Chris

‘Did I mess something up?’

She gave a wry laugh. ‘Not really.’ Then she sighed. ‘No, there was nothing to mess up.’ She smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you tell me about America?’

‘America is a big country to talk about. Have you ever been there?’

‘A couple of times, when I was a young child, to Disneyland for holidays. But I haven’t been to—where did you say you came from? Wyoming, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Isn’t that cowboy country?’

‘I guess you could call it that. There are certainly a lot of cattle ranges there.’

He began to tell her about it and she listened, at first politely, but then with growing interest. Sam had a way with words, could use them to paint a picture in her mind. He was amusing, too, so that for a while she forgot her troubles and lived in his world, which seemed infinitely preferable to her own. But then, few were not. She laughed at Sam’s description of a rodeo he had attended once and, feeling herself watched, glanced across the table. The Count and the other man beside Francesca were both momentarily occupied by the people on their other sides. She had her eyes fixed on Tiffany and Sam, her head slightly tilted as she contemplated them and listened to Sam’s deep tones. When Tiffany looked at her Francesca raised a suggestive eyebrow towards Sam, the question clear.

Tiffany shook her head the slightest fraction, letting her know she wasn’t interested. Although she could have been, could have really enjoyed Sam’s company, if he hadn’t shot her ploy to pieces. Even though he was good-looking and a pleasant lunch companion, she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for that. It had meant so much—this last, desperate chance to earn some money.

Lunch came to an end; people began to get to their feet, to talk in clusters again for a while as they drank a last glass of port, deep amber-coloured this time, then drift towards one or another of their hosts to say goodbye before leaving. A feeling of fatalism stole over Tiffany: she had absolutely no idea how she was going to get out of the mess she was in. She had given it her best shot but it hadn’t worked, thanks to Sam. Excusing herself, she went in search of the ladies’ room, and found that a downstairs cloakroom in the house had been set aside for the purpose. Even the cloakroom took her breath away. There were beautifully draped curtains at the window, ornamental French hand-basins with gold taps, a dozen bottles of good perfume and hand lotion for the guests’ use. How the other half lived, Tiffany thought with irony, remembering the shabby, antiquated bathroom she had to share with a dozen others, and that covertly. By nature fastidious, she thought that that was perhaps the most difficult thing to bear.

She washed her hands and applied fresh lipstick, helped herself to a liberal application of perfume and went out, down the long, cool, blue-tiled corridor, into the sun again. The brilliant light dazzled her, so Tiffany stood for a moment in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust. She made an unknowingly attractive picture, framed by an arch of deep yellow roses that climbed the wall, and drew the eyes of several people still in the garden. Francesca was there, holding on to her cousin Chris’s arm, almost as tall as he, and laughing at something he’d said. And Calum Brodey was overseeing the distribution of glasses of vintage port, mainly to the male guests. He had just given a glass to Sam, who saw Tiffany and walked to meet her as she came into the garden.

Sam smiled, then got a whiff of her perfume. He leaned nearer, his nose close to the delicate column of her neck, and murmured, ‘Hey, you smell terrific.’

In that instant an idea leapt into Tiffany’s mind. There was no time to think about whether it was right or what the outcome might be. It was a chance and she immediately took it.

Raising her hand, she gave Sam a hard, loud slap across the face. He jerked in surprise, the hand holding his glass coming up in automatic defence, the contents flying out. But he had no chance to say anything because Tiffany exclaimed in well-simulated anger, ‘How dare you? You can take your disgusting suggestion and—and just go jump in that lake!’ she cried out, and pointed dramatically.

As she’d hoped, everyone within earshot turned to look. For a moment there was a stunned silence, then everyone seemed to move and speak at once.

Sam exclaimed, ‘What the heull…?’ but she ran a few steps away from him, in the direction of Calum who had started towards her.

He strode up to Sam, got between him and Tiffany, and said in a voice that was colder than ice, ‘My cousin will escort you to the gate.’ And he beckoned Chris over.

‘Now just a minute here, I——’ Sam began angrily.

But Chris put a hand under his elbow. ‘It’s this way.’

Sam was bigger than he was, in both height and breadth, and could probably have pushed Chris away, but he looked across at Tiffany, who was standing near Calum. For a second their eyes met and he must have realised what game she was playing. He hesitated, then, seeing the tense pleading in her blue eyes, he gave an angry, resigned kind of shrug and let Chris lead him away.

Francesca watched them go, a frown between her eyes, then came over to Tiffany. ‘Perhaps you’d better come inside with me.’

‘Thank you, but if I could just wait a while until he’s gone,’ Tiffany said in a distressed voice.

