Читать книгу Dark Victory - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 7

CHESKA’S mouth gaped. ‘Me?’ she protested.

“Thanks, but no, thanks,’ Lawson said, simultaneously.

‘It’s the ideal answer,’ Miriam declared, in a voice which sounded as though she was chewing on a bag of marbles. She stopped to listen as noises drifted down the baluster staircase from the first floor. ‘Rupert sounds to have finished his shower, so I must see to his toast.’

Cheska felt a spasm of annoyance. Her stepbrother’s ladyfriend had not only established herself as near enough a fixture, she also appeared to be running the show! Which included taking over the housekeeper’s duties.

‘Can’t Millie do it?’ she enquired, an edge to her tone.

‘Millicent and her husband are away on holiday for two months, visiting their daughter in Canada,’ Miriam informed her. ‘Would you care for some toast, too, Francesca?’ she continued, being tediously pleasant and well-mannered.

Cheska resisted the urge to tell her, most impolitely, what she could do with the toast. ‘No, thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get my own breakfast after I’ve showered.’

‘Then please excuse me,’ Miriam said, and click-clacked cheerfully away down the hall on her high heels.

‘Having you as my assistant would be anything but ideal,’ Lawson said, as the well-upholstered figure disappeared.

‘I agree,’ Cheska rapped back.

‘For a start, the hours are long and antisocial. I often dictate notes in the evening ready for filming the next day, which means I need someone who’s good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the time and whatever the strains and stresses.’

Dropping her flip-flops down on the polished wooden floor, she slid her feet into them. As she had already vetoed the idea, there was no need for him to embark on a more detailed job description; though, of course, by stating his requirements, Lawson was also stating what he considered she was not. It was yet another dig. Another condemnation. A further chance to indulge in a gratuitous bit of Cheska bashing.

She shone a saccharine smile. ‘And I would only work for someone who was understanding, eventempered and everlastingly considerate,’ she retaliated.

His jaw clenched and, for a moment, he seemed about to launch a spirited defence, but instead he chose to ignore her.

‘My PA must also be a skilled practitioner of shorthand and typing,’ he said.

‘I am,’ Cheska told him.

Lawson gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Since when?’

‘Since I packed in modelling and took a course at secretarial college. For the past four years I’ve worked as a secretary, so my shorthand and typing speeds are high. I’ve also manned telephones, fixed trips, dealt with a wide variety of problems and people. In other words, I can do whatever Janet can do.’ She shone another saccharine smile. ‘Chew on that, bambino.

He frowned. ‘Why did you stop modelling?’ he enquired. ‘As I recall, you were in great demand. You’d appeared on the cover of Vogue and—’

‘Maybe, and maybe if I’d knuckled down to it I could have reached the top. Who knows?’ Cheska’s slender shoulders rose and fell. ‘But modelling was something I’d been talked into because other people felt it was right for me, not a career which I’d chosen.

The general consensus that modelling was her forte had been because of her looks. In all modesty, Cheska knew she was pretty—the oval face with fine bone-structure and huge grey eyes which she saw in the mirror every morning told her so, likewise the compliments which had been coming her way since she was knee-high. But, all in all, her looks had been something of a liability, and were a sore point right now.

‘And having been talked into it, after just a year or so you decided you wanted out. Why?’ Lawson asked.

‘Because I found standing in front of a camera, mute and striking poses day after day, deadly boring,’ Cheska replied, and her chin lifted.

She had given him an ideal opportunity to come back with some crack about her having a short attention-span—in other words, to imply that she was a bimbo—and she was prepared. But, to her surprise, he nodded.

‘I’ve always thought that modelling must be a hell of a strain on any thinking person’s sanity,’ he said. ‘Was boredom the reason why you swanned around?’

Not expecting such acuity, Cheska nodded. ‘If anything came along which seemed like it’d be more fun, I went.’

