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‘But I did tell you,’ Helen said, trying to stifle her disappointment. ‘I’ve just had my interview with Restauration International—remember?’
‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve been so busy it completely slipped my mind.’ He paused. ‘How did it go anyway?’
‘Pretty well, I think—I hope.’ Helen tried to dismiss the thought of Marc Delaroche from her mind.
One man, she thought. One dissenting voice. What harm could he really do?
‘They seemed interested,’ she added. ‘Sympathetic—for the most part. And they said I’d know by the end of the month, so I’ve less than ten days to wait.’
‘Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Nigel said. ‘And maybe—under the circumstances—I could manage lunch after all. Celebrate a little. It’s certainly the most hopeful result you’ve had.’ He paused again. ‘I’ll need to pull a few strings, change things around a little, but it should be all right. Meet me at the Martinique at one clock.’
‘But I don’t know where it is,’ she protested.
‘But the cab driver will,’ he said with a touch of exasperation. ‘It’s new, and pretty trendy. Everyone’s going there.’
‘Then will we get a table?’ Helen asked, wondering, troubled, whether she could afford the price of a taxi.
He sighed. ‘Helen, you’re so naïve. The bank has a standing reservation there. It’s not a problem. Now, I must go. See you later.’
She switched off her phone and replaced it slowly in her bag. It sounded rather as if Nigel had gone to this Martinique place already. But then why shouldn’t he? she reminded herself impatiently. Entertaining the bank’s clients at smart restaurants was part of his job. It was all part of the world he inhabited, along with platinum cards, endless taxis, and first-class tickets everywhere.
Yet she’d travelled up on a cheap day return, needed to count her pennies, and most of her entertaining involved cheese on toast or pasta, with a bottle of cheap plonk shared with Lottie or another girlfriend.
Nigel belonged to a different world, she thought with a pang, and it would require a quantum leap on her part to join him there.
But I can do it, she told herself, unfastening the constriction of the black ribbon bow and shaking her hair loose almost defiantly. I can do anything—even save Monteagle. And nothing’s going to stop me.
Her moment of euphoria was brought to a halt by the realisation that lack of funds might well prevent her from completing even the minor mission of reaching the restaurant to meet Nigel.
However, with the help of her A to Z and a copy of Time Out, she discovered that the Martinique was just over a mile away. Easy walking distance, she decided, setting off at a brisk pace.
She found it without difficulty, although the search had left her hot and thirsty.
Its smart black and white awning extended over the pavement, shading terracotta pots of evergreens. Helen took a deep breath and walked in. She found herself in a small reception area, being given a questioning look by a young man behind a desk.
‘Mademoiselle has a reservation?’
‘Well, not exactly—’ she began, and was interrupted by an immediate shake of the head.
‘I regret that we are fully booked. Perhaps another day we can have the pleasure of serving mademoiselle.’
She said quickly, ‘I’m joining someone—a Mr Nigel Hartley.’
He gave her a surprised look, then glanced at the large book in front of him. ‘Yes, he has a table at one o clock, but he has not yet arrived.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to enjoy a drink at the bar? Or be seated to wait for him.’
‘I’d like to sit down, please.’
‘D’accord.’ He came from behind the desk. ‘May I take your jacket?’ He indicated the blazer she was carrying over her arm.
‘Oh—no. No, thank you,’ Helen said, remembering with acute embarrassment that the lining was slightly torn.
‘Then please follow me.’ He opened a door, and what seemed like a wall of sound came to meet her, so that she almost flinched.
Nigel had not exaggerated the restaurant’s popularity, she thought. She found herself in a large bright room, with windows on two sides and more tables crammed into the rest of it than she would have believed possible. Every table seemed to be occupied, and the noise was intense, but she squeezed through the sea of white linen, crystal and silver after her guide and discovered there were a few remaining inches of space in one corner.
She sank down thankfully on to one of the high-backed wooden chairs, wishing that it were possible to kick off her shoes.
‘May I bring something for mademoiselle?’ The young man hovered.
‘Just some still water, please,’ she returned.
She had no doubt that the Martinique was a trendy place—somewhere to see and be seen—but she wished Nigel had chosen something quieter. She also wished very much that it wasn’t a French restaurant either. Too reminiscent, she thought, of her recent interrogation.
