His Convenient Marriage. Sara Craven
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find my physical appearance distressing? Because I can assure you all the worst scars are hidden.’
‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘That’s a terrible thing to imply.’
‘It happens,’ he returned. ‘I was living with someone before the ill-fated assignment. We’d talked about marriage—made plans. When I came out of hospital and she saw me without my clothes for the first time, she didn’t want to know any more.’ He paused. ‘And that is a matter of pure fact—not a plea for sympathy.’
‘You’ve made it more than clear that sympathy is the last thing you want, Mr Hunter.’ She hesitated. ‘But I will have dinner with you—if that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you think you could bend another rule, and call me Miles?’
Chessie felt suddenly confused. This, she thought, is not right, and I should put a stop to it, here and now.
Instead, she heard herself say awkwardly, ‘Very well—Miles.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Absolutely the right decision. I’ll see you out by the car at eight.’
He limped across to the adjoining study and went in, closing the door behind him.
Chessie looked blankly at the computer. The screensaver had clicked on, and she was confronted by a series of coloured geometric patterns, endlessly changing shape as they whirled slowly in front of her.
I know, she thought, how they feel.
It was turning into a day for surprises, and she wasn’t sure she cared for any of them. Particularly the latest one.
Had she really committed herself to going to dinner with Miles Hunter? she asked herself incredulously.
She thought, Well, it’s too late to turn back now, and shivered as if she’d found herself on the edge of some nameless danger …
And that was a complete overreaction, she added flatly, probably brought on by reading too many thrillers by Miles Hunter. From now on, she’d switch to biographies about people who’d led very boring lives.
After all—and he’d said it himself—it was only a meal.
‘THE Ogre’s asked you out to dinner?’ Jenny looked blank with disbelief. ‘And you’ve actually accepted.’ She shook her head. ‘God, Chessie, you must be out of your tree.’
Chessie shrugged defensively. ‘I don’t see why. Something marvellous happened for him today, and he wants to celebrate.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny said derisively. ‘They’ve invented a mask for him to wear—like the Phantom of the Opera.’
Chessie stared at her, appalled. ‘What an utterly foul thing to say,’ she said slowly. ‘Miles is my boss, and we owe him a great deal, yet you can’t say one decent word to him, or about him.’
‘Owe him?’ Jenny’s face reddened. ‘What the hell do we owe him? He’s taken our home away from us, and he’s making us pay for it by treating us like drudges.’
‘Really?’ snapped Chessie. ‘Well, I haven’t noticed much drudgery from your direction. And if Miles hadn’t bought this house, someone else would have done so, and we’d have been out on our ears. There was no way we could keep it. Why can’t I get that through to you?’
Jenny looked mutinous. ‘Well, I still think we could have done something. I saw this thing on television the other day about small country house hotels. It was really cool. I bet we could have made a bomb with Silvertrees.’
‘In about twenty years, maybe,’ Chessie said levelly. ‘But Dad’s creditors weren’t prepared to wait that long for their money. And our present existence is like a holiday camp, compared with hotel-keeping. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.’
Jenny sniffed. ‘I still think it could have worked,’ she said obstinately.
Chessie was suddenly caught between tears and laughter. Extraordinary how Jenny, so clever at school, could have such a tenuous hold on reality at other times.
She wondered what role her sister had pictured for herself in this make-believe ménage. Acting as receptionist, no doubt, and arranging a few flowers. Because she couldn’t cook to save her life, and had never shown the slightest aptitude for housework either.
‘And, anyway—’ Jenny got down to the nitty-gritty of the situation ‘—if you’re going out tonight, what am I going to eat? I bet The Ogre hasn’t invited me.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Chessie agreed. ‘But you won’t starve. There’s some chicken casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is use the microwave.’
‘Hardly on a level with being wined and dined.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘And another thing—since when has The Ogre been “Miles” to you? I thought it was strictly, “Yes, Mr Hunter, sir.”’
‘So it was, and probably will be again tomorrow,’ Chessie told her calmly. ‘It’s just a meal, that’s all.’
I wonder how many times I’m going to say that before I convince even myself, she thought later as she reviewed the meagre contents of her wardrobe.
It had been a long time since she’d eaten in a restaurant. She’d been having lunch with her father, she remembered, hardly able to eat as she’d tried nervously to probe what had been going on in the company.
She could recall the uneasy questions she’d asked—the reassurances she’d sought.
Neville had patted her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘There’s nothing for my girl to worry about.’
He’d talked loudly, and laughed a lot. Drunk a lot too. He’d seen some former business associates across the restaurant, and had waved to them expansively, beckoning them over, but they hadn’t come.
Even then that had seemed ominous, like the first crack in a dam, only she hadn’t dared say so. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it could have been so. Longed for it all to have been her imagination.
She’d worn a plain cream linen shift, she remembered, with large gold buttons. That didn’t exist any more, sadly, and she had little else that was suitable for dining out in.
Most of her clothes fell into two categories, she realised regretfully. There was working (ordinary) and working (slightly smarter). In the end, she opted for a plain black skirt reaching to mid-calf, and topped it with an ivory silk chainstore blouse. The gilt earrings and chains that Jenny had given her for her last birthday made the outfit seem a little more festive.
She was in her early twenties and she felt a hundred years old. There were little worry lines forming between her brows, and the curve of her mouth was beginning to look pinched.
She usually wore her light brown hair gathered for neatness into a rubber band at the nape of her neck, but decided to let it loose for once, its newly washed silkiness brushing her shoulders.
The only eye-shadow she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.
As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.
The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.
Jenny