‘And you had the means to do so. Life’s a bed of roses for some people,’ Lawson remarked drily, then, turning his broad wrist, he inspected the steel and gold watch which was strapped to it. ‘Someone might be at the office, so I’ll ring and see if the wheels can be set in motion for locating a substitute assistant.’

‘Before you use the telephone, don’t you think it would be polite if you asked permission?’ Cheska said, as, having offloaded his camera and binoculars on to the carved hall table, he started to walk away.

She was not in the habit of pulling rank, but, as a stranger in the house, his behaviour seemed just a little too familiar.

Lawson stopped to bow a dutiful head. ‘Please, ma’am, may I have your permission to use the telephone?’ he recited.

‘You may,’ she replied stiffly, for his tone and the smile which tugged at the corner of his mouth were mocking.

‘Thanks. However, there’s really no need for me to ask, not when you consider that, as from yesterday, the production company’s been responsible for Hatchford Manor’s telephone account.’ He strode away. ‘And that,’ he was tossing the words back at her across his shoulder, ‘also as from yesterday, the library’s been doing duty as my office.’

Cheska stared at him along the length of the hall. ‘Your office?’ she said weakly.

‘Just until Monday, when phones are being installed in the oasts,’ Lawson replied, and vanished.

Cheska sank down on one of the high-backed chairs beside the table. The morning had been a long procession of surprises. One after another they had hit her, until now she was feeling shellshocked and, due to the lack of sleep, also a little weary. Were there any more surprises in store? Please, no. Cheska plucked at the damp edges of her shorts. Not only had Rupert’s ladyfriend established herself at Hatchford Manor, but Lawson Giordano appeared to be well entrenched, too. And if she remained here for the next week, there was no way she could escape him. She wanted to remain, Cheska thought wistfully. After so long away, she had been looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with the house which occupied such a fond place in her heart. Besides, why should she feel hounded out?

Stretching out her legs, she frowned down at her feet. Much as it went against the grain to admit it, Miriam’s ‘ideal answer’ would solve one of her problems—for a while. Television companies were known to pay good wages, and if she acted as Lawson’s Girl Friday the cash she received would enable her to make two, three or maybe more weekly contributions towards her keep. Her grey eyes became steely. Now that Mrs Busybody had raised the issue, she was determined to pay, even though Rupert would not be fussy. Her pride insisted. And, after all, Cheska acknowledged ruefully, she had been pampered for far too long.

As the murmur of Lawson’s baritone sounded from the library, she wiggled her toes. In order to keep up the weekly contributions she would need to find herself a permanent job. Smartish. On the flight home she had decided that she had had her fill of both working abroad and of the big-city hustle-bustle of living in London, and that she would prefer to work locally. Maybe for a vet, or a village solicitor, or a farmers’ co-operative. Cheska sighed. Such jobs were thin on the ground and finding one could take time.

Abruptly she looked up, alerted by the creak of the floorboards to the fact that Lawson had completed his call.

‘Any luck?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘The woman in charge of personnel had gone in early so I managed to speak to her, but she reckons there’s no chance of finding anyone who comes within a mile of Janet’s efficiency at such short notice. She says she can send me a temp or a girl from the typing pool, and I guess ’

Cheska rose to her feet. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be your assistant,’ she said. ‘I’m efficient, plus—’ her jaw took on a blockbuster slant “—I’m good-natured, amenable and everlastingly willing, whatever the strains and stresses.’

OK, you’re hired,’ Lawson said.

Her grey eyes widened. She had expected barbed observations and heavy sarcasm, not straightforward acceptance. She had expected to have to battle. But he must have listened to what she had said and accepted that, in her, he was being given the opportunity to employ a first-rate assistant.

“You’ve changed your mind?’ Cheska enquired, with an arch smile.

‘Haven’t you? Look, I’m tied to a tight budget,’ Lawson said impatiently, ‘and if someone comes down from London it means paying for them to stay in a hotel, whereas you—’

Her nostrils pinched. ‘Whereas I’m cheap?’ she demanded.

