Whatever Comes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Cari and Rob, our daughter and son-in-law, who live in Indianapolis

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

One

Amabel Clayton was distractively feminine looking. She was fragile, with a slender body that was marvelously curved. Her hair was thick and black. So were her eyelashes. Her eyes were blue. She ignored the whole image but, careless as she was, there was nothing she could do about the facade. As a reporter, she would have chosen to look less in need of male assistance, although there had been occasions when her look of fragile helplessness...had helped.

Most of her associates called her Clayton, but there were those who called her Mab. With a bird-dog relentlessness, she was one who immersed herself completely in her work, with no need for a social life. Since she forgot about men, she had been accused of not liking them. That wasn’t true. How could anyone like or dislike something to which she paid no attention?

Living in L.A., Amabel was a West Coast reporter for Adam’s Roots, the weekly newsmagazine crowding into the Time and Newsweek slot. It had been publisher Simon Quint’s imagination that selected the name. As the roots planted in the past—by Adam—had to be dealt with, so it was that the roots planted today must be dealt with in the future.

When told of Amabel’s new job, her father had frowned at her and asked, “You’re going to work for Simon? He’s as parsimonious as his name. Does he know you were hired?”

“Yes, to both questions. He was one who interviewed me in New York. He liked the piece I did on Rufus Baird.”

Her dad responded thoughtfully, “At least he recognizes good writing.”

Her mother inquired, “What will you do? What sort of magazine portion will you have? I don’t recall much of women in Adam’s Roots.”

“Simon Quint is surprisingly liberal. I’ll report roots?” Amabel shrugged and grinned.

So her dad teased, “I have some crabgrass roots and some dandelion roots you could blast.”

How many times would she hear something like that? But Amabel had already heard all the root jokes and her reply was serious. “I’m taking the advice you gave me long ago—be fair.

“My interviews aren’t going to hatchet anyone or make them appear ridiculous, but they’ll show the readers what the person interviewed is like, how they feel about things, what interests them.”

“You’ll be brilliant.” Her father was a prejudiced man.

However, her mother just suggested, “Interview Sean Morant.”

“An interview with him is impossible!” Amabel exclaimed. “The Rock Star of all time? And you think little old Amabel Clayton could snatch The Interview of the Decade? Pish and tosh.”

But among friends her own age, that was the overwhelming reaction of all the women to her new job. How many times had she heard variations of: You might interview Sean Morant!

Her replies were fairly uniform about her chances being very similar to a sin-doomed snowball’s. She got very tired of hearing about Sean Morant.

In the several years that followed Mab’s hiring, she did well. Her research was meticulous. She was businesslike and tactful. Of those she interviewed, she asked reasonable questions and searching ones. But she asked no hostile questions or embarrassing ones. It wasn’t her job to dissect a victim. She was completely fair with any age or any sex. She had very little trouble getting interviews. But she did not interview Sean Morant.

* * *

Sean’s PR man was naturally charming. He was probably somewhere in his forties, some years older than Amabel, and he cultivated a low profile. He looked rather pleasantly anonymous. He’d chosen to be called Jamie. Jamie Milrose.

He told Amabel, “Of all the reporters in this world, my love, if Sean gave out an interview, it would be to you—you know that. But if he allowed you that privilege, then he would have to give the same courtesy to all the other clamoring reporters in this world, avidly after an interview with Sean Morant.”

Jamie was patient. He explained, “You must know how many publications there are which would want that chance at Sean Morant! From Adam’s Roots through all the variety of news to Fort Wayne’s South Side High School. I went there to school, and I was on the staff of the South Side Times! So I know what it’s like to be a reporter.” With his expansive manner, Jamie gave her a lofty look, which invited her to laugh. She didn’t laugh.

Jamie continued, “However, if that happened, if we should grant interviews so recklessly, think of it just in Sean’s time spent! It fairly boggles the mind, doesn’t it? And the wear on his poor vocal cords! Ah, my love, have pity. Give it up.”

Enunciating with some careful exaggeration, Mab told Jamie, “I’m not your love.”

