Masquerade

A few moments later the girl came down the aisle with the stewardess and was deposited on the seat beside him. He looked at her with interest. At close quarters she was remarkably attractive, and he liked the way her hair fell straightly to her shoulders.

At first she was unaware of his scrutiny. She was too absorbed by her own feelings and he was able to regard her openly. He noted the long, curling black lashes, the tanned yet creamy complexion and the slight tip-tilt of her nose. Her dress was not fashionable and her shoes were flat and uninteresting, but in the right clothes he thought she would be quite arresting.

Suddenly, she became aware of him and looked abruptly at him. For a moment, Patrick held her gaze and then withdrew his eyes. Her clear expression did not embarrass him, but the girl’s face suffused with colour and she twisted the strap of the handbag in her lap.

A few minutes later, the engines roared to life and the sign requesting passengers to put out their cigarettes and fasten their safety belts flashed ahead of them.

Patrick fastened his safety belt with the ease of long practise, but the girl fumbled awkwardly with hers. Patrick, unable to prevent himself, took the straps from her unresisting fingers, and fastened it securely.

“Thank you,” she murmured, showing even white teeth, as she smiled shyly at him.

Patrick merely smiled in return and stubbed out his cigarette. The aircraft began to move with slow, deliberate grace and soon they were taxiing along the runway.

The girl gripped the arms of her seat tightly and Patrick found himself watching her again. She was obviously terrified, and for once he felt something akin to sympathy. Usually he had no time for nervous passengers.

“Relax,” he said easily. “We’re almost airborne. Is this your first flight?”

She nodded. “As far as I know,” she replied. “I’m rather a coward, I’m afraid.”

Patrick shrugged his broad shoulders. “I guess we all are at times. Take-offs can be frightening, if you’re not used to them.” Then he looked up. “There, it’s over. You can unfasten your safety belt now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She released the strap and relaxed in her seat.

Patrick unfastened his own, and then said: “Do you smoke?” He offered her his slim platinum case, with the engraved monogram.

“Thanks.” She took one and leaned forward to apply the tip to his lighter. Then she lay back again and looked speculatively at him.

Patrick lit a cigarette for himself and wondered, half-amused at his thoughts, why he was taking such an inordinate interest in this girl. He rarely struck up conversations on aeroplanes, as they had a habit of becoming a bore. Besides, well-known as he was, people usually had ulterior motives in speaking to him. He had grown wary of the casual remarks passed to him, and usually spent journeys either reading or studying some aspect of his work.

But the girl did not somehow come into this category. She did not appear to recognize him and was certainly unlikely to be connected with the theatre, dressed in such an outmoded way.

He drew on his cigarette, and looked again at her.

“What’s your name?” he asked idly, his eyes narrowed.

“Samantha Kingsley,” she replied at once. “And yours?”

“Oh!” Patrick hesitated. Now for it! Even if she did not recognize him, the name might mean something to her. “Patrick Mallory,” he said reluctantly.

If he had expected a reaction he was disappointed. If was obvious his name meant nothing to her. He sighed gratefully. Although he never lied about his identity it was a pleasure to meet someone who knew nothing at all about him. “Are you going to London?” he asked.

“Well, to begin with, but not exactly there. Wiltshire. Is that near London?”

“Reasonably so,” Patrick nodded, amused by her expression. “You don’t know much about England, do you? I thought you were English.”

“I am. At least, I was born there, but I’ve lived in Italy since I was four years old.”

“Oh, I see.” Patrick frowned. “And you’ve never been back?”

“No. Never. My father preferred not to do so.” Samantha was silent for a moment and Patrick had the feeling that she was withholding much more than she had told him.

“And your father?” he probed, curious about this girl, and unable to stop the question. “Is he not going with you?”

“No. My father is dead. He was killed over a month ago.”

Patrick frowned again. “I’m sorry.” He studied his cigarette for a moment. The name Kingsley rang a bell somewhere and now she had told him that her father had been killed, he remembered where he had heard it. “John Kingsley,” he said slowly. “Your father wasn’t John Kingsley, was he?” Samantha’s eyes widened.

“Why … why, yes. Did you know him?”

“No, not exactly. I met him in Milan at the exhibition. It was an excellent show. That must have been just before …”

Samantha sighed. “Yes, it was. I’m still a bit dazed about it. And … and you liked the sculptures?”

“Oh, yes.” Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. “Very much. And so now you are an orphan?”

Samantha hesitated. “Not exactly.” She halted awkwardly.

Patrick glanced curiously at her, and then seeing that she obviously did not want to talk about her immediate future, he changed the subject.

They talked about general things, books, art, music. Patrick was not bored by her rather shy conversation. It was so refreshing to find a girl as comparatively untouched as she seemed to be.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what do you do?”

Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.

“I’m a writer,” he replied, without qualification.

Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. “What do you write?”

Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.

Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.

“I’ll have a tomato juice, please,” she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre. Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.

“What will you have, Mr. Mallory?” she was asking gushingly.

Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. “Scotch,” he said easily. “And bring this young lady a sweet sherry instead of tomato juice.”

Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.

“You don’t object, do you?” he asked half-mockingly.

Samantha shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. “Why did that stewardess act so strangely?”

Patrick grinned. “Strangely?” he mocked.

“Yes. You must know what I mean. She … well …” She flushed.