Mistress on Loan (6 page)

'Pity,' was Zelda's dry comment. 'It could have been handy.' She paused. 'So, what are we going to do?' She swallowed, her glance flickering round her clean but cluttered domain. 'Sell up and start again?'

'Oh, I hope it won't come to that,' Adrien said quickly, without any optimism at all. 'I'll find some way out. But I felt I ought to tell you before the rumours started flying.'

'Yes.' Zelda smiled with an effort. 'Thanks, babe.'

It was as if a light had been switched off inside her, Adrien thought wretchedly as she walked over to Listow Cottage and let herself in.

And Smudge had been even worse. He'd come dashing in, talking nineteen to the dozen about his puppy, and Zelda had put an arm round him and said gently that he might have to wait a little while longer.

Most children would have thrown some kind of tantrum, but Smudge had simply gone silent, his small face closed off and stoical, as if disappointment was nothing new to him. It shouldn't be like that, Adrien thought angrily. He doesn't deserve it. And nor does Zelda. She noticed without surprise that the answer machine was winking furiously. The calls were from contractors who'd worked on the house, or suppliers, and without exception they wanted to know when they would be paid. And a few of them sounded frankly hostile.

She couldn't believe how rapidly she'd gone from being a valued colleague to a potential enemy. She listed down their names and set them to one side.

There was no point in calling them back until she had a solution to offer, and at the moment there wasn't one.

Or nothing that she was prepared to contemplate, she amended stonily.

She tried to do some sums, but none of the numbers seemed to make sense, and the eventual total horrified her. It appeared that even if she was able to sell the business, plus the cottage and the outbuildings, including Zelda's conversion, there would still be a shortfall.

I'm ruined, she thought blankly. We all are. And it's Chay Haddon's fault. Forcing his way back into our lives. Using his money like a sledgehammer to get what he wants. Shivering, she wrapped her arms protectively round her body.

Piers, she thought with anguish. Why didn't you tell me that you were in financial trouble? I could have stopped work on the house. Why didn't you warn me...?

But it wasn't simply the money, a small, cold voice in her head reminded her. There was also the personal betrayal of the affair in Portugal, and she couldn't reasonably blame Chay for that, although she wished she could.

But it had been entirely Piers's own decision to dump her and run. To leave her abandoned and practically destitute while he married someone else without even a word...

Up to that moment she seemed to have been numbed by disbelief. Now, pain came over her like a black wave, swamping coherent thought, constricting her throat and dragging her mouth into a rictus of grief. She heard herself moan, and found, suddenly, that she was free-falling into some dark chasm of hurt and fear.

She groped her way to a chair by the table, put her head down on the smooth wooden surface, and began to weep without restraint, her whole body convulsed by the sobs that tore through her, so that she ached with the force of them.

When, at last, they began to subside, she stayed where she was, her face buried in her folded arms, an occasional shiver curling down her spine. She felt utterly drained, and when she got to her feet her legs were shaky.

Not altogether surprising, she reminded herself, as she'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and those two slices of toast now seemed to belong to another lifetime.

She felt empty, but at the same time the thought of food was repulsive. She felt hot and disorientated, and her bout of weeping had left an odd metallic taste in her mouth. She filled the kettle and set it to boil, then realised she didn't really want tea or coffee either.

I need something stronger, she thought, and headed down to the cellar, emerging a few minutes later with a bottle of white burgundy.

She found the corkscrew and took a crystal glass from the wall cupboard in the dining room, then carried them all into the sitting room. It was showing signs of her absence. There was a film of dust on the polished surfaces, and a vase of dead flowers on the table below the window. She sat down in one of the big chairs that flanked the fireplace, and leaned back against the cushions. Outside, the light was fading rapidly, and there was a faint chill in the air which spoke of autumn.
The days are drawing in.
That was what people said, and they hung heavier curtains at their windows, and lit fires in the evening, and started to make plans for Christmas. All the usual, normal things. Only this year it would not happen. Not for her, or Zelda. In the course of one day her life had changed forever. All its certainties gone.

