair, tried to summon up the words of denial, she felt a curious light-headedness, knew she couldn’t stand, much less speak. Her bottom seemed glued to the seat; her lips seemed glued to each other, despite being parted in what seemed a continual gasping for breath.
Phelan Keene was on his feet now, looking at her curiously while gesturing to Janice Gentry. He might even have been speaking, but Vashti couldn’t hear the words through the roaring in her head, couldn’t seem to see the expression in his eyes, because her own vision was swimming, blurred.
She could only sense the movement as her rival gathered up papers and moved in a blur of grey towards the office door. There was a change of light as the door opened and shut, closing off the sound of the accusation but not the horrible, gut-wrenching shock of it.
Vashti let her head sink into her hands, and allowed the new silence to wash over her as she gasped and gulped for air, in one second afraid she’d be ill, the next certain of it.
It all just seemed so impossible! She hadn’t harassed Phelan’s father; she had liked, perhaps even loved the old man, had certainly known and respected him as a person of great integrity. How anyone could even think otherwise, how Phelan could possibly think otherwise, close as he was to his brother and sister...
She didn’t hear the door to her office open again, only sensed she was no longer alone when his voice, feather-soft, penetrated her shell of agony.
‘I just wanted you to know that ... that wasn’t my idea,’ he said. ‘It was ... nasty and uncalled-for.’
‘Get out!’
Her own voice was as soft as his, almost a whisper in the quiet of the office. But it was tinged with steel forged in the fires of her agony, her disgust. Phelan started to speak, indeed stepped further towards her as he did so.
‘I said get out. Now!’
Vashti couldn’t bear it. His very presence, despite his assurances, only served to add weight to the accusations, to the soul-destroying evil of the accusations. She hated it, hated it all, hated Janice Gentry, hated Phelan Keene, hated his words, his very existence.
‘Out!’
Her voice was louder now, demanding, insisting. She half rose from her chair, fingers clenched around the bulk of her penholder, a solid obelisk of marble. The violence of her feelings had her shaking; she drew back her hand without any certainty of whether she might throw the penholder at him or simply bash him with it, but she would do something ... something violent!
‘We have to talk about—’
‘I said get out’ Now her voice was ice itself, frozen as her feelings, brittle as her sudden feelings of loathing. Phelan met her eyes, ignoring the impromptu weapon in her hand. His own eyes were bleak, but it was a different bleakness from that of their first encounter, though Vashti couldn’t have explained the difference, only knew it was so.
‘Of course.’ His words were almost self-defeating, caught by the barrier between them and hurled to nothingness. But he seemed not to notice as he turned and walked away, pausing in the doorway only to look back at Vashti, shaking his head in a tiny, silent gesture before he closed the door behind him.
Vashti didn’t even try to continue working through the day. Pleading a migraine, something she had never had in her life and the mention of which drew a raised eyebrow from Ross Chandler, along with an unexpected acceptance, she left the office. She had no destination, no conscious desire to either go home, or anywhere else; she simply meandered her way through the downtown area, noticing nothing, seeing no one except as an obstacle to be avoided.
Images scampered through her mind as she walked, but they had no voices, made no sound. All they did was hurt, stabbing like knives, thudding like bludgeons. She didn’t even notice when she finally, unthinkingly, arrived at home and flung herself on to her bed.
It was there, her tears staining the pillow even as her fists beat and thumped at it, that she heard again the accusations, saw the raw triumph in Janice Gentry’s eyes.
Later, time no longer relevant, she stripped off her rumpled clothing and stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, scrubbing and scrubbing as if soap alone could remove the injustice, the hurt.
She was back at work by mid-afternoon, still hurt, still angry, but under total control. None of her colleagues, she felt, could detect the fragility of that control, and it didn’t matter anyway.
CHAPTER FIVE
The flowers arrived at four forty-five. Two dozen roses, all red.
It was such a surprise that Vashti had accepted the box and was watching the delivery girl walk away before she realised what was happening, what had happened.