She wanted to talk to Nigel, but the kind of private conversation she had in mind could hardly be conducted at the tops of their voices.
He clearly thought she’d enjoy a taste of the high life, she decided ruefully, and she must be careful not to give him a hint of her disappointment at his choice.
Besides, they would have the rest of their lives to talk.
He was already ten minutes late, she realised, and was just beginning to feel self-conscious about sitting on her own when a waiter appeared with a bottle of mineral water and a tumbler containing ice cubes. The tray also held a tall slender glass filled with a rich pink liquid, fizzing gently.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t order this,’ Helen protested, as he placed it in front of her. ‘What is it?’
‘Kir Royale, mademoiselle—champagne and cassis—and it comes with the compliments of monsieur.’
‘Oh,’ she said with relief. Nigel must have phoned through the order, she thought, as a peace offering for his tardiness. It was the kind of caring gesture she should have expected, and it made her feel better—happier about the situation as a whole.
She drank some water to refresh her mouth, then sipped the kir slowly, enjoying the faint fragrance of the blackcurrant and the sheer lift of the wine.
But she couldn’t make it last for ever, and by the time she’d drained the glass Nigel still hadn’t arrived. She was beginning to get nervous and irritated in equal measure.
She beckoned to the waiter. ‘Has there been any further message from monsieur to say he’s been delayed?’ she asked. ‘Because, if not, I’d like another kir.’
He looked bewildered. ‘There is no delay, mademoiselle. Monsieur is here at this moment, having lunch. Shall I consult him on your behalf?’
Helen stared at him. ‘He’s here? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, mademoiselle. See—there by the window.’
Helen looked, and what she saw made her throat close in shock. It was Marc Delaroche, she realised numbly, seated at a table with two other men. He was listening to what they were saying, but, as if he instantly sensed Helen focussing on him, he glanced round and met her horrified gaze. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then reached for his own glass, lifting it in a swift and silent toast.
She disengaged from him instantly, flushed and mortified. She said, ‘You mean he—that person—sent me this drink?’ She took a deep breath, forcing herself back to a semblance of composure, even though her heart was racing unevenly. ‘I—I didn’t know that. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of having another. In fact, perhaps you’d bring me the bill for this one, plus the water, and I’ll just—leave.’
‘But you have not yet had lunch,’ the waiter protested. ‘And besides, here comes Monsieur Hartley.’
And sure enough it was Nigel, striding across the restaurant as if conducting a personal parting of the Red Sea, tall, blond and immaculate, in his dark blue pinstripe and exquisitely knotted silk tie.
‘So there you are,’ he greeted her.
‘It’s where I’ve been for the past half hour,’ Helen told him evenly. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I warned you I was busy.’ He dropped a cursory kiss on her cheek as he passed. ‘Menus, please, Gaspard. I’m pushed for time today. In fact, I won’t bother with the carte. I’ll just have steak, medium rare, with a mixed salad.’
‘Then I’ll have the same,’ Helen said. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.’
‘Fine.’ He either ignored or didn’t notice the irony in her tone. ‘And a bottle of house red, Gaspard. Quick as you can. Plus a gin and tonic.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Do you want a drink, sweetie?’
‘I’ve already had one,’ she said. ‘Kir Royale, as a matter of fact.’
His lips thinned a little. ‘Rather a new departure for you, isn’t it? Did the waiter talk you into it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. One is more than enough.’ She was ashamed to hear how acerbic she sounded, and it was all the fault of that—that creature across the room. But she was sharing precious time with the man she loved, and she wouldn’t allow it to be spoiled by anyone or anything.
She made herself smile at Nigel, and put her hand on his. ‘It’s so great to see you,’ she said gently. ‘Do you realise how long it’s been?’
He sighed. ‘I know, but life at work is so hectic just now I hardly have any time to spare.’
‘Your parents must miss you too.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re far too busy planning Dad’s retirement and giving the house a pre-sale facelift to worry about me.’ He shot her a swift glance. ‘You did know they’re moving to Portugal in the near future?’
