Circles of Fate (11 page)

“I'm going to be even franker. You don't attract me in that way.”

She almost added, I don't even like you, but thought that might be a bit too blunt.

“A pity,” he said, “because you fascinate me. I can't court you openly. That would not be respectable. You will have to come to me.”

“That I will never do.”

“Never is a long time. Are you certain you didn't see my wife's jewellery?”

“She wasn't wearing any. Except her watch and ring, which I have already mentioned.”

“She didn't wear her good stuff. For safety reasons she carried it in a leather pouch which she hid on her person. It was her little idiosyncrasy not to trust it with her luggage.”

“I didn't see it,” she said.

It wasn't until later that she realized he had performed a sleight of hand trick on her. The important thing hadn't been wanting her, although she did not doubt that he had been sounding her out and would have acted upon any encouragement. Neither did he care a tinker's cuss how his wife had looked, nor how she had dressed her hair. What he was really interested in was the jewellery.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that the little leather pouch hadn't been found round Monica's neck, or wherever she was supposed to keep it.

Had the jewellery been in his possession, his persistence would seem pointless.

He loved beautiful things, his house bore witness to that fact. And, like a proportion of connoisseurs and collectors, he loved nothing better than showing off his treasures. How proudly he had taken them round his house, pointing out things of particular interest! Had his wife's pieces of jewellery been in his wall-safe, she had little doubt that they too would have been lovingly brought out so that they could exclaim over his good taste and pay tribute to his generosity. His was the type of self-appreciation that would need to be constantly fed. He wouldn't miss the opportunity of subjecting his devotion to beautiful things to their scrutiny and appreciation.

No, the things weren't in Claude's possession. So, where were they?

She was suddenly vividly recalling Monica's words. ‘If his ways are not your ways, tear up his letters and give him back his trinkets while they are just that, and not perks that go with the job, paid for with years of bending to his will and flattering his silly ego.'

At the time there had been a little too much bitterness and cynicism for her taste, but after meeting Claude she could better understand what Monica had had to put up with and why she felt the way she did.

Monica had then said, not in the way of a confidence this time, but as though she was speaking her thoughts, ‘They are mine now, no matter what the outcome. I've taken care of that.'

At the time it had been too complex to fathom out, but now the meaning was crystal.

Monica had taken her jewellery with her, probably at Claude's insistence. She could imagine him saying: ‘These are meant to be worn. Jewels should adorn, not be left to gather dust in some dark strong-room.' Meaning: ‘I want your sister to see how generous I am.' Monica, in humouring him, had found it suited her purpose very well. It might not even have been planned. At the last moment, perhaps, she might have decided to salt away her hard-earned trinkets, as she had called them: a nest-egg to draw on when she could no longer count on Claude's support. She could have put them in a safe-deposit box somewhere, under an assumed name, probably. Or she might even have left them with her sister for safe-keeping.

It was a joke, if a macabre one with not a jot of humour, and with a bitter back-bite.

She hoped Claude Perryman never got his wife's jewellery back.

The second week loomed with the ominous reminder that the days were fast slipping away. Anita was meeting Felipe straight after breakfast. He'd phoned to arrange it a very short while ago and the sound of his voice, coupled with the prospect of seeing him again so soon, filled her with a warm happiness.

She was too shrewd to forget totally the impracticability of a union between her and Felipe, but this once she chose to turn her back on common sense and suspend judgement. She didn't doubt that it would eventually catch up with her, it always did, as Edward would be the first to point out. But just occasionally a moment comes along as special as a red jelly-bean in a bag full of green jelly-beans, and like a child she was going to relish her moment to the full.

She was rather pleased with her reasoning. Because she was fond of Edward, she wanted him to be happy too, and he could so easily miss his moment, let it slip away while he was considering all the angles, eliciting the truth as he would call it.

“Edward,” she said, wresting his attention from a warm, crisp new roll.

“M'm?”

