Misleading Engagement

She walked to the front door with him. ‘Thank you for everything, Anne,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a lovely, kind girl, and they don’t come like that very frequently these days. If ever I can do you a good turn to repay you just ask me.’ To her amazement he leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently before he picked up his case and carried it out to the car. He tossed the case on the back seat, got in behind the wheel and lifted his hand. She waved as the car disappeared round the corner of the road.

It was like waving to a friend whom she would see again soon. It seemed strange that he was driving three hundred miles away and that they wouldn’t meet again. “‘Ships that pass in the night”,’ she quoted aloud. She couldn’t remember the rest of that rather sad poem.

Her eyes were thoughtful as she went in and closed the door. She wouldn’t ever solve the enigma that was Mark Rayne.

Anne worked all day and into the night before she was satisfied with the editing of the wedding tapes, and before she went to bed she did something unusual—she made a copy of the finished video to keep for herself and put it away carefully in her bedroom drawer so that it wouldn’t get mixed up with any of the other cassettes in the editing suite. She thought that some time she would watch it to see if she could find any trace of a smile on Mark Rayne’s handsome face.

She knew that it was silly, but the man had caught her imagination and she found herself wondering about him. She put the cutting from the local paper with the tape, wondering what kind of books he wrote. She was a great reader but she’d never seen his name on any books in the library. She’d enquire some time. But of course he probably used a pen-name... Oh, stop brooding about the man, she told herself. He’s nothing to you.

On Monday morning Anne went into the town and took her glasses to the opticians to be mended. While she was there she made arrangements to have a test for fitting contact lenses, keeping her fingers crossed that she would be getting a cheque when she delivered the video.

In the afternoon she drove to the Brent mansion and delivered the video to Lady Brent, who invited her into an elegant drawing room and gave her tea as the video was played back on an enormous TV screen. Lady Brent was a handsome, grey-haired woman, friendly and with no nonsense about her, who seemed delighted to chat to Anne.

‘You’ve made a wonderful job of it, my dear,’ she said enthusiastically at the end. ‘I’m sure Elizabeth and Andrew will be delighted with it when they come back from their honeymoon. It will be one of their treasured wedding mementoes—so much more exciting than just a photograph. And Mark would like to have a copy too, to send to his parents. They’re retired now, and live in Malta.

‘Mark Rayne was Andrew’s best man, you know. They were at school together. He’s a very well-known writer—you may have heard of him; he writes under a pen-name...’ She looked up at the ceiling and clicked her tongue. ‘My memory for names is getting shocking. I know it’s something to do with gardens. He writes exciting mystery stories. I’m sure they’re very good, but not really my cup of tea.’ She laughed. ‘I’m afraid I only read gardening books.’

Anne assured her that it would be possible. to make another copy and promised to bring it the next day.

‘Poor Mark.’ Lady Brent sighed. ‘He was so disappointed that Trudi couldn’t come to the wedding with him. She’s his fiancée, you know, quite a well-known model, and he seems completely obsessed by her. She had to go abroad on an assignment. I’m afraid I’m very old-fashioned and out of touch, living in the country. You young people dash about the world so casually these days. I hate to go far from my beloved garden.’

Before she left, Anne had to be shown around the garden, whose full beauty could be appreciated now that the marquee had been removed. It was really lovely, and Anne received a pleased smile from Lady Brent when she expressed her admiration.

But she was thinking more of what Lady Brent had said about Mark and Trudi, and felt she had found out the reason for his low spirits. To be without someone you love, even if only temporarily, made the world seem empty and colourless, as she had found when Keith left her.

She hardly heard what the older woman was saying as she chatted on happily about the wedding and the house that Andrew had bought. ‘In the very next village, so they won’t be far away—Andrew will commute to his office in London.’

Anne hoped that Lady Brent would suggest recommending her work to friends, but the fond mother was far too engrossed in her family affairs to think about anyone else.

That evening Anne made a second copy of the video, and on Tuesday morning she drove out to deliver it. Lady Brent was away from home, the imposing butler informed her as she handed in the package, but her ladyship had left a letter for Miss Grey.

Anne stopped in a lay-by on the way home and opened the envelope. Inside she found a note of appreciation and a cheque for the agreed fee plus a bonus for the extra copy. Well, she needn’t worry about paying for the contact lenses, she thought with relief. But as she drove on she felt almost sad that the unusual episode in her life was over.

But, as it happened, it wasn’t quite over. Later that morning a florist’s van drew up outside the house.

‘Miss Grey?’ the girl enquired, and handed Anne a large wrapped bunch of flowers. Who could be sending her flowers? Anne wondered, carrying them into the kitchen. For a moment she thought it might be Keith and that he wanted to be forgiven and taken back. But when she had torn off the wrapping to disclose a huge spray of mimosa she found a tiny envelope, inside which was a card saying, ‘With gratitude and every good wish, M.R.’ Mark Rayne! How very nice of him—and how odd that the shop had selected her very favourite flowers.

With a warm feeling of pleasure she filled a brown pottery jug with water, arranged the spray in it and carried it into the sitting room, looking round for a good place to put it down. The low table beside the sofa where Mark Rayne had made himself comfortable was the perfect place. Anne stood, holding the jug in both hands. The mimosa smelled gorgeous and she leaned close to smell the fragrance of the fluffy yellow balls.

What an unexpected man Mark Rayne was! She remembered vividly the strong, hard face she had seen so intimately close in her camera lens, and then the smoothing out of all the unhappiness as he’d slept.

