Читать книгу Stolen Summer - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

THE following evening, Shelley examined her reflection with some misgivings. Was what she was wearing suitable for a simple family dinner, she wondered. The dark blue Dior silk was very plain, but it was also very flattering, and the last thing she wanted to do was look as if she was trying too hard. The dress was cut with style and elegance, moulding the seductive fullness of her breasts and flaring over her slim hips. It had seemed the most appropriate choice in her wardrobe, but now she was not so sure. Marsha had said any old thing would do, but Shelley didn’t have ‘any old thing’. Most of her clothes were expensive, bought with her position in mind. She could hardly appear in a shirt and jeans when she was going to meet Ben’s fiancée.

Turning away from the mirror, Shelley cast an abstracted look about the bedroom. Where had she put her shoes? And thank goodness she had done her make-up earlier. Right now, she knew her hands were shaking, and any attempt to apply the dusky amber eyeshadow and burnt coral lip-gloss would have surely ended in disaster. Her hair, too, had benefited from the wax conditioning she had given it before her shower. Now, knotted securely on top of her head, it gave her height and confidence, even its colour muted by the severe style. She looked her age, she thought reassuringly, glancing at her reflection once again. She was completely unaware that by twisting back her hair, she had exposed the porcelain-like purity of her profile.

The sound of a car outside brought her swiftly to the window, but she concealed herself behind the curtain when a dark red Porsche drew round in a circle and came to a halt on the forecourt. Feeling horribly like one of those women who live their lives through observing others, Shelley would have turned away then, if Marsha’s son had not immediately emerged from the vehicle. In beige corded pants and a matching jacket, he looked every bit as disturbing as she remembered, the breeze lifting the thick swathe of sun-bleached hair and depositing several strands across his forehead.

Oh, dear! she thought unsteadily, feeling the bones of her shoulders digging into the wall behind her. This was madness! But she could not tear her eyes away as he walked round the car and opened the door for the girl at the other side.

Jennifer Chater was wearing a strappy sun-dress, which exposed the warm-brown skin of her arms and throat. Her hair was dark, a curly halo around her head, and although she was not tall, she was nicely proportioned, with vivacious features, narrow hips, and small high breasts. But most of all, she looked young, and Shelley breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing could point the differences between them more than to compare the wrap-around décolletage and narrow sleeves of her sophisticated—no, mature—gown with Jennifer’s candy-striped cotton. Shelley looked elegant, but Jennifer looked fresh and youthful, the veneer of girlish innocence not yet tarnished by experience. And she was evidently in love with Ben, unable to prevent herself from clinging to his arm as they circled the car and came into the house. Lucky girl, thought Shelley tautly, as she moved back into the room. But not before noticing that Ben lifted his eyes to her windows, as he passed beneath, and her ragged nerves reacted anew to the possibility that he might have seen her.

She had to go down. She knew it. But that didn’t make it any easier. Marsha had said they would eat at seven-thirty, and that Ben and Jennifer would arrive a little earlier, so they could all have a drink beforehand. It was almost twenty-five past seven now. She couldn’t delay any longer. They would think she had planned to make an entrance.

A final check that her tights were smooth, and that the hem of her dress was not too short for a woman of almost thirty-one, Shelley left her room and went down the stairs. Her perfume, a delicate fragrance by Yves Saint Laurent, encircled her in its aura, and she drew a little comfort from the fact that she looked, and smelt, like a successful female executive. It was ridiculous to allow a young man of Ben Seton’s age to upset her, she thought impatiently. Obviously, her precarious mental state had produced other complications. Tonight, she would prove she was definitely on the mend.

She heard the sound of voices coming from the library, and steeling herself for that initial entry, she walked across the hall with her head held high. The door was open, making it easier for her to step inside unnoticed, she thought, but Marsha would not let it happen.

‘Shelley!’ she exclaimed, immediately drawing the attention of the other three occupants of the room, and now Shelley saw there was another man present. Tall and dark and distinguished, with flecks of grey marking the line of his temples, the newcomer was regarding her with evident approval, and Marsha was not unaware of this as she moved to greet her friend. ‘Don’t you look lovely!’ she exclaimed generously, dismissing Shelley’s admiration of her own silk blouse and velvet skirt without enthusiasm. ‘Come along. Jennifer and Charles are dying to meet you. I told you Charles was joining us, didn’t I? Charles Brandeth, our local G.P.?’

