The Questing Heart (3 page)

'That's about it. A shadow to her sun.'

'But you're much better looking than she is if you gave yourself a chance.'

'Comparisons are odious,' she rebuked him.

'I mean it. Your eyes are beautiful and your face is a perfect oval. I can't see much of the rest of you in that shroud, but I did notice you had a neat ankle.'

She moved uncomfortably, not believing this flattery which seemed to her to be pointless.

'Do you have to scrape your hair back in that hideous way?' he demanded.

'Yes,' she returned coolly.

'You should wear it loose about your face,' he decided. 'And wear bright plain colours. Can't you do something about it?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'Not worth while, there's no one to dress up for.'

'There's me.'

'You?' she laughed. 'Here today and gone tomorrow.'

'I hope to see more of you before I leave the locality,' he assured her.

'You can't really be interested in me,' Clare protested. 'A brown sparrow, as you called me.'

'We have a kindred interest in literature.'

'My dear man, I know enough of authors to know they're only interested in their own productions.'

'You're wrong, of course, as are most of your statements. We're not all Monica Cullingfords.'

The mention of her employer's name reminded her of the flight of time. Glancing at her watch, she exclaimed:

'Is it really so late? I must fly!'

'Will you be locked out?'
_%

'Quite possibly. Oh, I daresay I can get in the back way, but I really should be going.'

The enchantment had gone out of the evening. Chris had taken her out for a whim, but he could not want to repeat the experiment. She had been naive and dull and he must be used to much more sophisticated company. She did not know what he had expected of her, but she was sure he must have been disappointed. Certainly he made no attempt to detain her and hurried her back to the car.

He drove in silence which she made no attempt to break. She was very conscious of him beside her in the intimacy of the front seat. She began to weave a fantasy in which Chris was her boy-friend and wondered what his kisses would be like, blushing at her audacity under cover of the darkness. There was an accepted formula for a goodnight parting after an evening out, so she might possibly find out.

Arrived at the villa, they both got out of the car, and she thanked him for a lovely evening. She stood hesitating, for there was still something to be done, but Chris said easily: 'Be seeing you,' and turned back to the car.

She blurted out: 'Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?'

He turned back and his surprise was unflattering.

'Do you want me to?'

'I thought it was usual,' she returned. 'A way of saying thank you, but you needn't if you don't want to.'

'Don't ...!' He laughed. 'My brown sparrow has more to her than I suspected.'

Clare turned towards the villa, exasperated. She had made her request because she wanted to feel his lips on hers and test her reactions, but he found her too unappetising for such a salute and was laughing at her.

'Goodnight,' she said frigidly, closing the garden gate between them.

'Hey, wait a minute!' He pushed it open and his hands came down upon her shoulders, restraining her. 'You're not going like that. Not after your so charming invitation.'

'Forget it,' she snapped.

'Impossible.'

His kiss when it came was not at all what she had expected, with Monica's turgid descriptions in mind she had anticipated something far more devastating. The pressure of his lips was gentle, though lingering, and he did not fold her in a fierce embrace as she had feared ... hoped ... he would, merely letting his hands rest on her shoulders when he bent his head.

'Goodnight, Brown Sparrow,' he said, as he released her.

The appelation stung her. She was dowdy and plain and he had kissed her to please her, not because he had any desire to do so.

'Goodnight, and thank you again for a lovely evening,' she returned formally, and walked sedately up to the villa, resisting a desire to look back. The front door was locked as she had expected, and she went round to the back unconsciously listening for the sound of his retreating car. Marie-Celeste had left the door to the kitchen open; she was Madame's maid and indulged in nocturnal diversions of her own to break the monotony of her service.

Chris did not start his car until Clare had turned the light on in her room and he knew that she was safe indoors. As she went to lower her blind, she saw his headlights flickering down the lane. It had been nice of him to wait, but concern for her material welfare was not what she wanted. As she prepared for bed she felt vaguely cheated.