‘Selling Oaktree House?’ Helen said slowly. ‘I had no idea.’ She gave him a blank look. ‘But how will you manage? It’s your home.’
‘Off and on for the past ten years, yes,’ Nigel said with a touch of impatience. ‘But my life’s in London now. I’m going to stop renting and look for somewhere to buy. Ah, my drink at last. My God, I could do with it. I’ve had a hell of a morning.’ And he launched himself into a description of its vicissitudes which was still going strong when their food arrived.
Not that Helen was particularly hungry. Her appetite, such as it was, seemed to have suddenly dissipated. Nor was she giving her full attention to the vagaries of the financial markets and the irresponsible attitude of certain nameless clients, as outlined by Nigel. Her mind was on another track altogether.
Something had happened, she thought numbly. Some fundamental shift had taken place and she hadn’t noticed.
Well, she was totally focussed now, because this involved her life too. She’d assumed that Nigel would live with her at Monteagle once they were married, and commute to London. After all, she couldn’t move away, use Monteagle as a weekend home. Surely he realised that.
But there was no way they could talk about it now. Not with Nigel glancing at his watch every couple of minutes as he rapidly forked up his steak.
Eventually she broke into his monologue. ‘Nigel—this weekend, we have to talk. Can you come over—spend the day with me on Sunday?’
‘Not this weekend, I’m afraid. It’s the chairman’s birthday, and he’s celebrating with a weekend party at his place in Sussex, so duty calls.’ His smile was swift and light. ‘And now I have to dash. I have a two-thirty meeting. The bill goes straight to my office, so order yourself a pudding if you want, darling, and coffee. See you later.’ He blew her a kiss, and was gone.
Once again she was sitting alone, she thought as she pushed her plate away. A fact that would doubtless not be lost on her adversary across the room. She risked a lightning glance from under her lashes, and realised with a surge of relief that his table was empty and being cleared. At least he hadn’t witnessed her cavalier treatment at Nigel’s hands. Nor would she have to grit her teeth and thank him for that bloody drink. With luck, she would never have to set eyes on him again. End of story.
She’d wanted this to be a great day in her life, she thought with a silent sigh, but since she’d first set eyes on Marc Delaroche it seemed to have been downhill all the way.
And now she had better go and catch her train. She was just reaching for her bag when Gaspard arrived, bearing a tray which he placed in front of her with a flourish.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Helen protested, watching him unload a cafetière, cups, saucers, two glasses and a bottle of armagnac. ‘I didn’t order any of this.’
‘But I did,’ Marc Delaroche said softly. ‘Because you look as if you need it. So do not refuse me, ma belle, je vous en prie.’
And before she could utter any kind of protest, he took the seat opposite her, so recently vacated by Nigel, and smiled into her startled eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
‘I THOUGHT you’d gone.’ The words were out before she could stop herself, implying that she took even a remote interest in his actions.
‘I was merely bidding au revoir to my friends.’ He filled her cup from the cafetière. ‘Before returning to offer you a digestif.’ He poured a judicious amount of armagnac into each crystal bowl, and pushed one towards her. ‘Something your companion should consider, perhaps,’ he added meditatively. ‘If he continues to rush through his meals at such a rate he will have an ulcer before he is forty.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘I’ll be sure to pass your warning on to him.’
‘I intended it for you,’ he said. ‘I presume he is the man you plan to marry at Monteagle with such panache?’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘After all, it is a wife’s duty to look after the physical well-being of her husband—in every way. Don’t you think so?’
‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Helen bit her lip. ‘You really are some kind of dinosaur.’
His smile widened. ‘And a man with a ruined digestion is an even more savage beast, believe me,’ he told her softly. ‘Just as a beautiful girl left alone in a restaurant is an offence against nature.’ He raised his glass. Salut.’
‘Oh, spare me.’ Helen gritted her teeth. ‘I don’t need your compliments—or your company.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But you require my vote on the committee, so maybe you should force yourself to be civil for this short time, and drink with me.’
Smouldering, Helen drank some of her coffee. ‘What made you choose this restaurant particularly?’ she asked, after a loaded pause.
