Wild Melody (25 page)

Can't offer you a seat in the studio for
Under the Skin
, I'm afraid.'

Catriona shook her head. 'I'm—I'm not going to the studio for
Here and Now

either,' she said constrainedly, and saw Sally's eyebrows shoot up.

'Why in the world not?' she exclaimed. 'You and Jason aren't still carrying

on this weird feud of yours, surely?'

Catriona avoided her glance. 'That's one way of putting it, I suppose.'

'I could think of others.' Sally was silent for a moment, biting her lip. 'Love,

you frighten me sometimes, you really do. Jeremy was bad enough—but

Jason!'

'You have no need to worry,' Catriona said steadily. 'I don't have any

illusions about his—kindness to me.'

'Does he know how you feel about him?' Sally demanded, and Catriona

nodded slowly.

'Oh dear.' Sally turned on the taps in the sink with unnecessary violence.

'That wasn't a very clever move.'

Catriona sighed. 'I know that, but I didn't tell him. He— guessed.'

Sally sniffed. 'How perceptive of him. And what now? One of those brief

spectacular affairs he's so good at? At least it might get him out of your

system.'

There was a constriction in Catriona's throat. 'I don't think it

would—somehow.'

She lay awake for a long time that night, looking into a future that became

progressively more bleak and forlorn as she examined it. There was, of

course, no earthly reason why her path and Jason's should ever cross again,

she thought drearily. He would not be coming to the centre again, and she

would stay away from the television studios. Sally was now the only real

link between them and she would soon be going off on tour.

An old and cynical saying came drifting back into her mind. 'Love makes

time pass; time makes love pass.' She -wondered achingly if it was true.

Julie moved into the flat over the weekend and Catriona was able to push her

own problems to the back of her mind in the uproar of re-organising the

furniture and drawer space to accommodate Julie's belongings and generally

making her feel at home.

Catriona had not told Andrew that she was not going to the television centre

with the rest of them, but when the subject did come up on Monday

afternoon, he accepted her decision without comment. But she felt he was

disappointed in her all the same.

She was just typing the last of the letters he had given her earlier when rapid

footsteps sounded outside, and Mrs Henderson marched in. She was

carrying a folded newspaper tinder one arm and there were bright spots of

colour burning in both cheeks. She ignored Andrew completely, fixing her

inimical gaze on Catriona.

'You're dismissed, Miss Muir,' she said. 'Please go at once, and understand

that I shall be writing to Miss Shaw about her conduct in recommending a

person of your moral character to work for a Christian organisation.'

'Mrs Henderson!' Andrew was on his feet. 'You have no right...'

'No right?' Mrs Henderson turned on him, her eyes blazing. 'When she drags

the name of the Trust in the mire along with her own?'

'Please, Mrs Henderson,' Catriona was ashamed to find her voice was

shaking, 'you must tell me what I've done.'

'You play the innocent very well, miss. You took in Mr Milner, but I never

trusted you from the first. Collect your things together and go. I shall wait

here until you're safely off the premises.'

'Mrs Henderson,' Andrew interposed himself between them, 'I insist that you

tell me what Catriona has done to deserve this—tirade. I must warn you

there is such a thing as slander.'

Mrs Henderson tossed the paper she was carrying on to the table in front of

him. 'Look for yourself,' she said.

His face bewildered and angry, he began to read and Catriona saw the anger

turn to embarrassment and his eyes glance up at her swiftly, almost

accusingly.

'Andrew, what is it?' she begged.

He held out the paper in silence. It was a gossip column, she saw that at a

glance—items about various celebrities interspersed with pictures. One of

the pictures looked oddly familiar—a dark-haired girl standing clutching a

pillow. Amazed, she stared at it more closely.

'But that's me!' she exclaimed. Puzzled, her eye travelled on and she saw the

caption underneath.

'Pretty Scots songbird Catriona Muir has found a comfortable nest in the flat

of TV producer Jason Lord. But this talented twenty-year-old isn't there just

to sing sweet lullabies. She lists the domestic arts—bedmaking in particular

—among her many capabilities.

'Housekeeping for the much-sought-after Mr Lord doesn't fill her days,

however. When she's finished smoothing his pillows, she's to be found

working for the Henderson Trust—a hostel for the homeless.

'Which could explain why Mr Lord's prestigious
Here and Now
programme

tonight is taking the lid off this rather lowly charity.

'Charity—as Mr Lord and his lovely
au pair
would no doubt

agree—certainly begins at home.' Catriona put the paper down slowly and

stood there, feeling sick. She hadn't needed to read the name at the end of the

column to realise who had written this farrago of distortion and insinuation.

How in the world could she have forgotten? she asked herself despairingly,

recalling the loaded conversation she had only partly understood in the

television cafeteria and Roger Hunt's visit to Jason's flat. She had intended

to tell Jason about it, but subsequent happenings had driven it out of her

head.

'It was the
Globe
that rang me the other day,' Andrew said flatly. 'I

wondered how they knew so much about us.'

She looked up at him. 'You don't believe this?'

'You're trying to say this reporter is lying?' Mrs Henderson rapped. 'Where

were you, may I ask, when that picture was taken? Was it in fact Jason

Lord's bedroom?'

'Yes,' Catriona nodded unhappily. 'But it isn't what you think. I—I don't live

with Jason. I share a flat with Sally Fenton. She's an actress—you can ask

her . . .'

'An actress!' Mrs Henderson filled the word with venom. 'And also a friend

of Mr Lord's, I have no doubt.'

'Yes, she is, but I don't see . . .'

