SILK WICKEDNESS 6

Oh Lord. In that case , she’ll hardly be in a sunshine and smiles mood. This proposition is beginning to look about as inviting as a fortnight banged up in Holloway.

With this in mind, the sight of his credit card on the bill made her feel vaguely awkward.

Why? You can bet it’s nothing to him.

That’s not the point.

Before he could stop her, she whipped the bill away, glanced at it, put it back, and took her purse from her bag. Extracting roughly the right amount, she pushed it across to him.

‘Put it away,’ he said.

‘It’s my half.’

‘I’m not going to argue the toss about it.’

The waiter took the saucer away, and still her money lay there. By the time the bill was signed and they were ready to go it was still there, unloved.

‘It’s up to you/ he said shortly, rising to his feet. ‘Either you take it, or that waiter’s going to think it’s Christmas already.’

She knew he wasn’t going to give in. Leaving a small extra tip, she returned the rest to her purse. ‘Are you always so pigheaded?’

‘Yes,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Are you?’

‘That was nothing, I can tell you.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

She’d expected expensive wheels parked not far away, but they had to stand in the street trying to spot a vacant cab before somebody else did. Of course, only an idiot drives if he*s going to drink, she thought.

It was still raining, though not as hard, and since he had no umbrella they shared hers. As they crowded together under such inadequate shelter she tried to pretend he was just another man. An ugly one with bad breath and dandruff on his collar. Or just an idiot, like Ryan.

‘Thank God,’ he muttered as an orange ‘For Hire’ sign hove into view. ‘Hop in.’

He said little as the taxi stopped and started through the pre-Christmas traffic, past the shops with their Christmas lights winking merrily.

‘Thank heaven for Christmas,’ she remarked, for something to say. ‘Imagine how depressing November and December would be without Christmas!’

‘I’m afraid it leaves me cold,’ he said. ‘Grossly over- commercialized.’

Well, that puts me in my place. Why did everybody say they hated Christmas? Did they really, or was it just the fashion to be cynically bored with it all?

‘I love it/ she retorted. ‘I love the crowds and the last- minute panics and Carols from King’s on Chrismas Eve. I love wrapping presents and real Christmas trees and even grotty plastic things in crackers.’

His mouth twitched minutely as he gave her a sideways glance. ‘So there.’

So nothing , she thought wanly. There were no proper Christmases any more, not since her parents had gone to live in Spain. It was all very nice sitting in the sun on Christmas Day, but it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t long before they turned off the main road, into the leafy backwoods of Kensington. The quiet streets were lined with the kind of elegant period houses in which dwelt discreet but very comfortable money.

‘Here,’ he said, halfway down.

A minute later he was leading her up four steps to an imposing, panelled front door. Her first impression was of space and warmth, of high period ceilings in a large square hall and ornate original covings.

He closed the door behind them. ‘Mrs Pierce!’ he called, in a voice that wouldn’t have to try much harder to be a shout.

Almost immediately a door opened at the end of the hall and a plump, fifty-five-ish woman in a blue dress bustled out.

‘Where’s Anoushka?’ he asked.

The woman had pursed-up lips, to match the pursed-up voice Claudia recognized from the phone.

‘She went out, Mr Hamilton. I told her you’d be angry, but she just said, “So what’s new?” ’

‘Might have known,’ he muttered.

The woman gave Claudia a look as if to say, Well, it's none of my business who he brings home.

‘This is Claudia/ he added.

Claudia smiled politely. ‘Hello.’

‘How do you do?’ There was a vinegary If I must smile. ‘Will you be requiring anything, Mr Hamilton?’

‘Maybe some coffee, thank you.’

With a barely audible sniff, Mrs Pursed-up disappeared whence she came.

Claudia wavered. Was this fate sticking its oar in? Telling her to run a mile while she still could? ‘Maybe I’d better go.’

‘Give her half an hour.’ Through double Georgian doors he ushered her into what estate agents would describe as ‘an elegant drawing room’.