T
HE
three days until Monica's next
soiree
passed in the usual routine. On the Saturday afternoon following that eventful Friday Clare went into Nice on the bus, as was permissible since it was her free time, and sought again the square where she had sat with Chris. There was of course no sign of him, and the place looked a little tawdry by daylight. The hotel opposite the cafe seemed asleep in the afternoon since its residents were either on the beach or enjoying a siesta.

As soon as the shops were open again Clare bought a printed cotton dress in gay colours, also a pair of thin trousers and a tank top, garments she had long wanted but resisted because she had no occasion upon which to wear them. These purchases made a hole in her savings which she was accumulating with North-Country thrift against the time when Monica would dispense with her services, or the other way round. She did not intend to stay with the author permanently.

On her return to the villa she locked herself in her bedroom and changed into the sleeveless bright dress, and loosened her hair about her face. Staring at herself in the glass, she saw a replica of many of the girls she had seen in the streets, neither pretty nor plain, but nice-looking with the ever-attractive bloom of youth. Her figure was slim and shapely but unremarkable. Quite ordinary, she thought disgustedly, for Christopher's remarks had led her to expect a more striking metamorphosis. She changed back into her brown pinafore skirt worn over a beige blouse, chiding herself for her extravagance. Chris had not meant anything and his momentary interest would have died already. She had wasted her money, for Monica would object to the vivid greens and blues that patterned her new dress and she certainly would not tolerate slacks.

She went to her accustomed station on the Tuesday night trying to stifle her expectancy, which gave her an unwonted colour in her usually pale cheeks. Monica remarked acidly that she hoped she had not got a fever, for she had a horror of infectious complaints, and although Clare assured her that she was perfectly well, bade her keep her distance as much as possible, as if poor Clare ever did anything else upon these occasions. But her eager anticipation was unfulfilled; Christopher Raines did not appear. The only newcomer was a stout German agent who wanted to acquire the translation rights of Monica's new opus, undeterred by Monica's insistence that such business was transacted through her publishers. He consoled himself with port.

Clare went to bed when it was over resolved to forget Chris Raines; that night in Nice had been a momentary gleam of brightness in her dull life, but there would be no sequel. Unable to sleep, she re-read what she had written of her novel, and found it lacking in life. A romantic novel, however silly, must be written sincerely, and she felt impatient with her efforts to describe erotic sensations which she had never experienced. She concluded that she must be lacking in imagination and fell to dreaming of Chris and that unsatisfactory kiss. She had read somewhere that the authoress of this kind of writing should always be a little in love with her hero to be able to express her heroine's reactions to him. It would not be difficult to re-create hers in Christopher's image, and imagine—well, much more, satisfying kisses. She realised she was blushing, and seizing a Biro she began to scribble. Several hours later she came out of her fantasy world to find the night was far advanced towards morning and she had many hectic pages to her credit, Chris had done that much for her, but when she finally lay down on her bed as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten she felt despairing. He had stimulated her writing, but she wanted more than that.

'I am half sick of shadows.'

Was she like the Lady of Shalott, condemned to see life passing through a mirror without first-hand knowledge of love?

On Friday evening Chris came again and Monica hailed him with enthusiasm.

'So you found you couldn't keep away from me?' she asked archly.

'Madame, you draw me like a magnet,' he returned gallantly, and only Clare noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. She brought him a glass of whisky without waiting for him to ask for it, avoiding his eyes and without speaking. He made a half movement to rise, but Monica commanded him to keep to his seat and take no notice of Clare.

'She's my dumb waiter,' she declared, and laughed as if she had made a joke. Chris, however, frowned.

Later in the evening when Monica decided to play Bridge, and there was a shuffle to arrange tables and chairs, he came over to Clare.

'When's your time off?' he asked abruptly.

Clare, who had been dreaming of him all the week, was suddenly embarrassed to find herself confronted by him in the flesh. Her heart was beating fast. He was like and yet different from the fictitious personality she had been creating.

'It varies,' she prevaricated.

'If you make a date will you be able to keep it?'

