Tomorrow's Bride(12)

With one lithe, graceful movement, she got up, moving carefully to  collect her scattered clothes. She took a last look around to check that  she had forgotten nothing-the very notion of him pursuing her with some  intimate item of clothing... A final lingering look towards the bed,  her primitive instinct to go back emphasising the ease and pleasure of  abandoned principles, and she was in the hall, searching for the  bathroom, quickly pulling on the clothes she had liked so much just a  short time ago. Then, lastly, she scribbled a note and left it in a  prominent position.

So it was that, just minutes after waking, she was alighting from a cab  outside her block, having asked the driver to return in an hour to take  her to the opposite side of the city for her first appointment.

And it wasn't until she was showered and dressed, impeccably if a little  severely, hanging on like grim death as the driver moved from one  fast-moving lane of traffic to the other, that she felt comparatively  safe from the immediate threat of an irate Irishman.

Never, she told herself as they screeched round the Place de la  Republique, never had she felt so low. Not even when Patrick had gone  off to Bangladesh with Gillian Place. That name, the one that had burned  in her heart for years, seemed to make her behaviour last night even  more irrational.

For Holly had hinted, during one of the brief periods when Leigh had  helped clear things away from the table, that she knew Patrick had had a  great sorrow in his life and that she was trusting that Leigh might  help take his mind off it. 'Something,' she had mouthed almost silently,  as they had crossed the hall with trays of dessert, 'that happened when  he was abroad, with his aid project.'

Which could mean only one thing, Leigh decided. He and Gillian Place.  Something had gone wrong and he had never got over it. And her stupid  weakness last night had been...just inexcusable.

Afterwards, she remembered very little of the day, though she had  copious notes from her appointments, and among them a little card with  the name of a captain in the Royal Navy. It took her three days to  recall the sandy-haired man whose invitation to dinner she had parried  with such graceful detachment that he had insisted on giving her his  hotel number in case she should find herself unexpectedly free.

In the early evening, as she was driven back across the city, she .sat  with her eyes closed and found herself unable to switch off the complete  replay of those intimate hours spent in Patrick's bed. She was even  filled with tortured regret when she remembered that arm outstretched  towards her in the dawn. Her body was suddenly urgent for warm, loving  flesh, burning for the tender early-morning joy in which laughter had  always played a part. Perhaps she had been wrong to...

But no. Deliberately she opened her eyes, as if sheer concentration  might clear her mind of so many treacherous ideas. And yet...was it  treachery to admit that they had matched as well as they ever did?  Better, she admitted with dismal honesty, for last night they had  reached glorious heights which even her most abandoned dreams had not  prepared her for. And quite naturally that led her to a desperate  realisation, one which offered bleak proof, if that were needed. The  truth was that one of them was obviously much more experienced, whereas  the other... She was the one who had gone through the trauma and  loneliness, while he...                       
       
           



       

Well, she was a fool. A salutary conclusion for an intelligent woman of  twenty-five to reach. A fool to have denied herself the comfort of  casual relationships taken so much for granted by her contemporaries.

Ah, well-she gave a tiny, bitter smile at her own naiveté-one lived and  learned. And in the meantime... With a sudden change of attitude she  leaned forward and asked to be dropped off at the little delicatessen  close to her flat. She would pick up something to eat, watch television  for an hour and then have an early night. She had often found that a  cure for... oh, for all kinds of things.

Half an hour later, she leaned back on the door of the flat with a  feeling of relief, went to the kitchen to drop off the baguette and  slice of pate, switched on the kettle for coffee, kicked off her shoes  and turned to cross to her bedroom.

The sudden and loud rat-a-tat at the door made her jump, and at the same  time she felt her heart hammering loudly against her ribs, which was  utterly ridiculous and out of character, and in any case he wouldn't  have the... It was most likely Anna, except that of course she was in...  Reaching the door, she opened it quickly, and stood there as if turned  to stone. But of course. Who else?

'Leigh.' At that moment she didn't notice the air of strain about him,  but later it occurred to her that he was rather pale. Since she showed  no sign of moving he asked, rather tentatively for a man as positive as  Patrick Cavour, 'May I come in?'

'Yes, of course.' A sudden chill on her skin had given way to burning  heat, but it was subsiding a little as she stood aside, allowing him to  into the small hall where he stood watching le she struggled to retain  some dignity as she ~ her feet back into her shoes. Then, with wave of  her hand, she indicated the sitting-room and followed him. The pain was  back in her chest-sharp, overwhelming. It took all the courage she could  muster to face him with an appearance of calm. "This is a surprise.  I've just this minute come in.'

'I know that. I've been sitting in a corner of the landing waiting for you.'

'You've been what?' Hard to say why this should be such an unpleasant surprise to her.

'I think you heard.' They glared at each other for a moment.

"Then you had no right. None whatsoever. I would have thought-----'

'You would have thought what?' Now, with the light from the overhead  lamp directly on his face, she could see that he was angry; there was a  tightness about his mouth and his tone was short to the point of  rudeness. "That I would take this-----' reaching into an inner pocket of  his jacket, he produced a sheet of paper which she instantly recognised  and waved it in front of her '-my dismissal, like...like a whipped cur?  Is that what you'd have thought?'

'N-no.' Inwardly shaking, still she managed a casual shrug. 'I thought  you would agree with what I wrote, that you'd see last night for what it  was-a pleasant if impulsive interlude.' She had a sudden desperate  desire to escape. 'Would you like some coffee? I was just going to  make-----'

'No.' His voice was dangerously quiet, controlled, but only just, she  suspected. 'I would not like some coffee, damn it. If I wanted  coffee-----' now there was no effort to control his bitterness '-I would  have gone to the café on the corner.'

When they glared at each other it was difficult to judge who was  angrier-she because he had dared to remind her of the scene on the  landing first night, he for different, more complex reasons. What was  undeniable was that both were giving off sparks which were very nearly  flammable.

'I'm here,' he said through clenched teeth, 'to find out your excuse for baling out in that particularly offensive way.'

'My reason,' she spat back, 'not my excuse but my reason, is in that  letter you're waving about. I think it was perfectly clear.'

'Oh, it was clear. Short and to the point.' Holding it up, he read  mockingly,' "Sorry about last night, Patrick."' He took a moment out to  flick a glance in her direction, one that doubtless drew conclusions  from her burning cheeks. But at least, she comforted herself, the  glitter of tears would be hidden beneath her eyelids. He went on, '"An  awful mistake."' A pause for emphasis. '"I'm sure you'll agree it's best  for me to make myself scarce, save a great deal of embarassment all  round. See you one of these days.'"                       
       
           



       

Another brief silence gave her time to understand at least some of his  anger; it did sound like a dismissal, which no man like Patrick Cavour  would enjoy...

'Yes, as you say, your message was perfectly clear. Except I don't  believe a word of it.' A longer, more expectant silence followed, one  which she had no intention of breaking, so he was forced to speak again,  and this time she detected a slight softening of his manner. She had to  guard against the tiny responsive shivers at the base of her spine.  'I'd much rather you told me the truth, Leigh.'

'No.' She was worried about her reactions, panicky, and afraid of  emotions which swung so wildly from one extreme to another. 'No, you  wouldn't.' A hand went up to rake the silky hair-back from her forehead.  'I promise you. And she felt confident enough to look him straight in  the eye.

Another prolonged silence. Behind the impassive expression she could  imagine the keen brain working, picking up clues, weighing the evidence.  The one indication of his emotional involvement was the hurried rise  and fall of his chest. His pride, she guessed, must have been severely  dented, and-----