Читать книгу Potent As Poison - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 10

ELIZABETH took the lift straight back up to her office, her hands trembling as she sat down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. ‘Please, God—no,’ she muttered brokenly, when the door to the adjoining room was thrust open and there stood Jenny—an astonished look of horror on her face.

‘Mrs Carson!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried over. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Elizabeth looked up unseeingly, her eyes bright.

‘What is it?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

Elizabeth shut her eyes again briefly.

‘You need something,’ said Jenny firmly.

Through a cotton-wool haze, Elizabeth heard the sounds of Jenny clattering around with bottles and glasses and moments later a glass of pale brown liquid was put into her hand.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Brandy. Drink it.’

Normally calm, unflappable, in control—Elizabeth drained the glass like an obedient child, welcoming the warmth which licked at her stomach like fire.

Jenny sat down in the chair opposite, bolt upright, as though she were about to take dictation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Whether it was the large shot of brandy on an empty stomach, or simply the need to unburden herself to someone, she didn’t know—but Elizabeth did want to talk.

Apart from John, she had entrusted the story to no one—for years she had been filled with a sense of shame at what had happened, but the shame had at times been punctuated with a fevered yearning for the man who had turned her from child to woman in a few short hours.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too—shocking.’

Jenny gave a sad smile. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I brought up a child of my own out of wedlock, remember?’

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you knew ...’

‘That your husband wasn’t Peter’s father? Yes, I knew. Oh, just from little things you said, really. I’ve been working for you for a long time, remember. You can trust me, you know.’

‘I know I can.’ There was a pause. ‘That man—Rick Masterton—was ...is ...’ She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. ‘He’s Peter’s father, Jenny!’

She had expected some kind of appalled reaction, not Jenny’s slow and thoughtful nodding of the head.

‘That explains your behaviour,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t understand. Today, he didn’t seem to——’ her voice tailed off.

‘He didn’t recognise me,’ finished Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If anything was needed to convince me that I meant nothing to him, it was our little reunion today. Because there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. That’s how much I really meant to Rick Masterton.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Jenny.

Elizabeth sighed as she started speaking, her voice very quiet, sounding as faraway as her thoughts. ‘It all began one summer evening, almost ten years ago,’ she said slowly, as the memories began to form. ‘I wasn’t Elizabeth then, I was Beth—and fresh out of the orphanage. I went to stay with a friend in London ...’

It had been one of those magical August summer evenings, the air warm, the ice-blue sky gilded with a golden haze from the sun, when the whole world had looked a gloriously happy place, and doubly magical for Beth, who had travelled down from Wales to stay with her friend Donna who had left the orphanage the year before to live and work in London.

‘I still can’t believe it!’ Beth had squealed fervently as she stared yet again at the slip of paper which listed her exam results.

‘Well, I can!’ retorted Donna. ‘And you deserve four “A” grades and your scholarship. Imagine! I said you were the brightest girl that they’ve ever had at the orphanage, didn’t I?’

‘But Oxford,’ said Beth, shaking her head a little as if in bemusement, so that her long pony-tail swung like a horse’s tail around her long, slender neck. ‘Do you suppose I’ll ever fit in there?’

‘With your brains, you’ll fit in anywhere,’ said Donna firmly. ‘Now go and run a bath—we’re going out to celebrate.’

‘I’ve hardly any money——’ protested Beth.

‘And you won’t need any—we’re going to a party.’

‘A party?’

‘Don’t look so shocked—it’ll be a perfectly decent party.’

‘I’m not really a party person,’ said Beth doubtfully. ‘Whose is it?’

‘Oh, the MD’s nephew is over from the States—they’ve hired some swanky rooms overlooking the river. They won’t mind if I bring a friend.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive!’

But ‘party’ seemed far too humble a description for the glittering affair which Donna took her to, thought Beth, as she hovered nervously by the picture window under which the Thames glittered slickly. She had never seen such a collection of exotic creatures as the guests who mingled, danced, drank champagne and laughed uproariously.

