Waiting Game

‘Of course he doesn’t. He wasn’t meant to, was he? But he still wants you along. Most insistent.’

Fen wanted to ask why but glumly decided she wouldn’t like the answer—supposing Alex knew it, which she doubted. She asked instead, ‘What is this open day? Anything important?’

‘The best news I’ve had in six months, sweetheart!’ Alex abandoned all attempts to eat his breakfast, leaning back and smiling expansively. ‘Part of the studios will be open for members of the viewing public to meet the regular presenters and the back-room crews. It’s an annual thing but this year the board, in their wisdom, decided to throw a garden party, issuing the invitations as if they were made of diamond-studded gold. Much more exclusive. Backers and advertisers in the main with a sprinkling of showbiz names. A few selected members of the viewing public—they’ve been running a competition for the past three months. Twenty-five lucky winners received a couple of tickets apiece. Not forgetting the performers in, and writers of, the most successful series we produce. I wasn’t asked. Not until today! It’s a public-relations stunt, of course—make the viewers feel part of the network. Not to mention making the invited advertisers feel important.’

‘And you!’ Fen pointed out with an indulgent smile. His high spirits were infectious and at least last evening’s piece of rudeness hadn’t produced the backlash she’d expected. That made her conscience easier.

‘Ab—so—lutely!’ His blue eyes were gleaming like sapphires. ‘Clear up, would you, Fen? I’ll phone Jean and tell her the good news. The whole thing’s beginning to work like a dream. Oh, and—’ he was halfway out of the room before he turned ‘—we’ll have to scrub Tinkers tonight. Pity, but it can’t be helped. We’ll drive down to Tavistock this afternoon and be nice and rested for tomorrow’s high jinks. Be sure to pack something sexy to wear.’

By no stretch of the imagination could the simple, wrap-over amber silk dress be called sexy, Fen consoled herself as the Daimler Jean had given Alex for his last birthday swept over the Tamar into Cornwall.

She had happily dressed for the part she’d been allotted when they’d attended the first night and shown up afterwards at the restaurant. But for some unknown reason she could no more bring herself to dress the part of a femme fatale this afternoon than fly. Long sleeves looked demure enough and the narrow belt was tied tightly around her waist to ensure that neither the bodice nor the cleverly draped skirt would gape.

A floppy-brimmed hat in fine amber straw, festooned with huge cream silk roses, completed the ensemble and, emerging from the guest room in the Tavistock house, she had blinked in surprise when Alex, looking very elegant and Fred Astaire-ish in a morning suit, had told her, ‘You look fantastic!’

It was probably the hat, she decided edgily, not looking forward to the coming afternoon one tiny bit. Certainly nothing to do with the dress which covered her from her neck to just below her knees as effectively as a shroud.

‘Don’t forget to stick to me like glue,’ Alex said tersely as he slowed down for the turn-off on to a decidedly minor road. ‘I’m beginning to get butterflies. I’ll need you to hold my hand for that reason alone.’

He was beginning to look white around the mouth, Fen noted, giving him an narrow-eyed glance as the car swept between high hedges filled with the foam of Queen Anne’s lace and pink campion. It was a beautiful blue and green afternoon, as perfect as only an English early summer could be, and everything seemed to be going to plan, so why should the pair of them be so uneasy?

‘I’ve suddenly developed a split personality,’ he confided. ‘One minute I’m up in the air and thinking all this is a superb idea—especially when it’s bringing results—and the next I’m wishing we’d never started it. Trouble is, Fen, I can’t come to terms with the thought of being on the scrap heap, reduced to earning my crust advertising somebody’s frozen dinners in some ghastly commercial.’

About to point out that he didn’t need to work at all, that Jean’s fortune would keep them both in reasonable luxury for life, she thought better of it. Jean loved him to bits and wouldn’t begrudge a penny—as the gifts she showered on him so lavishly testified. But Alex had his pride. His ability to keep himself and support his wife was important to him.

‘But we won’t get anywhere if we back out now. And Jean would clobber us senseless if we did,’ he chuckled softly, his mood swinging again as he slowed down, looking for signposts.

Fen had imagined that the garden party would be held in some suitable spot near the main studios and the information that Saul Ackerman’s country home was to be the venue had only added to the niggling sense of unease she’d been suffering ever since she’d had to admit there was no backing out, no way of rejecting the invitation to attend.

Though it was more like a royal command, she decided edgily as the high hedges gave way to a wall of rough-grained quarried stone and then to a pair of massive iron gates flung open in well-bred invitation. Uniformed men who looked suspiciously like security guards directed them along a track that branched off from the main gravelled drive to an area of grassland that served as a temporary car park.

Big white vans bearing the distinctive Vision West logo left Fen in no doubt that the television crews would be prowling, getting the glittering occasion on film to be relayed to the viewers through the local news programme this evening. And there was well over a million pounds’ worth of motorised status symbols lined up on the crushed dry grass, she noted, which meant that everyone here was a ‘somebody’, and that sent her tension-reading up another couple of notches.

