Читать книгу An Unbroken Marriage - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 5

‘MELISANDE’S here—and you should see the man she’s got with her!’ Jennifer Knowles announced, walking into her employer’s work-room and rolling her eyes expressively. ‘Gorgeous—and rich too, by the looks of him. Well, if he’s Melisande’s latest, he’ll need to be, won’t he?’ she added forthrightly. ‘I didn’t realise we had anything in hand for her. What is it, there’s nothing in the book.’ She frowned a little as she studied the leather-bound book India used to book in and chart the progress of her orders. ‘We finished the black silk last week.’

‘Umm,’ India Lawson agreed, removing half a dozen pins from her mouth and studying the pink silk blouse she was working on. ‘She’s been invited to a Charity Ball—she rang me yesterday and asked if we could make something for her in a hurry.’

‘Provided you let her have it at next to no cost,’ Jennifer added caustically. ‘Honestly, she’s the limit! She must be earning a fortune from that part she landed in Evergreen. It’s been running for six months now, and there’s no sign of bookings dropping—I know, I tried to get seats for my mother and sister for next weekend.’

India smiled. ‘Well, don’t forget that simply by wearing our clothes Melisande is doing an excellent public relations job for us.’

‘You’re far too easygoing,’ Jennifer scolded. ‘I don’t know how you do it, and you with auburn hair as well.’

India laughed. ‘Tell Melisande I’ll be with her in five minutes, would you Jen—oh, and offer her…’ She had been about to say a ‘cup of coffee’, but changed her mind, remembering her secretary’s description of the actress’s companion. ‘Offer them a glass of sherry,’ she corrected. ‘I can’t leave this blouse until I get these tucks right. I promised Lady Danvers that I’d have it ready for the weekend.’

The expressive line of Jennifer’s departing back said what she thought of the way India, as she put it, ‘pandered’ to her clients’ wishes, but then she did not have the responsibility of a business resting on her shoulders, India reflected.

Of course she enjoyed being her own boss, it had been her ambition since the Fifth Form at school when she had spent her Saturday mornings studying the shoppers in their often drab and ill-fitting clothes mentally re-clothing them in her own designs.

Not that it had been easy, but then those things really worth having rarely were, she decided. She had spent three years at art college, followed by another three in Paris working in a very lowly capacity for one of the well-known couturiers. After that there had been a spell on the buying side, learning about merchandising, stocking control, and a whole host of other vitally important things which sometimes got overlooked—to their cost—by those who thought ‘artistic’ genius enough to guarantee them success.

And it had all paid off. A small legacy from a great-uncle had provided her with enough capital to risk going it alone. To her delight her first very limited range of skirts and blouses had sold, enabling her to take the risk of leasing more expensive premises close enough to the heart of London to be called ‘exclusive’, and now she numbered among her clientele enough socially-conscious women for her designs to be becoming featured in glossy magazines and society columns.

Even so, it paid to keep one’s feet on the ground, which was why India made no demur when women such as Melisande Blake, a well-known actress, insisted on being given a ‘discount’ on clothes which they were going to wear in public.

India smiled wryly as she put the blouse aside and stood up, studying her reflection in the small mirror behind her desk. So Jennifer thought she didn’t have a temper. If only she knew! It was not so much that she didn’t have one; more that over the years she had learned for her own sake to keep it strictly under control, although even now there were occasions when it suddenly and unexpectedly flared into all-consuming life.

Having checked that there were no threads clinging to her grey flannel skirt, India gave her reflection a final cursory glance before walking towards the door.

A short corridor linked the workrooms to the salon proper and when she opened the connecting door the first person she saw was the man whom her secretary had described as ‘gorgeous’. She hadn’t lied, India acknowledged, schooling her features into a professional smile, while inwardly noting the expensive cut of the pearl grey suit, the toning silk shirt and tie, the well manicured but entirely masculine hands, deeply tanned even though it was March, thick dark hair curling over his collar, his eyes a disturbing, hard grey.

‘India darling!’ Melisande greeted her in her husky, carrying voice. ‘You’ve saved my life! Do show me what you have in mind. It must be something special—very special. If Simon likes it he’s promised to buy me another. Will he like it?’ she asked, adding mockingly, ‘Really, darling, isn’t it time you stopped wearing that frightful schoolgirl outfit? No one looking at you would have the faintest idea that you design the most incredibly sexy dresses!’

India thought she had been quite successful in hiding her reaction to hearing her clothes described in such a fashion until she glanced up and found Melisande’s companion watching her with mocking comprehension.

