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Antonia looked at him unwillingly, her diffident gaze drawn to the clean-cut lines of his face. ‘Indiscreet?’
‘By telling you what Cee had said,’ he inserted flatly. ‘And by not telling you who I was.’
Antonia’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly. ‘It’s not important …’
‘I think it is.’
‘Why?’ Her fingers tightened on the metal handle. ‘We are hardly likely to meet again, are we?’
‘Why not?’ The long straight lashes narrowed his eyes. ‘Cee likes you. She told me.’ He paused, and when she made no response, he added: ‘Well—I guess that’s all I came to say.’
Antonia drew an unsteady breath. ‘Is it?’ she murmured, her long fingers fidgeting with the collar of her coat. Suddenly, she was disappointed. ‘I—is your fiancée at home?’
Reed glanced carelessly up the stairs. ‘I doubt it,’ he responded, pulling one hand out of his pocket and combing his fingers through the dark vitality of his hair. ‘The shop doesn’t close until six, and it’s barely that now. But don’t worry about it,’ he finished with some irony. ‘I have a key.’
Antonia hesitated. ‘I—I was just going to make some tea,’ she offered, regretting the words almost as soon as they were uttered. Whatever had possessed her to offer him her hospitality? she asked herself impatiently. Did she want him carrying tales upstairs of the straightened circumstances in which she lived? ‘I mean,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I don’t suppose you—drink tea.’
‘Well, I don’t survive on honeydew and nectar,’ he responded, his grey eyes gently teasing. ‘Thank you, Miss Sheldon. I’d love a cup of tea.’
She had to step aside then, and treading silently on suede-booted feet, Reed entered the flat. Unlike the apartment occupied by Celia and her friend, there was no entrance hall. One stepped directly into Antonia’s living room, and her colour deepened embarrassingly as Reed looked about him with evident interest.
With the door closed behind him, Antonia did not linger to correct his assumption of her status. Shedding her coat on to a chair as she passed, she walked through the living room into the kitchen, leaving him to make what he liked of the flat. She simply wasn’t interested, she told herself, filling the kettle at the tap and pushing in the electric plug. The sooner he had his tea and departed, the better. And after all, Celia might not approve of his making a detour, when he was evidently on his way to visit her.
She was examining the contents of the biscuit tin when his shadow fell across her. ‘A watched pot never boils, isn’t that what they say?’ he remarked drily, surveying the pristine neatness of the kitchen. ‘Come and sit down. You must be tired.’
‘Do I look tired?’
After what Mr Fenwick had said earlier, Antonia’s tone was unnecessarily tense, and Reed regarded her with rueful tolerance. ‘I guess I always seem to say the wrong thing, don’t I?’ he averred, running a lazy hand around the back of his neck. ‘Now, how can I redeem myself? By telling you I was only being polite, or by assuring you that you look pretty good to me?’
Antonia bent her head. ‘Neither. It doesn’t matter I—you go and sit down. I’ll join you presently.’
‘Okay.’
With a careless shrug he left her, and Antonia took cups out of the cupboard above the drainer, and set them on their saucers. By the time she had put milk into a jug and set it, along with the sugar bowl, on a tray, the kettle had boiled. Filling the teapot, she put it on the tray, too, and then after checking she had everything, she carried it through to the living room.
Reed was lounging on the sofa, flicking through the pages of a self-help magazine she had bought to learn how to do minor repairs. In her absence, he had loosened the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled his tie a couple of inches below his collar, and the slightly dishevelled appearance suited him. But then, anything would, thought Antonia woodenly, refusing to respond to his lazy smile. He was vibrant; magnetic; the kind of man one could not help but be aware of, his unconscious sexuality a challenge in itself.
Conscious of this, she seated herself on the armchair opposite him, and made a play of pouring the tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she enquired, the jug poised just above the cup, but he shook his head, and responded lightly: ‘As it is.’
Belatedly, she guessed he was used to taking it with lemon, but in any case, she didn’t have any. And besides, her tea was not Lapsang or Orange Pekoe. It was just common-or-garden quick-brew that she bought at the supermarket.