By Christmas, heaven only knows where we'll all be, she thought bleakly, and drank some wine. Its crisp, cold fruitiness filled her mouth and caressed her dry, aching throat, and she savoured it gratefully. There were tall shelves in the recesses beside the fireplace which had been filled with books and ornaments. There was a radio just beside her, and she switched it on, turning the dial until she found a station playing classical music. The sound filled the room, haunting and wistful—an orchestral version of Debussy's 'Girl with the Flaxen Hair'.

Adrien closed her eyes as the music washed over her, seeing the girl, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight, walking through a meadow, dreaming, perhaps, of her wedding, as she made her way back to some solid French farmhouse. Her life, she thought, would be safe, and secure, and full of hope. Whereas I—I have no hope at all. I'm going to lose everything I've worked for. Every dream I ever had.

Maybe I should change my hair to blonde, she thought with bitter self-mockery. They say blondes have more fun.

She drank some more wine, and refilled her glass.

So much of her future had been wrapped up in Piers it seemed impossible that he was no longer part of her life. She'd created this image of their relationship in her mind, and invested all her emotional energy in it. He dazzled me, she thought, from the first moment I saw him, even though I was only a child. He was so glamorous, and so different. And, after Chay let me down, he made me trust him.

And he knew it. My God, when he came back, I must have been a sitting duck. I just accepted everything he told me—went along with his schemes. Walked blindly into his trap.

But now that he'd gone she felt strangely numb>—hollow—as if nothing mattered any longer, she thought, almost dreamily. As if every bit of emotion had been drained out of her, leaving only a shell. As if the girl she had been simply didn't exist any more. She drank again, feeling the wine spreading warmth through her chilled veins. Seeing the difficulties surrounding her with a new clarity. Because, she realised with cool finality, she didn't have to be a loser. She had a choice. Not an enviable one, but a serious option.

Piers didn't want her, but there was another man who did. All she had to do was agree to his terms and her problems would be solved. Well—most of them, anyway, she amended, wincing.

He'd offered her a business arrangement, so she didn't* have to pretend to be in love with him—or even to want him. He could have the shell—the empty husk she'd become. Because there was nothing else. She emptied her glass, staring into space. She would loan herself to him for a set time—a finite term. That was the only way she'd be able to bear it: if she could remind herself each day—and each night—that the situation was temporary. If she could know for certain that she would eventually be free of him, and that he would have no further claim on her.

She shivered violently. It all sounded so—cold-blooded. Yet that was the deal he'd suggested, and that was the bargain she'd made. No more and no less.

That way the business would be safe, and so would this house. And Zelda and Smudge would be secure too.

So many good reasons for degrading herself. For offering herself for sale. For going against every principle she possessed.

But I can't afford principles, she reminded herself harshly, refilling her glass again. I have to be pragmatic. Do the expedient thing. And I must do it now. While I still have the courage.

She got up so quickly that her head swam, and made her way to the telephone, dialing the King's Anns hotel. Not giving herself time to think—to change her mind, or clutch at sanity.

A girl answered, briskly polite. 'King's Arms—

Reception. How may I help you?'

Adrien cleared her throat. 'You have a Mr. Haddon staying with you. May I speak to him, please?'

'I'm sorry, madam, Mr. Haddon isn't here at the moment, although we're expecting him to return for dinner. May I take a message?'

Yes, thought Adrien, feeling a crazy giggle trying to escape. Tell him I'll sleep with him if he pays all the debts on the Grange.

Aloud, she said, rather more sedately, 'Will you tell him that Miss Lander called, please?'

'Of course, madam. Is he expecting to hear from you?'

There was a pause, then, 'Yes,' Adrien said with difficulty. 'Yes, I—I rather think he is.'

And gently she replaced the receiver.

She lifted her head and stared at herself in the wall mirror above the telephone table. Her face was white, except for a trace of hectic colour on her cheekbones, and her eyes were blurred with weeping.

'Some bargain,' she derided herself shakily.

'But I've done it now—and I can't afford to turn back. The stakes are too high.'

She lifted her glass in a parody of a toast.

'To the future,' she said huskily. And drank.

