Tainted Love

‘No, train, then bus,’ Clare answered him.

‘In that case—’ he took a set of keys from his pocket ‘—I’d better run you into Oxford.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Clare had decided that, all in all, she didn’t particularly like Fenwick Marchand.

‘I know I don’t,’ he responded, ‘but nevertheless I will. Wait here till I tell Louise.’

Clare wasn’t given the chance to argue as he retreated back into the house. She was left standing on the doorstep, wondering which car was his—the Jaguar or the Mercedes. She was putting her money on the Jaguar when Marchand junior reappeared.

‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ he asked with narrowed eyes.

‘Tell him what?’

‘That I was rude to you.’

‘Were you?’ Clare gave him a look of mock-surprise. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘You must know some incredibly rude people, then,’ he threw back at her.

‘Incredibly,’ she agreed, her smile ironic as she thought of her companions over the last few years. It was true. Manners had been in short supply in Marsh Green Prison.

The boy smiled a little, too, before saying, ‘They’re arguing about you in the kitchen. Him and Aunt Lou.’

‘Really?’ Clare said flatly. It wasn’t an invitation for him to go on.

But he didn’t need one, taking pleasure in confiding, ‘They sent me to watch TV in the lounge, but I hung around and listened at the door. Aunt Lou says you’re really desperate for this job and he has to give you a chance. But he says you don’t strike him as especially desperate and that a girl with your talents will have much more luc—luc-ar-tive prospects lined up...I guess he means you’re too smart to just be a housekeeper,’ Miles interpreted for her.

But Clare could think of an entirely different interpretation, and it was nowhere near that flattering. Inwardly seething, she muttered at the boy, ‘Something like that,’ then told him to inform his father she had chosen to walk.

She left without waiting for a response from the boy but he caught up with her on the drive and fell into step beside her.

‘Are you mad with me?’ he enquired guilelessly. ‘I thought you’d want to know what they were saying. I mean, if you told Dad you were desperate, perhaps he’d change his mind.’

‘I doubt it.’ Clare decided that, for all the worldliness he affected, Miles Marchand had a boy’s outlook on life. She wondered if she might have liked him, had she been given the chance.

‘You could try,’ he insisted as they reached the gates.

Clare shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, kid. It’ll save you the trouble of scaring me off,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘But you wouldn’t be,’ Miles responded. ‘You’re not scared of me, are you?’

Clare shook her head again, saying, ‘No. Should I be?’

‘The rest were,’ he claimed. ‘Mrs Brown, the last woman, she told him I needed locking up. In a loony-bin, she meant.’

Clare frowned, not sure if the boy was exaggerating, boasting or just seeking her opinion. ‘What do you think?’ she asked in return.

The boy stared at her for a moment, deciding if she could be trusted, before he confided, ‘I scare myself sometimes. I feel so angry I want to hurt people. Him especially.’

‘Your dad?’ Clare drew a nod, then found herself admitting, ‘I used to feel that way at times.’

‘So what did you do?’ Dark blue eyes looked to her for an answer.

Clare had none to give. All the people close to her had gone, out of reach of hurting, and she’d resolved her anger with the world by retreating from it. But this boy still had a chance to come out of the shadows.

‘I’m nobody to take advice from, kid,’ she finally said, and felt a twinge of guilt when his expression became hostile once more. He’d opened up to her, just for a moment, and what did she do? Turn her back on him.

She did it literally, as she slipped out through the gates and started walking back along the country road to the Old Corn Mill. However, she didn’t get very far before the Jaguar drew up beside her.

The driver’s window slid down and Marchand senior’s dark blond head appeared. ‘If you’re intending to catch a bus, there isn’t one for a couple of hours. So, I suggest you get in,’ he said with a bored air.

It put Clare’s back up. ‘I’d sooner walk, thank you,’ she replied heavily.

He arched a brow. ‘Twelve miles? You must be joking. You won’t make three. Still, if you insist...’ He turned on the engine and put the car in gear, then waited for Clare to forget her pride and be sensible.

But she remained where she was, waiting in turn, until finally he put his foot on the accelerator and shot off down the road.

Clare felt triumphant until she reached the pub at the crossroads and saw the sign that indeed said it was twelve miles to Oxford. Then she wondered if she could walk all that way on new court shoes that were already beginning to pinch.

She was tempted to hitch-hike, but didn’t. A car stopped of its own accord while she stood there.

‘Going to Oxford?’ the young man driving the open-topped Morgan enquired, and, at her nod, invited, ‘Hop in.’

Clare hesitated, but not for long. The young man had Hooray Henry written all over him and she judged him—if not his driving—to be safe.

She was right. He drove like an idiot, chatted her up like mad, but made no dangerous moves. She earned her lift by listening, more or less attentively, to his bad jokes, suffered his laughter and thanked him politely for delivering her direct to the station.

She’d no sooner waved him goodbye than a car screeched up in his place. A Jaguar, green in colour, familiar in driver.

She was so surprised, she waited while Fen Marchand jumped out of his car and, with a face like thunder, came round to her side.

‘And who was that?’ he demanded without preamble. ‘A friend of yours?’

‘Well, no...’ Clare found herself on the defensive. ‘Not a friend, exactly. He just offered me a lift.’

‘I know,’ he grated back. ‘The question is what he imagined you were offering in return.’

‘I...nothing!’ Clare spluttered back. ‘Look, Mr Marchand, I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am—’

‘The stupid kind,’ he cut in rudely. ‘Forget the fact he was driving like a bloody maniac most of the way. Do you know how many places he could have turned off on that road? Do you?’ he demanded, grasping her roughly by the arms.

Unable to free herself, Clare threw back, ‘You tell me. You’re the one that goes creeping around, following people.’

‘I was waiting in the pub car park for you,’ he countered heavily, ‘when you decided to go off with a total stranger. What do you expect me to do? Leave you to get raped on some lonely farm track?’ he said brutally.

The words made Clare flinch, then relent slightly. ‘In that case, it’s kind of you to be concerned, but I can take care of myself.’

‘I bet!’ He scoffed at the idea, before coldly informing her, ‘It wasn’t kindness, Miss Anderson, it was self-preservation. I didn’t fancy being suspect number one had your lift decided to murder you in a post-coital rage,’ he declared with angry volume.