'With luck, yes.'

'Chris, come here,' Monica called. 'We want you to make up a four.'

'In a moment,' he flung over his shoulder. 'I'm making my choice of this noble array of drinks.' Then to Clare under his breath: 'Sunday afternoon, three o'clock at the bottom of the lane. Possible?'

Clare nodded and he left her to make up Monica's four.

The rest of the evening passed for her in a daze. Monica played badly, talking of irrelevant matters while her partner was trying to concentrate. Clare was aware that Chris was secretly laughing at her. His remarks, interlarded with fulsome compliments, were double-edged. Monica swallowed them as a heron gulps fish and again Clare resented Christopher's attitude, but as Monica was so dense and gullible she supposed there was no harm in his performance though several of the other men were concealing their mirth. She marvelled at her employer's vanity which twisted every malicious thrust into praise of herself. If ever I succeed I'll never be like that, she promised herself.

Christopher's date presented no problems, Sunday being a free day, as he had surmised. Monica usually spent it with friends, leaving her secretary to her own devices. That particular Sunday she was going to acquaintances in Monaco, and she asked Chris to accompany her.

'Descartes is a film director and I might be able to interest him in your work,' she told him. 'It
is
drama you're trying to write, isn't it? Television provides enormous scope for a dramatist.'Chris pleaded a previous engagement.

'Cut it,' she commanded.

He looked shocked. 'I don't do things like that, Madame. Perhaps another time.'

Monica was piqued. 'You're a very foolish young man to neglect opportunities,' she said severely. 'There may not be another time.'

'That'll be just too bad.'

'Obstinate boy!' She smiled at him. 'But I suppose I must be charitable, and forgive you. It's been my
metier
to help so many young aspirants. Some of my proteges have been quite successful through my efforts. I'll mention your name, and if they invite you, you
must
come next time.'

Chris bowed elaborately. 'You're too kind and generous, Madame.'

Clare listened to this dialogue with mixed feelings. Was Chris really passing up a golden opportunity because he had made a date with her? Descartes was an influential man in the film world. She longed to be able to tell him that he was free if he wanted to go, and yet she could not believe he would permit such an important fixture to stand in his way if this was the case. She watched him anxiously and gained the impression that he did not care two pins about meeting Descartes, which, if he really were an aspiring playwright, was an attitude he could not afford to take. She came to the conclusion that Mr Christopher Raines was altogether too arrogant in his casual dismissal of possible patrons.

Monica, whose mind was ever embued with romance, said coyly:

'Am I right in supposing this unbreakable date is with a young lady?'

'That, Madame, would be indiscreet to reveal,' Chris returned imperturbably.

'If it is,' she said tartly, 'you're a bigger fool than I took you for. Opportunity knocks but once, women are knocking all the time.'

'A remark hardly worthy of the author of
Passion Fruit,''
Chris retorted.

'Oh, that!' She shrugged her plump shoulders. 'We're discussing the realities of life.' She emphasised realities.

'And you don't consider love is one of them?' he asked in surprise.

'Well, do you?'

Christopher laughed. 'Believe me, Madame, it comes at the bottom of my list of priorities.'

A statement Clare marked and was to remember.

On Sunday morning Monica departed in her chauffeur- driven car, remarking that if Clare had nothing better to do she could retype a chapter of the current novel that was full of corrections and she wished she would hurry up and pass her test. Clare was having driving lessons at her employer's expense with the idea that when she was qualified, Monica could then dispense with her chauffeur, the inducement being that Clare could then dispense with the bus when she wanted to go out herself. Clare was very glad that that happy day had not yet dawned, and she did not have to take Monica to Monte Carlo.

She spent the morning typing and after an early lunch dressed herself in the new dress, letting her cloud of soft brown hair curl about her neck. It was shoulder-length and waved nicely, being one of her assets. She hesitated over make-up, but being inexperienced in its use, contented herself with lipstick. Then, putting on a pair of sun-glasses, she strolled down to the bottom of the lane.