She opened the box, then shut it again, wrinkling her nose as if she’d just smelled something rotten, laid it on her desk for a moment, then opened it again just enough to reach in and liberate the note that was tucked into the bouquet.
Without reading it, without even looking at it any more than absolutely necessary, she ripped it into small, then smaller pieces, and discarded those in her waste-basket. Then she went and washed her hands.
The girls in the general office downstairs thought the roses were lovely.
The letter arrived in the next morning’s mail, and she had it half read before the contents became obvious. It was an apology from Janice Gentry — or what passed for an apology. Couched in the politest of terms, and brief to the point of ridiculousness, it was more insulting, Vashti thought, than apologetic.
What it really said, she thought, was, I’m glad I said what I did and I’m glad it hurt. This apology is only because he insisted I make it.
That, too, was ripped into infinitesimal pieces and consigned to the waste-basket, followed by its envelope.
Vashti’s next step was to instruct the switchboard that she was involved in some critical work and absolutely must have as few interruptions as possible. And she must have the identity of any caller before she would accept the call. The roses paid for themselves twice over, there. She was, for the moment, quite popular downstairs.
By the end of the morning, having refused Phelan Keene’s calls seven times, she could feel that popularity ebbing just slightly. That honeyed, chocolate- fudge voice was obviously working its wiles on the switchboard operators.
‘I’m too busy to speak to him,’ she instructed after returning from lunch to find notes of another three calls. ‘I know what he wants and it isn’t as important as he says it is, so for the rest of the day — for the rest of the week — just inform him I am not here.’
That got her through the rest of Tuesday. At work. At home it wasn’t quite so simple; there was no obliging switchboard operator there to screen her calls. But there was, thank heaven, a telephone with a ringer that could be switched off, and, after hanging up on Phelan Keene for the second time in what seemed as many minutes, Vashti turned off the phone.
A few minutes later, having thought about it, she also turned out the lights, locked the door, and lay down on her bed in the dark. She’d had no dinner, but, with her stomach surging with the confusion of her emotions, wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep anything down an
yway. She finally drifted into a troubled slumber, only to wake shortly after midnight, hungry and no less troubled.
She felt a fool as she slunk through the flat, parting the lounge curtains ever so carefully so as to peer down on the street below, half certain she would see Phelan Keene’s old utility crouched there, waiting, predatory as the man himself. She felt more of a fool when she found only the usual vehicles parked outside, yet couldn’t quite summon the courage to turn on the lights and cook herself something to eat.
The refrigerator yielded three cheese slices and a carrot; her three remaining slices of bread were rock-hard and inedible, and she nearly scalded herself trying to pour boiling water into a coffee-cup in the dark. Not that it mattered; when she tried to drink the coffee she found she’d put in two spoons of coffee and one of sugar instead of the other way round, and had to pour it out and start over.
‘This is idiocy,’ she muttered, tiptoeing into the bedroom to stare at the clock’s one-fifteen a.m. message. Then she stomped back to the kitchen, drank half the coffee before tossing away the other half in disgust, and returned to bed.
At first light she was busy making herself bacon and eggs and toast and jam and proper coffee, feeling even more a fool than she had the night before. Until she turned on the phone again and found it ringing almost immediately.
No prizes for guessing who it would be, she thought. At this hour? Nobody else that she knew would even be awake, much less have the nerve to ring anybody on the telephone.
‘I won’t answer it,’ she said aloud. ‘Damn you, Phelan Keene — I won’t!’
And she didn’t; instead she turned the ringer off and returned to a breakfast that had suddenly become inedible. She dressed, drove to the office, and within five minutes had organised herself a trip to Triabunna for the final tidying-up of an earlier job. There wasn’t all that much to be done, but it would keep her out of the office and away from the telephone, she thought. Forgetting, until it was too late, that driving provided her with far too much time to think, when thinking was just what she wanted to avoid.
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