‘You said it, not me. Cheaper,’ he amended, before she could protest. ‘How does two hundred pounds a week sound?’

Cheska considered his proposal. She might have offered her services, but she would not be working for Lawson Giordano willingly. On the contrary; she approached the week’s employment with strong reservations. As she knew to her cost, the man was a blackguard and, although there was absolutely no risk of her making the same mistake she had made in the past, she reckoned that this entitled her to ‘danger money’.

‘Three hundred sounds better,’ she replied.

He swore. ‘Who on earth do you think is funding the film, the Getty family?’ he demanded.

‘What I think is that it’s the tourist season and a week in a hotel’ll cost over a hundred pounds, wherever anyone stays,’ Cheska told him coolly. ‘Not only that, if your assistant works late then a taxi will be needed to ferry her back each night, and another to ferry her here each morning. That means more expense. However, I’m already on the premises, so—’

‘Three hundred it is.’ His dark eyes narrowed as they focussed on her. ‘But you’d better be good.’

‘I’m the best,’ Cheska assured him.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Lawson said drily, and picking up his camera and binoculars, he hooked them over his shoulder again.

‘Rupie, dead’ Miriam bustled out from the kitchen to stand at the foot of the staircase. ‘Rupie, dear,’ she cooed again, “breakfast is waiting.’

‘Down in a minute,’ a muffled voice replied.

As if in anticipation of his arrival, Miriam dabbed at her lacquered champagne-blonde head, then click-clacked her way along the hall towards them. ‘Have you agreed terms?’ she enquired, clearly having taken it for granted that their protests had been no more than froth and that the merits of her suggestion would be speedily recognised and endorsed.

Lawson nodded. ‘It seems I’ve got myself an assistant incredibile,’ he said, kissing his fingers in a pronounced mock-Mediterranean style, but, although Cheska replied with a thin smile, his sarcasm went straight over Miriam’s head.

‘Having a film shot at the manor will be so exciting,’ she gushed, then turned to Cheska. ‘Did you know that Nicholas Preston is in it?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But you’re impressed,’ demanded Miriam.

‘Very.’

Nicholas Preston was a handsome young actor who, Cheska remembered from her last visit home, had had the critics sighing over the eloquence of his Shakespearian roles and whose dynamism in contemporary parts had seemed to earmark him for stardom. Though perhaps he had already become a star? Her time overseas meant she was out of touch with what was happening in the theatre. Out of touch with so many things, she thought pungently—like the raison d’être of the oast-houses. However, one thing she did know—Nicholas Preston would not be performing as a front man to any oversized fish fingers.

‘I’m surprised he’s willing to be in a television commercial,’ Cheska remarked, and threw Lawson an oblique look. ‘Of any kind.’

‘A commercial?’ Miriam burst into trilling peals of laughter. Oh, dear, Francesca, what on earth gave you such a bizarre idea? It’s not a commercial which is being made at Hatchford Manor, its a film for television. An adaptation of one of the classics, a period costume drama.’

Cheska whirled round to Lawson. Here was yet another surprise, though on this occasion she had been tricked, she thought fiercely.

‘You direct costume dramas now?’ she demanded.

‘Among other things—which means you won’t see anything shimmying through the herb garden next week,’ he said, and placed a fist to his brow. Oh, cruel fate.’

Her grey eyes blazed. From them meeting, Lawson Giordano had been having fun at her expense.

‘You are a—’ Cheska began evilly, then halted,

aware of Miriam listening and realising that there were more urgent issues than badmouthing him. ‘How long is this film going to take?’ she enquired.

‘It’s scheduled for six weeks,’ Lawson said. ‘Of course, these things can overrun, though not usually when I’m in charge.’

