Charlie's Dad

‘Like his taste in women, though.’ Raising his glass, Pete drank deeply, as if underlining his approval of Jenny.

Ellie exchanged an amused glance with Babs, who shrugged philosophically and immediately changed the subject. ‘You’ve come from England on business, Ellie?’

Ellie leaned an arm against the wrought-iron balustrade, idly watching the lights of a ship sailing into the harbour. ‘Yes, I have my own small fashion company—knitted garments. I’ve been finalising details with some of the Hong Kong companies who make up my designs. I’m on my way home now, but broke my journey to visit Jenny and Robert.’

‘Using wool from Oz, I hope?’ Pete’s interest was solely commercial.

‘Take no notice of him, Ellie. Just because his Dad’s in sheep...’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that.’ Turning from the view with a smile, Ellie leaned against the balcony, arms extended, face raised to the balmy evening air. ‘But we pride ourselves on using only the best English wools, specially blended for us, occasionally with the addition of silk. But if ever I feel the need to use Australian wools I’ll remember your father. In fact, I have connections with Australia myself, and I...’

The words dried on her lips as Jenny, Robert and their guest moved against the window behind them, the light from the room illuminating the two faces she knew but leaving the other irritatingly half hidden, mysterious. He was well above average height, the new man, and dark. His head was bent towards his hostess, and the casual, easy way he supported himself, with one arm crooked against a pillar... there was something about him, something which made her catch her breath, made her aware of an icy drip of water the length of her spine...

‘You were saying, Ellie...’ Babs prompted.

‘I...’ For a second she stared at the young woman, unable to recall the drift of the conversation. Her heart was beating loudly against her ribs... ‘Ah, yes, what was I saying, Babs? About wools, wasn’t it? England has such a wide range of fleeces that it seems more sensible,’ she gabbled. ‘After all, I doubt that you drink much English wine.’

Oblivious of the puzzled expression which her remark elicited she heard her voice prattle on for a few more seconds, but her mind was engaged with a quite different subject.

Deliberately she kept her attention away from the group she found so inexplicably disturbing, smiling vaguely at her companions, determined to concentrate, to dismiss idle speculation from her mind. But it was such a weird feeling, frightening, as if things long past were threatening to catch up with her, events she would prefer to keep buried...

‘Ellie, I told you we were expecting Jonas Parnell, now I’d like you to meet him.’

Ellie turned. Her intense grey eyes, shadowy with apprehension swept over Jenny and Robert, unwillingly but inevitably drawn to the man who loomed over them all. Jenny’s tinkling laugh rang out.

‘Only his name isn’t Jonas Parnell, it’s Ben Congreve. Ben, this is a dear friend, Ellie Osborne.’

It was all automatic then. Ellie held out her hand, hoping the smile she fixed on her face would conceal her shock, and it was a great help that she saw not the faintest sign of recognition in his eyes. Admiration, perhaps—she thought she could discern a flicker of that—and interest, curiosity. But nothing more. So, it was safe to smile, to relax, or at least to make an effort in that direction. Otherwise she had no idea how she would deal with the hours of torment which lay ahead.

She stood there, taking little part in the conversation washing about her, trying desperately to deal with the raging assault of emotions. For who could have forecast the crossing of their paths like this after so many fraught years? Long, long after she had felt any need—after all, it was a lifetime since she had given up all expectation. Years during which hope had slowly and, oh, dear God, how painfully ... died.

‘You know Singapore well, Ellie?’ Ben Congreve, sitting to her right, waited till she had finished her chat with Pete before demanding her attention, forcing her to look at him so he could check. Mmm. He felt a moment of sheer pleasure as the clear grey eyes flicked him a glance. A slightly nervous glance, he decided, though it was inconceivable such a self-possessed and seemingly successful woman should be either shy or nervous. He had never, he thought in a spirit of self-mockery, seen such eyes... And set in that face... So serene, so astonishingly... well, it was more than merely beautiful—fascinating, rather, with those high cheekbones, that exciting mouth, such a rippling cascade of titian hair.