The first thing she noticed was a real fire, flickering in a real, period fireplace. There were three cream sofas, of the unashamedly squashy, luxurious kind. The carpet was soft green, and the other furniture was a curiously happy mix of the modern and the beeswaxed antique. Several lamps glowed on side-tables: the kind that cost a fortune even when they were half-price in Harrods’ sale.

‘Take a seat,’ he said.

The sofa was even squashier than it looked, making her long to kick her shoes off and tuck her feet underneath her.

She expected him to sit opposite, on the other side of a square coffee-table, but he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a couple of phone calls.’

‘Feel free.’

He picked up a mobile phone from a side-table and took it with him. Thank heaven he hadn’t taken it with him to

the restaurant. Nothing irritated her more than people whose beastly phones rang in restaurants. Another thought struck her. That number he’d given her evidently wasn’t his mobile number, or Mrs Pursed-up wouldn’t have answered.

So what does that tell me? That he doesn't dish out his personal number on a casual basis? That he doesn't dish out his personal number to women on a casual basis? Now why is that , my dear? Obviously in case they start pestering. And what does that tell me? That he's been pestered in the past?

More than likely.

Once the double doors had closed behind him, her attention was taken by something else: a magazine on the coffee-table. There were others in a neat pile, but this was open at a double-page spread entitled, ‘how to HAVE THE BEST SEX EVER’.

It was a young women’s glossy that Claudia sometimes bought herself. The article didn’t interest her much; despite the title, there wouldn’t be anything she hadn’t read fifty times before. Leave your knickers off when you go out and tell him over dinner; smother him with maple syrup and lick it all off, etc., etc. What interested her was why his daughter - it had to be her - had left it open like that. Not to shock him, surely? Unless Claudia was very much mistaken, it would take an awful lot more that that. He wouldn’t play into her hands with so much as a wince.

If not him, who? Mrs Pursed-up, no doubt. She looked exactly the type to be endlessly wittering on about ‘smut and filth’ on the television.

Closing the magazine, she picked up Newsweek instead, and was still flicking though it when he returned.

He parked himself opposite. ‘Sorry about that/

‘No need to apologize/ Polite conversation time, she thought, putting the magazine back. ‘Now lunch is out of the way, are you going to tell me why Anoushka was suspended?’

He sat back, crossing one leg over the other, his ankle on his knee. ‘Why don’t you ask her? She’ll give you all the graphic details I’d leave out. It’ll be a nice little ice-breaker.’

She was about to say. If she comes back before midnight, when the doors opened. It was Mrs Pierce, with a tray. Depositing it on the table, she said stiffly, ‘Mr Hamilton, I’d like a word before I go out. In private.’

He rose to his feet and followed her out, but did not quite shut the doors. Claudia wasn’t exactly listening; she just couldn’t help hearing the conversation in the hall.

‘I really cannot be responsible for her when you go away, Mr Hamilton. Not after last time.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be, Mrs Pierce. I’m making alternative arrangements.’

‘And another thing. I really will not be told by a sixteen- year-old to get back to my Fairy Liquid and - ’

‘Mrs Pierce, we’ll discuss it in the study, if you don’t mind. ’

There was the sound of another door opening and closing firmly. Just when it was getting really interesting , thought Claudia. Typical. She picked up Newsweek again and flicked through it, before realizing she’d flicked through it before, at the dentist’s. For want of anything else to do, she wandered over to the Fire. How long was it since she’d seen a real one, not a log-effect gas thing?

Over the mantelpiece was a painting of a sailing ship in a heavy sea, but something else was claiming her attention.

Feeling guiltily nosy, she picked up a silver-framed photo from a polished side-table. It showed a baby girl of maybe fifteen months, her whole face lit in an enchanting baby smile.

Anoushka , she thought, looking at the liquid dark eyes and recalling that exotic girl in the restaurant. She was gorgeous even then.

There were two other photos, including one of an older Anoushka with a gap-toothed smile, but it was the third that made her heart suddenly constrict.

It showed a much younger Guy Hamilton, with longer hair. He was smiling. Really smiling. His arm was round a woman, a dark woman whose beauty resembled Anoush- ka’s, but with a much more fragile quality. In her arms was a squashy little bundle in a white shawl.

