Potent As Poison

‘No glasses. Not tonight,’ she said firmly.

‘But I’m as blind as a bat without them,’ protested Beth.

‘Really?’ Donna looked aghast.

Beth took pity on her. ‘Well, not exactly—but I can only see clearly close-up.’

‘Great!’ teased Donna. ‘That’s all you need—to be able to see the hunk you’re dancing with!’

But, standing inside the elegant room at the party, staring straight ahead at the blurred crowd, she felt a bit of a fraud, wishing that she were back at the flat in her customary jeans and sweater, hair pulled back into its more usual plait, her nose deep in a book. Perhaps she could slip away unnoticed in a few minutes ...

So caught up was she in her plan to escape that she scarcely noticed the man who stood a couple of feet away, also gazing out at the flamboyant sunset.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true—of course she had noticed him; he had the kind of drop-dead gorgeous looks which meant that he would always have been noticed.

Most of the men there were dressed conservatively, either in suits or in casual trousers teamed with crisp, striped shirts. This man wore jeans, but with the kind of flair and panache that somehow managed to make him look the best-dressed man in the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt which might have been silk, through which she could see a firm, hard chest, and the shirt was tucked into the jeans, displaying narrow hips and long, long legs.

She sighed as she looked away. Way, way out of her league. And he had a stunning-looking blonde popping titbits into his mouth.

And speaking of titbits. She still hadn’t eaten.

She reached down for a triangle of toast, which was spread with something which, intriguingly, looked black, bit into it, began to chew, then nearly retched. It took every bit of determination she had just to swallow the morsel, but the slimy, salty taste refused to leave her mouth; then, as if in answer to a prayer, a glass of cold, clear water was placed in her hand, and she drank the whole glass thirstily before looking into an amused pair of blue-green eyes.

‘I guess you’re none too fond of caviar, huh?’ he smiled.

He looked so darkly handsome that she had been convinced that he would be Italian, or Spanish perhaps—so that it came as something of a shock for her to hear his rich, deep American drawl.

‘Caviar!’ She shuddered. ‘Is that what it is? Well, that’s the first and last time I ever eat it!’

‘Never tried it before?’ He sounded curious.

She gave him a look, but then took pity on him, after all—he wasn’t to know about the institutional food which had been the sum total of her experience. ‘Actually,’ she confided, the champagne she’d drunk giving her the confidence to tease, ‘I normally eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner—but this isn’t Beluga, and Beluga’s the only one I can bear!’

He laughed. ‘But you’ve heard of Beluga?’

She hadn’t been the light of her school debating society for nothing. ‘Just because I’ve never tried it, it doesn’t mean to say I’ve never heard of it!’ she answered back. ‘There are such things as books, you know!’

His eyebrows were raised slightly at the reprimand, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. ‘I stand corrected!’ He held two hands up in mock defence, then picked up a plate of hors-d’oeuvre. ‘Here, have one of these.’

Beth eyed some more dark-looking things wrapped in bacon—yeuk!—she wasn’t risking another try! She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. All the books say don’t eat the nibbles—they pile on the pounds and never fill you up. I’ll have something when I get home.’ She looked around for Donna, but he was speaking to her.

‘You’re not going already?’

He sounded, she thought, absolutely astonished.

She nodded. ‘It’s not really my scene.’

‘Nor mine,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell you what—I’m hungry, too. So what would you tell an American in London to eat?’

‘Fish and chips out of the newspaper!’ she said at once, memories of a rare seaside day-trip swamping her. ‘But it’s no good asking me where to find one,’ she protested, as he gently but firmly pushed her through the door. ‘Because I don’t know London at all!’

‘And neither do I,’ he smiled. ‘But I know a man who does.’

Which was how they found themselves in a black cab speeding towards the East End, where they were deposited in the front of the most delicious-smelling chip shop.

Still in her party clothes, but with Riccardo’s jacket on, she sat with him eating their feast on a park bench, munching the hot chips covered with salt and vinegar and breaking off great chunks of glistening white cod wrapped in batter.

Then they caught a cab back to Westminster, arguing all the way about how Verdi should be interpreted. Then they went to a pub, where he tried draught bitter and found it quite as disgusting as she’d found the caviar.

Quite by coincidence they were passing underneath Big Ben when midnight struck and they stood very still as the mighty chimes rang out around them.

This is it, Cinderella, thought Beth regretfully as she stared up into that dark, beautiful face ...

‘Meeting him was the most magical thing that had ever happened to me,’ said Elizabeth slowly, her mind coming back to the present as she surveyed Jenny sitting opposite her, staring at her with open curiosity. ‘I didn’t know that people like him existed—intelligent, witty—and oh, goodness, so attractive. I’d never felt any physical attraction for anyone before that—and he, somehow ...he made me feel ...oh, I don’t know. I was stupidly naïve. Too young and too inexperienced to realise he was feeding me a line.’

‘But what happened?’ asked Jenny. ‘What happened next?’

Elizabeth looked at her secretary, her eyes unwavering. ‘I didn’t go home that night. I went back to his uncle’s flat with him. I spent the weekend there. And afterwards I discovered that I was pregnant.’

‘Good grief!’

Elizabeth had expected this; the censure; perhaps that was why she had told no one besides John. ‘It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? Not a story I’m proud of.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m not casting blame. For heaven’s sake, you must have been so young.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And him?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘But Elizabeth—doesn’t he know? About the baby?’

Elizabeth’s voice became a flat monotone. ‘There was no reason to tell him——’

‘But surely, as the father, he had a right——’

‘No!’ Elizabeth’s voice was harsh. ‘A weekend fling with a stranger does not make you a father. It doesn’t constitute any rights. And anyway——’ and here her voice faltered ‘—I did try to contact him. To tell him. But he’d flown back to the States. I left him on the Sunday, and he flew back home on the Monday. And he had a fiancée back at home waiting for him. So you see,’ she gave a watery smile. ‘It really was just a quick roll in the hay—isn’t that what Americans say?—for him. That’s all he ever intended it to be. But it gave me what has made my life worth living. It gave me Peter. Speaking of which——’ and she rubbed a fist into each eye and glanced at her watch ‘—I’d better get going—he’ll be back from football practice soon.’ She swallowed the last of her brandy and got to her feet.

Jenny stood up too, still looking puzzled. ‘But how could he—how could he not recognise you? After ...after ...’ Her voice tailed off in embarrassment.

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘It was nearly a decade ago. I’m pounds lighter, I’ve had my hair cropped, and I wasn’t wearing glasses at the time. And, I expect,’ she said bitterly, ‘that there have been countless others in his bed since. But Jenny,’ she said, very softly. ‘Please. John was the only other person who has heard the whole story before. Perhaps I shouldn’t even have told you. I probably wouldn’t have done if it weren’t for the shock of seeing him again. But please, promise me that you’ll never speak of it to anyone? Imagine if any of the partners got to hear about it?’

‘Of course I won’t. Not that I think the partners would care—not in this day and age. But what about Peter? What does he know of all this? Does he think that your husband was the father?’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never lied to him. I simply told him the truth—that I loved his Daddy very much, but that sometimes things just don’t work out as you hoped they would.’

‘But now that this—Rick Masterton is back. Don’t you feel you ought to tell him?’