Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 35

Francesca pushed open the kitchen door cautiously and was assailed by the waves of heat and steam that billowed out. She recoiled, stepping back for a split second, and then edged inside, peering through the vaporous haze. She said, ‘I wish you’d let me do something to help.’

Victor, who was poised in concentration over the Aga stove, swung around at the sound of her voice. She saw at once that his face was flushed and that he was the picture of domesticity in the kitchen, where all manner of foodstuffs lay scattered on the table and the counter top near the sink. He had taken off his tie, his sleeves were rolled up, and he wore one of her dainty cotton aprons tied around his waist. She hid a smile, and ventured, ‘Can I at least stir one of the pots for you?’

He shook his head slowly, giving her his lazy smile. ‘Negative. There’s a line about too many cooks spoiling the broth that happens to be the truth. Besides, you don’t think I’d let an English girl tamper with my specialities, do you?’ he teased. ‘I told you earlier only a paesano knows how to cook a real Italian dinner. So go away, and let me get back to my culinary creations.’ He grinned at her and put down the wooden spoon he was holding. ‘There is one thing you can do though.’ He strode to the refrigerator and opened the door, handing her a bottle of pink champagne. ‘Stick this in the ice bucket, over there on the table. And please go back to the drawing room. I’ll join you in a few minutes. It’s far too steamy in here, and I don’t want you catching another cold after I’ve just cured the last one.’

Francesca shivered as she went through the adjoining dining room, acknowledging to herself that Victor had been right. Earlier in the evening, when he had first arrived, he had pronounced the dining room chilly and hardly the ideal spot for her after a bout of influenza and several days lying prostrate in bed. He had suggested they should have supper in the drawing room, and after she had produced a folding card table, he had covered it with a red gingham cloth, which he had found in the kitchen cupboard, and brought two chairs from the dining room.

Francesca eyed the table now as she walked in with the champagne. He had placed it to one side of the fireplace and set it himself, refusing to let her help, had even added a silver candlestick with a red candle and a tulip in a bud vase, charming touches she had not anticipated from a man, least of all him. Once this task had been accomplished, Victor had disappeared into the kitchen to unpack the bags of groceries he had bought in Soho, and to start preparing the meal. She had trailed after him, volunteering to help, but he had resolutely shooed her away and literally closed the door in her face. Francesca had shrugged helplessly. She had come to understand that Victor Mason could be very assertive, and just a mite overpowering. At the beginning of the week she had felt debilitated and had been unable to maintain her wails of protest, had allowed him to take charge in his masterful way. Tonight she was feeling far too happy to fight him, enjoying the attention he was showering on her.

She examined the cork in the bottle, decided to let Victor struggle with it, and moved in the direction of the fireplace. Seating herself in the wing chair, she smoothed down her skirt, adjusted the collar on her sweater and sat back, propping her feet on the fender, waiting for him to emerge from the kitchen. The heat from the blazing logs in the hearth had brought out the varied scents of the flowers and, to Francesca, the drawing room smelled and looked like a garden bower in mid-summer, the profusion of lovely blooms enhancing the inherent beauty of the charming room, so mellow and tranquil in the firelight. Several great Chinese porcelain vases spilled with masses of the scarlet-tipped white tulips, the pale and fragile narcissi flourished in a number of smaller china bowls, whilst the Limoges cachepot planted with hyacinths stood in the centre of the coffee table. The mimosa had also been beautiful, and delicately fragrant, but the blossoms had faded and dried out quickly, as they always did, and reluctantly she had thrown them away on Thursday.

Francesca leaned forward and breathed deeply over the hyacinths, inhaling their exquisite scent. It struck her that there was something infinitely luxurious about the fresh flowers at this time of the year, particularly since it still seemed like winter to her, with the perpetual thunder-storms and gales and dark overcast skies that had not lifted all week. She touched the smooth waxy petals of the hyacinths, recalling her excitement when the delivery van had arrived from Moyses Stevens on Monday afternoon. She had held her breath as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the card, believing it to be from Victor, for only he would have been so lavish and sent a veritable truckload of flowers. Her face had dropped when she read the signatures, and severe disappointment had followed sharply on the heels of expectation, crushing her joy. She was quite certain Nick had been the initiator of the gesture, that they were actually his gift, and only his, and that he had simply included Victor’s name as a matter of course, or perhaps as a form of courtesy.

Now Francesca’s expression changed, became pensive, her mind fastening on Nicholas Latimer. Her thoughts were sad as she envisioned his grief, knowing how anguished she would feel if her beloved Kim had been so tragically killed. When Victor had told her about Marcia’s accident, she had asked him for Nicky’s address in New York. She had immediately written a short but expressive letter, offering her sympathy and condolences, filled with genuine affection and concern for Nick, who had become such a dear friend. Victor had posted the letter for her the next day. It seemed to Francesca that Victor had been doing so many things for her this past week, and certainly she owed her rapid recovery to his devoted ministrations. She smiled. He had clucked over her and coddled her, and was continuing to do so, and she wished with all of her young heart that it would never end. But of course it would. That was an inevitability, since her health was practically restored to normal.

Francesca sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, contemplating Victor Mason, whom she now recognized was a most remarkable man, her mind dwelling on his many kindnesses to her.

Victor had made his presence more potently felt than ever several days ago, on Tuesday. That morning he had telephoned Francesca to ask how she was feeling. She had said she was a bit better, but it had not taken much insight on his part to realize that she was resorting to a white lie. Francesca had sounded dreadful with her raw, raspy throat and nagging cough. A string of pertinent questions, and a great deal of persistence from him, had left her no option but to confess she had not been visited by a doctor and that there was no one to take care of her. Under his fierce pressure, she had admitted that Mrs Moggs, who only came twice a week to clean the house, would not be returning until Friday. Imperiously brushing aside her warnings about germs and the possibility of his catching the ’flu, Victor had announced he was coming over to see her. A short while later he had arrived, armed with antibiotics and cough mixture from the doctor used by Monarch Pictures, lemons, oranges and two large glass jars of chicken soup from Les Ambassadeurs.

Francesca had been self-conscious and embarrassed when first greeting him in the hall, aware that she was looking ghastly. Here she was, confronting the only man for whom she wanted to be beautiful, and he was seeing her at her very worst. Her face had been pale and drawn, her nose red, her eyes watering, her hair rumpled and unkempt. Victor had not seemed to notice her appearance, which, now that she thought about it, was quite normal behaviour for him. He had always been oblivious to the way she looked, had never once paid her a compliment.

