Читать книгу A Very Secret Affair - Miranda Lee - Страница 6

‘AREN’T you the lucky girl!’

Clare put Mrs Brown’s blood-pressure tablets plus the repeat of her prescription into the paper bag, then looked up with a frown on her face. ‘What do you mean, lucky?’

Mrs Brown’s expression was knowing and exasperated at the same time. ‘Clare Pride! Who do you think you’re kidding? I was just over at the town hall helping with the decorations for the deb ball tonight and I saw the names on the place cards on the main table. There’s no use pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

Clare’s heart fell. Oh, God. Surely her mother wouldn’t have simply gone ahead and put her on that table against her wishes. Surely not!

‘Fancy sitting next to the gorgeous Dr Adrian Archer all night.’ Mrs Brown was almost swooning. ‘That man can put his stethoscope on my chest any time he likes!’

For one mad moment Clare was in total agreement. She too had had her little fantasies while she watched Bush Doctor every Tuesday night without fail.

But she quickly remembered that that was all they were. Fantasies. The man on the screen was not real. He was an illusion. A romantic dream. In the flesh, he would no doubt prove to be the very opposite of the charming, caring, sensitive character he played on television.

One only had to read the women’s magazines to get the true picture. Hardly a week went by when his photograph didn’t grace their pages, always with a different dolly-bird on his arm. Rumour had it he went through girlfriends like a hot knife through butter.

‘He’s not a real doctor, Nancy,’ Clare pointed out drily.

Mrs Brown looked startled. ‘Of course he’s a real doctor! Look at all those emergency operations he’s performed. Not only that, he has a simply wonderful bedside manner.’

I’ll bet he has, Clare thought tartly.

‘Only a real doctor could be as kind and warm and caring as Dr Archer is!’ Mrs Brown pronounced firmly.

‘Nancy,’ Clare said patiently. ‘He’s an actor. No doubt there’s a real doctor in the wings overseeing the authenticity of the scenes, but Bush Doctor is a television show with made-up towns and a made-up doctor. Dr Adrian Archer is not a real doctor. If you look at the credits at the end, you’ll see he’s played by an actor called Matt Sheffield.’

‘Well he’ll always be Dr Archer to me!’ Mrs Brown sniffed, and, plonking down the exact coins for her prescription, swept up her parcel from the counter and marched from the shop.

Clare sighed her exasperation. Why couldn’t women like Mrs Brown tell the difference between make-believe and reality? Why did they think characters in television serials were real people? And why, she thought wearily, do I have to be cursed with a mother who doesn’t take no for an answer and who thinks she can run everything and everyone around her?

She glanced at her watch. It was almost twelve. In a few minutes old Mr Watson would take over—as he did every Saturday at noon—leaving her free for the afternoon. Usually she spent the time cleaning the flat upstairs and listening to music, but today a trip out home was called for.

There was no way Clare was even going to that ball tonight, let alone sit on the main table. She didn’t want her enjoyment in her favourite television programme permanently spoiled. She wanted Dr Adrian Archer to stay Dr Adrian Archer. If she was forced to spend time with the real man behind the mask, how could she keep the fantasy man alive in her imagination? No, it was out of the question. Definitely out of the question!

It was all her mother’s fault, of course. Really, she could not be allowed to get away with this. Give that woman an inch and she would take a mile!

Clare swung her dark blue Magna on to the deserted dirt road and put her foot down. The dust flew out behind her, spreading a red cloud over the still waters of the river alongside. She knew that speeding while angry was foolish, but she gave into it just this once, covering the distance from the turn-off to her parents’ farm in half the usual time.

Samantha was walking her grey gelding, Casper, through the side gate when the Magna screeched to a halt in front of the rambling wooden house. ‘Wow, sis!’ she exclaimed as Clare scrambled out. ‘You planning on entering a Grand Prix this year? What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be getting all dolled up for the big do tonight? You’ve only got seven hours left, you know. You’d better get started if you’re to please Mum with the finished product.’