Cheska’s thoughts flew every which way. She had imagined she would be working for him for a mere week, which had been acceptable—just—but instead she was expected to be his assistant for approaching two months! Her stomach cramped. She rebelled against such a timescale—and yet, and yet…Three hundred pounds a week was a goodly sum and, when multiplied by six, a most useful sum. It would mean that, at the end of filming, she would have enough money to update her wardrobe and pay for her keep for another three, perhaps four months, which would enable her to take her time and be selective about her next job, her next employer. And, after what had happened abroad, her next employer would be required to meet certain stringent criteria.

‘You don’t mind too much about moving out of your room, do you?’ Miriam enquired. ‘I appreciate that it’s—’

‘My room?’ Cheska said distractedly. She had a lot to think about and the woman was talking double Dutch.

‘Didn’t Rupert tell you how the whole of the manor has been requisitioned by the film company?’

Cheska’s mind ran amok. She had objected to feeling hounded out, but now it seemed that she was actually, physically being hounded out! And by whom? Lawson Giordano.

She swung to him. “The whole of the manor?’ she protested, her tone a mix of horror, hostility and dismay.

He nodded. ‘As well as using various of the downstairs rooms for filming, it’s been arranged that the first floor will accommodate make-up, wardrobe, dressing-rooms and such.’

‘So Rupert is coming to stay with me,’ Miriam informed her.

Cheska struggled to take everything in. ‘But’

‘He’ll have his own room,’ the older woman went on hastily, as though she had been about to make prurient enquiries into their sleeping arrangements and issue a strict moral lecture, ‘and you’re going into the other oast-house, next door to Mr Giordano.’

She felt numb. Rupert had not told her anything about this last night. Not a hint. She might have talked at length, but he could have interrupted, Cheska thought rebelliously, then sighed. He would have kept quiet on purpose, in the hope that his garrulous ladyfriend would reveal all. And why? Because he would have known that when she had realised she was to be turfed out of her room, out of the house, she would argue; and the mildmannered bachelor disliked arguments.

‘We never expected you to ring out of the blue and announce that you were returning,’ Miriam carried on, ‘so we had no idea you’d be around. However, the oast-house is most tasteful. I dealt with the decoration and furnishing, and I know Mr Giordano considers I did a good job. Isn’t that right, Lawson?’

‘You did an excellent job,’ he assured her, with a smile and a courteous bow of his head. ‘I reckon you should set up in business as an interior decorator.’

Cheska winced. How smarmy could you get? And as for Miriam having taste—chances were it would be diametrically opposed to hers.

‘When am I expected to uproot myself and transfer my belongings? she enquired.

‘Rupert’s coming over to my house on Sunday afternoon, so I’d suggest some time before then,’ Miriam said, and shone a hopeful smile. ‘All right?’

Cheska replied with a brusque bob of her head.

But it was not all right. Any of it. The manor having been commandeered, her being virtually frogmarched into the oast-house, but, most of all, Lawson Giordano being in situ. By quitting her job she might have escaped from one farrago, but she had flown straight back into another!

‘That’ll be Rupert,’ Miriam chirruped, as a door closed somewhere upstairs. ‘I must brew his Earl Grey.’

‘After you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll make a start,’ Lawson said, when the stand-in housekeeper had disappeared back to the kitchen.

Cheska blinked. ‘Start this morning?’

‘There are a couple of items which need to be dealt with, so I’ll see you in the library at ten.’

‘Ten o’clock?’ she echoed.

The affinity-sharing Janet might have intended to join her boss today—and no doubt they would have gone on to share a weekend of high passion— but she had not imagined being roped in for duty quite so soon. Grief, it was less than twelve hours since her plane had touched down and she had still to unpack! Cheska frowned. Should she say she needed time to sort herself out, both physically and mentally? But if she showed any reluctance her new employer might respond by telling her to forget about working for him; and she needed the money.

‘Ten a.m. in the library. You want it in skywriting?’ Lawson demanded, when she continued to gaze at him.

Cheska straightened. ‘No, thanks.’