His brows lifted mockingly. ‘You suspect some sinister motive? That I am following you, perhaps?’ He shook his head. ‘You are wrong. I was invited here by my companions—who have a financial interest in the place and wished my opinion. Also I arrived first, remember, so I could accuse you of stalking me.’
Helen stiffened. ‘That, of course, is just so likely.’ Her tone bit.
‘No,’ he returned coolly. ‘To my infinite regret, it is not likely at all.’
Helen felt her throat muscles tighten warily. ‘Why are you doing this? Buying me drinks—forcing your company on me?’
He shrugged. ‘Because I wished to encounter you when you were more relaxed. When you had—let your hair down, as they say.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘It looks much better loose, so why scrape it back in that unbecoming way?’
‘I wanted to look businesslike for the interview,’ she returned coldly. ‘Not as if I was trading on my gender.’
‘Put like that,’ he said, ‘I find it unappealing too.’
‘So why are you ignoring my obvious wish to keep my distance?’
He lifted his glass, studying the colour of the armagnac. He said, ‘Your fiancé arrived late and left early. Perhaps I am merely trying to compensate for his lack of attention.’
She bit her lip. ‘How dare you criticise him? You know nothing at all about him. He happens to be working very hard for our future together—and I don’t feel neglected in any way,’ she added defiantly.
‘I am relieved to hear it, ma mie,’ he drawled. ‘I feared for your sake that his performance in bed might be conducted at the same speed as your lunch dates.’
She stared at him, shocked into a sudden blush that reached the roots of her hair.
Her voice shook. ‘You have no right to talk to me like that—to speculate about my private relationships in that—disgusting way. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
He looked back at her without a glimmer of repentance. ‘It was prompted solely by my concern for your happiness, I assure you.’
She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, fumbling for her jacket. She said jerkily, ‘When I get the money to restore Monteagle I shall fill the world with my joy, monsieur. And that is the only affair of mine in which you have the right to probe. Goodbye.’
She walked past him and out of the restaurant, her face still burning but her head held proudly.
It was only when she was outside, heading for the tube station, that she realised just how afraid she’d been that he would follow her—stop her from leaving in some unspecified way.
But of course he had not done so.
He’s just a predator, she thought, looking for potential prey and testing their weaknesses. He saw I was alone, and possibly vulnerable, so he moved in. That’s all that happened.
Or was it?
If only I hadn’t blushed, she castigated herself. I just hope he interprets it as anger, not embarrassment.
Because she couldn’t bear him to know that she didn’t have a clue what Nigel or any other man was like in bed. And she’d certainly never been openly challenged on the subject before—especially by a man who was also a complete stranger.
She knew what happened physically, of course. She wasn’t that much of a fool or an innocent. But she didn’t know what to expect emotionally.
She hoped that loving Nigel would be enough, and that he would teach her the rest. It was quite some time since he’d made a serious attempt to get her into bed, she thought remorsefully. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t delay the moment any longer. It was long overdue.
Perhaps it was the fear of rejection which had kept him away so often lately. She’d been so wrapped up in her own life and its worries that she hadn’t truly considered his feelings.
I’ve just been totally insensitive, she thought wearily. And the tragedy is that it took someone like Marc Delaroche to make me see it.
But from now on everything’s going to be different, she promised herself firmly.
I still can’t believe you’re back already,’ Lottie said, as she put a shepherd’s pie in the oven. ‘Your phone call gave me a real jolt. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.’ She threw Helen a searching glance over her shoulder. ‘Didn’t you meet up with Nigel?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said brightly. ‘We had an amazing lunch in one of the newest restaurants.’
‘Lunch, eh?’ Lottie pursed her lips. ‘Now, I had you down for a romantic dinner à deux, then back to his place for a night of seething passion. Supper with me is a pretty dull alternative.’
Helen smiled at her. ‘Honey, nothing involving you is ever dull. And, to be honest, I couldn’t wait to get out of London.’
Lottie gave her a careful look as she sat down at the kitchen table and began to string beans. ‘Your interview with the committee didn’t go so well?’
Helen sighed. ‘I honestly don’t know. Most of them seemed pleasant and interested, but perhaps they were humouring me.’