Taking a cursory glance at her as they stood in the hall, Victor had bundled her back to bed without delay, waiting until she was comfortably settled before hurrying downstairs. He had left her bedroom door ajar, and faintly, in the distance, she had heard him rattling around in the kitchen. Not long after, he had returned, marching into her room unceremoniously, carrying a large tray laden with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a Thermos flask of hot tea spiced with lemon and honey, and the various medicines. With great firmness, he had ordered her to take the antibiotics three times a day, drink plenty of the orange juice and the hot tea, and, as he had left, he had told her the chicken soup was in a pot on the stove, ready to be reheated that evening.

To Francesca’s surprise, Victor had visited her every day thereafter, and he had never once arrived empty handed, usually bringing something special which had been prepared in the kitchens of Les Ambassadeurs. She knew that John Mills, the owner of the private club, was a friend of Victor’s, and apparently he was most obliging when it came to supplying nourishing dishes for a sick girl. Although Victor was inclined to be somewhat domineering with her, he was also gentle at times, and very kind, concerned about her well being. He had also adopted a rather matter-of-fact manner whilst tending to her needs, and this had enabled Francesca to ignore her unattractive appearance, to forget it really. And anyway, she was feeling so awful those first few days, she no longer cared what he actually thought, since she knew he had no interest in her as a woman.

Katharine had been equally sweet and devoted. She had telephoned every day, but unlike Victor, she had listened to reason and had not insisted on visiting Francesca, for she was worried as always about her health, and fearful of getting sick in view of her career commitments. Katharine’s first call had been early on Monday evening, just before she had gone on stage, and she had been delighted when Francesca had told her about the basket of fruit from Jerry and Bellissima Productions, and the flowers from Nick. The next day Katharine had sent a selection of the latest books from Hatchards, with a charming and amusing note which had made Francesca smile with affection for her friend. That same afternoon, when she had ’phoned to see how Francesca was, Katharine had wanted to bring soup and other food to the Chesterfield Street house.

‘I’ll leave everything on the doorstep and run away, so you don’t have to worry about infecting me with your germs,’ Katharine had said, laughing. ‘Please let me do this for you, darling, I’m so anxious about you.’

‘Thank you, Katharine, but I’m all right, honestly I am,’ Francesca had responded swiftly. ‘And I don’t need anything. Victor was here earlier today, and he brought fresh oranges and chicken soup and medicines.’

There had been a sudden silence before Katharine had exclaimed, ‘That’s the least he could do! After all, you caught that cold when you were working for him. In my opinion, he should have arranged for someone to be there looking after you. He knows you’re all alone.’

Francesca had been startled by this comment, considering it quite extraordinary. ‘But he doesn’t have to do anything at all,’ she had said slowly. ‘I’m not his responsibility. And it really isn’t his fault that I got ill when I was scouting locations in Yorkshire. Gracious, Katharine, I could have caught ’flu before I left London, for all I know.’

Katharine had murmured something about not agreeing, but then they had quickly gone on to talk about Kim, her father’s accident, and a number of other matters.

After they had hung up, Francesca had felt unusually depressed and more miserable than ever, and she could not help dwelling on Katharine’s words. Of course she was right in what she had said. Victor was simply being a considerate employer, and that was all. Francesca’s hopes that his feelings towards her had somehow radically changed were instantly dashed to the ground. For the rest of the week she steeled herself to his presence, curbing her vivid imagination, and exercising as much control over her emotions as she could muster. This had not been an easy task, since Francesca was enormously attracted to him physically, and infatuated with him to such an extent that he totally occupied her thoughts, and in consequence she was vulnerable to him in every way. It was for these reasons that she assiduously avoided mentioning his name to Katharine again, not wishing to hear her friend’s pragmatic reasons for Victor’s attentiveness, which would have been like pouring vinegar into the wound. She preferred instead to believe that, if nothing else, he came to see her out of friendship.

Francesca did have one consolation. Victor had unexpectedly dropped his jolly, fatherly posture, and he was also much less distant with her; and if he treated her rather like a chum, this was infinitely more acceptable than being cast in the role of a child. By Friday she had begun to realize that a new easiness existed between them, that there had been a lifting of certain barriers. It soon occurred to her that it would have been abnormal if it had been otherwise. After all, there was nothing more intimate than taking care of someone who was sick, which, out of necessity, bred a certain kind of familiarity and closeness. Francesca had been extremely touched by his thoughtfulness, his solicitousness, and she had begun to count on his visits, even though he kept these to the point, and relatively short. Until yesterday.

When he arrived on Friday, just after lunch, he had been delighted to see her up and dressed, and looking more like her old self. Mrs Moggs, full of oohs and ahs about meeting a famous film star, had made coffee for them, and they had sat chatting together in the drawing room for almost two hours. He had told her about the progress of the film, recounting his hectic week in the greatest detail, and with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish in its eagerness. A few minutes before he had taken his leave, he had pronounced her fit enough to enjoy a splendid Italian dinner, which, he explained, he intended to make for her on Saturday night, informing her he was not only a terrific cook but an inspired one at that. Francesca had laughed gaily, and graciously acquiesced to his idea, sheathing her excitement at the prospect of spending an evening alone with him. She had thought of nothing else since then, wishing the hours away, filled with a breathless, nervous anticipation.

You’ve been an absolute idiot, living in a fool’s paradise, Francesca unexpectedly thought, and this brought her up sharply in the chair. She gazed wistfully into the fire, her amber eyes bright and beautiful, despite the sadness now flickering in them. Tonight is the beginning of the end of our new relationship, she said to herself with dim resignation, suddenly confronting reality, preparing herself to face the pain this inevitably brought. They would drink the pink champagne, eat the Italian specialities he was so carefully preparing, consume quantities of the Soave he had brought, and he would be charming and kind, as he had been for the entire week. And then he would leave and things would never be the same again. It would be over – their new-found intimacy and easiness with each other. He would undoubtedly assume his remote and avuncular posture, and she would be … what would she be in his eyes? Solely an appendage to Katharine, and the little girl, not to be taken seriously.