‘Oh, I haven’t introduced you, have I?’ the actress said. ‘Simon darling, this is India, she really is the cleverest thing. India, meet Simon Herries—you must have read about him in the gossip columns.’

‘I have, and in the financial press.’ India agreed lightly, conscious of the sudden alertness in Simon Herries’ expression.

‘You take a keen interest in the world of big business, then?’

Gritting her teeth at the condescending tone, India replied lightly, ‘Of course—what female doesn’t in one form or another?’

She could tell from his expression that her barb had found its mark. He was far too intelligent to have imagined that Melisande’s interest in him was purely altruistic, but, India thought shrewdly, he was attractive enough for it to wound his vanity to be told that others were aware of the fact too.

She had known Melisande for several years, and while the actress made no secret of the fact that she expected her escorts to be presentable and sexually attractive, she also expected them to be wealthy enough to afford her.

India watched her, aware of the contrast they must present. Melisande, small, barely five foot three, with fair, almost silver hair, and prettily feminine features—the archetype of female beauty, while she…. She wrinkled her nose slightly. She was tall, five eight in her stockinged feet; her hair, as Jenny had remarked, was a deep, intense auburn, saved from being unkindly described as ‘red’ by rich russet undertones; her green eyes set slightly aslant beneath well defined eyebrows, only her vulnerably full mouth betraying the fact that she was less self-possessed than first appeared.

She knew that Simon Herries was watching her, and she strived to fight off the inclination to return his look. She could almost feel his eyes sliding down her body, resting on the unexpectedly full curves of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, and the slender length of her legs.

His eyes rested on her legs for several seconds, a thoughtful, appraising look in them when he finally raised them to India’s faintly flushed face.

‘Quite an enigma,’ he remarked softly. ‘Prissy blouse, schoolgirl skirt and silk stockings.’

‘It isn’t meant to be,’ India assured him with a calmness she was far from feeling—there had been something in the look he had given her which had sent vague frissons of awareness running down her spine. It wasn’t unusual for her clients to bring men along with them—sometimes to pay, sometimes merely to approve, and she was used to the flirtatious, sometimes almost offensive comments some of them made, but this was something different; something alien and almost frightening; an absurd awareness of her own femininity which had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way had looked at her, and how her body had reacted to it.

‘Oh, India is far from prissy, as I have very good reason to know,’ Melisande remarked archly. ‘I happen to know that she has a very charming and extremely wealthy boy-friend. In fact she brought him to my last party, didn’t you, darling? Melford Taylor,’ she added for Simon Herries’ benefit, mentioning the name of a well-known financier.

Although India wasn’t looking at him, she could feel Simon Herries appraising the salon with fresh eyes. It was decorated in white and gold with touches of green, sharp and fresh, and yet with an unmistakable richness. India had designed it herself, and the alterations and decorations had been carried out by a small firm specialising in stage settings. With ingenuity and flair the work had cost very little in terms of actual money, and India had repaid the help she had had from her friends by recommending them whenever she could. Some of the stage settings for Melisande’s latest play had been designed by them, but because she very rarely allowed her private and business lives to mingle she doubted if Melisande was even aware that she knew them. She had only attended the party Melisande had mentioned because the actress had insisted upon it, and yet India could tell that Simon Herries was assessing the cost of the salon; that he could probably gauge the rental on it to the nearest pound, and was quite obviously thinking that Mel had paid for it.

India was no naïve young girl. She was twenty-five and had lived alone since the death of her parents when she was twenty. She was perfectly well aware of the moral code prevailing in the circles in which Melisande and presumably Simon Herries himself moved; and the conclusions he had undoubtedly drawn from Melisande’s reference to Mel, and she longed to refute them. She and she alone was responsible for her success. She had received no financial ‘help’ or reward from other people, and she bitterly resented the implication that she was the sort of woman who chose the men in her life for what she could gain from the relationship.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself as she went to unlock the discreetly concealed floor-to-ceiling cupboards in which she kept completed orders. Why should it matter to her if Simon Herries judged her as he himself was no doubt quite happy to be judged? Her relationship with Melford Taylor was her own business and no one else’s. Except of course that Mel happened to be married, she reminded herself wryly, as she removed the pale blue satin dress from its hanger.

‘I love the colour,’ Melisande enthused. ‘Darling, I really must insist that you design my wardrobe for my next role. You know I’ve landed the female lead in The Musgraves?’

India inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘It was Simon who clinched things for me really,’ Melisande added, scarlet-tipped nails almost stroking the grey-suited arm resting on the chair next to her own. ‘He has extensive interests in commercial TV.’

‘Really?’