Still, he seemed to enjoy it, resting his ankle across his knee, emptying his cup and accepting a second. She should have known he would feel at ease anywhere, she thought, going to cross her legs and then thinking better of it. Like a chameleon, he adapted to his surroundings, totally indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own. He was making her feel a stranger in her own apartment, and she resented his easy manner almost as much as his sex appeal.
‘Why don’t you like me, Miss Sheldon?’ he asked suddenly, setting his cup back on the tray while Antonia’s clattered noisily in its saucer. ‘Do I frighten you? Is that it? Are you afraid of men, perhaps? I’d be interested to know what I’ve done to provoke such a reaction.’
Antonia replaced her cup on the table with rather more care than she had picked it up. ‘I think you’re imagining things, Mr Gallagher.’
‘Am I?’ His eyes were shrewdly assessing. ‘We may not know one another very well—which I’m sure is your next line of defence—but I can sense hostility when I feel it, Miss Sheldon.’
‘It’s not—Miss Sheldon,’ she corrected him abruptly. ‘It’s Mrs I am—I was—married.’
‘Ah!’
His long-drawn sigh infuriated her, and abandoning any further attempt at politeness, she sprang to her feet. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, Mr Gallagher,’ she declared hotly, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. ‘I’m not afraid of the opposite sex. I don’t hate all men, or anything like that. I simply—I simply don’t care for … for men of your type, that’s all!’
‘My type?’ he prompted softly, and she felt the instinctive thrill of knowing she was getting into deep water without any means of saving herself. ‘Men like your ex-husband perhaps?’
Like Simon! Antonia knew an hysterical desire to laugh. No one less like Simon could she imagine. Oh, Simon himself might have seen himself as being attractive to women, as knowing all the answers, but compared to Reed Gallagher, he had only been an amateur. And she had probably been at least partly responsible for the high opinion Simon had had of himself. Although it had meant giving up her degree at university, she had been flattered that the local heart-throb should have chosen her as his girlfriend, and she had fallen for his good looks without ever questioning what might lie beneath the surface. Until it was too late.
‘You’re nothing like my husband!’ she retorted now, suddenly losing enthusiasm for the argument. The reason she resented Reed Gallagher had nothing to do with Simon’s defection, and she felt ridiculously gauche for having lost her temper. ‘I—I shouldn’t have implied that you were.’
Aware of her discomfort, Reed got resignedly to his feet and tightened the knot of his tie once again. ‘I think I’d better go,’ he remarked, stepping sideways round the low table on which she had set the tray. ‘Thanks for the tea. It was—delicious.’
Antonia was sure it had been nothing of the kind, and her own behaviour had been unforgivable, but there was nothing she could say. Short of offering an apology, which she had no intention of doing, she could only spare him a tight smile as he walked towards the door, and with a knowing inclination of his head, he let himself out of the flat.
Conversely, as soon as he had gone, Antonia wanted to call him back. Sinking down on to the edge of her chair, she cupped her chin in her hands and stared humiliatedly at the spot on the sofa where he had been sitting. What a fiasco! she thought bitterly. What an absolute fool she had made of herself. She hadn’t wanted him to leave with that impression of her, particularly not when she thought how amusing it would seem when he related the incident to Celia—and Liz.
The disturbing dampness of a tear sliding down to touch her fingertips brought Antonia a measure of relief. It wasn’t that important, she told herself, dashing the tear away and making a concerted effort to pull herself together. Putting the teapot and her cup on to the tray, she picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. It wasn’t as if she and Celia were close friends or anything. It would teach her to be more wary of them in future. They were not like her, and she should remember that.
CHAPTER THREE
IT was over a week before Antonia encountered either of her upstairs neighbours again.
It had been an unsettled week for her, not helped by the discovery, when she came home from work on Tuesday evening, of the delicate bouquet of creamy narcissus, hazy blue irises and nodding yellow daffodils residing in her kitchen sink.
‘I didn’t know where else to put them,’ declared Mrs Francis confidentially, knocking at her door only minutes after Antonia had arrived home to explain that she had taken delivery of the flowers. ‘It seemed a shame to leave them lying in the hall,’ she added, regarding her newest tenant with rather more interest than before. ‘They’re so beautiful, aren’t they? You’ve evidently got an admirer, Mrs Sheldon.’
Antonia smiled, but her thoughts were not as tranquil as her expression. She had already perceived that there was no card with the flowers, and there was only one person in her estimation who could have sent them. Reed Gallagher.