But I’m a woman, she sighed. If only he could see that. Francesca stood up and crossed to the mirror hanging on the wall between the two soaring windows. She peered at herself closely, immediately admiring the new sweater she was wearing. At least she looked smart. The sweater was chic and expensive, and it had arrived that morning from Harte’s department store in Knightsbridge, a gift from the ever-generous Katharine. ‘My way of saying thank you for your help with the screen test,’ the note had read. It was made of scarlet cashmere, soft and silky, with loose, three-quarter-length sleeves and a draped cowl neckline that fell prettily around her long neck. Francesca had fastened an antique gold pin on the collar, and she wore gilt hoop earrings that matched the gilt-metal chain belt around the waist of her black felt skirt, bouffant over the stiff buckram petticoat. She tilted her head slightly, regarding her reflection critically. A little makeup, adroitly applied, had done wonders for her, and that afternoon she had washed her hair and towelled it dry in front of the drawing room fire. It fell to her shoulders, smooth and straight and unstyled, and now she wished she had attempted to set it or had piled it up in the more sophisticated pompadour she sometimes favoured. She looked so young with it hanging in simple folds around her face. On the other hand, it was clean and shone golden-bright in the muted light from the lamps. If only I were beautiful like Katharine, she thought, staring hard at herself, dissatisfied with the face that stared back. It was pale and attenuated. She rubbed her cheeks, wanting to bring a touch of colour to their pallor, regretting she had not been more generous with the rouge, and then she smoothed her hair back away from her face.

‘You look very lovely.’

Francesca started and turned quickly. Victor was standing in the doorway, his hands resting on the door jamb, regarding her thoughtfully. Mortified to have been caught preening and primping in front of the mirror, she felt the sudden heat flooding into her face.

‘Thank you,’ she finally said in a tiny voice, and looked away, moving closer to the drinks chest under the ornate gilded mirror. ‘I was about to open the champagne,’ she explained, and started to untwist the wire on the cork, averting her flushed face.

‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, striding into the room. In an instant he was beside her, his hands over hers on the bottle. His touch was like an electric shock, and for a moment her fingers remained immobile under his. She gazed down at his hands, tanned and large, and at his strong sunburned arms lightly speckled with dark hairs, and her throat tightened with desire. She felt the heat rush into her face again, and, not daring to look at him, she extracted her hands gently and went to the fireplace, suddenly conscious of a trembling in her legs. I’ll never get through the evening, she told herself shakily, gratefully sinking into the chair. You stupid fool, she inwardly chastised herself and, swallowing hard, she took a firm grip on her emotions. And then she thought: Enjoy this evening for what it is. Don’t dwell on what it might be. That will be self-defeating, ruinous.

He was standing over her then, offering her the glass of champagne, smiling affably, his dark eyes warm. She looked up at him timorously and smiled back, taking the glass, relieved that her equilibrium was partially restored, that her hand was steady, her eyes no longer moist.

They said ‘cheers’ in unison, and Victor sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette and remarked, ‘I forgot to ask you how your father is doing? Is he on the mend?’

‘Yes, he’s much better, thank you, and being the model patient –’

‘Like father, like daughter,’ he interjected with a lopsided grin.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she murmured softly, and went on, ‘I haven’t really thanked you properly for looking after me, Victor. You’ve been super. So thoughtful and kind. I know I owe my speedy recovery entirely to you, and your … your coddling.’

‘I was glad to do what I could.’

Francesca rose, glanced at him, flashed him a fleeting smile. ‘I have something for you. A small gift.’

‘Hey, that’s not necessary,’ he began. She stopped at the Sheraton bookcase and opened the glass doors. Admiration flicked onto his face. She’s got the greatest legs in the world. She’s verboten, he reminded himself. Watch it, Mason. He dragged his eyes away.

She was back in a moment and handed him a small package, wrapped in decorative floral paper and tied with a silver ribbon. ‘I hope you like it, Victor.’

‘You didn’t have to do this, you know,’ he muttered, nevertheless looking pleased as he began to unwrap the gift, filled with curiosity. He found himself holding a copy of Wuthering Heights, and he saw at once that it was very old. The wine Moroccan-leather binding was faded, and the pages, as he turned them slowly, crackled dryly, were yellowed at the edges by the passing of time, and fragile. He lifted his eyes and looked across at Francesca and shook his head. ‘I can’t accept this. It’s obviously an antique and rare, and most probably very valuable –’

‘It’s a first edition, and it is quite rare. If you look at the frontispiece, you’ll see the date, 1847. And you must take it. I want you to have it. I’ll be insulted if you refuse.’

‘But it must be worth a great deal of money. What about your father? I mean, won’t he object? What will he say?’

Francesca stiffened, irritated by his inference that she could not act without parental consent. He’s treating me like a child again, she thought angrily, but said, as mildly as possible, ‘It has nothing to do with my father. The book belongs to me. It’s from a collection of first edition classics my mother left me, which was handed down from her grandfather, Lord Drummond, to her father, and so on. That happens to be my mother’s family crest on the cover, not Daddy’s. And so you see, I can give it away if I wish. I want you to have it as a memento of the film.’

Victor sat back, gripping the book, unaccountably at a loss for words, infinitely moved by the gift, and not the least because it was something so very personal, part of her history, a cherished heirloom that had been passed down in her family over the years. He leafed through the pages again, his expression introspective, and for a reason he did not comprehend, a lump came into his throat. After a long moment, he said, ‘Thank you. I shall treasure it always, Francesca. It’s one of the nicest and most meaningful presents anyone has ever given me.’

‘I’m so glad,’ she said, her eyes shining with pleasure at his most obvious pleasure. Rising, she took their glasses and refilled them. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to cancel the weekend visit to Langley, because of Daddy’s accident.’ She refrained from mentioning that her father had fallen off the stepladder in the library when he had been searching for this particular book for her. She went on, ‘He’s terribly disappointed, and so is Doris. They were really looking forward to it, I know Katharine was too. But perhaps it’s just as well. It wouldn’t be the same without Nicky, would it?’ she asked, placing the drink on the table in front of him, returning to the chair.

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he responded in the quietest of voices, wondering about her most apparent interest in Nick. To his amazement, and considerable annoyance, he experienced a spurt of jealousy. Good God, he thought, startled at himself, and pushed this unfamiliar emotion aside, recognizing it was unworthy of him, and also patently ridiculous. Conscious of the sudden silence, he cleared his throat a shade too noisily. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of Nick, but I guess it’s a bit too soon. No doubt he’ll surface next week. And he’ll be all right. He’s pretty resilient,’ he finished, almost to himself.

‘Yes, don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’ Francesca watched him closely, detecting the concern in his voice. In an effort to divert the subject away from Nicky, she exclaimed, with a show of cheerfulness, ‘When I spoke to Doris this afternoon, she suggested we arrange the weekend house party to coincide with the start of exterior shooting in Yorkshire, or alternatively, when you film at the castle. It would be rather fun to do it then, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, it’s a terrific idea,’ he answered, brightening. ‘Who’s Doris, by the way? You’ve mentioned her several times in the past few days.’

‘Of course, you don’t know about Doris Asternan. She’s my father’s girl friend, and a jolly nice person. Really super. I’m all for her, and so is Kim. We both wish Daddy would stop procrastinating and pop the question, then we could all relax, especially Doris.’