Just why had Saul Ackerman changed his mind and invited Alex along at practically the last moment? He couldn’t have had second thoughts about tossing him on to the scrap heap on the strength of a few scandal-mongering write-ups in the tabloids, surely?

Ducking her head as she got out of the car, she still managed to knock her hat to a rakish angle. Muttering under her breath, she righted it. She wasn’t used to wearing any kind of headgear; she felt like a mushroom. Hitching up her skirts, she spindle-heeled her way to Alex who was pocketing the keys to the Daimler, her tawny eyes wary as she told him, ‘I don’t want to spoil your moment of triumph, but have you stopped to wonder why you’re here? We never thought about the possibility of Ackerman being disgusted by what he must have read in the papers—he might not want to employ a man who is seen publicly to be cheating on his wife. We could be letting ourselves in for a highly public snub. Have you thought of that?’

‘Yes.’ Alex smoothed down his hair then took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘It’s always a possibility, but a remote one. Publicity and top ratings are the name of the game, and besides, he’s no saint. He’s rarely seen with the same woman twice. Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s a hypocrite.’

‘Is he married?’ Fen spiked her heels into the grass. For some unknown yet powerful reason she needed to know more about the man. A case of ‘know your enemy’, she supposed.

‘He was.’ Alex gave her a look that carried a hint of impatience. ‘But it ended very messily. There was someone else involved—there always was someone else involved during the short lifetime of that marriage. Do come on, Fen!’

More cars were arriving, sunlight glittering from their faultless bodywork, more frivolous hats and sleek-faced men in morning suits. Fen gave in and fell in step beside her uncle as they gravitated towards a gateway in the fuchsia hedge, a graceful figure in the amber silk that emphasised the slenderness of her hips and long, long legs, blissfully unaware that each step she took afforded the onlooker a tiny tantalising glimpse of creamy thigh and intriguing stocking-top.

Alex’s brief words had told her as much as she wanted to know about Saul Ackerman, and left her even less endeared to him than before. His poor wife was well rid of him; Alex had spoken of the marriage ending—so presumably that meant divorce. Because he couldn’t keep his hands off other women? It certainly sounded like it.

Fen couldn’t understand why any right-minded woman wanted to get married at all. Why put yourself in a position where your happiness depended on the good nature and fidelity of one man? Generally speaking, she liked men, enjoyed their company and valued their friendship. But she would never surrender her independence to one; she knew what it had done to her mother and, in consequence, to her. And had heard enough about disastrous marriages to make any sensible female wary.

So footloose and heart-free she would remain, a citizen of the world, a happily independent lady answerable to no one but herself.

‘Fen!’ A sharp nudge in her ribs brought her wandering mind back to present circumstances. Blinking, she focused on the tray of glasses, the white-shirted, impassive-faced waiter who held it. Then, champagne in hand, she took in her surroundings. Acres of emerald-green, closely mown grass quartered by stoneflagged paths, parterres of flowers cut into the sward, punctuated by tall trees, their leaves whispering softly in the gentle summer breeze. And, beyond and above the long sweep of a closely cut yew hedge a few hundred yards away, the glimpse of the tumbled roofs of an impressive Tudor house.

Some country pad, she thought sourly, contrasting it with the humble stone cottage, the only place that had ever remotely come to resemble a home, a bare twenty miles away as the crow flew.

But at least there was no sign of the owner, so be grateful for small mercies, she told herself, wondering if they could possibly manage to avoid him all afternoon.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked. ‘Plant ourselves in front of the camera crews and grin?’

‘We circulate and give each other adoring glances,’ he said firmly. ‘Drink your fizz; it might put you in a better mood.’ He whisked her along paths and over expensively maintained lawns, mingling with various groups of guests, introducing her simply as Fenella, doing nothing at all to dampen the often openly inquisitive stares she was getting, speculative eyes watching her every move. She could almost hear them thinking, debating whether she was with Alex for love or for money.

There was a lot of well-mannered back-slapping, a lot of preening and a fair amount of talking shop and by the time they had worked their way through to the terrace beyond the hedge Fen had had more than enough.

The paving ran along the entire frontage of the spectacularly lovely house and was set with white-clothed buffet tables and bars, all perfumed and punctuated by terracotta pots brimming over with stately lilies. And in the middle distance, surrounded by a group of obvious sycophants, was Saul Ackerman.

Fen recognised him with a curious jolt right in the pit of her stomach. He was easily the most impressive male around—the handful of sexily handsome actors she had encountered notwithstanding.

