Living With Marc

‘Yes, please,’ Robin said sweetly, and thought, Is that meek enough for you?

‘Well, I never,’ said Elsie.

He held the kitchen door open and they went into the hall together, Robin carrying the glass of milk, he with a large cup of very black coffee. As he turned into the room where he had interviewed her she saw the papers on the desk and asked impulsively, ‘You don’t want any typing done or anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ He turned that down flat. ‘Nothing on that desk concerns you,’ he said.

Trying to show him she was not a dead loss was a waste of time. She knew the papers were confidential and she said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t be snooping.’

‘You won’t be getting the chance.’

He shut the door behind him and she said, ‘I hope the coffee scalds you,’ but not loudly enough to be heard through a closed door.

When Elsie arrived with a tray—soup and a little fish—Mrs Myson said, ‘You’ve met Robin; you know she’ll be staying with us?’ Elsie said she did, and Mrs Myson pondered, ‘Which room, do you think?’

‘Next one along?’ Elsie suggested. Mrs Myson was happy about that and Elsie took Robin along to the next door on the landing.

It was a pretty room—curtains, bedspread and wallpaper in co-ordinating pastel florals, and a small shower room leading off. The window overlooked lawns and what, in the gathering gloom, seemed to be a large garden. Elsie stood in the doorway and asked, ‘Will this do for you?’

‘It’s lovely!’ Robin exclaimed, and from Elsie’s expression it was as though she had expected Robin to be less enthusiastic.

‘Right, then,’ said Elsie. ‘I’ll leave you to it’

A couple of hours later Robin was back in her room. Mrs Myson kept early nights. She had found Robin a new toothbrush and produced a white lawn nightdress. Then she’d said goodnight and hoped Robin would sleep well.

With no luggage Robin was glad to find the toiletry basics of toothpaste and soap in the shower room. She had no change of clothing, no make-up except for a lipstick and a comb in her purse, and she would have to go back tomorrow and collect some of her belongings.

She showered and put on the nightgown and sat at the window in the darkness, revelling in a quietness that wrapped comfortingly around her like the big, fluffy white towel she was huddling in.

She hadn’t phoned home. When Mrs Myson had asked, ‘Is this all right with your family?’ she had said yes as if she had made the call.

She didn’t want to go back tomorrow either. Some time she had to, because all the little she owned was there. But tomorrow Aunt Helen would probably be waiting for her, and the next day, while Wednesday was Aunt Helen’s bridge night. She never missed that. On Wednesday Uncle Edward would be home alone and Robin could say goodbye to him in peace while she packed.

Mrs Myson had said that tomorrow morning she would advance her a month’s wages, and that would be enough to buy essentials and clothes to carry Robin over. Every day here, if all went well, Robin would be feeling stronger and calmer. When she went back there would be no screaming if she could postpone it until Wednesday evening.

Marc Hammond was walking in the garden below. There was just enough moonlight to see him, and this time his presence was no surprise. He was probably needing a breath of fresh air by now, and if it had been Robin’s garden she too would have walked there alone at night, revelling in the silence and clearing her mind.

She was sure that that was what he was doing, coming slowly towards the house. She kept well back, watching the dark figure approaching in the shadows down there. If he walked right under her window she could drop something on him. A pink lustreware bowl of pot-pourri, on the window-ledge, would be just perfect.

She would have enjoyed that immensely, but it was only a glorious fantasy. He couldn’t see her but when he glanced up at the house she almost fell back into the room, as though he could see in the dark, and scrambled into her bed, between the cool sheets.

If something did fall on him out of the sky she wondered if it would surprise him. Well, it would of course, but how much? Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond. Not much surprised Robin either; she was used to the unexpected happening around her. Half the time she didn’t know why it happened, and most of the time she didn’t know how to deal with it. He’d said that she was a time bomb, but of all the men she had ever met Marc Hammond was the one who seemed to pack so much dynamic energy that she couldn’t imagine life would ever be calm around him.

