Hell Or High Water. Anne Mather
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a deliberate hand into the unbuttoned neckline of her silk shirt. ‘Here I am, making a special journey just to do you a good turn, and you treat me like a—like a leper! I know you’re working, I know you want to get on with your book.But that’s why I’m here—to help you.’
‘I didn’t know you’d taken a course in typewriting, Margot,’ Jarret commented dryly, brushing past her to tug the offending sheet out of the machine and roll it into a ball between his palms. ‘But I’m sorry to disappoint you, I prefer to work alone, and with fewer interruptions the better.’
‘Oh, Jarret!’ Margot’s lips pursed. ‘You know I didn’t mean that. And why are you destroying that page? Surely I didn’t spoil your train of thought.’
‘I’ve screwed it up,’ remarked Jarret unpleasantly, and her chin tilted once more. ‘And that’s not the only thing that’s screwed up around here. I’d be grateful if you’d get to the point and go!’
Margot sniffed. ‘If you’re going to be like that …’
‘What? Like what?’ Jarret rested his denim-clad hips against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘How am I expected to behave? I didn’t invite you here, Margot.’
‘It’s that Sinclair girl, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed suddenly, switching tactics completely. ‘Jo told me you’d been seeing her. That’s why you’re being so utterly beastly—because of her!’
Jarret’s expression did not change. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here, Margot?’ he suggested, ignoring her outburst, and with a sound of deep frustration she flounced across the room.
‘Well, if you won’t offer me a drink, I’ll help myself,’ she declared, glancing at him over her shoulder as she halted by a tray of bottles and glasses. ‘Can I get you one, the hair of the dog, and all that, or will that disturb your creative impulses too?’
‘I don’t want a drink, Margot,’ he refused, levering his lean body into the leather chair beside the desk and draping one leg casually over the arm. ‘I don’t need that kind of stimulation this early in the morning.’
‘It is half past eleven, darling,’ Margot defended herself sulkily, pouring a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler chinking with ice and adding the merest touch of American dry. ‘Hmm, that’s better,’ she affirmed, licking the traces of alcohol from her full lips and viewing him mistily. ‘The first drink of the day is always the best.’
‘And that’s the first?’ mocked Jarret sceptically, and then regretting the impulse to arouse further recriminations, added: ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve come here now, Margot? Or must I assume that was just an excuse to pacify the beast in me?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ Margot was indignant, flicking her pleated skirt with a careless finger, drawing attention to the slenderness of leg and ankle. ‘I really do have some news for you, Jarret, but I’m half inclined not to tell you, you’ve been so uncivil to me.’
Jarret’s mouth thinned. ‘Then don’t.’
Margot’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be like that, just because I choose to tease you. You know I could never deny you anything. I don’t know why you persist in treating me like a fool!’
Jarret swung his leg to the floor. ‘Look, Margot, I don’t have the time to sit here and discuss my shortcomings. Okay, I’m a brute and a bastard and I treat you abominably. So what’s the attraction? I’ve never given you any reason to think you could run my life for me.’
Margot sighed, swinging round on her heels and pacing restlessly to the windows. From this height, the whole panorama of London and its greater outskirts were spread out below in sprawling detail, a grey plume of smoke rising from the chimneys of the power station across the river. It was a grey day, dull and uninspiring, when the metropolis looked somewhat less than its best.
Turning, she surveyed the room behind her with more satisfaction. It was austere, of course, recognisably masculine, but attractive in spite of that. She would have liked to have thought that she had been instrumental in his leasing this apartment, but the truth was its owner had been more than willing to acquire a tenant of Jarret’s increasing popularity, and consequently he had been given the pick of the block. That had been more than eighteen months ago now, and his reputation still continued its meteor-like rise.
Jarret, watching the emotions that governed her expression, wondered exactly what Jo Stanford had told her. That lady had her own reasons for feeling aggrieved with him, and he felt the increasingly familiar pangs of dissatisfactionin him, that came from a surfeit of social adulation.
Margot finished her drink, and then, surveying the ice cubes still slipping around in the bottom of her glass, said: ‘You know how you’ve been saying that London is too—hectic for you, that this apartment is too accessible to really provide ideal working conditions? Well …’ she paused to give her next words their full impact, ‘I’ve found just the place for you.’
‘Really?’ Irritation flicked along Jarret’s nerves. ‘You’ve found just the place for me? How considerate of you!’
‘No, really, Jarret, I mean it.’ Margot was aggravated by his sardonic tone. ‘I’m not joking. I know exactly the sort of place you need, and it just so happens that the owner is a friend of mine.’
‘You know, I thought perhaps he might be,’ remarked Jarret dryly, getting to his feet. ‘Well, thanks, Margot, but no thanks. If and when I do decide to leave London I’ll do so of my own volition, not to take up some offer you’ve contrived to arrange——’
‘Oh, you’re deliberately misunderstanding me!’ Margot almost stamped her small foot in impatience, reaching for the bottle of Scotch again and splashing its contents into her glass. ‘I haven’t arranged anything, nor do I intend to. Except perhaps—well, you are the one who has to make the decision.’
‘Yes, I am, and if you don’t mind——’
‘Jarret! Jarret, listen to me!’ She swallowed a mouthful of Scotch for sustenance, and approached him severely, holding herself erect. ‘I know what I’m talking about. It’s not just an idea—King’s Green is exactly the place for you.’
Jarret faced her wearily, irritation giving way to endurance as he regarded her appealing features. ‘When will you learn that I prefer to do my own hunting, house or otherwise,’ he told her steadily, and she plucked wretchedly at his sleeve, unwillingly inciting his sympathy.
‘Won’t you at least consider the suggestion?’ she ventured, encouraged to transfer her hand from his sleeve to his cheek, gazing up at him limpidly. ‘It really is a gem of a place, and Alice wouldn’t be selling at all, if the upkeep of it wasn’t so prohibitive.’
Jarret’s mouth twisted. ‘So what makes you think I needsuch an extravagance?’
‘Darling …’ She reached up to touch his unshaven jaw with her lips. ‘You can afford it, you know you can. And King’s Green is the ideal spot for you to work.’
Jarret put her firmly away from him, and ignoring the wounded look she gave him, walked half resignedly across the room. ‘Where is this place?’ he demanded, massaging the back of his neck with impatient fingers. ‘Is King’s Green a village or a house or what?’
‘It’s a house,’ Margot offered, at once forgoing her pride in her eagerness. ‘Queen Anne, I think. Oh——’ this as he started to protest, ‘—it’s in excellent condition. A little damp in places perhaps, but that can easily be rectified, and it’s in an absolute dream of a setting.’
‘Where?’ Jarret distrusted Margot’s enthusiasm, but her next words allayed his suspicions.
‘A place called Thrushfold in Wiltshire. On the Wiltshire-Dorset borders, actually. Near enough to London to drive up in a matter of hours, but not near enough to attract casual visitors.’
Jarret