‘Very funny, Sam. Where is Mum?’

‘In her room, I think, making up her mind what to wear tonight. Brother, you sure look mad. What’s she done now?’

‘She’s put me next to Matt Sheffield, that’s what she’s done!’

Sam launched herself into the saddle before frowning down at her sister. ‘Who in heck’s Matt Sheffield? I thought the guest of honor tonight was that doctor from Bush Doctor.’

‘Matt Sheffield is the doctor from Bush Doctor.’

‘So why are you complaining? Most of the old ducks in Bangaratta are ga-ga over him. Lord knows why. He’s not that good-looking.’

Was the girl blind? The man was sensational-looking!

‘And he’s over thirty if he’s a day,’ Sam tossed off airily.

‘Oh, over the hill, definitely.’ Clare’s tone was drily caustic. ‘And thanks heaps, Sam. Am I classified as an old duck these days, am I?’

‘Well, you are twenty-seven, sis. Twenty-seven and still single. Gosh, you’re not even living with a guy. That might not make you an old duck, but it certainly makes you an old maid.’

‘You don’t live with a guy in Bangaratta, Sam. Not if you’re the town pharmacist.’

‘Then why come back, sis? Why didn’t you stay in Sydney?’

Why indeed? Clare thought bitterly.

‘You seemed happy there. This small-town life is not for you, you know.’

‘So what’s for me, Sam? Do tell me.’

Sam cocked her head on one side and gave her sister a brief but nonchalant once-over. ‘Damned if I know, sis. But I know one thing. You shouldn’t live anywhere near Mum. You two just don’t get along. Gotta go. See you, sis.’

Samantha kicked the grey in the flanks and galloped off, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. Clare stared after her young sister, who looked older every time she saw her. She not only looked older but she was sounding older too.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have come home. But a fifteen-year-old teenager couldn’t know what it was like to live in a big city, all alone with a broken heart.

Clare was walking towards the front steps, thinking bleak thoughts, when the front door was flung open by a tall, formidable-looking woman with short permed blonde hair, a big bosom and sharp grey eyes. Just my luck, Clare thought ruefully, to inherit the eyes and not the bosom.

‘Oh, it’s you, Clare. I thought I heard a car.’

Clare sighed. Occasionally she did crave to hear something like, Hello, darling daughter, how nice to see you, is there anything wrong and can I help you? As for a hug…she couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her. Hugging was not part of Agnes Pride’s arsenal.

‘What’s up? You look frazzled. Perhaps you’d better come in for a cup of tea.’

Agnes was off down the hall before Clare could stop her. She followed her mother resignedly into the large, country-style kitchen at the back of the house, pulling out one of the high-backed wooden chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.

‘Sam’s growing up,’ she remarked as she sat down. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be letting her go off on her own too much in future. Who knows who or what she might meet on the road, or in the bush?’

Agnes looked up from where she was filling the kettle with water, her mouth tightening. ‘This is the country,’ she said sharply, ‘not your precious Sydney. Out here, girls are quite safe on their own. Besides, Samantha is fifteen and she’s only going down the road half a mile to her friend’s house. And it’s not as though she’s walking. She’s riding a horse.’

‘A horse is no match for a man, Mum. Not if he’s got rape on his mind.’

‘Rape? Girls don’t get raped out here,’ she scorned. ‘We’re a decent community, with decent morals.’

‘Girls get raped everywhere, Mum,’ Clare pointed out. ‘Often by men they know.’

There was a short sharp silence as Agnes stared over at her daughter.

‘Dear heaven,’ she said at last. ‘Is…is that what happened to you in Sydney, Clare? Is that why you came home so suddenly?’

‘Good lord, no. No, nothing like that!’

‘Then why did you come home out of the blue, then? You never did tell me.’