‘You know you didn’t, Marsha,’ responded Shelley, in a low voice, and Marsha’s eyes danced.

‘Oh, well—come and meet him now,’ she invited incorrigibly. ‘He’s a widower, actually. His wife died several years ago. He has no family, and he’s awfully nice.’

‘Marsha!’ murmured Shelley warningly, but she had no choice than to go and be introduced, first to Ben’s fiancée, and then to the village doctor.

Conscious that Ben’s eyes had been on her from the moment she came into the room, Shelley was careful to look only at Jennifer as they were introduced. She was a pretty little thing, Shelley conceded, aware that her opinion would not bear closer scrutiny, and she would probably make Ben an ideal wife. Being a veterinary’s daughter, she already knew the odd hours he would have to work, and no doubt she was prepared for the demands his job would make on their lives.

‘I believe you and Ben’s mother are old friends,’ she said now, after they had shaken hands, and Shelley immediately felt her age. ‘How long are you staying? Don’t you find Craygill rather boring after the exciting life you must have in London?’

‘Oh, Jennifer, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Marsha, making light of the girl’s rather tactless comments. ‘I’m hoping Shelley will stay all summer. If you start reminding her of what she’s missing in London, I shan’t stand a chance!’

‘I’m sure Miss Hoyt is appreciating the benefit of our rustic charms, Marsha,’ Charles Brandeth intervened smoothly. ‘How are you this evening, Miss Hoyt? I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.’

‘Thank you.’

Shelley managed a small smile, and as Jennifer turned away to speak to Marsha, Ben took her place. His hand beneath her elbow sent tremors of apprehension up her arm, and his voice was disruptively intimate as he said: ‘Come and get a drink. I want to talk to you.’

‘I—can’t.’ Shelley’s breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. The message in his eyes was quite unmistakable, and although for the past two days she had been trying to convince herself that the compliment he had paid her when he was leaving the other morning had been objective, she could no longer delude herself that this was so. ‘Ben—please——’

‘Are you getting Shelley a drink, Dickon?’ enquired his mother behind them, and Jennifer started to laugh at something Charles had said. With a feeling of relief, Shelley moved so that Ben was forced to release her, and the situation resumed perspective as she restored a sense of balance.

‘You’ll never believe it, darling,’ exclaimed Jennifer, unaware that she did not have her fiancé’s undivided attention, ‘but Charles has just been telling me that Mrs Simmons called him out to look at Arthur! Arthur is Mrs Simmons’ cat,’ she added, for their guest’s benefit. ‘Isn’t it priceless! She behaves as if that cat was human!’

‘She’s a lonely old woman,’ responded Ben tersely, responding to his mother’s frantic gestures, and crossing the room to where a tray of drinks was waiting. ‘What will you have, Shelley? I think we’ve got most things here.’

‘A—glass of white wine would be lovely,’ replied Shelley nervously, linking her hands together. Then, finding his fiancée’s eyes upon her, she added quickly: ‘What do you do—er—Jennifer? Do you work with Ben and your father?’

‘No.’ Jennifer shook her head. ‘I work in a solicitor’s office actually. But I expect I’ll give that up after we’re married. Ben will need someone to answer his calls and take messages. Both Daddy and Uncle Bill are near to retirement, and when they do, Ben will be the senior partner in the practice.’

‘I see.’

Shelley was nodding as Ben joined them with her drink, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her the glass. His hands were cool and hard, but they burned Shelley’s flesh, and she wondered if he was as aware as she was of the electricity flowing between them.

‘I was just telling Shelley that when Daddy and Uncle Bill retire, you’ll be taking on a junior partner,’ said Jennifer, taking hold of his arm, as if she couldn’t bear not to be in contact with him. ‘We’re getting married in October. You must come to the wedding.’

‘Oh—I—that’s very nice of you, but——’

‘It’s not a definite date,’ said Ben flatly, as Shelley struggled to find words to excuse herself. ‘It really depends on Jennifer’s father. You do want him to be at the wedding, don’t you?’ he added, as the girl clinging to his arm started to protest.