India was not aware quite how dampening she had made the word sound until she looked up and caught the grey eyes watching her with curt anger. She had already heard that Melisande had got the main role in the proposed new TV blockbuster series, but stage costume designing was unfamiliar territory to her, and while she appreciated Melisande’s faith in her, she felt that she had more than enough on her hands with the salon. The sudden boom in ‘high living’ had meant that she had had to take on extra staff to cope with the orders as it was, and she was cautious about who she employed.

‘I’m sure he’ll put in a good word for you with the studio bosses,’ Melisande said.

‘I’m sure Miss Lawson doesn’t need me to help her, not with Melford Taylor as her… backer.’

Fighting down the sudden surge of anger which had almost taken her unawares, India turned her back on him, glad of the excuse of suggesting to Melisande that she help her with the dress. It was years since she had felt such an almost immediate antipathy towards someone, even given that she was being quite deliberately needled. And why, she could not imagine! Even if she were Mel’s mistress, to use an outdated word, what possible business was it of Simon Herries?

In the fitting room she helped Melisande on with the blue satin. The bodice was cleverly draped to flatter the actress’s figure, with the pencil-slim skirt which India knew she favoured.

‘It’s gorgeous!’ Melisande pronounced when she had finished studying her reflection.

‘The hem has to be finished and one or two other little things done, but you’ll have it tomorrow,’ India promised.

She could hear her private phone ringing and sighed, knowing that it would be Mel. She had told him last weekend that there was no future in their relationship. She liked him; he had a good sense of humour and was a pleasant, undemanding companion, but as she had pointed out to him, he was a married man.

Hadn’t she heard of divorce? Mel had asked her quizzically, but India had cut him short. He had, as she knew, two small children, and even if she had been in love with him, which she wasn’t, she doubted if she could have brought herself to be the one responsible for depriving them of their father. The reason was quite simple; during her own childhood her father had had an affair with another woman. It had lasted about a year. India had been twelve at the time, a very impressionable age. She had known that something was wrong. Her mother and father never seemed to laugh any more, and she had caught her mother crying. It hadn’t been long before an older, more knowing child at school had enlightened her. She could remember quite vividly the sickness which had overwhelmed her; the need to be alone, to be assured that what she had heard wasn’t true. She had gone home and poured out the whole thing to her mother. It was true, her mother had explained, but that didn’t mean Daddy no longer loved her. He did, very much.

Her mother had been extremely courageous, India reflected, thinking about that time now. It couldn’t have been easy, trying not to let her own doubts and bitterness affect India’s relationship with her father, but somehow she had succeeded, and been rewarded, when eventually the affair had fizzled out. Afterwards neither of her parents made any reference to what had happened, and to all intents and purposes lived quite amicably together, but the experience had changed India, made her question life and love far more deeply than most girls of her age, and although she was reluctant to admit it, had made her wary and mistrustful, unconsciously unwilling to commit herself to any deep emotional involvement with a man so that somehow, at twenty-five she had emerged from her teens and early twenties without the sexual and emotional experience most girls of her age took for granted.

When they returned to the salon Simon Herries was studying a seascape hanging on one of the walls. India’s father had painted it before his death, and it depicted the view from their Cornish home on the cliffs high above the Atlantic. It was from her father that she had inherited the ambition which had made her successful, India acknowledged. He had been a civil engineer before his retirement, often working abroad. She herself had been conceived during a brief visit her mother had paid him when he was working on a contract in India—hence her unusual name.

‘Cornwall?’ he commented to India without lifting his eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Your secretary came to look for you. She asked me to tell you that there’d been a call for you. Said you’d know who it was from.’ This time he did look at her. ‘It can’t be easy, conducting an affair with a married man. You’re to be congratulated. You’ve obviously been very discreet.’

He made it sound on a par with earning a living as a prostitute! Even Melisande caught the contemptuous undertone and frowned slightly.

‘Oh, really, darling,’ she protested, ‘aren’t you being just the tiniest bit old-fashioned? Extra-marital affairs are the norm these days. Be honest now, if you were married could you see yourself being faithful for the rest of your life? No, I think India has the right idea. Far better to be independent; to have a lover rather than a husband. You will make sure the dress is sent round tomorrow, won’t you?’ she asked India as Simon Herries helped her on with her fox jacket. ‘Simon is taking me to the charity do at the Dorchester and I want to look my best.’

India walked with them to the door. Melisande kissed her on the cheek; she half extended her hand expecting Simon Herries to shake it formally, but to her chagrin he ignored her hand, instead glancing curtly down the length of her body, before following Melisande out to the sleek dark green Ferrari parked outside the salon.