“I take it you've never married because you've never met the right girl. The reason, I suppose, is that you've been choosey. Of course, I appreciate that a man in your position must be selective about a wife. She'd have to be presentable because you'd have to present her to so many important clients. And intelligent, because if she wasn't she'd bore you to death. And pretty, because you'd spend years looking at her. I suppose a girl who could fulfil two out of three would be a good cop, so therefore a girl who can meet all three conditions must be at a premium, and when you meet such a girl. What I'm trying to say is, Cathy is so perfect for you in every way and –” She broke off, partly because it seemed enormous cheek, but mainly because Edward was having a difficult time in controlling the straightness of his mouth.

“You're laughing at me,” she accused.

“No, I'm not,” he assured her, thinking how pretty she looked this morning. Deliriously happy, obviously, yet sweet enough to spare a thought for a crusty old bachelor.

She pulled a strand of hair across her mouth and began to chew it thoughtfully. Playing with her hair was a nervous habit he thought she had got out of. She used to do that before she sat down at the piano in front of a large audience. Chew it, pull it, pat it, twitch it. He didn't have to ask what had brought her up to concert-pitch excitement. He would like to have said: ‘Don't go out with Sanchez today.' But knew that she was unapproachable as far as that particular subject was concerned, and worse, a blazing row could easily flare up and then afterwards, afraid of an I told you so, she might be reluctant to come to him when she was blowing on her fingers.

Cathy had previously scolded him on the same theme. ‘Ted,' Cathy had said, ‘keep out. The guy's wrong for her, I'll admit, but he's not basically bad. He won't hurt her. She'll hurt herself and even you can't prevent that because if you step in and save her skin, she will do herself an injury fretting over what she thinks she might have missed. So don't interfere. Anyway, there's nothing as odious as an interfering man.'

‘Not even an interfering woman?' His vehemence might have surprised her, but did she blink apologetically? Not on your life. Her clenched, angry expression suddenly crumpled into an irresistible urchin grin as she disclaimed with cheeky arrogance: ‘There's no such thing! Women offer advice. Never, never interfere!'

‘Bah!' he had said. Then: ‘Bah!' again.

‘That's it, growl like a bear,' she had said, looking serious but communicating the fact that she had a little joke tucked up her sleeve if she could just summon up the courage to deliver it. She could. And did. ‘A Teddy Bear.' To show that it was a loving tease she had looked at him through frank blue eyes, rippling with appeal. He never knew how he managed to keep his features blank. You see, no one had ever called him Ted or Teddy before. Even if he wanted to he didn't know whether he could shake off the dignity of Edward. Well, with a hesitancy on his part, and amused cajolery on hers, Cathy had persuaded him that he could.

Of course, she could never have succeeded had he not wanted to be persuaded. Mild curiosity made him drop his guard and then ... Well, it was a rather nice sensation and he sort of drifted towards the big issue with an unawareness that was immature. He had no idea of asking Cathy to marry him. Nor would he have either, being perfectly content to ride the tide of his emotions. But the tide came up against a big Cathy-erected barrier, which, apparently, he wasn't allowed to cross until something necessary and right-for-Cathy had been established.

He hadn't expected this because Cathy hadn't struck him as one of those hard, calculating females. After giving the matter several moments of deep thought, he drew a mental line through hard and calculating and substituted pure and chaste. In a world of changing values he felt quite refreshed to meet someone with their proprieties in the right order, and not only did his liking for her grow, but he saw, not a fun-loving clown, but a woman who was fun to be with and one whom he could respect.

That, of course, was the clincher, because no man can respect a woman and entertain erotic thoughts. As far as he could see there were only two ways of dealing with his amatory impulses. Squash them, or give them the mark of respectability. The more he thought about this latter course, the more he liked it. It became not only right-for-Cathy, but right-for-Edward. Then he got really scared, wondering whether his radar system had given him the correct reading. Having reached the most important decision of his life, it would be shattering if she wasn't holding out for marriage and simply did not like him.

