‘Do you… do you hate your mother very much?’ she whispered hesitantly. ‘It must have been dreadful for you.’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. He was frowning, staring out of the window.
‘I don’t think I ever hated her,’ he said at last. ‘She was a victim, of circumstance and her own emotions, but I can’t deny that I’d prefer to see a world where children don’t have to grow up not knowing their parents’ names. You might bear that in mind the next time you invite yourself into a man’s bedroom.’
Was that why he had stopped when he did? Because he didn’t want to be guilty of the same crime as his mother’s lover?
‘Stop looking so desperate,’ he advised her wryly. ‘It’s something I came to terms with years ago; these things happen.’
‘But not to you?’ Kirsty guessed, watching him. He was dressed in casual cords and a chunky sweater today, a soft pale grey leather blouson jacket open over his sweater; emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the muscled suppleness of his body.
‘Not if I can help it,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why…’
He broke off to negotiate a dangerous bend, but Kirsty didn’t need to hear the words to guess what he had been intending to say; something to the effect that that was why he was using her to make Beverley jealous. He loved the other woman, but he wanted more than an affair with her—and yet he would have to be very sure of a woman before he committed himself fully to her, Kirsty could see that now; sure that she loved him and that she would be faithful to him. He wouldn’t be the first man in Beverley Travers’ life; perhaps the rich divorcee had already hinted that they simply continue as lovers and this was his way of showing her that he wanted more. Perhaps he was hoping that Beverley would be jealous enough of her to commit herself completely to him.
They drove in silence the rest of the way to York, where Drew parked on the outskirts, just outside the city walls, then he took Kirsty’s arm to guide her across the busy street. Once the other side had been reached Kirsty expected him to release her, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was expecting to bump into someone from the cast, she thought acidly, disliking this public display of ‘affection’, knowing how insecure it was. She couldn’t think of any other reason for the distinctly proprietorial manner in which he tucked his hand under her elbow, holding her close enough for her to feel his body heat as they manoeuvred their way through the other shoppers.
It was plain that Drew knew York well, because he wasted little time, hurrying her towards Parliament Square with its banks and finance houses and then down one of the narrow little wynds leading off it, where Kirsty could have spent hours entranced in front of the mouthwatering shop windows with their displays of craft goods and elegant clothes, but Drew ignored them all, and Kirsty was hard put to it to keep pace with his long strides.
He stopped at last outside a small, discreetly expensive jewellers. Several stunning items of jewellery adorned the small window, and Drew explained as they went inside that it was owned by a craftsman who made his own pieces.
The girl who came forward to serve them was friendly and obviously interested in her work. So why should she feel this spark of resentment at the way she looked admiringly at Drew? Kirsty asked herself.
When Drew explained what they wanted her face fell a little. She retreated to the rear of the shop and an older man emerged in her place.
‘My assistant tells me you are looking for an engagement ring?’ When Drew nodded, he smiled, and asked Kirsty if she had any preference.
She shook her head, a curiously heavy sensation taking possession of her chest. Somehow what they were doing made a mockery of all her childhood romantic dreams of this moment, when a man bestowed upon her what was supposed to be a pledge of his love.
‘I have,’ Drew announced, startling her. He murmured something to the man, who beamed and disappeared, reappearing several seconds later holding a large leather case.
When he opened it, Kirsty caught her breath in awe.
‘They’re all so lovely,’ she expostulated, ‘I…’
‘Try this one.’ Very quietly Drew handed her a barked band of gold in a modern design, set with random diamonds, the gold a mingling of red and yellow. For all that it was modern, there was a timeless quality about the ring that came from skilled workmanship, and Kirsty discovered that she was holding her breath as Drew took it from her and slid it deftly on to her finger.
It fitted as though it had been made for her, and in some strange way she felt as though it had.
‘And then of course there’s the wedding ring,’ the jeweller was saying. ‘Would you…’
Kirsty drew back in horror as she realised he wanted her to try it on.