He caught at himself, smiling inwardly at such an uncharacteristic response, but found he was unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of analysis. Perfect skin too. A bloom like a peach—and that was scarcely original. And for a writer too.

‘Not well.’ Such an effort to keep her voice so calm and even, but no one, she thought, no one could possibly guess that her heart was agitating wildly against her ribs, that her palms were so moist they threatened her grip on her fork. ‘I’ve been here several times but always for very short spells so I can’t claim to know it.’

Now she could return her attention to her plate, spoon some of the delicious terrine into her mouth. ‘You?’ Another glance in his direction confirmed what she feared, that he was still focused on her, bringing a wave of unwelcome heat to her body.

His faint smile told her he had noticed, but he had the grace to look away, to apply himself to the food on his plate and at the same time deal with her question. ‘The same. I don’t know it well, but since the book I’m writing has a scene set here I thought I’d come and do some research before getting down to the grind of actual writing. All writers are like that, you know-any excuse to avoid the tyranny of the word processor.’

‘Mmm. So I’ve heard. But I thought it was invented to make life easier for you.’

‘That’s the theory.’ He slanted another glance towards her; he was surprising himself with his desire to divert and amuse this woman. ‘But I’m wholly unconvinced. I must be honest and admit that writing is a love-hate affair, almost a voluntary slavery. There are times when I want to be rid of the whole demanding business, and then... as soon as I have finished what I had decided was to be my last... something jogs the brain. One or two ideas which have been drifting loose seem determined to come together and so, before I can do a thing about it, I’m off. Back to the treadmill.’

‘Ben!’ Jenny was mildly reproving. ‘You make it sound as if you have to labour over every word, and yet your prose...each word you write... flows so effortlessly onto the page.’

‘Ah...’ He shook his head in self-mocking derision. ‘That is where the genius comes in.’

There was a wave of laughter round the table before the argument was taken up at a more individual level, which gave him the opportunity to turn again to the woman by his side. ‘And now you know all about me, it’s my turn to hear about you.’

She had little choice but to turn and look at him, lips curving into a smile that was more than a little reluctant. He was so very easy to look at, but that had always been so. Tall, good-looking, arresting without being conventionally handsome, dark silky hair... Even now she could feel a throb at the thought of twisting it through her fingers. Shorter now, of course, and the buccaneering look had gone, along with the beard. And those slender well-marked eyebrows, which would arch upwards when he was waiting for an answer... as he was now.

‘But there isn’t a great deal to tell.’ By any standard of veracity that was an outright lie. Her life, though reasonably conventional on the surface, hid a dark and wounded side which she refused to discuss, especially with a mystery writer, and certainly not with...

But he was obviously waiting for elucidation, so in a move which was habitual, defensive—one she found herself using when she felt particularly vulnerable—she raised her left hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, displaying her rings before allowing her hand to drop.

‘I don’t know if Robert mentioned it, but I have my own small fashion company—mainly knitwear, until now mostly made in the UK, but an increasing number are now produced in Hong Kong. I was there for several days and Jenny invited me here for a break before going home. It’s a plan which has been thwarted several times in the last two years—’

‘And I’m delighted you were able to make it at last.’ From the other side of the table Jenny interrupted, then there was a slight hiatus as plates were cleared, fresh dishes brought by the unobtrusive maids.

And Ellie, as she listened half-heartedly to what Pete, on her other side was trying to explain, wished with all her heart she had flown back to Heathrow. By this time she would have been with Charlie. All the reawakening heartbreak would have been avoided. Earlier this evening she had been right to decide this was not her milieu, that she was out of touch with this kind of socialising.

She experienced a sensation of despair as she allowed her attention to drift round the sophisticated room: light net curtains billowing in a faint breeze, modern paintings set against cream walls, a green marble dining table. Green marble! And with the most intricate veining in gold. Food arranged with precise artistry on black plates, each a study...

A sudden flash of recollection brought a smile to her lips. She was thinking of the pot of stew she so frequently put on the table—the scrubbed kitchen table—the homely loaf of bread which she might have made during a therapeutic break but which was inevitably lopsided and collapsing, though still ideal for mopping up gravy. The bowl of hastily put together salad leaves...

