Night Heat

Of course Sara had, but she had believed that sooner or later the strength would return. To learn that that was not going to happen had been a bitter blow, and she had left the hospital in a daze. She remembered dragging herself to Regent’s Park, and sitting in the gardens there for over an hour, trying to come to terms with what this would mean. The future she had planned for herself was never going to materialise. All her hopes and dreams were shattered. She was condemned to working in an office for the rest of her life. Anything less sedentary was not recommended.

As usual, Vicki had been philosophical. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she had said, when she had come in from an assignment to find her friend slumped on the sofa. ‘It could be worse. You could have been scarred for life. As it is, you’ll simply go on as before. There’s more to living than working, you know.’

‘I know.’

Sara had tried to equal the other girl’s stoicism. So far as Vicki was concerned, working was merely a means to earn money, and her affairs with the opposite sex were legion. Sara, on the other hand, had never had a steady boyfriend, and her experience of men was therefore limited. Besides, she had always been too single-minded in her ambitions to regard men as anything more than a passing diversion. She had never been in love, and if she had ever thought of getting married, it had been at some far distant time, when she was too old to continue her career.

‘Well, at least you’re not out of work,’ Vicki had commented, referring to the part-time secretarial post Sara had been obliged to take, while waiting for the results of the therapy. The long weeks of wearing a cast had curtailed her mobility, and she had had to leave the permanent job she had had as personal assistant to a solicitor in Gray’s Inn. But her finances were not so healthy that she could afford not to work at all, and her present place of employment was only a few yards from the apartment.

Her response to Vicki’s attempts at encouragement had not been enthusiastic, and that was when the party had been mentioned. It was being held to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of one of Vicki’s fellow models, and was exactly what she needed to take her mind off her problems—or so Vicki said.

‘Come,’ she said wheedlingly, ‘You’ll have fun! You can’t stay here on your own—not tonight!’

Even so, Sara was still undecided as she followed her friend into the apartment where the party was being held. The tears she had shed before Vicki got back had left her with a dull headache, and although she had taken some aspirin before leaving home, she could still feel it.

The noise in the apartment was terrific, and the room was full of people talking and laughing and having fun. Judging by the amount of empty glasses strewn around, alcohol was flowing freely, and as if to emphasise this assumption, a glass was thrust into her hand as she came through the door.

An hour later, Sara was wishing she had stuck to her original intention of having an early night. The noise had not abated, indeed it had been supplemented by music from a sophisticated hi-fi system, and in the lulls between the records, someone could be heard strumming an electric guitar. Two glasses of fairly cheap champagne had not assisted her headache, and although food of a kind was on offer, it mainly consisted of nuts and crackers and tiny stuffed olives.

At least no one would notice her white face here, she reflected. White faces were quite fashionable among this crowd, and compared to some of the outrageous costumes she had seen, they were reasonably conservative. Her own beige silk flying suit looked almost unbearably plain, she felt, and with the lustre of her hair confined in a single braid, she was unlikely to attract anyone’s attention.

She was wondering if she could make good her escape without Vicki’s noticing when one of the men she had not discouraged with a freezing glance came to sit beside her. She had noticed him watching her earlier with a faintly speculative stare, and now he came to sit on the arm of her chair, apparently immune to her cool indifference.

‘You’re Sara, aren’t you?’ he remarked, and she glanced round instinctively, expecting to see Vicki close at hand. But her friend was not in sight, and she turned back to the casual stranger with faint resignation.

‘She told you, I suppose,’ she declared, noticing he was older than most of the other guests. His light brown hair, which she suspected owed its curl to a bottle rather than to nature, showed evidence of tinting at the roots, and his dissipated face spoke of years of experience.

‘No, I guessed,’ he said now, offering to refill her glass from the bottle he was carrying, but she covered the rim with her palm. ‘Vicki described you to me, and she’s generally accurate. You are beautiful, and you have a certain—touch-me-not air, which isn’t very common in this company.’

Sara sighed. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said cynically, wishing he would just go away. She was not in the mood for compliments, no matter how well meant, and his presence was preventing her from making an anonymous exist.

‘I’m not kind at all. I’m honest,’ he retorted, running his hand over the knee of his pants before offering it to her. ‘Tony Korda,’ he added, when she reluctantly responded. ‘Your friend Vicki works for me.’

‘The photographer!’ Sara was scarcely flattering in her description of him, and he winced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, with a rueful smile. ‘But you do take marvellous photographs!’