“It’s an expression,” he soothed. “It’s like a greeting kiss. It means nothing.” He smiled slightly with his head cocked just a bit. “Are you really a man hater?” He was silent as he watched her.

With the same kind of patience Jamie gave to interview requests, Amabel replied, “I love every one of God’s creatures. It’s just that I love some more than others.”

“Are you a lesbian?” He asked that deliberately.

“No.” She gave him an enduring stare.

“Then if you aren’t of that persuasion, how about dinner?” He opened out his arms in an expansive gesture. “I could change your whole outlook on life.” He used his most practiced male grin.

“The incredible conceit of men is something to contemplate.” She gathered up her things, put her pad and pencil into her purse and tried to close the zipper, but it stuck.

“We could discuss the interview,” he invited temptingly. “You could see how much I know about the way to access Sean.”

She paused in her struggle with the zipper. “I thought you said there was absolutely no chance.”

“There isn’t.” He smiled. “But you could...try...with me.”

“Jamie, you’re one of the reasons I have no use for men. You never give it up.”

“Now, now.” He settled in to enjoy their word exchange. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Since I am careful, you’ve done nothing.” She looked as if she was being very tolerant, but it was a trial.

He grinned. “You are a challenge.”

“Forget it.” She went back to the zipper.

“Why don’t you interview me about Sean?” He took the purse from her, opened the zipper, stuffed a head scarf deeper and zipped it closed.

She hesitated. “How well do you actually know him?”

“You could find out.” He handed her the purse as if it was a rose and his smile was wicked. “I have a nice little place up at Big Sur, just below Monterey. We could go there and lock...heads for a couple of days and see how things go.” He gave her his honest look.

“There’s a limit to the things I’ll do for my job. I would welcome the opportunity to quiz you, but a weekend is out of the question.”

He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “There was always the chance you’d be an eager young reporter prepared to give her all for the cause. Frankly, my dear, I hardly know the man.”

Mab was taken with the thought that it sounded very like Clark Gable’s classic reply to Scarlett’s plea.

* * *

Mab had never done the “other people” format for an interview. It wasn’t uncommon to seek out the opinions of acquaintances of well-known people. Or she could raid the files stored in the newspaper morgue for involvements and speculations about anyone in the news. It seemed the lazy cop-out to only interview the friends or relatives or co-workers of a personality...such as Sean Morant.

But Jamie had planted a seed, a root. And it grew and would have to be dealt with, for it would change Amabel Clayton’s life.

* * *

From her meeting with Jamie Milrose, Mab did glean one little item that set off a furor. Among the personality briefs, in Adam’s Roots, she reported there was some question about Sean Morant’s vocal cords being in jeopardy. Would he lose his voice? If he did, what would happen to his group? What would become of Sean Morant?

With her succinct words, panic erupted among the Rock devotees. The item was picked up and spread. It was mentioned in turn on MTV, Music Television, who hoped the rumor wasn’t true.

After a week had passed, Jamie called Mab. “You darling! His records are being snatched up—everyone thinks his vocal cords are doomed. Beautiful! I owe you.”

So, quite naturally, Mab leaped on that. She quickly asked, “How about an interview?”

His voice a purr, Jamie reminded her, “There’s always Big Sur.”

“Jamie, you just said you owe me. What about an interview with Sean?”

“Would you like an autographed copy of his Timeless album?” Jamie inquired in a generous manner. Then he added smoothly, “There’s a woman in ‘She Rocked Me’ that could well be you.”

But Mab ignored the chatter and stuck to reality. “Jamie, you said you owed me. Try for the interview.”

“‘Tis hopeless, my love.” Jamie was regretful, but that finished the conversation.

* * *

Several days later, Amabel got the autographed Timeless album, and played “She Rocked Me.” She had never listened all the way through any of Sean’s recordings. His roughened voice was what a woman wanted...she’d heard. The woman Jamie said could well be Mab used the man like a vampire, sucking him dry of innocence and love before she discarded him. It made Mab mad.