CHAPTER FOUR

Admen had picked up the splinter on her climb to the tree-house. The sliver of wood was now embedded firmly in her knee, with dark drops of blood welling up around it.

'Let me have a look.' Chay sat her down on his rolled up sleeping bag and scrutinised the damage with faint impatience. 'I can get it out,' he said, at last. 'But it's going to hurt. Can you keep very still while I do it?'

She nodded mutely, biting her lip hard, because it was already hurting, but reluctant to let him see. He might decide she was a nuisance, and never let her come up to the treehouse again. Never let her use the field glasses to watch birds and rabbits and squirrels, or give her a sheet from his sketching block and show her how to draw a tree or a flower.

He opened the old biscuit tin she thought of as his treasure box. It held a compass, a magnifying glass, pens and pencils, a wonderful knife, with all sorts of blades that she wasn't allowed to touch, and a pair of tweezers.

He was quick and deft, but when he'd finished her eyes were filled with tears although she hadn't made a sound.

He looked up at her, and his thin face softened.

'You were very brave,' he said, and her lips trembled into a smile. 'But it really needs bathing, and maybe a tetanus shot.' He produced a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and tied it round the little wound. 'You'd better go home and let your mother have a look at it.'

He saw her droop with disappointment, and stood up briskly. 'And don't look as if you're being punished,' he cautioned sternly. 'The house will still be here tomorrow. And so will I.' And he touched her cheek gently and fleetingly with his finger...

'My God,' Adrien whispered, shooting bolt-upright in her chair, her heart thumping. 'I must have been dreaming.'

But was it a dream? she wondered uneasily, as she stared round the sitting room. Or a long-buried memory that suddenly, and for no good reason, had come swimming to the surface of her consciousness?

And 'swimming' was the appropriate word, she thought, shaking her head. She felt positively fuzzy.

Slowly, she pulled up the hem of her skirt, and looked down at the tiny silver scar on her knee. It had been there so long—so much a part of her physical make-up—that she never really registered it any more. Or hadn't done so. Until now, when she'd suddenly remembered how she'd acquired it. But I know why I forgot, she thought slowly. Because the next time I went to the Grange Piers was there—and everything changed. The treehouse stopped being a sanctuary and became a nightmare. And Chay wasn't my hero or my friend any more, but my enemy.

Besides, a splinter in the knee was nothing to the other wounds she'd suffered at Chay's hands, then and afterwards. The scarring was hidden, internal, but still potent, she realised bitterly.

And he hadn't finished with her yet.

Shivering, she rose to her feet, and paused, aware that she felt hollow and still faintly dizzy. While she'd been dozing, or whatever, it had got dark. And cold too. Perhaps she was catching a chill, and that was why she felt so shaky. Moving gingerly, she lit the lamps, and had started towards the window to draw the curtains when the brisk sound of the doorbell halted her in her tracks.

She stood for a moment, aware that her mouth was suddenly dry and her pulses drumming. Also that she was swaying slightly where she stood. And that her head seemed stuffed with feathers. If she hadn't switched on the damned lights she could have pretended she wasn't there. As it was, she might as well have been standing in a goldfish bowl.

Reluctantly, she felt her way into the hall, and opened the door, gasping as a blast of cool air hit her.' Good evening,' Chay said. 'I got your message. May I come in?'

'What do you want?' She wrapped her arms defensively round her body.

'I think that's really my question. You called me—remember?'

'Yes,' she said, and swallowed. 'Er—yes, I did.'

She propped herself against the doorframe. 'You certainly don't waste any time.'

He gave her a searching look. 'Not very welcoming, darling. Have you had a change of heart?'

In spite of her sense of fragility, Adrien sent back a challenging stare. 'No,' she said. 'I—I rang because I've decided to accept your offer.'

'I thought you would,' he murmured.

She glared at him, hating him. 'And the victor's here to claim his spoils.'

His smile was ironic. 'I think it's pronounced "spoils". And also that it's a little early to claim total victory.' He gave her a moment to digest this. Then, 'Do you plan to conduct this entire interview standing on the doorstep?'