She put the jug down on the table with an impatient thud, reminding herself that the man was nothing at all to her, and she shook her head at her own foolish fancy as she found herself wishing again that she could have seen him smile—just once—before he’d passed out of her life for ever.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER the activities of the Brent wedding, the couple of weeks that followed were an anticlimax. There were no answers to Anne’s advertisement and her doorstep calls were either flatly rejected or met with a smiling, ‘Oh, we have our own camcorder now, thank you: It was all rather depressing.

Then, to make things worse, the gas bill came in. Anne stared at it with horror. Surely she hadn’t used all that gas in one quarter? But it had been a cold spring and it was a big house. Too big, as her wedding-night guest had told her, for one small girl to live in alone. At five feet six and a half she had never considered herself small, but perhaps if you were over six feet it would seem so.

She had a quick, confused picture in her mind of Mark Rayne. She had seen him looking arrogant and disdainful and she had seen him looking charmingly apologetic, and, of course, she had seen him in the photograph with an adoring smile on his lips. Now that she had seen the man she could imagine him looking deeply in love. Her heart seemed to miss a beat. Then she blinked and pulled herself together. This was no time to indulge in fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. She should be thinking about gas bills and how to pay them.

After a whole day spent poring over bills and cash book and bank statements, she had to face the fact that she had been much too optimistic to believe she could support herself with her video work and continue to live in this big house, which was all Daddy had had to leave her. She would have to sell the house and find somewhere much smaller, and if there wasn’t enough money left after the mortgage had been paid off it would have to be a bedsitter. And she must find another job.

The only bright spot on the horizon was that she had by now acquired her contact lenses and had gone through the necessary period of adjustment. They were a great success, although she wondered now if she should have spent all that money on them. But they improved not only her looks but her confidence, and they would make her video work much easier—if she ever got any more work.

Suddenly she felt frighteningly alone—Daddy gone, Keith gone and the future stretching ahead emptily. She put her head down on the table and wept.

But this was no time for self-pity, she told herself, wiping her eyes. It was the time for action.

All weekend she worked on the house, cleaning it from top to bottom until it looked cared for, if rather shabby. Tomorrow, she promised herself as she fell into bed late on Sunday night, she would go and visit an estate agent.

Anne slept very late on Monday morning, and by the time she had showered, breakfasted and got dressed to go into town it was after eleven o’clock. Just as she reached the front door the phone rang in the kitchen, and she rushed to answer it. A new customer? Had she despaired too soon?

She lifted the receiver. ‘Anne Grey,’ she said in her crisp, businesslike voice.

A man’s voice said, ‘Hello, Anne.’ It was a deep voice, and for one mad moment she thought it was Mark Rayne and her throat tightened. Then the voice went on, ‘This is Bob Riley here.’

Bob Riley, the cameraman she had been to college with and whom she had met at the Brent wedding, when he had told her he was setting up his own company.

‘Bob! How nice to hear from you. How are things going?’

‘Badly. I’m in the devil of a fix, Anne. The fact is that I’m in the middle of a job and I’ve been idiot enough to break my wrist. I can’t handle my camera. I can’t even pick it up.’

‘Oh, Bob, how rotten for you,’ she cried with ready sympathy. ‘Can I help at all?’

‘That’s why I’ve called you,’ he said. ‘You’re my last hope. Are you madly busy?’

Madly busy! That was a joke. ‘I’m free just at present,’ she said.

‘Well, could you possibly get yourself down here and stand in for me at a recording session tomorrow morning? It’s a terrific lot to ask of you at a moment’s notice, but it’s very important. It might be make or break for our new company.’

‘Why not? But you haven’t told me where “down here” is.’

Bob said sheepishly, ‘I didn’t want to frighten you off at the start. We’re in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall!’ Anne gasped. ‘B-but that’s three hundred miles away.’ She looked at her watch, which said nearly midday. The thought of driving three hundred miles on a strange route in her small car was rather horrifying. But Bob was a fellow pro and a friend and she couldn’t let him down.

Bob’s voice came anxiously from the other end of the line. ‘Anne, are you still there?’

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to get to you, Bob. Will you give me the address and advise me on the best route?’

After hours sitting behind the wheel of her car Anne was aching all over by nine o’clock that same evening, when she finally arrived at the address Bob had given her—the Wheatsheaf Hotel, Penryll. She parked the car beside three or four others at the front of the building and stood, stretching and yawning, looking for the entrance.

‘Hotel’ seemed rather too grand for this small, friendly-looking place, she thought. It was old, as if two or three fishermen’s cottages had been knocked into one, and lights shone from all the small, deep-set windows on the ground floor. From the two windows on the left, which were wide open to the road, there issued the unmistakable sounds of a public bar. No jukebox, thank goodness, simply the loud talk and rough laughter of the local folk enjoying their evening pint.

The next door bore the word ‘Residents’, and Anne pushed it open and blinked around. A steep flight of narrow stairs faced her and on her right was a door marked ‘Residents’ Lounge’. There was no sound from within. She opened the door and found herself in a small room with red velvet banquettes round the wall and three armchairs arranged round an ancient oak table. In one of the chairs sat Bob Riley, a glass of whisky beside him, his head drooping on his chest. His right arm was in plaster and supported by a sling. He looked the picture of misery.

‘Hello, Bob,’ Anne said brightly.