So great was his anxiety that instead of finding words of a sweet and tender nature, he barked his proposal at the poor unsuspecting girl. Cathy gaped for a full minute and then broke down and wept. This seemed to him a perfectly straightforward case of rejection. Even when she put her arms up round his neck, he thought she was being kind and softening her refusal. Not until she laughed and said shakily: ‘Well, aren't you going to kiss me?' did he begin to suspect that she had accepted. Only suspected, so he asked her again. She blinked and nodded.

‘You certainly are a difficult man to convince. Of course it's yes.'

Then he kissed her, feeling very shy and tender towards her. Then he kissed her as though he meant it.

“I'm sorry if you think it's an impertinence,” Anita was saying now.

“But a bystander can see how perfect you are for one another. Why don't you at least talk about it, find out whether it's acceptable to you?”

“I have. It is.
We are
.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Anita.

“Getting married.”

“Who's getting married?”

“Cathy and I are.”

“There. I told you so,” she said, pink with satisfaction, as though it was all her idea.

“You're supposed to congratulate me,” complained Edward.

“Cathy and Edward are engaged to be married,” she told Felipe.

“Nice for Cathy and Edward.”

Why do men, thought Anita on an exasperated half sigh, do women out of the small pleasures of life. She had been bursting to tell someone her fascinating news and Felipe was the only person she knew to tell. To be thwarted with a ‘Nice for Cathy and Edward' and know that he considered the subject closed, was a bit much. Women don't shy clear of marriage talk, another woman would have been agog with curiosity and would have asked endless questions which required long, satisfying answers.

But then, another woman wouldn't ambush her heart with a smile. It came to his eyes first, narrowing them, then crept to the left side of his mouth, giving it a lopsided look.

“You look very lovely this morning,” he said.

The compliment caused her cheeks to colour and her gaze strayed to her hands.

“Are you not used to receiving compliments?” he enquired on a teasing note.

“To be perfectly honest,” she said, winding a strand of hair round her finger, “I'm not used to men.”

“Well, that is honest,” he said, disarmed by her frankness. “If I had planned to seduce you, that remark would have put paid to it. As it happens, I haven't any such thing in mind. So you can relax.”

“Can I?”

“I'll go one further. In your own idiom, I promise never to work a fast one on you. By that I mean, if ever my intentions are less than honourable, I'll tell you and then you can make up your own mind whether to slap my face or –”

The end of the sentence dangled tantalisingly in mid-air, as heavily seductive as cushions specially arranged on a sofa, low lights and music.

She blinked to bring back the sunlight and sparkling innocence of the day.

“You beast! You're teasing me,” she accused.

“Yes, I am,” he admitted soberly. “Perhaps that's my escape hatch. You are so very young, it hurts.”

“I'm twenty-two.”

“Not in experience. Where
have
you been?”

“Would you like me better if I were a worldly twenty-two?”

“A remark like that tempts me to tell you what I really think, but if I do you will only blush again. So I'll strike a compromise. At the moment you are just fine as you are. By the way, what started this particular train of thought?”

“That suitcase.”

“What suitcase?”

“The one you are carrying.”

“Oh,
that
one!”

“Yes, that one. What's in it, anyway?” she muttered suspiciously. “A man doesn't date a girl and turn up carrying a suitcase.”

“It's not what you think. I assure you that for today at least you are as safe with me as you would be with the worthy Edward. Now, have you got a scarf with you? If not, run back and fetch one, otherwise you'll be complaining that your hair is like a bird's nest. We are going on a sea trip.”

“I'm not very good at sea trips.”

“In that case, you'd better fetch a scarf and a travel sickness pill. Move, or we'll miss the boat. I suppose you'd like that?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Of course, they didn't miss the boat. It was there, bobbing gently at the small landing stage. They sat side by side on a narrow wooden seat, squashing up close together as more and more people got on, until she was practically sitting in Felipe's pocket. He draped his arm casually about her shoulder.