Clare opened her mouth then shut it again. She’d never felt comfortable confiding in her mother, who rarely gave constructive advice, only criticism. Agnes’ staunchly old-fashioned morals had always precluded Clare’s telling her the truth about her relationship with David. Her mother would have judged her harshly, then called her a fool. Clare craved sympathy and understanding, not condemnation. She knew only too well she’d been a fool!

‘I just felt like coming home,’ she hedged. ‘I missed Bangaratta. Look, Mum, I haven’t come out just to chat. I found out that someone has put me on the main table next to your guest-of-honour tonight and I—’

‘What?’ Agnes burst out. ‘You’ve been put next to Dr Archer?’

Clare realised immediately that she’d been wrong. It hadn’t been her mother’s doing at all!

‘I’m going to give that Flora Whitbread a piece of my mind when I get there tonight,’ Agnes blustered. ‘I told her specifically that you didn’t want to be on the main table. I even offered myself in your place. And what does she do? Puts you there anyway. Really, that woman’s getting too big for her boots!’

Clare cringed at the thought of poor Flora getting an earful tonight. Frankly, if she’d known it was Flora’s idea she might have gone along with it right from the start. She liked Flora. The old dear had a good heart and worked her socks off as president of the local progress committee. It had certainly been a feather in her cap to get someone like ‘Dr Archer’ as guest-of-honour for their local débutante ball. Flora was also hoping that the publicity might bring a real doctor to the small country town. Permanently.

Bangaratta’s only doctor had retired last year due to ill health, and, while advertisements had been placed in newspapers all over the country, no one suitable had answered. Locals were having to travel to Dubbo for medical treatment, which was a highly unsatisfactory arrangement, especially for the elderly. Flora had vowed to move heaven and earth to rectify the situation.

‘Flora probably wanted someone more Mr Sheffield’s age to sit next to him,’ Clare said by way of excuse. ‘I guess she must have been desperate. All the other eligible young women in town are going to be debs. Don’t say anything to her, Mum. I’ll just sit there and suffer in silence.’

Agnes snorted. ‘Suffer indeed! Most women would give their eye-teeth to be sitting where you will be tonight.’

Clare let that slide. Already she was feeling a little annoyed with herself for having backed down. The sacrifices one made for one’s home town! Her Tuesday nights would never be the same again.

Agnes finished making the tea, carrying a tray over to the table. No teabags for Agnes Pride. Two cups were poured, the milk added then one cup and saucer put precisely in front of Clare, the other carried down to the opposite end of the oval table. Agnes sat down, her back straight as she lifted the cup to her lips, her sharp eyes flicking over her first-born as she sipped the hot liquid.

Clare fell silent while she drank down the hot tea in long, painful swallows. Why did her mother always have to look at her like that? As if she was attempting some sort of mental make-over, yet all the time believing a satisfactory result was impossible.

‘You really should get your hair cut, Clare,’ Agnes said. ‘Down, it looks straggly and unkempt. And that bun you wear for work makes you look like a spinster. A little make-up wouldn’t go astray either. You have a very nice complexion and your eyes are quite lovely, but there’s always room for improvement. Not only that, how do you expect to catch a man’s eye wearing trousers all the time? Men like to see a woman’s figure.’

‘My first priority in life is not to catch a man’s eye, Mum. And I don’t wear trousers. I wear jeans. A man can see as much of a woman’s figure in jeans and a T-shirt as a dress. Sometimes more.’

‘So we’re to look forward to your showing up at the ball in jeans tonight, are we?’ came the tart remark. ‘I’m sure Dr Archer will be impressed.’

‘Matt Sheffield is his name, Mum. Dr Archer is the character he plays on television.’

Agnes’ blank blink showed she was as much a victim of the illusion as Mrs Brown.