‘I—I’m very grateful, Mrs Francis,’ she said now, hoping the garrulous caretaker’s wife would not pursue the subject, but she was disappointed.
‘I had to put them in the sink,’ Mrs Francis, continued, looking beyond Antonia, into the living room. ‘I … er … I didn’t like to look for a vase, and as there were so many …’
‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Antonia lifted her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’ll find something.’
‘I could lend you a vase, or maybe two, if you need them,’ offered Mrs Francis helpfully, but Antonia was adamant.
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ she refused politely, feeling distinctly mean for not satisfying the older woman’s curiosity. But how could she tell Mrs Francis that Celia Lytton-Smythe’s fiancé had sent her the flowers? How dare Reed Gallagher put her in this position?
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Reluctantly, Mrs Francis was having to abandon her enquiries. ‘You’re a lucky girl!’ she remarked, starting back across the hall. ‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny.’
Antonia smiled again to soften her words. ‘I’m sure they must,’ she agreed, and closed the door firmly before any further comment could be made.
Nevertheless, as she filled every bowl and jug and milk bottle she possessed with the softly scented blossoms, Antonia couldn’t help inhaling their delicious fragrance. She had never possessed so many flowers in her life before, and while her initial instinct had been to return the bouquet to its sender, the practicalities of such an action deterred her. For one thing, she had no idea where Reed Gallagher lived or worked, and even if she had, could she take the risk of embarrassing Celia should she be with him at the time? In addition to which, there was always the possibility—however slight—that Reed Gallagher might not have sent them. How ridiculous she would look if she returned the flowers to him and he knew nothing about them!
One final solution occurred, but it was one she did not consider for long. The idea of returning the flowers to the shop that had sent them did not appeal to her at all. She could not consign such delicate blooms to instant destruction, and besides, if Reed had sent the flowers anonymously, as she suspected, he might never learn of her sacrifice.
Stifling her conscience with this thought, she found she derived a great deal of pleasure from the colour they gave to her rather dull living room. Coming into the flat after a day’s work, she found herself anticipating their vivid presence, and when they eventually began to fade, she bought herself some daffodils to mitigate their loss.
She spoke to Susie again on the phone, and promised her the days to her birthday would soon pass. ‘I’ll come on the six o’clock train next Friday evening,’ she told her mother, a week before she was due to leave. ‘I’m looking forward to it so much. It seems much more than eight weeks since I came to London.’
The weekend was uneventful. She guessed Celia and her friend must have gone away, for there was no sound from the apartment upstairs all Saturday and Sunday. Antonia spent the time giving her kitchen a brightening lick of paint, and determinedly avoiding the inevitable comparisons between this weekend and last.
On Monday evening, however, she came face to face with Celia in the entrance hall. The other girl was on her way out as she arrived home, and the bunch of daffodils in Antonia’s hand drew Celia’s attention.
‘Aren’t they lovely!’ she exclaimed, bending her head to inhale their fragrance. ‘I love spring flowers, don’t you?’ Then her eyes took on a mischievious glint. ‘Of course, you do. Mrs Francis told me someone sent you absolutely loads of them!’
Antonia caught her breath. She should have realised that if Mrs Francis gossiped to her, she would gossip to her other tenants as well. ‘Oh—yes,’ she managed now. ‘I … was rather fortunate. A … a friend from work. He … he sent them.’
Now why had she said that? she asked herself impatiently, as Celia nodded her head. Who at the institute was likely to send her flowers? And how could she be sure Reed hadn’t confided his generosity to his fiancée?
‘I love receiving flowers,’ Celia was saying now, her words justifying Antonia’s caution. ‘Reed sends me roses all the time. He knows I love them.’
Antonia moistened her lips. ‘You’re very lucky.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Celia sighed contentedly, and Antonia felt the biggest bitch of all time. ‘Did you see my ring?’ She extended her hand. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’
It was. A large square-cut sapphire, surrounded by a cluster of diamonds, it glowed, even in the subdued light of the hall, and Antonia did not have to affect her admiration. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, her smile warmly sincere. ‘When … when are you getting married? Or haven’t you decided yet?’
