A Passionate Affair. Anne Mather
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Cassandra let the sentence speak for itself, ‘I’m about to pour myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one?’
‘Oh, darling, I can’t.’ Mrs Roland was apologetic. ‘I’m just on my way out actually. You know—it’s my bridge evening.’ And as Cassandra acknowledged this with a rueful exclamation, she went on: ‘I only rang to let you know I took a phone call for you earlier.’
‘A phone call? For me?’ Cassandra felt the first twinges of alarm. ‘Who was it? And how did you happen to get the call?’
‘It was a Mr—Ravek,’ declared her mother-in-law, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘A client, I suppose. He’d found my telephone number in the book under this address, and I assume he expected it was yours. Do you know him?’
‘I’ve—met him.’ Cassandra’s sense of apprehension was fast giving way to a state of nervous excitement. ‘Did—er—did he say what he wanted?’
‘Well, he wanted to speak to you, of course,’ replied Mrs Roland at once. ‘You sound—strange, Cass. Who is he? A boy-friend?’
‘No!’ Cassandra’s response was vehement. ‘I—hardly know him.’ She paused. ‘Did he mention why he wanted to speak to me?’
‘No.’ Her mother-in-law considered for a moment. ‘He asked if you were available, and I explained that I was the wrong Mrs Roland, and he rang off.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Cassandra could hardly keep the disappointment out of her voice. Obviously he had discovered that there was a Mrs Roland listed as living in the building, and assumed it was her. When her mother-in-law explained his mistake, no doubt he had then presumed that she lived with her husband. And as she had only occupied this flat for a little over six months, her number was not in the book. But why had he rung her anyway? And why not at the office? The possibilities were endless, and none of them gave her any satisfaction right now.
‘I told him I’d give you the message,’ Mrs Roland was saying now, and Cassandra started: ‘What message?’
‘That he’d rung, of course,’ replied her mother-in-law patiently. ‘Cass, is there something wrong? This man’s not been bothering you, has he?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Cassandra’s laughter was slightly hysterical. ‘As I told you, I hardly know him. Er—Liz introduced us, today, at the Stafford reception. You remember—I told you I was going with her.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Roland sounded intrigued now. ‘So who is he? The name sounds foreign.’
‘Well, I don’t think he is.’ Cassandra felt a sense of relief at being able to talk about him. ‘He’s a journalist, so Liz says. For the Post.’
‘Ravek? Ravek?’ Mrs Roland said the name over. ‘You know, now I come to think of it, the name does sound vaguely familiar. Ravek!’ She said it again. ‘Yes, I have it. It’s Jay Ravek, isn’t it?’
‘He’s that well known, hmm?’ remarked Cassandra cynically, remembering Liz’s condemnation, but her mother-in-law gave an impatient exclamation.
‘No. No, you misunderstand me. I recall reading something about his mother, when she married Sir Giles Fielding—you know, the M.P. He was a barrister before he became interested in politics, and I believe I was introduced to him once at some dinner Henry and I attended. Anyway,’ she uttered an apologetic chuckle, ‘I’m digressing. What I really wanted to say was that his mother is Russian, her parents’ name was Ravekov, and they were émigrés at the end of the last war.’
Cassandra frowned. ‘But—if his father’s name is Fielding—–’
‘It’s not.’ Mrs Roland sighed. ‘That’s why I remember it. Her son was born long before she became Lady Fielding.’
‘I see.’ Cassandra drew her lower lip between her teeth.
‘I haven’t trodden on any toes, have I, Cass?’ Her mother-in-law sounded concerned. ‘Darling, you mustn’t mind my gossiping. I’m sure he’s a very nice man.’
‘Liz doesn’t think so,’ said Cassandra flatly. ‘She said he was a bastard, and somehow I don’t think she meant what you did.’
Mrs Roland clicked her tongue. ‘I should hope not! One can hardly blame him for his parents’ behaviour.’
‘No.’ Cassandra felt irritated suddenly. ‘Well, he probably had a commission he wanted to discuss. If he needs to get in touch with me, he can easily do so at the office.’
‘Yes . . .’ Mrs Roland was thoughtful. ‘If you say so, dear.’
‘I do.’ Cassandra was eager now to put down the phone. ‘Have a nice evening, and I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’
‘Very well, Cass. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
With the telephone receiver restored to its rest, Cassandra lifted her head and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the sideboard. She observed with some impatience that she had a smudge of ink on her chin, the result no doubt of supporting her head with the same hand that held her pen, and she rubbed at it absently as she contemplated what she had just learned. Why was Jay Ravek ringing her? What possible reason could he have? And why did it fill her with a sense of apprehension, when she had thought of him constantly since leaving the reception?
She sighed. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty or anything. She was reasonably tall and slim, and she had lost that angular thinness she had had while Mike was alive, but she was quite ordinary otherwise. She had naturally ash blonde hair, which was always an advantage, but she wore it short, a common enough style nowadays. She had nice skin, the kind that tanned in spite of her blonde hair, but her features were unremarkably regular, and only her eyes attracted any attention. They were large and green, with curling lashes that she darkened, but Mike used to say even they were deceptive. He said they promised so much, but offered so little, and she had never been able to understand why he had married her in the first place. He had had so many girls chasing him in his role as a racing driver, and during their more bitter arguments he had always thrown this up at her.
But that still didn’t explain why Jay Ravek wanted to speak to her. It was flattering, of course, and she would not have been human if she had not been curious, but her common sense told her that it might be simpler not to get involved, and perhaps her mother-in-law taking the call was just a blessing in disguise.
WITH the help of a capsule, Cassandra slept reasonably well, and awakened next morning feeling only mildly lethargic. It was months since she had felt the need for any assistance to sleep, and she had almost forgotten the heady feeling that lingered and the horrible taste in her mouth.
Needing to dispel that sense of inertia, she took a bath before breakfast, and then read the daily paper over her coffee. She was determined not to let thoughts of Jay Ravek disrupt her day as they had disrupted her night, but the latest wave of industrial troubles held little attraction.
Yet the night before she had spent far too much time wondering what his reasons for ringing her had been. After her moments of introspection, she had trudged back into the kitchen, and switched off the percolator without even pouring herself a cup of coffee. She had remained bemused, both by the evidence of the phone call and by what her mother-in-law had told her, and that was why she had taken one of the sleeping capsules the doctor had prescribed for her just after Mike had met his fatal accident. She had needed to sleep, to be alert to face the day—and it was annoying to discover that with consciousness came awareness, and the troubled conviction that Jay Ravek was not going to be that easy to dismiss.
She had an appointment that morning with the manager of a textile warehouse, and when she left the flat soon after nine o’clock, she drove