‘Well, of course I do, but——’

‘Dickon, don’t be so aggressive!’ Marsha came to soothe Jennifer’s ruffled feelings. ‘Honestly, these two!’ she exclaimed, to no one in particular. ‘They can’t even agree on a date for their own wedding!’

‘Personally, I have a great respect for elopements,’ put in Charles Brandeth provokingly. ‘No guests; no fuss; no——’

‘—thanks!’ declared Marsha, putting an end to his pronouncement. ‘You wouldn’t want to cheat me out of my part in my only son’s nuptials, would you? I want to see Dickon in a morning suit, Charles, walking down the aisle of the church in Low Burton. And Jennifer, of course. My dear, you’ll look delightful in white with your dark hair.’

‘Mummy’s already seen a dress she thinks would suit me,’ put in Jennifer eagerly. ‘It’s in Harrogate. Maybe you’d like to come with us one day to see it, Mrs Seton. I know Mummy would appreciate your opinion.’

Shelley sipped her wine as the conversation ebbed and flowed around her. She took little part in it, and she was glad to withdraw inside herself and assimilate her position. Even so, she couldn’t help but notice that Ben spoke seldom also, and she was half afraid someone else would notice the intentness of his eyes when they rested upon her. She was imagining things, she told herself. She had to be. But the fact remained that he disturbed her in a way she found quite intolerable.

Sarah’s appearance, to announce that dinner was served, interrupted her troubled speculations, and Ben’s mother was not slow to notice that the maid’s eyes lingered longest on her son. ‘Shall we go in?’ she suggested, touching Shelley’s sleeve and drawing her with her. ‘Really, that girl!’ she added, in an undertone. ‘It doesn’t seem to occur to her that I might object!’

‘Object?’ Shelley moistened her lips. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Sarah,’ hissed Marsha impatiently. ‘Haven’t you noticed the covetous glances she keeps directing at Dickon? I keep telling myself she’s only seventeen and doesn’t know any better, but she’s beginning to annoy me.’

‘Oh.’ Shelley felt a chill run down her spine. ‘I see.’

‘I blame Dickon partly,’ Marsha added, as they entered the dining room. ‘I mean—he teases the girl and she takes him seriously. But he is engaged now, and Sarah should realise he’s not interested in her!’

‘Yes.’

Shelley absorbed what the other woman was saying with a distinctly hollow feeling. She wondered if Marsha would be confiding in her if she suspected Shelley’s own involvement. Unwilling, perhaps, but none the less fundamental because of that.

Struggling with her conscience, Shelley tried to pay attention to her surroundings. The dining table looked lovely. Mrs Carr had arranged the place settings on Venetian lace mats, and the china and cutlery was reflected in the table’s polished surface. Scarlet napkins tucked into crystal goblets marked every place, and a centrepiece of roses and carnations seemed to oscillate in the glow of two tall candles.

‘It’s really not dark enough to need the candles, but I thought they looked pretty,’ remarked Marsha, directing everyone to their seats. ‘Shelley—you sit here beside me, with Charles next to you, and Jennifer, you sit opposite Shelley.’ She smiled up at her son. ‘I’m sure you can find your own place, darling.’

With Marsha occupying the principal position at the head of the table, Shelley found herself almost opposite Ben as he took his place beside his fiancée. Marsha had arranged it so that as Charles had no one else beside him, he was obliged to talk to Shelley, and throughout the start of the meal, she seemed to spend her time answering his questions.

‘It must be very interesting, working in the media,’ he eventually commented predictably, and Shelley, who was used to this kind of query, gave a practised smile.

‘I like it,’ she said, though without the enthusiasm she had once possessed. ‘Any kind of communication is important in a society that seems to spend its time withdrawing from human contact.’

‘Is that what we do?’ Charles arched his rather heavily marked brows. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘Oh——’ Shelley was loath to get involved in dogma. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Every aim of Western civilisation seems designed to discommunicate man from his neighbour. The age of the computer signalled the start of increasing isolation.’

‘Do go on.’ Charles was intrigued, but Shelley was reluctant. A gap had occurred in the conversation Marsha had been having with Jennifer, and now everyone’s attention was focused on her.

‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear my views,’ she averred, in some embarrassment, endeavouring to swallow a piece of asparagus that seemed to have lodged in her throat. She took a mouthful of her wine, wishing she had made some non-committal comment, and then was immeasurably grateful when Ben intervened.

‘I think what Shelley means is that computers are set to make a drastic change in our lifestyle,’ he remarked. ‘Right now, we are barely scraping the surface of what they can do for us. I was reading the other day, that by the turn of the century computers will handle a household budget, re-ordering any commodity as its needed from another computer at a store. They’re even talking of computers that can diagnose simple illnesses, to save doctors making house calls. You’d better watch out, Charles. You could be out of a job.’

‘Not me.’ Charles grimaced. ‘By that time, I’ll have retired, thank God!’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a frightening thought though, isn’t it? No need to go shopping; no need to visit your doctor. I guess it all began when the cinemas started to close.’

‘For which we can thank television,’ said Ben drily, and Shelley, who had disposed of the asparagus at last and was beginning to relax again, caught her breath. ‘You can’t avoid the fact that television has a lot to answer for,’ he added, holding her gaze with lazy irony. ‘Wasn’t it the medium that started this lack of communication? I seem to remember it being accused of killing the art of conversation.’

‘Well, yes. But people are better informed because of it,’ exclaimed Shelley defensively. ‘Do you have any idea how many prospective voters are reached at election time, by the simple formula of networking a politician’s views?’

‘And do you think that’s a good thing?’ enquired Ben sardonically. ‘Do you think it’s fair to expose the ordinary man in the street to a stream of fanatics spouting their own particular brand of insanity?’

‘People are free to choose,’ protested Shelley. ‘They can always turn the set off. They don’t have to listen.’

‘But they do.’ Ben arched one eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you forgetting? Not everyone is mentally capable of deciding what to believe and what not?’

‘That’s a very supercilious statement——’

‘It’s realistic——’

‘It’s intellectual snobbery!’

‘So you’d let anyone hear—or see—anything?’

Shelley flushed. ‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What are you saying then?’

‘I’ve heard that some entertainers refuse to appear on the box because it kills their material,’ put in Charles soothingly. ‘What kind of programming are you involved in, Shelley? Does light entertainment come into your sphere?’

‘Oh, really!’ Jennifer raised her eyes heavenward. ‘I’m sure Shelley didn’t come here to spend her time defending what she does, Ben. She probably finds talking about her work just as boring as I do! This is a dinner party—not a political debate!’

There was a pregnant silence after this pronouncement, and Shelley wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had not wanted to talk about her work; she never did. But it was difficult to avoid the inevitable interest it inspired.

‘I’m sorry——’ she was beginning awkwardly, when once again Ben came to her rescue.

‘It was my fault,’ he said, giving her a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. I am supercilious.’ He glanced at Marsha. ‘That’s what comes of being my mother’s son.’

‘Don’t involve me in this,’ exclaimed Marsha, glad to use his words to ease the situation, and Sarah’s appearance to clear the plates, provided a welcome diversion.

The conversation moved to the wine, and Marsha’s preference for French vintages. ‘Well, I may not be a purist like you,’ said Charles, ‘but I prefer the German wines myself. Did I tell you I’ve been invited to join a wine-tasting tour of the Rhine valley in October?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

Marsha was fascinated, and Shelley was relieved to be able to apply herself to the slice of lamb on her plate. She would have liked to take no further part in the conversation, but Jennifer decided otherwise.

Apparently sensing her fiancé’s hostility towards her, she leant across the table and said confidingly: ‘I hope I didn’t offend you just now. But you did come up here to get away from your work, didn’t you? Mrs Seton says you need a complete rest, that you haven’t to do anything at all for at least three months!’

Shelley laid down her knife and fork. Put like that, it sounded as if she was on the verge of enforced retirement. She supposed Jennifer meant well, but she couldn’t help the unwilling suspicion that the girl was using every opportunity to point out the differences between them—not least, the fact that she was young and energetic, while Shelley was old and wearing out fast.

‘Not quite that,’ Shelley said now, cradling her glass between her fingers. ‘I just have to take things easy for a while. I’ve been—overworking.’

‘She’s not an invalid!’ said Ben shortly, regarding his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘Mental stress involves the brain, not the body!’