‘In December, I think,’ Celia replied, admiring the ring herself. ‘Reed’s pretty tied up until then, but I’m hoping we can have a Christmas honeymoon.’
‘How nice.’
Antonia’s tone was a little forced now, but Celia didn’t seem to notice. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she responded, lifting her shoulders. ‘But now, enough about me, I’ve not seen you since the party: how did you enjoy it?’
‘Oh—–’ Antonia swallowed. ‘It was … very enjoyable. I’m sorry. I should have rung. But what with one thing and another—–’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Celia shook her head dismissively. ‘I just hoped you hadn’t taken offence over the way Liz acted. She can be pretty bloody sometimes, and that was one of them. She’s really quite charming, when you get to know her.’
Antonia cleared her throat. ‘I—I’m sure she is. Really, it’s not important. It was your night, after all.’
‘What did you think of Reed?’ asked Celia suddenly, and Antonia had the suspicion she had been leading up to this all along. ‘You spoke with him, didn’t you? Isn’t he something?’
The daffodils slipped abruptly from Antonia’s fingers, and in the confusion of bending to pick them up, Celia’s question was left unanswered. ‘I must go,’ she said, her mind obviously already on other things. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m meeting Daddy in fifteen minutes, and he won’t be very happy if I’m late. By—eee.’
‘Goodbye.’
Antonia summoned a farewell smile, but after Celia had disappeared out the door, she felt a wave of weariness sweep over her. It seemed more than five years since she had been as young and vital as Celia, she thought. Had she ever been that young? she wondered wistfully.
Tuesday brought a spate of accidents at the institute. Heather Jakes stumbled up the steps that morning and sprained her wrist, thus preventing her from doing any typing that day; Mark Stephens, the caretaker, strained his back shifting boxes in the storeroom; and Mr Fenwick split his trousers on his way to work and in consequence, didn’t appear at all until eleven o’clock.
‘Probably due to all those marshmallows he keeps eating,’ remarked Heather uncharitably, coming into Antonia’s office to deliver the message. She held out her bandaged wrist for the other girl’s inspection. ‘It’s just as well really. I can’t do much with this.’
‘No.’ Antonia grimaced. ‘I just hope Mr Stephens is all right, too. He’s really too old to be lifting such heavy weights.’
‘Tell that to the governors,’ declared Heather airily, sauntering back to the door. ‘They’re all for keeping costs down, which in lay terms means employing fewer people. You don’t know how lucky you were, getting this job!’
‘Oh, I do.’ Antonia spoke fervently. ‘I have been looking for a job for a long time, Heather.’
‘Hmm.’ Heather shrugged. ‘Well, I think it’s a shame you had to leave your little girl in Newcastle. The powers that be should take things like that into consideration, when they offer a job to a woman.’
‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to afford to pay someone to take care of her, when she’s not at school,’ said Antonia, voicing her own private thoughts on the matter. ‘Or perhaps, when she’s older, and can take care of herself until I get home she can live with me.’
‘Men never have these problems, do they?’ Heather remarked drily. ‘If they did, they’d soon find a way to deal with it.’
Antonia smiled. ‘You sound aggressive. Have you had another row with Peter?’
‘Not another row!’ Heather laughed. ‘Just the same one. He wants me to agree to give up my work if we have a baby.’
‘And is that likely?’
‘What? My giving up work? Not on your …’
‘No. I mean the baby,’ said Antonia gently. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Two years,’ Heather grimaced. ‘And the answer is no, on both counts. Not so long as Peter insists on being such a chauvinist!’
By lunchtime, Antonia felt as if she had done a full day’s work. There were certain letters that had to be attended to, and with Heather’s incapacity, Antonia took it upon herself to do the typing. It wasn’t easy. It was years since she had played about on an old typewriter of her father’s, and Heather’s sophisticated electric machine was unfamiliar to her. To begin with, she pressed too hard on the keys and had rows of letters appearing instead of just one, and when she did succeed in producing an acceptable copy, she discovered she had forgotten to put a carbon between the sheets.
With shopping to do in her lunch hour, she decided to miss out on the salad in the dining hall. Instead, she put on the jacket of her dark grey suit, ran a hasty comb through her hair, and emerged into the pale sunshine flooding the Edgware Road.