He walked to the heavy oak front door which stood open. ‘In that case, difficult as it is to tear myself away, arrivederci,’ he said, and strode out across the porch, down the steps and disappeared.

Cheska took a bite of wheatmeal toast. ‘Why did you let Miriam talk you into lending out the manor?’ she enquired.

It was three-quarters of an hour later and she was at the table in the high-ceilinged dining-room with Rupert. After compiling an extensive shopping list—Miriam had insisted on buying provisions for her to use in the oast house, too—the do-gooder had driven off into Tunbridge Wells, and they were finally alone.

‘She didn’t talk me into it,’ Rupert demurred. ‘I happen to think it’s an excellent idea.’

Cheska hissed out an impatient breath. ‘Come on, Rupert, you know you don’t enjoy having lots of people around. You know how you hate any upheaval, any disruption.’

‘To watch how a film is made will be mindbroadening,’ he declared, his narrow face taking on an uncharacteristic stubbornness. ‘And the manor isn’t being lent out—not for free. The production company are paying a most generous rent. One which, because they’re using the premises in total, amounts to several thousands of pounds.’

‘Presumably their monopolising the place was Miriam’s idea?’ she asked.

As he poured himself a second cup of tea, her stepbrother frowned. ‘ Well…yes.’

Had Miriam made the suggestion with the aim of getting Rupert into her home and more firmly into her clutches? Cheska wondered, as she ate her toast. After two years of friendship, did she hope that six weeks together, when she could pamper to his every need and make herself even more indispensable, might push him into a proposal? Tall and slim, with the air of a public school housemaster, the middle-aged bachelor was an attractive man. Over the years, various females had fluttered their eyelashes in his direction, and yet, although he might have had the occasional liaison, he had never taken much real notice. But the references in his letters had made it plain that he was noticing the widowed Mrs Shepherd. Cheska sighed. After devoting so many years to looking after her, Rupert deserved to have someone look after him, and she had hoped he might meet someone and fall in love. But why, if he was falling in love, did it have to be with Miriam?

‘You’re in urgent need of those thousands of pounds?’ Cheska enquired.

‘Not at all,’ Rupert said hastily, ‘but—’ he

stroked a hand over his thinning blond-grey hair ‘—a little extra is never to be sneezed at.’

‘Where are the snuff bottles?’ she asked.

Whether it was an association of ideas—sneeze/ snuff—she did not know, but Cheska had abruptly realised that the shelves in one of the mahogany cabinets which flanked the fireplace were bare. For as long as she could remember, there had been twenty or so antique bottles on display. Made of coloured glass, some of them were Chinese and extremely rare. They had been collected by Rupert’s mother, Beatrice Finch, a pompous woman, who had apparently amassed them to impress visitors rather than for their beauty.

Rupert hesitated, making her wonder if he could not remember—which would be typical. Unless it concerned butterflies, he could be amazingly vague.

‘They’ve been put away, like some other bits and pieces. They were valuable and, as there are going to be strangers in the house, Miriam and I thought ’ His voice trailed off. ‘It’s quite an honour, having Lawson Giordano make a film at the manor,’ Rupert declared. ‘His previous three films were Hollywood productions, Quality productions, mind. The last one hasn’t been released in this country yet, but it’s breaking box-office records in the States.’

Cheska laughed, and shaking her head. What her stepbrother knew about the entertainment world could be written on a postage stamp, and the few facts he did know were invariably confused.

‘You’re getting him mixed up with someone else,’ she said. ‘Five years ago, Lawson Giordano was directing TV commercials.’

Rupert’s brows soared. ‘Fancy that.’’

She cast him a look. He had known of her involvement in the car commercial and, at the time, she would have told him the director’s name, but he had forgotten. Cheska took a sip of coffee. She could see no point in reminding him now and neither was she eager to remind herself. It was not only the night spent with Lawson which she had erased from her mind, but she preferred to black out the entire unfortunate episode.