The difference was that he could handle trouble. In court he had the reputation of rarely losing a case, of being a born fighter, a born winner. But he’d lost the little tussle with Maybelle today. A stubborn old lady had got her own way and that made Robin smile.

Just for a moment she hugged herself, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Then she sobered rapidly, because what on earth was there to grin at in having Marc Hammond lined up against her?

She knew where she was as soon as she woke. She had slept soundly and if she had dreamed she couldn’t remember. But she remembered where she was and what had led up to her being here, and she was going to be so careful today. She wanted to keep this job, and from here on it wouldn’t be Robin’s fault if things didn’t work out.

Elsie met her in the hall when she came downstairs. ‘I take up her tea eight o’clock most mornings,‘ said Elsie. It was ten to eight now. ‘There’s tea in the kitchen and he wants to see you in the garage.’

‘Marc?’

‘Of course.’

What did he want with her now? He had agreed yesterday to take her on trial, and the trial had hardly started yet so she must still be in the clear, unless he had decided he couldn’t have her in the house after all.

She had butterflies in her stomach as she went from the kitchen across the narrow passage to a door that led into the garage.

There was plenty of room in there for two cars. Furthest away was Marc Hammond’s dark red Mercedes. The door of Mrs Myson’s car was open and Marc Hammond stood beside it. ‘You wanted to see me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. This is the car you’ll be driving.’

Mrs Myson’s, of course. He got in on the passenger side and leaned over to open the door for the driver, and she gulped. ‘Am I chauffeuring you?’

He said wearily, ‘You don’t imagine I’ll let you take the wheel with her until I’ve seen for myself how you handle a car? And I’ll want to see that licence.’

She got in reluctantly. ‘Of course you will,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to take my word for anything.’ She must not snap. She must stay cool and speak civilly.

‘Put it down to my lifestyle,’ he said. ‘I don’t take much on trust.’

He would be a poor lawyer if he did, but this was personal, and, considering she didn’t get that much practice, she was a good driver. She’d show him she could ferry Maybelle Myson safely and without fuss wherever she wanted to go.

She checked the controls. Five-gear manual; she’d learned on one of those. She was not as composed as she would have liked to be; she was slightly psyched up, so that her cheeks were flushed and she had to remember to breathe slowly.

She didn’t have to look at him though. She would keep her eyes on the road and concentrate on her driving. He pressed the button to open the garage doors and she turned on the ignition, went into gear, braked in front of the garage and moved smoothly up the curved drive to the entrance. She stopped there to check the road. Morning rush-hour traffic was streaming past. It could be a little while before there was a safe opening and she sat, hands on the wheel. ‘Which way?’ she asked.

‘Into town.’ Good, she thought; it would be easier to slip into the traffic than to cut across it.

But suddenly she was hit by a staggering jolt of physical awareness of the man sitting beside her. Being in the same room as Marc Hammond was traumatic enough. In a car the nearness of him hit her so hard that she nearly reeled from it.

She was fiercely conscious of the length and the strength of his body. It felt as if he was leaning across her and it was his arm, not the seat belt, holding her down, his hand on her breast.

‘Waiting for your favourite colour?’ he drawled, and there must have been times she could have moved out if she hadn’t been so poleaxed. There was a gap now and she fumbled the controls, jerking and juddering into the traffic stream, and she heard him sigh at that.

She was on a straight road, going along by the river, heading for the roundabout just outside the town, She kept a steady speed and a safe distance behind a red car, but she was gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She imagined she could hear him breathing. She couldn’t, but she could smell the faintest tang of aftershave that seemed to be going right to her head, and the heavy breathing was her own.

She tried to block him out but that didn’t work. Just by sitting close to her, his eyes rarely leaving her, he was turning her into a gibbering wreck. She had never felt such an urge before to beg, Leave me alone...give me space...

‘Elsie hasn’t met you before, has she?’ he asked her.

‘No, I’m sure we haven’t met.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded nearly normal.

‘Just seen you around and wondered who you are?’

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘She could have seen your photograph in the Herald.’