‘I do happen to own a ballgown or two,’ Clare continued. ‘I have one that is especially nice. Still, I doubt anything I could wear or do would genuinely impress a man of Mr Sheffield’s ilk.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. You can be quite attractive when you want to be.’ Agnes plonked her cup noisily into the saucer. ‘Tell me! Why do you dislike Mr Sheffield so much? Have you met him before, is that it? I know you used to go to the theatre a lot when you lived in Sydney.’

Clare put down her cup also, rattling it slightly. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But handsome male actors are all tarred with the same brush. They think they’re God’s gift to women, when in fact they’re from the devil.’

An image filled her mind, of a curtain going up and a man stepping on the stage, a rivetingly handsome man. He’d looked like a Greek god. But there’d been nothing heavenly about David in the end. He’d consigned her to hell and left her there.

‘You’ve become very cynical, Clare. Sometimes I wish you’d hadn’t gone away to Sydney.’

‘You and me both,’ Clare muttered, a curl of pain squeezing her heart.

‘No one forced you.’ Her mother sounded indignant. ‘You were all for going.’

All for getting away from you, you mean, Clare thought, then felt guilty. Despite their differences, she did love her mother. But Sam was right. They didn’t always get along. ‘I didn’t have much choice, you know, Mum,’ she soothed. ‘Bangaratta is hardly the education capital of the world.’ She stood up and carried her cup and saucer over to the sink. ‘I’d better be going. I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight after all.’

Agnes walked with her to the door.

‘What’s this dress like that you’re going to wear?’ she asked once they reached the front veranda. ‘Are you sure it isn’t out of fashion? You have been back here in Bangaratta a couple of years, after all.’

‘It’ll do, Mum,’ Clare said, aware that this was a wicked understatement of the truth.

Agnes sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to, but it’s a pity for our guest to think that the ladies of Bangaratta don’t know how to dress. Country does not mean dowdy!’

Something deep and dark darted through Clare. ‘Some people think so,’ she murmured, but at her mother’s quick frown, Clare forced a bright, if somewhat brittle smile to her lips. ‘I doubt Mr Sheffield will give a hoot what I wear, Mum, but don’t worry, I won’t let you—or Bangaratta—down.’

The Bangaratta Town Hall hadn’t looked this grand in years, Clare thought. Built in 1886, it had always been the focal point of the small bush town. This was where the dances were held, the meetings, the wedding receptions. It had even doubled as the schoolhouse till the 1920s when the success of the wheat crops brought an upsurge in population and, of course, more schoolchildren. Of late, the building had been looking shabby, but tonight…tonight there was fresh paint on the walls, the windows sparkled, the wooden floor gleamed and high above, banners, balloons and streamers lent a festive spirit.

Clare walked up on to the wooden stage where the main table was located, her eyes sliding from her name card to the splendid table setting. Who would have believed that underneath the crisp white tablecloths and bowls of fresh flowers lay plain wooden trestles?

Flora and her progress committee had outdone themselves this time. Why, even the cutlery was not the usual catering stuff, but genuine silver. Clare gazed down at the spruced-up old building with a sense of pride. Not the sort of sophisticated venue Matt Sheffield was probably used to, she conceded, but still, it looked its very best. As did she…

Clare’s heart contracted. There was a certain irony in wearing this particular dress tonight which did not escape her. The dress had remained in her wardrobe, unworn, as a symbol of her hurt and a warning never to be so stupid again.

She was only wearing it tonight because she’d been goaded into it by her mother—she had another dress which would have sufficed—but she supposed it was a good thing in a way. It was time to exorcise the ghosts once and for all. Time to show the world—and Bangaratta—that she was not old maid material after all.

The thought of the expression of her mother’s face when she saw her designer-clad daughter did give Clare some satisfaction. Not only was her dress an original worth many hundreds of dollars, but the rest of her matched it for style and sophistication. Her hair, despite being out, was definitely not straggly. She’d spent all afternoon putting a warm red rinse through its midbrown colour, then shampooing, setting and styling it till it bounced around on her shoulders in a profusion of large loose curls, coppery highlights dancing on the crests of the waves that curved sleekly around her face.