So the album was still on Mab’s desk when her boss, Wallace Michaels, walked into her cubbyhole. He picked up the album and asked, with some startled interest, “You get autographed albums from Sean Morant?”

Automatically correcting his leap to an erroneous conclusion, she replied, “From his publicity agent, Jamie Milrose.” Mab went on typing. She was allergic to computers.

Wallace asked her, “You got an in with Jamie?”

“Wally,” she explained to an innocent, “Jamie probably signs the albums himself. He’s that tricky.”

He asked quickly, “Could you get an interview?”

Wallace Michaels was VP over all the people news of Adam’s Roots. Since his job dealt only in personalities, he felt like a third-class citizen and was sensitive about it. He wanted to be in the mainstream of news and happenings and actually he was only involved in...gossip. He adjusted to the only way to handle gossip. He took it seriously.

“Wally, you know I have been trying to get an interview with Sean Morant for you for three years. I speak with Jamie Milrose several times a year in that effort. I have tried to waylay Sean Morant, and so far I’ve been unsuccessful. So has every other reporter. We get only the publicity handouts. You are aware of all that.”

Wally pushed up his lower lip thoughtfully and declared, “We need an interview.”

“Good luck.”

“Now, Mab— It was your little squib about his gold-plated vocal cords that caused all this hoorah. Now’s your time. And nothing is going on right now! So, unless some other country blows up another, we could get a cover story out of it! Do it.”

Mab was disgusted and told Wally seriously, “It would have to be with interviews of others who know him or who’ve worked with him.”

Wally was firm. “Do it.”

“It’ll kill my reporter’s soul.” Closing up her desk, Mab lifted the pull-out typewriter shelf to release the holding, spring catch in order to swing it down into the desk. It stuck. She tried again.

As if an oracle, Wally observed, “You don’t like Sean Morant.”

She temporarily abandoned her desk’s problem in order to stand up and look at Wally. She was kind. “I haven’t met a whole lot of men I do like.” She became gentle. “I find men are overrated.” She gestured. “The ones I’ve met tend to be petty, self-serving, egotistically immature and quite ruthless.” She scowled. “They’ve fouled up the world. Both politically and chemically.” She became logical. “And with Sean Morant, we have the ultimate in uselessness.”

“You are the perfect foil to find out if there’s a man under all that hype. Do it.”

She sighed impatiently and went back to fiddle with her stubborn desk mechanism as she said, “You are one of the few men I can tolerate. This isn’t really an assignment for me. I’m not into MTV, or Rock concerts, or that type of music and I believe it’s a...” She was distracted by her examination of the desk mechanism and she jounced it.

“He is involved with the Feed the World’s hunger programs.”

“Who isn’t?” She bit her lower lip and strong-armed the stubborn, probably male, desk’s unmovable typewriter tray.

“You know, Mab.” Wally had turned soothsayer. “You’re a genuine man hater. I’m glad I’m safely married. If I wasn’t, I might try for you and you’d shrivel me up.” He reached over and effortlessly swung the typewriter and its shelf down into the desk.

She considered him thoughtfully. “I could live next door to you.”

“Ah, a magnificent concession.”

“But spare me Sean Morant.”

But Wally directed, “Do the interview any way you can make it.” With that comment out of the way, he added, “Chris would like you to come to dinner on Saturday. She is having her cousin over, and she’d like to expose him to you.”

“Expose?” Mab turned back to Wally and raised her eyebrows. “You make me sound like chicken pox.”

He replied kindly, “You look so easy, and it’s just a facade. Looking at you the first time, anyone would think you’re all sweetness and light, and you’re a shock. Men can be very misled. Chris thinks Joe needs the kind of set-down you’ll give him.”

“I’m a serious woman. I dislike being taken for a dolly.” Then she enunciated her rejection distinctly, “My parents didn’t raise me to educate the male population on the rights of women to be people.”

“Chris would take it as a favor.” Wally’s eyes twinkled. “And I’d love watching it. Joe’s a revolving one. Anyway you look at him, he’s a bastard.”