She must look terribly out of place, she thought, chewing her bottom lip a little, and if the truth were known she felt out of place. Donna had taken her in hand, had dressed her for the party since Beth had brought nothing suitable, and didn’t have anything suitable in any case. Unfortunately, Beth was far more generously endowed that Donna, with lush, youthful curves of hip and breast. In the spangled emerald dress, her creamy breasts had spilled seductively over the bodice, making her resemble a heroine off the front cover of some historical bodice-ripper, according to Donna. ‘You look quite different,’ she said, her head to one side. ‘And if you wore strong cool colours all the time—like this emerald, or purple, or black or blue—the colour would be reflected in your eyes. OK?’

‘OK,’ agreed Beth hesitantly.

‘And you must wear your hair loose,’ Donna insisted.

So the shiny brown hair was left to cascade in waves almost to her waist, and Beth had scarcely recognised the glittery creature who gazed back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were pale and indeterminate—usually. Muddy, Beth called them, though Donna had described them as ‘hazel’. Tonight they looked completely different; Donna had been right—they were like mirrors reflecting the bright green of her dress and Donna had spiked the long, curling lashes with lots of mascara so that her face looked all eyes.

Her hand had automatically swooped down to pick up her wire-framed National Health glasses which everyone at the orphanage had teased her about, when Donna shot her a warning look and removed them from her grasp.

‘No glasses. Not tonight,’ she said firmly.

‘But I’m as blind as a bat without them,’ protested Beth.

‘Really?’ Donna looked aghast.

Beth took pity on her. ‘Well, not exactly—but I can only see clearly close-up.’

‘Great!’ teased Donna. ‘That’s all you need—to be able to see the hunk you’re dancing with!’

But, standing inside the elegant room at the party, staring straight ahead at the blurred crowd, she felt a bit of a fraud, wishing that she were back at the flat in her customary jeans and sweater, hair pulled back into its more usual plait, her nose deep in a book. Perhaps she could slip away unnoticed in a few minutes ...

So caught up was she in her plan to escape that she scarcely noticed the man who stood a couple of feet away, also gazing out at the flamboyant sunset.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true—of course she had noticed him; he had the kind of drop-dead gorgeous looks which meant that he would always have been noticed.

Most of the men there were dressed conservatively, either in suits or in casual trousers teamed with crisp, striped shirts. This man wore jeans, but with the kind of flair and panache that somehow managed to make him look the best-dressed man in the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt which might have been silk, through which she could see a firm, hard chest, and the shirt was tucked into the jeans, displaying narrow hips and long, long legs.

She sighed as she looked away. Way, way out of her league. And he had a stunning-looking blonde popping titbits into his mouth.

And speaking of titbits. She still hadn’t eaten.

She reached down for a triangle of toast, which was spread with something which, intriguingly, looked black, bit into it, began to chew, then nearly retched. It took every bit of determination she had just to swallow the morsel, but the slimy, salty taste refused to leave her mouth; then, as if in answer to a prayer, a glass of cold, clear water was placed in her hand, and she drank the whole glass thirstily before looking into an amused pair of blue-green eyes.

‘I guess you’re none too fond of caviar, huh?’ he smiled.

He looked so darkly handsome that she had been convinced that he would be Italian, or Spanish perhaps—so that it came as something of a shock for her to hear his rich, deep American drawl.

‘Caviar!’ She shuddered. ‘Is that what it is? Well, that’s the first and last time I ever eat it!’

‘Never tried it before?’ He sounded curious.

She gave him a look, but then took pity on him, after all—he wasn’t to know about the institutional food which had been the sum total of her experience. ‘Actually,’ she confided, the champagne she’d drunk giving her the confidence to tease, ‘I normally eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner—but this isn’t Beluga, and Beluga’s the only one I can bear!’

He laughed. ‘But you’ve heard of Beluga?’

She hadn’t been the light of her school debating society for nothing. ‘Just because I’ve never tried it, it doesn’t mean to say I’ve never heard of it!’ she answered back. ‘There are such things as books, you know!’

His eyebrows were raised slightly at the reprimand, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. ‘I stand corrected!’ He held two hands up in mock defence, then picked up a plate of hors-d’oeuvre. ‘Here, have one of these.’

Beth eyed some more dark-looking things wrapped in bacon—yeuk!—she wasn’t risking another try! She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. All the books say don’t eat the nibbles—they pile on the pounds and never fill you up. I’ll have something when I get home.’ She looked around for Donna, but he was speaking to her.