‘Umm, I wish I could find myself someone like that,’ Jennifer commented dreamily, unashamedly watching them depart. ‘Fantastic looks, money—and I’ll bet he rates ten out of ten as a lover as well!’

‘You’d probably be very disappointed,’ India said briefly.

‘You reckon?’

Something in her expression made Jennifer frown. ‘He really got to you, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never known you to lose your sense of humour like this before, and God knows we’ve had them all in here. What happened, did he make a pass at you when Melisande wasn’t looking?’

‘Why should he? You said yourself he’d got the lot; I can’t think of a single reason why he should spare me a glance when he’s got Melisande.’

‘I can,’ Jennifer replied. ‘Several. For a start, you’ve got far more sex appeal. Oh, I know Melisande looks all soft and cuddly, but anyone can see she’s as hard as nails underneath, while you… Are you sure he didn’t make a pass?’

‘Positive. Now, can we please change the subject?’

‘Okay,’ Jennifer agreed cheerfully. ‘What do you want to talk about? Oh, help! I’ve just remembered, you-know-who rang. Said he’d pick you up at eight. I didn’t know you had a date with him tonight.’

‘I don’t—at least not officially. He did say something about us having dinner together last week, but I’ve already told him I…’

‘You don’t date married men,’ Jenneifer supplied with another grin. ‘You certainly believe in making things difficult for yourself, don’t you? With his influence…’

‘I don’t want his influence, Jen,’ India cut in with unusual crispness. ‘I like Mel, and I value his friendship. I’ve known him for over three years—ever since I first opened this salon. My accountant introduced him to me—in fact it was Mel who first told me about these premises…’

‘Well, you could do worse, you know,’ Jennifer pointed out judiciously. ‘He’s mad about you—anyone can see that.’

‘He’s married,’ India replied stubbornly. ‘And besides, I don’t love him.’

‘Love? Who needs it?’ Jennifer demanded sourly. ‘You know, for all that I’m three years younger than you, I sometimes feel old enough to be your mother.’

‘If you were, you’d hardly be encouraging me to go out with someone else’s husband,’ India pointed out dryly, but Jennifer merely raised her eyebrows.

‘You’re kidding! With a man as wealthy as Mel, mothers tend to forget an unimportant thing like an existing wife.’

Was she being stupid? India wondered several hours later as she locked the salon and stepped out into the crisp evening air. It wasn’t very far from the salon to where she lived. She had been lucky enough to be able to buy the top floor of one of an old row of Victorian terraced houses, just before they became fashionable, and she loved the privacy and space it gave her.

Mel had hinted on more than one occasion that he wanted to put their relationship on a more serious footing, but she had always reminded him of his wife.

Perhaps it was foolish at her age to virtually abandon the idea of a home, husband and children of her own simply because she had yet to meet the man who would be her ideal. It might have helped if she had known what she was looking for. All she did know was that as yet she had not met him; the man who would touch her emotions deeply enough for her to be able to break through the barriers of distrust erected during her vulnerable teens.

The phone rang just as she was unlocking her front door. She reached for it, dropping her coat and bag on the attractively re-covered Victorian chair which was the only piece of furniture in the tiny hall.

She had several good friends who often rang her, but she knew before she heard his voice who it would be on this occasion.

‘You got my message?’

‘Yes, I did, Mel, but I’m afraid…’

‘Please come, I want to talk to you—seriously. Please, India, I need to talk to you. I’d suggest that you come round here to my place, but I know you’d refuse, and as I’m hardly likely to get an invitation to your retreat, dinner seemed to be the only alternative.’

Recognising the strain in his voice, India gave way.

‘I’ll pick you up—about eight. We’re dining at Jardine’s.’

It was one of the more exclusive new restaurants which had recently opened and tables were not easily come by, but then to a man of Mel Taylor’s influence nothing would be impossible.

He had done very well for himself, India recognised, having built up an enviable business empire from one small company, and India suspected he was drawn to her because she too had had to struggle, and knew the value of what one earned by one’s own achievements. About his home background she knew very little apart from the fact that he had a wife and two small children, both boys, who attended an exclusive prep school. Although it was never said India guessed that there was a tremendous gulf between father and sons in the way that there often was between a parent who had been forced to work hard, building up a fortune from very small beginnings, and the children who enjoyed the style of life that fortune could purchase. She had once heard it mentioned that Mel had married ‘above himself’—an expression which she detested, and which she considered in Mel’s case was grossly unmerited, as he was a man of extremely refined taste, gentle and kind, and she wondered if it was perhaps this which had given rise to his marital problems. They were not something she cared to discuss with him, and she had never pried into his private life, despite the length of time she had known him. In fact it was only quite recently that she had seen him on a regular basis, certainly within the last six months, and it had not been until a couple of months ago that she had realised that Mel was subtly trying to steer their relationship into more intimate waters.