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to photograph you some time.’

‘Oh no!’ She held up a regretful hand. ‘I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested in modelling. Besides——’ She broke off at that point, silencing the involuntary desire to confess her impediment. The disability she had suffered would not interest him, and so long as she was seated, he could not observe the way she still favoured her right foot.

‘Besides?’ he prompted, but she shook her head, and as if sensing her anguish, he said gently: ‘Vicki told me about the accident. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll quite understand. But I wondered if you’d made any plans—you know: what you’re going to do now that that particular avenue is barred to you.’

Sara drew in her breath. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you, Mr Korda?’

‘Tony. And no; not if I don’t consider it necessary.’

‘And you don’t?’

He shook his head. ‘There are other things in life besides dancing.’

Her lips twisted. ‘You have been talking to Vicki,’ she conceded ironically.

Tony Korda shrugged. ‘As I said a few moments ago, Sara, you’re a beautiful girl. Perhaps you weren’t meant to waste your life in hot theatres and even hotter studios.’

‘That’s your assessment of it, is it?’ Sara was trying very hard to be as detached as he was, but his ruthless candour was tearing her to pieces.

‘I think you’re allowing emotion to colour your judgement, yes,’ he said frankly. ‘So—you had an audition coming up. So what? You could have fluffed it!’

Sara bent her head, angry with herself for allowing him to upset her. ‘Do you mind going away?’ she exclaimed huskily, groping for a tissue from her bag. ‘I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, but I can do without your amateur psychology.’

‘I’m no amateur psychologist,’ he asserted flatly. ‘I’m just trying to make you see that——’

‘—there are more things in life than dancing. I know. You already said that.’

‘That wasn’t what I was going to say, actually,’ he retorted, without heat. ‘I was going to tell you that sitting here feeling sorry for yourself is a form of self-indulgence. There are people much worse off than you are, believe me!’

Sara felt the warm, revealing colour fill her cheeks. ‘I’m sure there are …’

‘And I don’t just mean the millions who die every year from disease and malnutrition,’ he continued, his tone hardening. ‘You hurt your ankle, and it’s going to limit your career. But how would you have felt if you’d been completely immobilised?’

She held up her head, forcing herself to listen to him. ‘You said that with some feeling,’ she ventured at last. ‘Is there a reason?’

Tony Korda studied the amber liquid in his glass. ‘Yes,’ he admitted eventually. ‘Yes, there is a reason. My nephew had a car accident six months ago. He was only eighteen at the time. Now he’s paralysed from the waist down. It looks like he’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’

Sara caught her breath. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘Yes. So’s Jeff.’ Tony sounded bitter. ‘Unfortunately, being sorry doesn’t help at all.’

She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean——’

‘I know, I know.’ Tony was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was blaming you. I was only trying to show you how futile a situation like that can seem to a boy of Jeff’s age.’

Sara nodded. ‘I’m sure it must.’

Tony sighed, his face taking on a brooding expression as he refilled his glass. There was silence for a pause, and then, as if compelled to go on, he added: ‘It doesn’t help that Link and Michelle—that is, my brother and his wife—seem to ignore his existence.’ He grimaced. ‘I guess your parents want you to go back home, eh? Didn’t Vicki say you came from up north somewhere?

‘I lived in Warwickshire for a number of years,’ admitted Sara, after a moment. ‘But my parents are dead. They died in a car crash when I was eight.’

‘Aw, hell!’ Tony swallowed the contents of his glass at a gulp. ‘Trust me to put my foot in it yet again! You’re going to have to forgive me. I guess I’ve had more of this stuff than I can handle.

‘It’s all right.’ And Sara meant it. Curiously enough, Tony had achieved his objective. Right now, she was more intrigued with his story than with her own. She wanted to ask him to go on, to explain what he had meant about his brother and sister-in-law ignoring their son’s existence, but of course she couldn’t. Nevertheless, his words had stirred a sympathetic chord inside her, and she felt for the youth whose future had been laid waste.

‘I didn’t mean to depress you, you know,’ Tony muttered now, filling his glass again. ‘God, I’m such a clumsy bastard!’

‘You haven’t depressed me,’ Sara assured him swiftly. ‘As a matter of fact …’ She hesitated before continuing, but then silencing her conscience, she added, ‘I’m interested.’

‘In Jeff?’ He blinked.

‘Well, in the reasons why you think his parents don’t care about him.’