Victor chuckled, highly amused. ‘You seem anxious to have a stepmother, but more to the point, does your father really want a wife? That’s the key question, isn’t it?’

‘Of course he does!’ This was said with such youthful confidence, Victor was further entertained. Before he could comment, she swept on, ‘Well, let me put it this way, he needs Doris as his wife. She’s perfect for him.’

‘Is she now!’ His glance was keen, and he saw from her expression that she was being utterly sincere. But then she knew no other way to be. He found himself warming to her, admiring her. ‘Doris is damned lucky to have you as a champion, Francesca. Damned lucky. Most daughters wouldn’t react as you’re reacting, and with such open-mindedness, such generosity.’

‘Oh, children can be pretty selfish. They usually think only of themselves, and they don’t give a hoot about the single parent, or his or her problems,’ she remarked, becoming serious. ‘They don’t take into consideration the need for companionship, not to mention love and friendship and a shared life. I suppose they simply dismiss loneliness, believe it’s of no consequence. But people can die of loneliness.’ She waited, and waited, and when no response was forthcoming, she insisted. ‘Well, they can, can’t they?’

‘Yes,’ he said, taken aback by the maturity and understanding inherent in these words. ‘Living life alone is, very often, a kind of death,’ he murmured and clamped his mouth shut, realizing this was a most revealing remark. Feeling self-conscious, he jumped up. ‘How about another glass of bubbly?’

‘Thank you.’ Francesca sat back, staring after him as he went over to the chest near the windows. He’s well acquainted with loneliness, she thought with a flash of perception, intuitively understanding that nothing was ever the way it seemed on the surface. No wonder he has such a need for Nick’s friendship, she added to herself, and her tender heart filled with sympathy. He was a strong, vigorous, handsome man in the prime of his life, world famous and rich, the idol of millions, and yet there was something so … so very vulnerable about him. This had never occurred to her before, and she was surprised at the thought and stiffened in the chair. She swung her head away as he turned around, not wanting him to see the adoration and longing written on her face.

Victor brought the ice bucket back to the coffee table, poured champagne and then loped over to the sofa in strides. He stretched himself over most of it, casually draped one arm on the back and crossed his long legs. ‘Tell me more about Doris,’ he encouraged with one of his elliptical smiles. ‘What’s this paragon really like?’

‘Oh she’s not a paragon!’ Francesca cried. ‘Far from it. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like her so much. She’s very human and full of the most lovely imperfections, which I think help to make her a marvellous woman. She’s also a great sense of humour and she’s lots of fun, not a bit stuffy. She’s enthusiastic about everything, but at the same time she’s rather down-to-earth and sensible.’ Francesca crinkled her eyes, thinking hard. ‘Let me see, what else can I tell you? Well, she’s tall and rather pretty, with short curly red hair and the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen. Outgoing. Effervescent. Doris really and truly cares about Daddy, and that’s the most important thing to me.’

‘Mmmm. Quite a picture you’ve painted of her. Glowing. No wonder you want her for a stepmother,’ Victor said, amusement lingering on his face. ‘Have they been dating long?’

‘A couple of years.’ Francesca picked up her glass and took a sip, her eyes focused on him over the rim. ‘Oh and she’s an American. From Oklahoma.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ he said with a flicker of astonishment, immediately recalling the Earl’s inbred elegance, trying to visualize him with a hick from the Midwest. But if David Cunningham was enamoured of the lady, then she was hardly likely to be a hick. Victor’s brows drew together as another thought struck him. ‘Did you say her name was Asternan?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Doris is the widow of Edgar Asternan. He was a meat-packing tycoon. It’s Doris’s company now.’ Francesca paused to stare at him. ‘You’re looking even more surprised, Victor. Have you met Doris? Do you know her?’

‘No, I don’t. But I know of the Asternan company. It’s a household name in the States, and big, like Armour, and Swift, who’re also based in Chicago because of the stockyards.’ Victor whistled. ‘That’s quite a company she’s inherited, and a hell of a fortune.’

‘Seemingly so.’ Francesca was reflective and after a moment she found herself confiding, ‘Daddy is so strange at times, and I have an awful feeling her money is getting in the way –’ She faltered and glanced down at her hands.

Victor said, his voice gentle, ‘That’s understandable, Francesca. He has his pride.’ He looked at her carefully and added, ‘But don’t worry your pretty little head about them. They’ll work it out, if they’ve a mind to do so. And whatever happens will be for the best. Life has a way of taking care of itself.’ He got up. ‘Now, I think I’d better get back to the kitchen before everything is burned to a cinder.’

She half rose. ‘I’ll come and help you.’

‘No,’ he said from the doorway. ‘You can light the candle, but that’s all you can do. And I hope you’ve worked up an appetite, because you’re about to eat one of the greatest Italian meals that’s ever been cooked. Superb!’ He kissed his bunched fingertips and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘I’ve outdone myself tonight, believe me I have. This dinner’s the whole enchilada!’

Francesca laughed. ‘If the chef is satisfied, then I’m certain I will be too. Incidentally, I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, what does that expression mean?’

‘The whole enchilada? The whole works. It’s a very Californian saying, and I’ll explain the derivation later. In the meantime, my hot stove beckons.’ He winked and went out.

Francesca went to the mirror, taking a quick peek at herself. The warmth of the room and the champagne had brought a hint of shell pink to her high cheekbones and her eyes were unusually bright. From the champagne or Victor? Victor, without question. She hurried back to the table and slid onto the chair, not wishing to be caught primping a second time. Francesca hugged herself with joy, thinking about his compliments, and of the way the evening was progressing. It was a success thus far, and so much so she felt like pinching herself, just to make sure she was not dreaming. She had half expected him to be stiff and distant, and also, being conscious of him on all levels, had been nervous about conducting herself with aplomb. But he was relaxed and natural and, more importantly, he seemed to be accepting her for herself. In turn, this had made her feel at ease and comfortable with him.

‘First course coming up,’ Victor announced, and walked in carrying two plates of food, a basket filled with breadsticks and the butter dish wedged in between them, as well as a bottle of chilled Soave.

He had put on his powder-blue silk tie and his pale grey cashmere sports jacket, and as he came towards her Francesca was yet again struck by his elegance, the costliness of his beautiful clothes, the aura of success and glamour he emanated. He had seemed so homely in his shirtsleeves. Now he looked like the famous movie star again, and this unexpectedly unsettled her; she was acutely aware of her own lack of sophistication, her simple appearance, her inexpensive, homemade felt skirt. But at least the new sweater was nice, and anyway she had been brought up to understand that clothes did not make the man, nor the woman for that matter. Nonetheless, recognizing the intrinsic truth in this did not prevent her from wishing she was wearing a gorgeous dress, the kind Katharine owned.