'And can you swear to me that you have never--' Mrs Henderson

hesitated—'spent the night at Mr Lord's home?'

'I did once, but. . .'

You see!' Mrs Henderson turned to Andrew, spreading her hands

triumphantly. 'She has the effrontery to admit it!'

'Her private life is her own affair,' he said quietly.

'Certainly, while it remains private. But Miss Muir has allowed it to become

public property and has dared to involve the name of the Trust in her sordid

intrigues. I repeat, Mr Milner, she must go.'

Andrew stood up very straight. 'Understand this, Mrs Henderson. Sack

Catriona and Miss Haydon and I will leave as well. I don't believe one word

of this distasteful piece of garbage. I agree it's unfortunate that the name of

the Trust should have been dragged in . . .'

'My name too, Mr Milner.'

'But Catriona is not to blame for that,' he continued as if she had not spoken.

'I can't imagine this was printed with her knowledge or consent.'

'If you and Miss Haydon do anything so ill-judged, Mr Milner, I shall close

the centre down.' Mrs Henderson spoke with cold finality.

'Oh, no.' Catriona could bear no more. 'Andrew, you mustn't! These people

need you. I can get another job. She can't sack me anyway, because I—I

resign. I couldn't stay, knowing how Mrs Henderson regards me.'

She picked up her handbag with trembling hands.

'I think that is probably the most satisfactory solution.' Mrs Henderson sat

down. 'Mr Milner will arrange for a week's wages to be sent to you.'

Catriona shook her head. 'That won't be necessary.' She tried to smile at

Andrew's concerned face. 'Goodbye, Andrew. Please say goodbye to Jean

and the others for me.'

'This isn't the end of it, Catriona.' He took her hand. 'I'll be in touch.'

It wasn't until Catriona was on her way back to the flat that she realised she

still carried Mrs Henderson's copy of the
Globe.
Sitting in the tube, she

unfolded it and re-read the offending piece. She felt as if she had been

kicked. Surely there must be some comeback against this kind of outrageous

gossip, she told herself vehemently, but her defiance wilted when she

studied the photograph. It was such a damning piece of evidence. And she

had told Roger Hunt that she was doing Jason's housework. But where had

he got the other details—the fact that she sang—the Trust? All the facts

stated in the piece were correct. Her only complaint could be in the way they

were represented, but even here she was not sure of her ground.

The train started off again with a jerk and Catriona leaned back in her seat,

closing her eyes wearily. Her only comfort was that so few people knew her

in London. But the same could not be said for Jason. Her eyes flew open,

and hot colour flooded her face as the realisation burst upon her.

She had been solely concerned with the article's effect upon herself. She

had not stopped to consider that she was not the only person involved.

Had he seen the column? she wondered frantically. He would know, if

anyone did, whether anything could be done to put the record straight.

She got out at the next station and found a telephone booth. She got

through to Home Counties Television and was put through to Jason's

office, But it was Diane who answered. Mr Lord, she was told, had left

for home some time before.

Catriona left the Underground and hailed a passing taxi to take her to

Belmont Gardens. They were already pulling into the little square before

the first doubts about the wisdom of her action began to creep into her

mind, but she put them firmly to one side as she paid the driver. She was

to blame, she knew that. She had talked to the reporter and allowed a

photographer into his flat. Jason was entitled to an explanation at least.

She bit her lip as she ran up the steps to the gleaming front door and

pressed the bell long and hard. Her heart was beating unmercifully as she

stood there, willing Jason to be at home, to answer the door.

At last, the door opened.

'What do you want?' The harshness in his voice was worse than she could

have imagined.

'Please let me in.' Her voice was pleading, breathless. 'I must see

you—tell you . . .' She held out the crumpled copy of the
Globe
under his

icily contemptuous gaze. He was turning away. He wasn't going to let her

speak. With all her strength, Catriona threw herself against the closing

door, pushing past him into the hall. There she faced him, her eyes dark

with trouble, trying to control her hurried breathing and calm herself

sufficiently to speak.

For a terrified moment, she thought Jason was going to forcibly eject her

from the house. Then, with a shrug, he opened the lounge door and

ironically bowed her towards it.

The first thing she saw was the
Globe,
open at the gossip page, flung down

on the sofa. She swung towards him.

'You must let me tell you how it was.'

'Explanations aren't necessary,' he said with a kind of controlled violence.

'Whatever twisted little reasons you may have had for this—hatchet job on

my privacy, they must have seemed good to you at the time. Nothing else

matters.'

'But it does,' she insisted, and to her horror, her vision blurred and misted.

'Oh, God!' He spoke with disgusted weariness. 'Every trick in the book!

How many times have I got to tell you that tears don't work with me?'

'I'm not going to cry.' Catriona thrust back the tears and her chin came up

with some of its old defiance. 'But you won't listen to me, and you must.'

He threw himself into a chair and stared at her, his eyes hard and inimical.

'You have my undivided attention.'

So she told him about it—her meeting with Roger Hunt, and his arrival at

the flat while she was doing the housework, all the misgivings she had felt at

the time.

'Then—afterwards, it went completely out of my head.' She did not dare to

look at him, to remind him of the events which had wiped everything else

from her memory. 'I suppose he must have started to find out about the

Trust—and when he discovered I worked there, it must have—jogged his

memory. So-he wrote this.'

There was a long silence. Then, 'What kind of a fool do you take me .for?'

Jason demanded, and Catriona shrank a: the menace in his voice. 'Didn't it

occur to you that if you'.: told me at the beginning I might have been able to

put a stop to it before it even started?'

'I—I did try to contact you . . .'

'So you said. What was to stop you telling Diane, my secretary? She's