Oh, drat it to Hades! She had really hoped she wouldn’t have to see him. Guilty conscience, she supposed. She had behaved badly that first time they’d met. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t behave twice as badly if there happened to be a second time. And that wouldn’t do Alex’s career prospects a whole heap of good, she admitted. But then, she had never encountered anyone, male or female, who had aroused her to such a pitch of unthinking animosity. Her blood boiled whenever she thought of him!

‘We could leave now,’ she whispered to Alex out of the side of her mouth. ‘You must have spoken to everyone here.’

Except Saul, and she wasn’t about to remind him of that. She was sick of being on show, being talked about. Most of the people here would have read at least one scandal-mongering piece of so-called journalism. Most of the men, with varying degrees of interested speculation, had ogled her, while she was sure all the women were bitching about her inside their heads. She was getting paranoid, she recognised, but that didn’t stop her wanting to hit Alex when he scoffed, ‘What, and miss out on all that gorgeous food? Besides, I haven’t paid my respects to Saul yet. Got to keep a high profile. If Jean were here she’d say the same.’

‘Go ahead,’ Fen told him, feeling tight-lipped. ‘You’ll deserve a medal if you can drag him out from under all those female admirers.’ She had just recognised the lushly sensual, scarlet garbed figure of Vesta Faine hanging adoringly on to his arm. No doubt she was his current lady. Seen twice already in his company, she must be all set to break the record—if what Alex had said about the staying power of his ladies was true. ‘And I need to go to the loo,’ she grumbled untruthfully. ‘Where is it?’

‘Go to the house. You’ll find doors if you look for them. Saul won’t have Portakabins labelled “His” and “Hers” on his sacrosant property.’ He gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be long. I’ll get us some food and try to grab Saul’s attention. After all, he did expressly invite you to come.’

Which wasn’t what she wanted to hear, Fen thought as she swayed her way along the terrace, skirting the lily pots and knots of festively dressed personalities with an empty smile fixed on her face.

She had no need to find a bathroom—just a bit of empty space. And she had no intention of returning before she had got herself nice and calm again. Alex could manage on his own; she’d done quite enough.

To the side of the house she found a swimmingpool complete with loungers and white-painted wrought-iron tables. And people. Quickly, she withdrew her inquisitive nose from the trellis of billowing roses that formed part of the pool surround and explored further.

And eventually found just what she’d been hoping for: utter seclusion. A small secret garden, enclosed on three sides by tall yew hedges, the fourth side open to a vista of sweeping fields and the thickly wooded river valley below. No one in sight. Just the sun, the warm soft air, the patchwork of greens, the song of the birds. Heaven.

Ignoring the stone bench seat, strategically placed for peaceful contemplation of the breathtaking view, she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the soft, sun-warmed grass, pulling her hat down over her face to shade her creamy pale skin from the damaging rays.

If she weren’t so tense she would be asleep within seconds; she hadn’t realised just how exhausted she was. The past four years she’d been travelling round Europe, flitting from one job to the next like a demented gnat, enjoying every hectic moment. Eighteen months ago, after her father’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart condition, she had taken two months off to get her distraught mother settled with an old schoolfriend—recently widowed herself—in Australia. And that had been no easy ride.

She had grieved for her father, of course she had, her sorrow taking the form of deep regrets. Regret that he had barely ever acknowledged her existence and, when he had, only because of her nuisance value. A selfish man, there had been no room in his life for anything outside his work as a highly respected travel writer. He’d travelled the world, dragging his wife along behind him and, much later, the child he had never expected or wanted. Not that he’d had to drag his wife, exactly. She’d been too dependent on him, too besotted, to let him out of her sight! And now that he had gone, her mother didn’t know what to do with her life. So no, that two months spent trying to help her mother come to terms with the loss she vowed she would never be able to accept had not been a picnic.

And a few weeks ago, during one of the frequent calls to Australia she made from wherever she happened to be, her mother had instructed mournfully, ‘When you’re next in the UK I want you to arrange for the cottage to be sold. I couldn’t bear to go there again, not without your father. It would kill me. You can crate up any of his books and papers that are still there and send them out to me. I’d ask Alex and Jean, but you know how busy they are. Alex has better things to do with his time than bother himself with my affairs.’

And so, after a job that had taken her to the English Midlands, Fen had dropped in on Jean and Alex in Hampstead, intending to spend a few days with them before hiring a car and driving down to Cornwall, promising herself that before she did anything about disposing of the cottage and its furnishings she would give herself a full week simply to laze around and recoup her energies. Instead, she had found herself drawn into playing the part of Alex’s mistress, all thoughts of a much needed breathing space pushed into the background.

Sighing gustily, she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, feeling her skirt ruck up around her thighs and not caring. There was no one to see her, after all. If she was going to have to spend the next couple of weeks racketing around notorious night-spots with her uncle, pretending they were having an adulterous fling, she would need to unwind.

She made a conscious effort to relax, to push everything out of her mind, and succeeded, feeling her body go boneless, sleep pulling at her eyes, pulling her deeper and deeper…