She looked up at him and said brightly, ‘That’s the best balancing act I’ve ever seen.’

‘It sure is, but then I’ve had lotsa practice. I used to be a waiter. Don’t look so doubtful, it’s true.’ He grinned, tickled by her astonishment, and set down the Soave, then the bread basket, and finally the plates. He lifted the butter dish out of the basket, and explained, ‘When I first went to Hollywood I had to find a way to support my wife and the boys, in between my jobs as an extra at the studios. So I became a waiter. And a damned good one, even if I say so myself.’

‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes widening, believing him. And then she thought: There’s so much I don’t know about him … his whole life really.

‘I hope you like prosciutto,’ Victor remarked casually, seating himself opposite her, pouring the wine, taking a breadstick and breaking it in half.

‘Actually, I’ve never had it before.’

‘It’s smoked Italian ham, sliced paper-thin, and it’s usually served with melon, but I often use other fruit for a change of pace.’

‘So I see. Where on earth did you find fresh figs at this time of year?’ She eyed the tender green fruit which he had split in half to expose the luscious pink pulpy centre.

‘Harte’s. Where else? I’m really hung up on their food department. I could spend hours just browsing.’

‘I know. It’s my favourite shop.’

‘Buono appetito.’

‘Bon appétit.’ Francesca tasted the ham, told him it was delicious and, between mouthfuls, went on, ‘The woman who owns Harte’s is a friend of ours, well, of my father’s and she’s quite incredible. The most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.’ As she ate, Francesca recited everything she could remember hearing about the legendary Emma Harte, whom she greatly admired.

Victor was fascinated, and he listened attentively and with growing interest, thinking that Nick had been correct when he said Francesca had a talent for telling a good story, and telling it well. ‘I like the sound of your Emma Harte,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I’ve always been partial to strong, independent and determined women. I can’t stand clinging violets.’ He winked. ‘They’ll never cling to me.’

Francesca’s eyes were watchful. ‘Most men feel threatened by a strong woman.’

‘Not this man.’

She said nothing, smiled enigmatically, and tucked this bit of information away to add to her store of knowledge about him.

After they had finished the prosciutto and figs, Victor cleared the plates, and before Francesca had time to blink he returned, pushing the trolley into the room in front of him. The cart was stacked with an array of silver serving dishes, and she said, ‘Goodness, it looks as if you’ve made enough to feed an army!’

Victor nodded, laughter rippling across his wide mouth. ‘Yes, I know, and I always do, I’m afraid. I’m sure the tendency springs from once being very poor. I’m over-compensating now, I guess. But, Jeez, I can’t stand empty cupboards or an empty refrigerator either. They’ve got to be stacked to overflowing to satisfy me, to make me feel good.’ He hovered over the trolley, removed various lids with a flourish, beamed at her and went on, ‘Fettuccine Alfredo, exactly the way they make it at Alfredo’s in Rome. His recipe by the way, and he gave it to me as a special favour.’ Victor served the pasta expertly, handed her the plate, took another larger one, and explained, ‘And it’s accompanied by a veal chop, pink and succulent and tender. I hope. There you are.’ He put the veal chop in front of her. ‘How does that look to you?’

‘Everything looks absolutely marvellous, Victor. Thank you.’

‘I’ve also made a salad of basil leaves, tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, but let’s tackle this first.’ He served himself, sat down and lifted his glass of white wine.

Francesca followed suit and they clinked glasses, and before he could propose a toast, she exclaimed, ‘To the chef!’

‘Grazie.’ He tasted the Soave. ‘Mmmm. Not bad, not bad at all,’ he said, savouring it. He touched her glass with his again. ‘And here’s to my beautiful patient. Fortunately fully recovered.’

Francesca inclined her head. ‘Why thank you, Victor.’ She was relieved she could accept this compliment without blushing.

As the meal progressed Francesca realized he had not exaggerated about his talents in the kitchen, and she was impressed. The food, which he had prepared so painstakingly, and apparently so lovingly, was delicious. The pasta was cooked to perfection, the sauce creamy without being over rich, whilst the veal chop was as tender as he had hoped and her knife slid through it as though cutting butter.

‘I’m really staggered,’ she told him at one moment. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’

‘The best place, the only place. At my mother’s knee.’ He drank some of his wine, and told her, ‘I love cooking. It helps me to unwind, and there’s nothing I like better than pottering around in the kitchen at the ranch. And I want you to know I’m pretty versatile.’ His black and brilliant eyes danced. ‘I can rustle up terrific steaks on the barbecue, and I make the best chicken and dumplings you’ve ever tasted. They’re out of this world.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she laughed, enjoying him, revelling in his company. In the past they had never once been alone, had always been accompanied by Nick and Katharine, and surrounded by a tribe of other people as well. She was delighted to have him to herself, to see a wholly different side of him.

Victor talked a lot during dinner, and about a variety of things, but mostly he talked about his ranch near Santa Barbara, his love of horses and the outdoor life, the quiet and essentially private existence he led when he was not working in a picture. But he did touch on the professional side of his life several times, regaling her with funny anecdotes about his early years in Hollywood and stories about some of the crazy characters who were his friends. He was witty and amusing and he kept her laughing and vastly entertained.

For his part Victor was enjoying himself as much as Francesca. She was an avid listener, the best captive audience he had ever had, and when she did ask questions these were intelligent or pointed, and usually pertinent. Her comments ran from acerbic to the hilarious. He began to realize he had not had such a good time for months, maybe even years.

Victor Mason was very much the domesticated male animal who had always preferred to relax in the luxury and privacy of his own home, rather than gallivanting in public. It suddenly occurred to him that this type of intimate evening was the one thing he had missed with his last two wives. Both had been perpetual and tireless party-goers, social butterflies of the most relentless kind, and they had wearied him to a point of suffocating boredom, as had the endless parties to which they had dragged him, invariably protesting.

But mostly, he knew, it was Francesca’s presence which was making the evening so pleasurable for him. She was companionable, and lots of fun, and tranquil to be with. Victor discovered he was drawn to her more than ever and for a variety of reasons. Prominent amongst these were her sweet disposition and her natural manner, coupled with her ingenuousness and straightforward honesty. He could not abide women who were crafty or coy or coquettish, who played oblique sexual games, and it was a relief to him to be with someone who was so utterly without guile, who was not out to set a trap for him. Because of her intelligence, her intellectual promise, her many lightning perceptions and her unusual self-confidence, Victor was beginning to forget about her extreme youth, that singular and most disconcerting fact which had continually nagged at him for weeks. And in so doing he set a trap, albeit unwittingly, for himself.