“It sounds like a thrilling evening. No, thanks.”

“He would be a better man,” Wally coaxed.

She rejected the whole idea. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Then how about Friday? There’ll be just the family. Chris has missed you. And you know I love you, too.”

Mab studied Wally seriously. “You really want this interview, don’t you?”

“How astute!”

* * *

So it was that, like any hack, Mab began to go through the files; and the information, speculation and lies on Sean Morant did collect...along with the pictures. There were all sorts of pictures. Studio or candid. He looked bored. He looked like a man who didn’t give one hoot in hell about anything. The only time he didn’t look bored was in those pictures taken as he performed.

Those made Amabel thoughtful. He was an interesting-looking man. He wasn’t handsome. His face wasn’t that unusual. He was above average in height, and he was well-built, but many men are. His hair was dark, and lashes shadowed his eyes. She had read that his eyes were brown. The pictures of him performing were in vital contrast to those pictures taken of him on the street.

She collected some of his videotapes. She played them at her small, canyon house. The house was perched on a gully. Alone, she played tapes of Sean Morant on her VCR, so that she could listen and watch this person perform.

On stage, Sean did have a presence. His movements were—well—a pleasure to watch. He was a well-made male animal. He exuded maleness as he performed. He used his maleness. Deliberately. With calculation. He was a leader to the male viewers, and a lover to the female ones. He was what everyone wanted. Except Mab, of course. Mab was immune.

She would look at him, performing on the VCR, then lift the candid street shots up to compare his pictures to the screen. Away from music, he looked as if he was ‘on hold,’ uninvolved, disinterested. The pictures taken of him then showed his disinterest even in being photographed. He didn’t turn from the camera or give a big celebrity smile. He simply looked at the lens as one would a post.

The candid pictures fascinated Mab. And it was those which caught her attention. Those with women. A multitude of women. Each picture was remarkably the same. Each showed Sean to the left, full-length, dressed each time in the same type of casual clothes. His hair was carelessly tousled. His sober eyes were on the camera in disinterest. And on his left in each of those pictures was a different woman.

The women were dressed variously, some smiling, some as sober as he. All were tall, lovely and walking in step with Sean.

Mab began to pin the lookalike pictures up on her bulletin board. Her plan board. Row upon row of the almost-identical pictures: Sean walking with another woman.

In viewing the pinned rows, it seemed obvious to Mab that Sean wasn’t indifferent, he was exhausted! All those women! They would take a toll. He was only in his middle thirties. He seemed older. It was probably his life-style, eroding him.

She geared her article to expose Sean Morant, the womanizer. All those women were known. A few had been fans or relatives. Those pictures had been discarded, and Amabel concentrated only on those known personalities who had been pictured walking with Sean Morant. She interviewed each one of them.

It annoyed Amabel Clayton to find she wasn’t the unbiased reporter she’d always been. She wondered if she’d reached burnout at twenty-eight. Why should she feel a hostility to the women who walked with Sean? Why did she feel such a strange...distaste?

The only other time she’d felt such antagonism to another female was in sixth grade when her best friend was caught sending a note across the classroom to Amabel’s boyfriend. He hadn’t known he was her boyfriend but her best friend had. The feeling then was very similar to what Amabel felt now. It was almost as if she felt jealous of those women she was interviewing about Sean Morant.

Wanda Moore was one of Sean’s side-by-side women whom Amabel interviewed. The interview was in Wanda’s bedroom. Wanda was in bed wearing a thin bed jacket. The indication being that that was all she wore under the satin sheet.

In a marked contrast, Amabel was wearing a shirt with a light sweater vest, a matching skirt, hose and flat-heeled loafers. Her hair was under a neatly tied scarf.

Wanda giggled and confided, “My name’s a, uh, play on words, you know?”

Feeling uncomfortably obtuse, Mab asked through thinned lips, “Really?” in a quite indifferent manner. She waited with poised mike.

“It’s like I want—more.” Wanda giggled and squirmed as she rubbed her knees together under the satin sheet.