Aah, yes…her face. Normally left au naturel, that too had received a lot of attention. She had spent a long, agonising hour painstakingly applying the sort of makeup that made the most of even the plainest girl. A bronze gloss now shimmered on her expertly outlined lips; blusher emphasised her good cheekbones; and after a careful application of misty eyeshadows, eyeliner and mascara, her grey eyes had taken on a more mysterious look, as opposed to the cool clarity she usually presented to her customers across the counter of the shop.

Of course, it was the dress, in the main, that would draw eyes, a turquoise Thai silk gown with a wide offthe-shoulder wraparound collar, a fitted waist and a gathered skirt which curved up and down at the front to show her best asset—her long athletic legs. With a push-up strapless bra underneath, she had contrived enough cleavage to be interesting, knowing that a lot of men were tantalised more by what was hinted at than what was flaunted.

Not for the first time that evening, Clare wondered if Matt Sheffield would find her attractive. Her innate honesty forced her to concede she hadn’t gone to all this trouble just for her mother.

Clare was a woman, after all. What woman wouldn’t want to look her best in the presence of a man as handsome and sophisticated as Matt Sheffield? Pride demanded it. Or was it something else which had prompted her to pull out all the stops?

Clare’s heart began to race nervously as she stared at the place she would fill at the table on the stage. Within half an hour she would be sitting there, next to the sort of man whose real character she knew oh so well. And while Clare knew she wasn’t a raving beauty, she was far from plain. Her mother would have been astounded at the number of men who had tried to chat her up since her return home.

Yes, she was not so unattractive that their visitor wouldn’t take a second look. What worried her was how she would act if he started flirting with her, or even made a pass? She hoped her foolish female heart would be able to differentiate the actor from the doctor he played on television. There was no doubt Mrs Brown was right about one thing. Dr Adrian Archer did have a marvellous bedside manner!

Clare dragged in then expelled a shuddering sigh. She should not have agreed to this. No matter what. She had very bad vibes about it.

‘Clare! Yoo-hoo, Clare!’

Clare looked down into the body of the hall to see Flora waving at her from near the back doors. With a resigned sigh she made her way over, trying not to cringe over the dress Flora was wearing—a loud floral which looked hideous on her plump figure. The poor sweet darling was also all pink and flustered as she kept checking arrivals out the back.

‘Oh, my, don’t you look simply stunning!’ Flora praised between anxious peers. ‘I…er…hope you didn’t mind about my putting you on the main table after all, dear. I was speaking to your father in town this morning and he said you must have misunderstood what I wanted because he was sure you wouldn’t mind at all. I…er…hope he was right.’

Clare smiled. ‘He was perfectly right. I just thought maybe you could find someone better suited than me, that’s all.’

‘Oh, goodness me, no. I told Jim that there wasn’t a brighter or prettier girl in town than you and if anyone could charm our guest it would be our own darling lady chemist.’ Flora suddenly squealed and grabbed Clare’s wrist. ‘Oh, look. There’s his car! Isn’t this thrilling?’

Clare pulled out of the other woman’s grasp, alarmed to find that her heart was galloping. She also found herself joining Flora in the avid peering through the doorway.

A shiny black car was rolling into the kerb. When it stopped, a man in a black dinner suit slid out from behind the wheel. A tall man. A nice-looking man. He wasn’t, Clare recognised with sick relief, the man himself.

‘That would be Mr Marshall. He’s our guest’s manager. Oh, there’s Dr Archer, getting out now. Aren’t you coming down to meet him?’

Clare swallowed, finding her eyes riveted on the opening passenger door. ‘No,’ she croaked.

‘Well, I certainly am.’ Flora surged down the steps towards the welcoming committee.

The passenger door was wide open now and a sleek dark head appeared, connected to a black dinner suit. Clare did not wait to see any more. Totally unnerved, she turned and fled back into the hall.