The proud new father with his little family.

All thoughts of divorce or estrangement vanished instantly. Somehow, she just knew that frail-looking mother was dead. Her throat constricted painfully, but the sound of voices made her replace the photo with a guilty start. When he returned, she was back in her seat, apparently intent on Newsweek.

‘Sorry about that.* He began pouring the coffee, but then paused. ‘I should have asked. Maybe you’d have preferred tea.’

‘Coffee’s fine. No sugar.’ She smiled brightly, praying he would not notice that her eyes were fractionally brighter than they should be.

Claudia , control yourself. But the harder she tried, the worse it got, until she was forced to rummage in her bag for a tissue.

Piddle and bum; there wasn't one. Before a tear actually made it on to her cheek, she rubbed her eye with the back of her hand. ‘Wretched mascara.’ Blinking hard, she tried to sound merely irritated. ‘I think I’ve got a filament in my eye. Have you got a tissue?’

‘I’ve got a handkerchief.’ Leaning across the table, he handed her something clean and white.

‘Thanks.’ She dabbed her eye briskly, and felt her weepiness retreat. She was just thanking heaven when she realized her dabbing had been overdone. Now there really was something in her eye.

Double piddle and bum. Why do I buy mascara with bits in it?

She dabbed again, blinked hard, but it was still there, like a lump of gravel on her cornea.

With a faint ‘tut’, he rose to his feet.

‘Let me.’ He sat beside her, taking her chin firmly. ‘Hold still and look up.’

As if he’d done it a million times, he pulled her eyelid down and took the handkerchief from her hand. ‘I can see it’, he muttered. ‘Keep still.’

In an instant, it was out.

‘Gosh, thanks.’ Her voice was just a touch unsteady, partly from her recent weepy fit, but partly because he was close enough for her to see the tiny gold flecks in his eyes.

Her antennae were at it again, as if their lives depended on it. They were prickling the tiny hairs on her arms, prodding dark, sleepy corners of her stomach. ‘I can see you’ve done that before,’ she said, with a forced, bright smile.

‘Not since Anoushka was small and used to get sand in her eyes on the beach.’

Whether it was two glasses of wine on top of a gin and tonic, or whether it was that poignant photo, her defences were disintegrating like wet tissues. Suddenly she saw only a single parent with a great worry on his mind and nobody to help him.

Oh, what the hell? Moistening her lips, she began, ‘Mr Hamilton, I - ’

‘Make it Guy.’ He gave a tiny, wry smile that had a most unfortunate effect on her nerve-endings.

‘Guy, then.* She tried to sound brisk, but it wasn’t easy with those navy eyes and all the rest of that Category Four within crackling distance. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and in the circumstances - ’

She got no further.

The double doors had opened, on nearly silent hinges. On the threshold stood a girl she barely recognized from the restaurant version. Her hair was stuffed into a baseball cap, she wore jeans, a leather biker jacket, and an expression of pert disdain that matched her voice exactly.

‘At it again, Dad? Having a final fling before the male menopause gets you?’

He was already on his feet. ‘Where have you been?’

Claudia winced at the gritty ice in his tone.

‘Out. Where d’you think?’

Guy moved towards the door, and as he did so the girl’s expression altered sharply. ‘My God, the mother of your little love-child. What are you doing? Sorting out maintenance?’

‘Anoushka!’

An indignant flush washed the girl’s face. ‘So that’s why you forced the address out of me! You pretended you

wanted to have a go at the morons who make a living out of other people’s embarrassment, and all the while you just wanted to see herV

‘It was nothing of the kind!’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? You’re nothing but a flaming hypocrite!’ She turned and almost ran from the room.

He was after her at once. ‘Anoushka!’

‘Get lost!’ There was the sound of a pair of feet making themselves scarce up the stairs.

For several seconds it was very quiet, like the aftermath of a hurricane. Eventually he returned, sinking to the sofa opposite and running a weary hand through his hair.