“More—what?” Mab questioned; by that time she was being deliberately blank.

“You know. Sex.” And she rolled her eyes at the grinning cameraman.

Mab looked out the bedroom window and considered applying to woman a one-person satellite filled with plants to resow the diminished world. It was painfully obvious Sean’s attraction to Wanda was not mental.

One of the more irritating responses was when Mab asked, “Tell me about Sean Morant. What is your opinion of him?”

“Oooh!” Wanda went into spasms of giggles and eye rolling.

“Could you tell us what you mean?” Mab inquired with careful seriousness.

“He’s just delicious!”

Stoically, Mab could not resist, “Did you ever discuss world affairs?”

Wanda lost the giggles as she inquired succinctly, “Are you kidding?”

So Mab asked kindly, “Would you mind our taking your picture? We may use it with the article.”

“What do you think this whole exercise is all about, ice queen!”

* * *

When Mab returned to her office and confronted her boss, Wally said, “But, honey, it’s very lonely out in space.”

“Don’t call me honey.”

“Well, don’t get mad at me if Sean’s choice in female companionship isn’t up to your standards. I’m not guilty! I married Chris before I ever even knew you, and you approve of her.”

Mab commented, “I have this terrible feeling you’d react to Wanda Moore just like the cameramen.”

“How?”

“Flushed and laughing and restless.”

Wally asked with interest, “Are you jealous?”

“My God, Wally!”

“Well...”

On her soapbox, Mab responded, “When women are trying to be taken seriously? And Wanda acts that way? Instead of Hillary Rodham Clinton, men tend to think of the Wandas of the world when they mentally picture ‘women.’ It’s excessively depressing.”

“Are all the women who marched along with our hero like Wanda?” He went over to the bulletin board and viewed along the lines of similar pictures.

“A shuddering number of them. His IQ must range between forty and fifty.”

“He’s a fine musician.”

Mab agreed. “There are many flawed people God compensated with a brilliance in some talent.”

Wally gave up on the pictures on the board to look at Mab. “How many more do you have to see?”

“Three.”

Then he asked, “Have you tried the computer yet?”

“Don’t push.”

“You’re the last holdout.” Wally reminded her. “It will change your life.”

“If God had intended me to fly, he would have given me wings.”

Wally chided, “That’s the argument for planes—this is a computer.”

“Don’t irritate me.”

“You’ve been that way lately, with no help from anybody.” Wally was kind. “If I didn’t know you for a basic man hater, I’d think you had an unrequited passion for Sean Morant.”

“Good grief.” She looked up at Wally with wide eyes of shock.

Wally observed, “You’re paranoid when it comes to machines—and men.”

“I’ll grant the machine half.”

“It’s just that you don’t understand either one.”

Mab gestured. “Of course I understand men. They are simple, basic creatures.”

“We’re human.” Wally admitted that.

“Very.”

Wally inquired thoughtfully, “Did you ever get any help with this problem?”

“I don’t have any problem! I am content to live alone, I don’t need a man to take care of me, I can support myself. The only problem I have with men is they don’t understand why I don’t want to hop into bed with them.”

He grinned. “Again, I’m glad I’m already safely married to Chris.”

“Me, too. If you weren’t you’d probably be depressingly like all the rest.”

“Simon Quint, too?”

“No,” she retorted. “I find our publisher a perfectly rational human being.”

* * *

As Amabel compiled the Sean Morant interviews, she noticed there was one characteristic all the women had mentioned. Sean Morant was kind. Amabel put that into her report, which was very cleverly written. She was subtle. She implied he was a womanizer who kindly spread his attentions as widely as he could.

The rows of pictures from Amabel’s bulletin board were used for the magazine cover. All those row on row, almost identical pictures of Sean Morant walking with different women—except for the last, bottom, right-hand corner. There the picture showed a similar shot of Sean, but next to him was a female shadow and on the feminine outline was written: Who’s next?

With that cover, the article inside the magazine was superfluous. The cover said it all.

* * *