After dinner they seated themselves in front of the blazing fire, sipping coffee and chatting desultorily. Victor was ensconced in the wing chair, nursing a cognac and smoking one of the Earl’s best cigars, both of which Francesca had brought to him, once he had finished clearing away the dishes and the remnants of their meal. She sat opposite him, curled up in one of the large easy chairs, her feet tucked under her.

A silence had fallen between them, yet it was a compatible silence. Victor eased back in the chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He puffed on the cigar contentedly, regarding her through the haze of the smoke.

She smiled at him. ‘When do you actually start shooting in Yorkshire?’

‘Some time in May or June. We must be certain of good weather. But we start principal photography at Shepperton Studios the first week of April. That’s a firm date, and we’ll get as much footage in the can as possible, before going on location. Why do you ask?’

‘I’d like to give my father a tentative date for the weekend house party.’

‘I’ll check it out with Jake Watson on Monday, and let you know before I leave. I’m going away next week.’

Francesca felt the muscles in her face tighten. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I … I didn’t know.’ She fiddled with the fastening on her chain belt and ventured quietly, ‘Are you going back to Hollywood?’

‘Nope. I’m going to Switzerland. To Klosters. It was a trip I’d planned to take with Nicky, and since he’s no longer available, I was going to cancel it. But then I decided I might as well go off by myself. I need a few days’ break before plunging into the picture. I’m leaving this coming Wednesday, for about five days. It’s the last chance I’ll have before I’m firmly battened down by Jake.’

‘How lovely. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage.

Victor took a mouthful of the brandy, and then stared deeply into the glass, asking himself whether he would enjoy the trip without Nick. He never travelled unless Nick was able to accompany him and, unexpectedly, the prospect of five days alone, even in Klosters, did not seem appealing.

He put the brandy on the table and leaned forward. ‘Listen, Francesca, I’ve just had a terrific idea. Why don’t you come with me?’ He sat back, not sure he had heard himself correctly. That he had taken her by surprise was evident. Jesus, he’d surprised himself.

Francesca was thunderstruck. She was unable to answer, and sat gaping at him, her lips parted, her eyes conveying her amazement.

Victor’s expression mirrored hers. He had spoken on the spur of the moment, without thinking things out clearly, and a number of snags flew into his mind. On the other hand, having extended the invitation he could hardly rescind it without appearing foolish. Besides, it is a good idea, and for a variety of reasons, he decided. ‘Well, what do you say?’

Astounded though she was, Francesca was thrilled and excited. She was on the point of accepting when she saw the impossibility of the situation. Her excitement ebbed away. She swallowed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she began, and said no more. She bit her lip, knowing she had no alternative but to explain her refusal, lest he be offended. This was the last thing she wanted.

‘You see it would be very difficult to go away without telling my father, and he’d be … well … er … er … You know. I mean, he might think it a bit funny.’ She could not go on, and she looked at Victor helplessly, embarrassed by her admission that she was still obliged to inform her father about her movements, that she needed his approval.

Victor stared at her aghast. She had misunderstood him, and his motives. Jesus Christ! Seduction was the last thing on his mind. He must clarify that, set her straight before the discussion went any further. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m trying to proposition you!’ he exclaimed fiercely. ‘Because I’m n –’

‘Of course I don’t!’ Francesca cried with the same vehemence, sharply cutting him off. ‘It never entered my head.’ Her gaze was cool and her manner haughty. ‘Nor would my father think such a thing. He brought me up to have a sense of right and wrong, and he trusts me implicitly. It’s just that, well, I’ve never been away with a –’ She cleared her throat. ‘What I’m trying to say is that Daddy is rather old-fashioned, and he would think it quite improper for me to take a holiday alone with you.’

‘I can’t say I blame him,’ Victor replied, adopting the lightest, most dismissive tone he could. He lolled back in the chair, and his smile was rueful as he went on, ‘I guess it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’ He shrugged, attempted nonchalance. ‘No harm done, I sincerely hope.’ Then he felt a need to explain himself further. ‘And again, I hope you didn’t misinterpret the invitation, take it the wrong way. It simply struck me, suddenly, that the mountain air would do you good, since you’ve been so sick, and, to be honest, you would’ve been great company for me. I hate travelling by myself. I get pretty lonely. And we have become close buddies this past week.’ When she was unresponsive, he pressed, ‘Well, we have, haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, crushed and let down. I’m just a surrogate Nicholas Latimer, she thought miserably. A bloody chum. How could I have possibly imagined otherwise?

‘Hey, don’t look so glum.’ Victor was laughing, visibly relaxing. ‘It’s not the end of the world. And I understand why your father would be against it. After all, you’re only nineteen, Francesca. I keep forgetting that. Mind if I help myself to another cognac?’

‘Please do.’ Bridling at his reference to her age, she continued, ‘I’d like one too, please.’

‘Sure.’

Francesca put her elbows on her knees and dropped her chin into her hands. Her face was thoughtful, brooding. So badly did she want to be part of Victor’s life, to spend time with him on a one-to-one basis, she was now prepared to accept the relationship on any terms. More precisely, his uncompromising terms. She would settle for a platonic friendship. If they could only be buddies, as he phrased it, then so be it. She focused on the trip to Klosters. I’m going with him next week, come hell or high water, she made up her mind. I must, to cement our friendship. But how to accomplish this without dissembling? She was incapable of lying to anyone, particularly her father. I don’t have to lie, she thought, I can simply go, without telling him. But this would be deceitful. It was another form of lying in a way, and if he ’phoned the house and she was not there he would be concerned, if not, indeed, disturbed. Francesca knew she could not inflict this kind of worry on her father. He had enough to contend with. Somehow Daddy must be circumvented, she told herself.

Victor handed her a brandy snifter, interrupting her thoughts with, ‘Here you are.’

‘Oh, thanks. Cheers,’ she said abstractedly, and took a large swallow.

‘Hey, you’re meant to sip that, otherwise you’ll get loaded,’ he warned mildly.

‘No I won’t. I’ve got a hollow leg.’

‘That makes two of us.’ He chuckled and so did she. Yet there was a flatness to her laughter and he caught the shadow in her eyes. He studied her. Was she embarrassed because she had been forced to refuse his invitation? A hundred to one she is, old buddy, he answered himself.

‘Look here, Francesca, I hope you’re not worrying about Klosters. I’m not offended. Let’s forget it. I want to do some hard skiing, and that wouldn’t be much fun for you, even if you’re a crack skier. I start at dawn, finish at dusk, and you’d probably hardly have the stamina to keep up with –’

‘Skiing,’ she repeated, not permitting him to finish.