‘You’re not going already?’

He sounded, she thought, absolutely astonished.

She nodded. ‘It’s not really my scene.’

‘Nor mine,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell you what—I’m hungry, too. So what would you tell an American in London to eat?’

‘Fish and chips out of the newspaper!’ she said at once, memories of a rare seaside day-trip swamping her. ‘But it’s no good asking me where to find one,’ she protested, as he gently but firmly pushed her through the door. ‘Because I don’t know London at all!’

‘And neither do I,’ he smiled. ‘But I know a man who does.’

Which was how they found themselves in a black cab speeding towards the East End, where they were deposited in the front of the most delicious-smelling chip shop.

Still in her party clothes, but with Riccardo’s jacket on, she sat with him eating their feast on a park bench, munching the hot chips covered with salt and vinegar and breaking off great chunks of glistening white cod wrapped in batter.

Then they caught a cab back to Westminster, arguing all the way about how Verdi should be interpreted. Then they went to a pub, where he tried draught bitter and found it quite as disgusting as she’d found the caviar.

Quite by coincidence they were passing underneath Big Ben when midnight struck and they stood very still as the mighty chimes rang out around them.

This is it, Cinderella, thought Beth regretfully as she stared up into that dark, beautiful face ...

‘Meeting him was the most magical thing that had ever happened to me,’ said Elizabeth slowly, her mind coming back to the present as she surveyed Jenny sitting opposite her, staring at her with open curiosity. ‘I didn’t know that people like him existed—intelligent, witty—and oh, goodness, so attractive. I’d never felt any physical attraction for anyone before that—and he, somehow ...he made me feel ...oh, I don’t know. I was stupidly naïve. Too young and too inexperienced to realise he was feeding me a line.’

‘But what happened?’ asked Jenny. ‘What happened next?’

Elizabeth looked at her secretary, her eyes unwavering. ‘I didn’t go home that night. I went back to his uncle’s flat with him. I spent the weekend there. And afterwards I discovered that I was pregnant.’

‘Good grief!’

Elizabeth had expected this; the censure; perhaps that was why she had told no one besides John. ‘It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? Not a story I’m proud of.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m not casting blame. For heaven’s sake, you must have been so young.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And him?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘But Elizabeth—doesn’t he know? About the baby?’

Elizabeth’s voice became a flat monotone. ‘There was no reason to tell him——’

‘But surely, as the father, he had a right——’

‘No!’ Elizabeth’s voice was harsh. ‘A weekend fling with a stranger does not make you a father. It doesn’t constitute any rights. And anyway——’ and here her voice faltered ‘—I did try to contact him. To tell him. But he’d flown back to the States. I left him on the Sunday, and he flew back home on the Monday. And he had a fiancée back at home waiting for him. So you see,’ she gave a watery smile. ‘It really was just a quick roll in the hay—isn’t that what Americans say?—for him. That’s all he ever intended it to be. But it gave me what has made my life worth living. It gave me Peter. Speaking of which——’ and she rubbed a fist into each eye and glanced at her watch ‘—I’d better get going—he’ll be back from football practice soon.’ She swallowed the last of her brandy and got to her feet.

Jenny stood up too, still looking puzzled. ‘But how could he—how could he not recognise you? After ...after ...’ Her voice tailed off in embarrassment.

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘It was nearly a decade ago. I’m pounds lighter, I’ve had my hair cropped, and I wasn’t wearing glasses at the time. And, I expect,’ she said bitterly, ‘that there have been countless others in his bed since. But Jenny,’ she said, very softly. ‘Please. John was the only other person who has heard the whole story before. Perhaps I shouldn’t even have told you. I probably wouldn’t have done if it weren’t for the shock of seeing him again. But please, promise me that you’ll never speak of it to anyone? Imagine if any of the partners got to hear about it?’

‘Of course I won’t. Not that I think the partners would care—not in this day and age. But what about Peter? What does he know of all this? Does he think that your husband was the father?’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never lied to him. I simply told him the truth—that I loved his Daddy very much, but that sometimes things just don’t work out as you hoped they would.’

‘But now that this—Rick Masterton is back. Don’t you feel you ought to tell him?’