‘And is this Marc Delaroche guy that you phoned me about included in the ‘pleasant and interested’ category?’ Lottie enquired.
‘No,’ Helen returned, teeth gritted. ‘He is not.’
‘How did I guess?’ Lottie said wryly. ‘Anyway, following your somewhat emotional request from the station, I looked him up on the net.’
‘And he was there?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lottie nodded. ‘And he’s into buildings.’
‘An architect?’ Helen asked, surprised.
‘Not exactly. He’s the chairman of Fabrication Roche, a company that makes industrial buildings—instant factories from kits, cheap and ultra-efficient, especially in developing countries. The company’s won awards for the designs, and they’ve made him a multimillionaire.’
‘Then what the hell is someone from that kind of background doing on a committee that deals with heritage projects?’ Helen shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Except he must know about costing,’ Lottie pointed out practically. ‘And applying modern technology to restoration work. The others deal with aesthetics. He looks at the bottom line.’
Helen’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I hope the ghastly modern eyesore we met in today wasn’t a sample of his handiwork.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Lottie grinned at her. ‘But I’ve printed everything off for you to read at your leisure.’ She paused. ‘No photograph of him, I’m afraid.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Helen said quietly. ‘I already know what he looks like.’
And I know the way he looked at me, she thought, remembering her sense of helpless outrage as his gaze had moved over her body. And that glinting smile in his eyes …
She swallowed, clearing the image determinedly from her mind. ‘But thanks for doing that, Lottie. It’s always best to—know your enemy.’
‘Even better not to have an enemy in the first place,’ Lottie retorted, rinsing the beans in a colander. ‘Especially one with his kind of money.’ She went to the dresser to fetch a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. ‘Did you tell Nigel how your interview went?’
Helen hesitated. ‘Some of it. He was really pushed for time, so I couldn’t go into details.’
‘And you’ll be seeing him this weekend, no doubt?’
‘Actually, no.’ Helen made her voice sound casual. ‘He’s got a party to go to. A duty thing for his chairman’s birthday.’
Lottie stared at her. ‘And he hasn’t asked you to go with him?’ She sounded incredulous.
‘Well, no,’ Helen admitted awkwardly. ‘But it’s no big deal. It will be a black tie affair, and Nigel knows quite well I haven’t anything to wear to something like that.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He probably wanted to save me embarrassment.’
‘For the same reason he might have considered buying you an evening dress,’ Lottie said with a touch of curtness. ‘He can certainly afford it.’
Helen shrugged. ‘But he didn’t,’ she said. ‘And it really doesn’t matter.’ She paused. ‘Of course it will be different when we’re officially engaged.’
‘I hope so,’ Lottie agreed drily, filling their glasses.
‘And what about you?’ Helen was suddenly eager to change the subject. ‘Have you heard from Simon?’
Her friend’s face lit up, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘The dam’s nearly finished, and he’s coming home on leave next month. Only two weeks, but that’s better than nothing, and we’re going to talk serious wedding plans. He says from now on he’s only accepting contracts which allow accompanying wives, so I think he’s missing me.’
Helen smiled at her teasingly. ‘You can’t leave,’ she protested. ‘How are the locals to give dinner parties without you to cook for them?’
‘I promise I won’t go before I cater for your wedding reception,’ Lottie promised solemnly. ‘So can you please fix a date?’
‘I’ll make it a priority,’ Helen returned.
She was in a thoughtful mood when she walked home that night. There’d been a shower of rain about an hour before, and the air was heady with the scent of damp earth and sweet grass.
She was delighted at Lottie’s obvious happiness, but at the same time unable to subdue a small pang of envy.
She wished her own life was falling so splendidly and lovingly into place.
Yet Nigel seems to be managing perfectly well without me, she thought sadly. If only we could have talked today—really talked—then maybe we’d have had Lottie’s romantic kind of evening—and night—after all. And he’d have bought me a ring, and a dress, and taken me to Sussex. And he’d have told everyone, ‘This is my brand-new fiancée. I simply couldn’t bear to leave her behind.’
She’d started the day with such optimism and determination, yet now she felt uneasy and almost frightened. Nothing had gone according to plan. And miles away, in a glass and concrete box, her fate had probably already been decided.