Light years from this arrangement of skewered seafood surrounded by tiny mounds of saffron rice and compositions—the word was not too extravagant—of vegetables she didn’t begin to recognise. It was almost too artistic to eat, something her own meals never were, but...the contrast of colours was inspired. She had an instant vision of a shift sweater, basic black like the plate but with swirls of gamboge, a touch of shrimp-pink and that particular green... If only her brain could retain the colours. Fingers twitching, she longed for her sketchpad and paintbrush...

‘Aren’t you going to eat?’ The gentle query took her head round to look at him, eyebrows arching quizzically, mouth curving in sheer pleasure before she remembered to control them.

‘Oh, yes.’ A moment’s breathless glowing enthusiasm, then searing pain as she recognised that particular expression, the way his eyes moved slowly over her features before coming to rest, with quite unmistakable meaning, on her mouth. ‘Of course.’

Soberly, determined to ignore the knot of misery in her chest she switched her focus back to her plate, picked up her fork. ‘It is all so... so beautiful.’ Delicately she detached a scallop, raised it to her mouth. ‘Don’t you agree?’ What was intended to be a quick casual glance in his direction was arrested, caught and held.

‘Yes.’ The reply came slow and deliberate, making it obvious that the food was not on his mind. ‘Oh, yes, I agree.’

Beautiful. Even when he turned to exchange a few words with his partner on the other side, it was her face which occupied his mind. Such white teeth, not perfect exactly, with a slight overlapping of the front two, a generous, giving mouth which he would have liked to feel against his, and when she smiled... It occurred to him she didn’t do that often enough, but when she did her whole face lit up. She had an inner glow which intrigued, wakening his interest, a stirring of excitement which had long been absent from his life, except...

As he conversed his lips moved automatically. Except...

Except that he was picking up discouraging signals. He had been fully aware of that informative gesture of her left hand but... But, he was not going to allow the possibility of a husband in the background to deter him from finding out more about this intriguing woman.

Dead on her feet or not, Ellie found sleep elusive that first night in the Van Tieg apartment. Nothing to do with the heat of the sultry tropical night; that was held at bay by efficient air-conditioning. Nothing to do with that and everything to do with the man she had long ago dismissed from her consciousness. But if she had been as efficient in that as she believed, why was he now causing her so much emotional havoc?

Ellie groaned, pushed a hand through the heavy fall of hair and thrust her face deeper into the pillow. If only sleep would come. She was desperate for the chance to forget Ben Congreve for a few hours. In the morning, she knew from experience, things would look entirely more reasonable. For one thing there was no need for her ever to meet up with him again. Tomorrow would be her last day in Singapore. After that she would be flying back to her own life, to Charlie. Ah, yes, Charlie, on whom the whole sorry saga hinged.

And then, without any decision on her part, without volition or even co-operation, her mind was clicking with the memories which she had tried to hold at bay, sweeping her back through the years to the time when she had first known Ben Congreve. That halcyon, magical time... The knowledge that the whole exercise was mere self-indulgence had no power to stop her.

Twenty years old with the world before her. That had been her father’s smug description on the day she had been awarded her degree at Sydney University. And as a reward he had handed her a cheque to subsidise her declared longing to travel for a few months before settling down to a career in fashion.

‘Or teaching perhaps?’ Sir William had distrusted his daughter’s ambition to try her luck in the rag trade. His leaning was towards a more conventional and, as he thought, a more secure career.

‘Yes.’ Helen, as she had been known then, had long ago found it made life much easier to go along with her parents’ suggestions, or at least to go through the motions. ‘If there are no openings in the fashion world, I promise you, I’ll try teaching.’

‘Well, if you make for London, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of openings. Your mother and I are very proud of you—a year younger than most of your class and carrying off the top awards. The cheque is to show how much.’

‘You’re very generous, Dad.’ Reaching up, she kissed his cheek. ‘And you’re sure you don’t mind me going off on my own for a few years?’