‘But your suit,’ Francesca said, pointing.

Tiffany looked down and saw that Sam’s port had spilled all down her. She gave a genuine wail of anguish. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Come into the house. I’m sure we can save it if we do something quickly.’

Calum added his voice. ‘Yes, please go inside, Miss—er——?’

‘Tiffany Dean,’ Tiffany said abstractedly, still looking down at her skirt and wondering how on earth she was going to explain this to the shop she’d hired it from.

Francesca led her inside the house again and up to a bedroom where Tiffany slipped out of the suit and it was rushed away by a maid, who pulled a pessimistic face when she saw the stained silk. There was a towelling robe hanging in the next-door bathroom. Bringing it for her to put on, Francesca said, ‘Will you excuse me, Tiffany? I must go and help say goodbye to the guests. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘Nonsense. It wasn’t your fault.’

Francesca smiled and hurried away, leaving Tiffany to realise that she’d got the introduction to Calum she’d so much wanted, but had had no opportunity to follow it up. It had all been wasted. She’d used poor Sam for nothing. It was a desperate ploy that had seemed a good idea at the time, but just hadn’t worked. The way most of the ideas she had nowadays never seemed to work out. And if the suit was ruined, then she was even worse off than when she’d started.

That didn’t bear thinking about so Tiffany resolutely pushed it out of her mind. She caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length antique mirror. The robe was much too big, completely hiding her hands and falling to her feet, looking ridiculous with her high heels. She kicked off her shoes, feeling a mad urge to break into hysterical laughter. It was that or cry. Pulling the robe round her, she sat on the edge of the four-poster bed and fought back tears. Please, please, she thought fiercely, let something go right for a change. Just for once let it go right.

There was a knock on the door and Francesca came in. ‘The guests have all left and my grandfather has gone up to his room to rest.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘We haven’t told him what happened. We didn’t want to upset him. He hasn’t been very well recently, you see.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. He looks all right,’ Tiffany remarked.

‘Oh, yes. It’s his blood-pressure. Arranging all these festivities for the bicentennial has been a bit much for him. Calum has tried to take as much of the organisation on himself as he can, but Grandpa has insisted on knowing every detail. It would be a shame if this—incident spoilt things for him on the first day.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Tiffany said, guilt making her voice stiff.

Francesca mistook the nuance in her voice and sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Oh, dear, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m so sorry, Tiffany. You must be feeling wretched about it yourself. The stupid man! Why don’t they ever learn? You only have to smile at them and be friendly and they immediately think you’re willing to leap into bed with them. And Sam seemed OK, too. Just shows you how mistaken you can be.’

Tiffany could only manage a stilted smile at that, and quickly changed the subject. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get home. Would it be OK to wait here until my suit’s dry?’

‘Of course. But you can’t possibly spend the whole of the afternoon in here.’ Francesca laughed. ‘I’d lend you something of mine, but you’d be swamped in it. But I’ll see what I can arrange.’ She stood up. ‘Calum wants to speak to you. He’s downstairs.’ And she headed for the door.

Tiffany stared at her. ‘What about?’

The taller girl shrugged, laughed. ‘He didn’t tell me. He never does. Come and see.’

Tiffany got uncertainly to her feet and gestured to the bathrobe. ‘Like this? I can’t possibly.’

‘Of course you can. Calum won’t care.’

With a sigh, Tiffany followed her. She’d wanted to make an impression on the heir to the House of Brodey, but this definitely wasn’t what she’d intended.

Calum was waiting in a sitting-room looking out over the lawn where the tables were being cleared. Chris was with him. They stood up politely when the two girls came in. When they saw Tiffany in the over-sized robe, just her bare feet with pink-painted toes sticking out from under it, neither man could resist a grin.

She laughed and put out her arms as she twirled round. ‘The latest creation from Paris,’ she joked.

Stepping forward, Calum took her hand and said, ‘Miss Dean, I’d like to apologise to you on behalf of my family. We’re all extremely sorry that such a thing happened here.’

There was true regret in his tone, making Tiffany flush. Something made her glance towards Chris; he was watching them with a faintly mocking curl to his lip, and she immediately knew that she might have deceived Calum but not Chris. Trying to put things as right as possible, she said lightly, ‘Oh, please, don’t apologise. I probably over-reacted. After all, I had been sitting next to Mr Gallagher during lunch, and—well, in a way I suppose it’s your fault really—you do serve excellent wine!’

Everyone laughed, even Chris’s eyebrows rising in surprise, and the tension was immediately eased.

‘And such a lot of it,’ Francesca agreed.