The sight of the black sports car, parked carelessly on the double yellow lines outside, would have alerted her, without the added identification of the man leaning casually against the bonnet. Reed Gallagher, for she had no difficulty in discerning his lean, sinuous frame, straightened abruptly at her appearance, and although she started swiftly away along the pavement, he had no problem in overtaking her.
‘Hey,’ he exclaimed, his hand on her sleeve barely slowing her progress. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Were you?’ Taking a deep breath, Antonia halted and turned to face him. ‘Why?’
His dark features were surprisingly sombre. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I really can’t imagine.’ Antonia tried to quell her rapidly accelerating heart. ‘But I’d be glad if you could make it brief. I don’t have a lot of time.’
‘You do eat lunch, don’t you?’ he enquired tensely, the errant breeze lifting the collar of the black silk shirt he was wearing. In an equally sombre black leather jacket and black denims, he looked as disruptively attractive as ever, and Antonia’s eyes were unwillingly drawn to the brown column of his throat rising from the unbuttoned neckline. ‘I was beginning to wonder.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dragging her eyes away, Antonia endeavoured to maintain an offhand manner, forcing herself to think of Celia, and what this might mean to her.
‘I mean I waited yesterday, without any success,’ he responded, glancing impatiently up and down the street.
Antonia’s lips parted. ‘You waited yesterday!’ she echoed.
‘That’s what I said,’ he conceded drily.
She shook her head. ‘I generally eat lunch in the dining hall.’
‘Really.’ His tone was sardonic now, and he cast another doubtful look around him. ‘I should have thought of that.’
Antonia strove to retain her indifference. ‘I don’t see why,’ she remarked, observing out of the corner of her eye a traffic warden just turning the corner. ‘Do you know you’re parked on yellow lines?’
‘As I collected a couple of tickets yesterday, I should,’ he responded briefly. ‘Antonia …’
‘Then I should warn you, there’s a traffic warden coming this way,’ she interrupted him crisply, closing her ears to the explicit oath he uttered. ‘I think you’d better move your car, Mr Gallagher. Unless you enjoy contributing to the Greater London authority.’
Reed’s mouth compressed. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’ he demanded, quickly measuring the distance between himself, the traffic warden, and the car, but Antonia had to refuse him.
‘I can’t,’ she denied swiftly, already moving away from him, and with a gesture of frustration, he turned and strode back to the Lamborghini.
There was an arcade just a few yards further along the street where Antonia generally did her shopping, and resisting the impulse to look back and see whether Reed had succeeded in his bid to avoid another fine, she turned into the covered walkway. Her heart was still beating much faster than it should, notwithstanding the speed with which she had put some distance between herself and temptation, and she stood for several minutes looking into the window of a newsagent, without actually seeing any of the display.
Why was he doing this? she asked herself over and over. It didn’t make sense. He had a beautiful fiancée, who cared about him, and doubtless other opportunities for diversion, should he so desire them, so why was he picking on her? If he wanted sexual excitement, why didn’t he simply find another girl of his own kind to feed his ego? A girl who would be flattered by his attentions, and perfectly willing to keep their liaison a secret. Or was it the fact that she was different, that she came from a different sort of background, that provided the stimulation, Antonia wondered. Perhaps he thought she might be easier to cajole, or unlikely to put up too much opposition, so long as she was compensated in other ways. Like … with a gift of flowers, for example …
The idea was so abhorrent to her, Antonia had walked out of the arcade again and into the street before she realised she had bought none of the things she had come out for. She was trembling so badly, it was almost an effort to put one foot in front of the other, and she decided to abandon her expedition and go back to work.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
The kindly male voice startled her, and she swayed a little unsteadily as an elderly gentleman touched her arm. ‘I … oh … yes, I’m fine,’ she managed, hoping he would not think her stricken expression was the result of his considerate enquiry. Just for a moment, she had thought it was Reed speaking to her, and she didn’t feel capable of coping with him right now.
‘Are you sure?’ The old gentleman was evidently concerned about her, and Antonia struggled to reassure him.
‘I must be hungry,’ she said, summoning a thin smile, and then her breath caught in her throat as she saw the lean dark figure making straight for them. She should have known Reed wouldn’t give up that easily, she thought unsteadily, wondering if she dared ask the old man to protect her. But the circumstances were such, she could not involve anyone else.