‘Sure. Why do you think I’m going to Klosters?’

Francesca sat very still. An extraordinary idea took hold. It filled her with a joyful optimism, since it might be the solution she had been seeking. Be cool, be casual, be sophisticated, she cautioned herself. Don’t rush in like a silly schoolgirl. She had no wish to sound forward, or presumptuous, and so she began to structure her next sentence with immense care. Aware that he was waiting for a response, she toyed with her glass, took a sip of the cognac, gaining time. She ignored his question, and asked, ‘Would you really be lonely going to Klosters on your own?’ She was pleased her voice was controlled.

‘Sure I would. I told you, I’m used to travelling tandem with Nicky. Besides, I’ve discovered I never have much fun by myself. I like to share places, the scenery, good food and wine, experiences in general.’ He eyed her with curiosity, wondering why she had been prompted to ask the question. Hadn’t he made himself clear initially?

‘So what you actually want is a replacement for Nicky?’

‘If you want to put it that way, yes, I guess I do,’ he admitted. ‘But naturally it would have to be the right person … Listen, I wouldn’t just pick anybody … at random. That’d be asking for trouble.’ He was filled with wariness, alarmed she might have someone in mind. Her brother for instance. He was not open to suggestions about travelling companions. He said quickly, ‘That’s why I invited you. We’re compatible, we get along, we understand each other.’

She said, with a faint smile, ‘Oh I know we do, Victor.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Unless I’m wrong, what you’re saying is that the person you go with is as important to you as the place, perhaps even more so and –’

‘You’ve got it.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘I’m puzzled. What’s all this leading up to, Francesca?’

‘Bavaria.’

‘Bavaria?’ he echoed with a puzzled frown. ‘You’ve lost me.’

Francesca shifted in the chair. A calm smile dimpled her mouth. ‘If you changed your plans and went to a place called Königssee I could go with you. Unless there’s someone else you’d like to invite to Klosters, instead of me. And if there is, I do understand, really I do.’

‘There isn’t anyone I’d even consider, let alone ask,’ he assured her truthfully. ‘But I don’t get it, Francesca. If you can go to Königsee with me, why can’t you go to Klosters?’

‘Very simply because I don’t need my father’s approval to go to Bavaria. My cousins Diana and Christian live there, and I have an open invitation to visit them any time I wish. The skiing is superb, well into spring, and there’re some marvellous ski runs, as well as a number of fine old inns. Diana would know the best, and she could book you a suite at one of them. Naturally, I’d have to stay with my cousins. But don’t you see, my father couldn’t possibly object. I’d be … I’d be very well chaperoned, wouldn’t I?’

Victor gave her a long look, his eyes merry. ‘That’s true,’ he agreed, smiling to himself.

‘So what do you think?’

‘It sounds great. But –’ Now there was a sudden hesitancy in his manner, a pulling back. ‘Look, are you sure you want to go? Could you stand being alone with me for five or six days without getting bored?’

She met his questioning stare with a steady, level gaze, even though her heart was fluttering wildly at the thought of having him entirely to herself. ‘Don’t be silly, Victor. Of course I wouldn’t be bored and, as you said yourself, we do get along like a house on fire.’

‘I had to ask. It strikes me we’ve only talked about your father’s attitude in relation to the trip, not how you felt. You haven’t said you’d like to go.’

‘I would, I really would. Anyway, I think you’re right about the mountain air doing me good,’ she volunteered in a matter-of-fact tone, endeavouring to conceal the excitement growing inside her. Noticing the uncertainty lingering on his face, she could not resist adding hurriedly, ‘I wouldn’t have suggested you change your plans if I’d had any qualms about making the trip with you. Now would I?’

‘I guess not. It’s settled then.’ He beamed. ‘I’ll talk to the travel agency on Monday morning, and switch the air tickets to Königssee. I’ve never been to Germany, so I’ll find it interesting.’ His face sobered as he recalled the snags that had occurred to him at the outset of the conversation. After ruminating a second, he remarked cautiously, ‘There are a couple of problems though. Hell, I shouldn’t call them problems. Let’s say there are several points I’ve got to get straightened out with you.’

He stood up, dropped a log onto the fire, returned to the chair, and said, ‘Would you mind flying alone on Tuesday?’

Francesca was startled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But why can’t I go with you on Wednesday?’

‘You can go on Wednesday, if you wish, but I’d prefer you to take an earlier flight than I do. I don’t think we should be on the same plane.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘People might misunderstand, if they saw us travelling together. It would be much more discreet for us to make our way separately.’ When he saw she was thrown by these remarks, he said, ‘Hasn’t Katharine told you about my divorce, and Confidential Magazine?’

‘She mentioned you were in the middle of a difficult divorce, but she hasn’t said anything about Confidential. I’m probably being very stupid, but I don’t understand the connection.’ Her face was filling with confusion.

Victor leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his mouth settling into a severe line. Without mincing words, he gave her a rapid and succinct run-down on the magazine and the kind of sensational and damaging stories which appeared in its pages. He repeated Estelle Morgan’s warnings to Katharine and himself, added a quick profile of his estranged wife, Arlene, and elucidated in detail her predilection for causing trouble, plus her tendency to talk rather revealingly to the press.

‘Don’t you see, from the things Estelle has told me, I’m convinced I’m a target, and that Confidential is trying to work up a scurrilous piece about me. They’ll seize on anything, whether it’s the truth or not, and they’re not above inventing what they don’t know. Personally, I don’t give a damn about myself. I’ve got a broad back, and a skin like a rhinoceros after living in the public eye for so long. Headlines have never intimidated me, but I mustn’t expose you in any way whatsoever. I can’t allow you to be dragged into a scandal, especially since you’re an innocent bystander. And though the trip is above board, it could very easily be presented in entirely the wrong light. I don’t think your father would appreciate that. And I certainly wouldn’t, Francesca.’

‘My God, how awful! But don’t people have any redress: can’t they sue for libel?’

‘Some stars and other celebrities have already done so. But most of my friends who’ve been dragged through the mud by them decided to turn a blind eye, believing it smarter to ignore the bad publicity, to rise above it. Still, it’s pretty lousy stuff to live with.’

She nodded her understanding. ‘I can imagine. Obviously I’ll go on Tuesday, and perhaps it’s a good idea anyway. I can check the hotel Diana books for you, make sure you have the best suite. I’ll give her a ring tomorrow, to tell her we’re coming.’

‘Good girl. And let’s not alert the locals to my impending arrival. Can you ask her to book the suite in her name?’

‘Yes, that’s no problem.’