‘It’s bad luck,’ she protested weakly, knowing the excuse sounded foolish, but the jeweller seemed to understand, because he smiled, and said gently, ‘Of course, we can leave it for now and then you could have it altered later. I’m sure it will fit.’ And it was then that Kirsty realised that the ring was designed to fit snugly against the engagement ring, a final band of pale gold to tone in with the other two, the jagged edgings of both rings fitting perfectly together.
‘I like to think it symbolic of the best of marriages,’ the jeweller explained, ‘a perfect dovetailing.’
‘We’ll take them both,’ Kirsty heard Drew say, adding to her, ‘You’ll keep the engagement ring on, won’t you, darling?’
She wanted to protest, but lacked the courage to make a scene in the small confines of the shop. Once outside it was a different matter, and she shrugged ineffectually at the offending band of gold which stubbornly resisted all her attempts to remove it.
‘Leave it,’ Drew commanded in far less lover-like tones than he had used before.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Surely Beverley isn’t going to materialise out of nowhere to check that we’re actually engaged? It takes more than a ring to turn two people into lovers.’
‘I’m glad you realise it,’ Drew mocked. ‘But perhaps you’re right,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘This…’ he tapped the ring on her finger, ‘isn’t going to convince anyone for very long, if you persist in treating me like a stranger.’
‘You are,’ Kirsty reminded him, trying to pull away the hand he had retained and which he was proceeding to tuck through his arm.
‘Is that so? Just how intimately do I have to know you before I cease to be?’
Kirsty stiffened at his side. ‘You don’t know me intimately at all,’ she told him bitterly. ‘Just my body.’
How it shamed her to add those last few words, but they couldn’t be denied, nor his meaning ignored.
‘Every delectable inch of it.’
He seemed bent on tormenting her; on reminding her subtly of her total abandonment to his lovemaking for those few brief seconds while sanity and caution had been suspended.
‘I could have taken you then.’
The words seemed to shiver on the air between them.
‘But without love,’ Kirsty said painfully, her throat suddenly unbearably tight.
For a moment Drew seemed about to say something, and then someone bumped into them and the moment was gone, and with it the strange hurting sensation Kirsty had experienced.
Because there were no rehearsals in the afternoon, Drew had booked them a table at a restaurant just outside York.
‘I would have suggested that we dine out tonight,’ he told her as they waited for their meal to be served, ‘but I promised to go and see Simon. He wants to talk over various things with me.’
Simon must think a good deal of Drew’s judgment and ability if he was content to leave so much in his hands, Kirsty acknowledged. She had discovered so much more about Drew since she had come to York; so many more facets to his personality.
‘I didn’t realise you wrote,’ she murmured hesitantly, toying with the stem of her wine glass. ‘Nor that you were Paul Bennett.’
‘Why should you?’
For some reason the careless words hurt. ‘I started writing some years ago—I acted for a while after leaving Oxford, but I grew bored with it. An actor needs total dedication, total belief in himself—that’s something you must have already learned?’
It was, and deep in her heart of hearts, Kirsty didn’t know if she was capable of such singlemindedness. Chelsea had sensed how she was and had sympathised with her. An actress often had to give up many things to be truly successful. Things like a happy marriage and a family, and Kirsty didn’t know if she was capable of making such a sacrifice.
To banish her uncomfortable thoughts, she murmured, ‘But you’re a critic as well.’
‘At the moment. It’s not a role I particularly enjoy—As I said before, you have a very expressive face,’ he told her. ‘But it’s true, I don’t enjoy it, which is why I’m giving it up to concentrate more on working here and on my writing. I’m thirty—thirty-one almost; and I’m tired of living out of suitcases, of being a homeless nomad. I want to put down roots, have a family… call it a hang-up from my childhood if you like, but when I do I want it to be permanent. It might be selfish of me, but I’m not prepared to settle for anything less.’