As they were dining out she made herself a light snack, and ate it sitting on a stool in the tiny kitchen she had planned and designed herself. Her flat was reasonably spacious; a large lounge with tall classical windows, a small dining room which had looked cold and dark until she had cleverly redecorated it in shades of crimson offset by white; two bedrooms each with their own bathroom, and a small study.

Decorating and furnishing the flat had been a labour of love which India had thoroughly enjoyed. Her parents had had several good pieces of furniture inherited from older members of the family, and India had spent much of her spare time combing antique shops and street markets until she found what she was looking for. The street markets served two purposes. In addition to finding the odd piece of furniture she had been lucky enough to come across several pieces of old lace which she meticulously repaired herself and kept for her own designs.

Usually after her evening meal, when she was relaxed, she found herself gravitating towards her sketch pad, and sometimes the ideas which came to her then proved far better than those she laboured over in her work-room at the salon, but tonight there would not be time for any work.

Jardine’s attracted a sophisticated fashion-conscious crowd of diners, and India chose carefully from her own surprisingly limited wardrobe. When one was constantly making things for other people there never seemed to be enough time to make for oneself, and as India was the first to admit, she was fussy about her clothes.

The outfit both Melisande and to some extent Simon Herries had mocked earlier in the day was one she had had for several years. The plain silk blouse had been bought in Paris and she loved the texture of the fabric and the neatly tailored lines of the garment. It had cost a small fortune, but India considered that she had more than had her money’s worth in terms of wear. The grey flannel skirt was one of her own, beautifully styled and cut, top-stitching emphasising the neat centre pleat, and with it she often wore a slightly darker grey cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. The flamboyant clothes favoured by many of her clients simply were not ‘her’.

Sliding a soft black velvet dress with a high neck edged with cream lace and three-quarter-length sleeves off its hanger, she left it on the bed while she had her bath.

Her bathroom possessed both a bath and a separate shower, and while in the mornings a quick shower was all she had time for, whenever possible she preferred a luxurious soak in scented water.

‘Arpège’ was her favourite perfume; she had read somewhere that women who favoured the aldehydic floral scents, such as Arpège, Chanel No. 5, and Madame Rochas, projected a cool, in-control image, and that they were in fact very much ‘establishment’ fragrances. Perhaps it had something to do with her childhood experiences; this desire to uphold traditions, and encourage permanence, India did not really know. What she did know, however, was that when she had tried to switch to a different type of scent, something more sensual and oriental, she had found it impossible to do so.

She dressed quickly and efficiently, a black silk camisole and matching slip trimmed lavishly with lace; sheer black stockings—one of the pleasures of being successful was that it was possible to indulge in such luxuries without feeling guilty. As she slid the fine silk over her legs she paused, remembering Simon Herries’ comment, and the way he had looked at her. She had found that look disturbing. She shrugged mentally. What did he, or his opinions, matter to her? He was not the type of man she was ever likely to want to impress—too physically dominant; almost too male for her tastes. She, unlike Jennifer, did not think he would be a good lover; he was too much aware of himself, she felt, although she had to admit that the procession of women through his life read like a Beautiful People’s Who’s Who.

The black velvet dress fitted her perfectly, the colour of the lace almost exactly matching the creamy texture of her skin.

Because she knew Mel would like it, she applied more make-up than normal, concentrating on emphasising her eyes, which because of their size and deep clarity of colour tended to look almost impossibly emerald.

It was in Paris that she had learned the importance of proper skin care, and she knew she was fortunate in having the type of bone structure which would never really age.

Again because Mel liked it, she wore her hair in a soft chignon, twisting into it a row of pearls which had been last year’s Christmas present to herself. She was just applying perfume to her throat and wrists when she heard the door, and gathering up the black velvet evening coat designed to be worn over her dress she hurried to open it.

Mel’s eyes widened appreciatively when he saw her. He bent his head towards her, but she moved slightly so that it was her cheek and not her mouth that he kissed.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said simply. ‘I wish we were spending the evening alone.’

His voice and eyes were heavy with pain, and India sensed that something was troubling him.

‘Not now,’ he forestalled her. ‘We’ll talk over dinner.’

He wasn’t driving his own car, but had come in a taxi. It had rained since India had left the salon, and the streets glistened like liquorice, reflecting the brilliantly lit store windows.

Neither of them spoke, although to India the atmosphere felt heavy with sadness.