‘There’s one more thing, Francesca,’ he began tentatively, seeking the right words, knowing he must exercise great tact. ‘Are you going to tell your father I’ll be in Bavaria too, when you’re visiting your cousins?’

‘I was going to, yes. Don’t you want me to mention it, Victor?’

‘No, I don’t think you should. I know how straightforward you are, but leaving something unsaid is not actually lying –’

‘It’s lying by omission, isn’t it?’ she suggested, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes, I reckon it is,’ he answered, reminding himself how scrupulous of nature she was. He got up and stood with his back to the fire, gazing out into the room, reflecting, and then he looked down at her. ‘I do have my reasons for asking you not to say anything,’ he began slowly. ‘Very good reasons.’ He wanted to both convince and reassure her, and he said, ‘Look, Francesca, if your father knows I’m in Königssee, Kim will know, and in turn he’ll tell Katharine. Very honestly, I’d prefer her to be in the dark. I want her to think I’m in Klosters. I want everyone to think the same. Except Jake Watson. He has to know where I am, in case he needs to reach me about the picture. But I’m not worried about Jake. He’ll keep his mouth buttoned.’

Francesca was dismayed. ‘Why on earth don’t you want Katharine to know?’ she cried. ‘She’s my very best friend, and a close friend of yours! She would never breathe a word! Not to anyone. After all, she knows about Confidential, so I would think she’d really be on her guard. In fact, I’m positive she would. Honestly, Victor, I trust her completely.’

‘Hell, so do I, Francesca,’ Victor said, sounding emphatic. In all truth, he was not distrustful of Katharine, but being a man of the world he knew how easily a careless slip of the tongue could create untold misery. Also, although he detested covertness, he was genuine in his desire to protect Francesca, and so he considered secrecy imperative.

He explained this carefully, and she listened, obviously digesting his words. Feeling compelled to dispel any false impression he might have given about Katharine’s integrity, he then proceeded, ‘I know as well as you do that Katharine is exceptionally loyal, and that she wouldn’t intentionally hurt either one of us. But hell, you know how she gets around in London society, and with the show business crowd. Journalists are always on the fringes, or in the midst, of these groups. She might say something accidentally – and to the wrong person. Imagine your father’s distress if that lousy magazine did run some sort of suggestive, disgusting story about us, or if there was gossip among your friends.’

His eyes rested on her, and he finished gently, ‘I know you want to be open with your father. On the other hand, I think we should be as circumspect as possible, don’t you?’ When she was quiet, he went on, ‘Later, when you’re back in London, you can tell him we ran into each other in the Alps, also say that I spent some time with you and your cousins.’

Francesca nodded her head slowly, recognizing the soundness of his suggestion. Also, she was no fool, and she understood that if she did not agree he would revert to his original plan. He would go to Klosters. Alone. Her yearning to be with Victor was so forceful it was overcoming her few remaining qualms about her father.

Victor was watching her, waiting, and wondering, suddenly, why he had invited her to go with him in the first place. Now it seemed like a big mistake.

As if he had read her mind, he bent towards her and said, ‘Look, I don’t want you to go against your principles. Perhaps we’d better forget the whole idea. I’ll go to Klosters by myself, as I originally intended.’

Francesca laughed lightly, and exclaimed, ‘I was just about to say you’re absolutely correct. My father would be dreadfully upset if our name was besmirched, so we should be careful.’ She did not give him a chance to answer, and rushed on, ‘I like your suggestion about telling Daddy I ran into you when I get back. It really is the ideal solution. And he won’t be at all surprised I’m going off to see Diana and Christian for a few days. I usually go over once a year. So …’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I’m on, if you are.’

‘Okay!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a deal.’ His misgivings of a moment ago dissipated instantly, and he grinned at her. ‘We’ll have a great time, kid.’

She looked at him quickly. It was the first time he had used any term of endearment when addressing her. Kid was hardly that, but coming from him, it did denote affection. Unless he looks at me and sees Nicky, she thought; but nevertheless, she was pleased. Another thought occurred to Francesca, and she said, ‘I’m going to have to explain the situation to Diana, to be on the safe side. Is that all right?’

‘I guess you’ll have to fill her in, so go ahead, but make sure she understand … understands we’re just friends.’

‘Naturally,’ Francesca said sweetly, glancing at him through the most innocent of eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong impression either.’ God forbid, she added to herself, and swallowed a laugh. Victor was as old-fashioned as her father, and equally stuffy, it seemed.

Victor said, ‘I’ll have your ticket to Königssee by Monday afternoon at the latest. Gus will bring it over, and he’ll drive you out to the airport on Tuesday.’

‘Thank you very much. But there isn’t an airport in Königssee. We have to fly to Salzburg and drive across the Austrian border into Germany. But it’s not a long trip, only about an hour.’

‘Salzburg it is then. By the way, I’m curious. How come you have cousins living in Germany? When did they move there?’

‘They didn’t, they were born there. My father’s elder sister, Arabella, married a German in the late 1920s. It is she who is their mother. Diana and Christian are very English in many ways, and they’re bilingual, so you don’t have to worry about language barriers.’

‘That’s a relief,’ he said. ‘And what about your aunt and uncle? Do they live in Königssee too? And will I be meeting them?’ he asked.

There was a tiny silence before she said in a low voice, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Victor was not certain, but he thought he saw the merest trace of sadness trickle into her eyes. He looked at her again, and more closely. The expression had disappeared, if it had been there at all. He told himself he had imagined it, and went on, ‘So give me the dope on your cousins. How old are they? What do they do?’

‘I know you’ll like them,’ she said, and thought of Diana and Christian, and then of the tragic events which had engulfed their lives. But she only ever mentioned positives when speaking of her cousins, and she said brightly, ‘Christian is thirty, and he’s very involved with music. He plays the violin beautifully and he’s an expert on Mozart. Diana is twenty-six. She has a boutique in Königssee, and another one in Munich. She surprised us all when she went into business, and her German grandmother was awfully put out. But, credit where it’s due, she’s been ever so successful. Also, Diana’s a great skier, and she’ll be able to show you the best runs.’

‘Terrific. I assume Christian also skis.’

‘Oh no,’ Francesca said quickly. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘And what about you? Am I going to have the pleasure of your company at the top of the mountain?’

Francesca pulled a face, and then she giggled. ‘Not at the top. The bottom, I’m afraid. I’ve never graduated from the nursery slopes, and I seem to spend most of my time slithering around on my backside. I’m very clumsy.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Victor chuckled. ‘So it looks as if I’m stuck with Diana, or vice versa.’

‘That’s right. And I bet she gives you a run for your money.’