‘No,’ said Elizabeth with a quiet fervour. ‘Not now—it’s too late. Especially not now. I was nothing to him—a young, willing bed-partner he can’t even remember. And now he’s a rich and powerful man; very powerful indeed. He’s also an attorney who specialises in child custody cases, driven by a particular zealous fire—taking up the cudgels on behalf of men who he feels have been poorly treated in custody cases. Imagine if he discovers that he hasn’t just been denied access, but knowledge of his son as well? He could take Peter away from me. And I can’t take that chance. Now, I really must go, Jenny.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Thanks for listening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Elizabeth travelled the three blocks to the Tube station in a total daze and flashed her season ticket at the guard as she waited for the northbound train which would take her home. She took a deep breath of fresh air as she walked along the platform, welcoming the anonymity of the crowded train, the blank eyes of the fellow passengers, the opportunity the journey would give her for time to think. To come to terms with having seen him again after all this time.

But by the time she reached her exquisite detached Regent’s Park house her mind was still a maze of muddled images. She walked wearily up the path to the distinctive black-painted front door, the sight of the elegant building momentarily soothing her troubled mind. Home.

She walked into the elegantly spacious hall and heard the familiar sound of a computer game from just down the hall.

‘Peter!’ she called, and there was a flurry as the boy, whose build, though wiry, none the less showed a hint of muscle which would make him as tall as his father in adulthood, came dashing along the corridor.

‘Hello, Ma—I scored three times today—can you believe that? Hey——’ And he peered at his mother closely. ‘You haven’t been crying, have you?’

‘Crying? Of course I haven’t,’ said Elizabeth briskly. ‘Now, do I get a hug or not?’

‘Ma!’

He spoke with all the feigned horror of physical affection which was prevalent in little boys after their sixth birthday, but he gave her a tight hug anyway, and it needed every bit of effort she possessed for her eyes not to grow unnaturally bright for the second time that afternoon.

‘Where’s Mrs Clarke?’ she asked, looking around for her stalwart of a housekeeper-cum-babysitter.

‘Gone upstairs,’ said Peter. ‘She’s knitting some kind of jacket for her granddaughter. What’s for supper?’

Deciding on a simple supper for them both, Elizabeth went into the kitchen with Peter and busied herself with cracking eggs for omelettes and making a salad, while Peter chattered on excitedly about his chances of playing for the junior soccer team that autumn.

Elizabeth was aware that she was viewing her son with new eyes this evening. Her heart was always in her mouth when she looked at him, consumed with unconditional love for the small being whose appearance had dramatically altered the whole course of her life.

Over the years she had tried, without lasting success, not to think too much about his father, not just because of the pain, but because there didn’t seem a lot of point in dwelling on a man she would never see again.

But now she had seen him, and it was as if his reappearance had brought it slamming home to her just how like his father Peter was. The same dark hair, the same curiously light and distinctive blue-green eyes, the same long-limbed build with the potential for a distinctively steely strength. The same razor-sharp mind.

He looked up suddenly, aware of her scrutiny. ‘You’re sad,’ he said, with unnerving perception—since she had been sure that her face showed nothing of her thoughts.

‘A little,’ she admitted.

‘You’re thinking about my dad?’

She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘Why d’you say that?’

He shrugged. ‘’Cos that’s how you always look when you think about him.’ He gave a small shrug which suddenly made him look terribly vulnerable.

She felt suddenly, inexplicably guilty. ‘I bet you really miss never having had a real father?’ she probed.

‘I had John—I can kind of remember him. I know he wasn’t my real Dad but—he was great.’

Elizabeth remembered her ex-husband with the same affection. ‘Yes, he was great. But never having known your real father——’

‘You were always enough for me, Ma.’ And then, obviously embarrassed by such a slushy admission, he scowled. ‘When’s supper going to be ready? I’m starving.’

‘Coming right up,’ she said brightly, sliding a fluffy omelette on to the plate and pushing the wooden bowl of dressed salad into the centre of the table, while they both sat down.

Nothing’s going to happen, she told herself. Nothing. In a few months he’ll be gone, and that will be that.

But she lay awake all night long, her face set with tension, blinking unseeingly at the moon-shadows on the ceiling, her mind fraught with images of Rick.