Egyptian Honeymoon (17 page)

Steve was of course immaculate; never had Noelle seen him in need of a shave. He wore a suede car coat over his well tailored business suit, and his polished shoes reflected the pale sunlight; only his dark hair was ruffled by the breeze. Noelle had become painfully conscious of her own dishevelled looks, feeling sure that was the cause of her husband's scowl. Mrs Steven Prescott should always appear well groomed and chic, as if she had just stepped out of a… glass case. She had never dreamed he might come back today, believed him to be far away, but mingled with her dismay was the disturbance to her senses which an unexpected sight of him always caused, ever since that night on the
Serapis
, when she had been unwillingly awakened to the needs of her own body as well as his. If only he had been a little later she would have changed for lunch.

Simon and Pickles had no inhibitions about their appearance. Both went racing up the slope to meet him, Simon shouting:

'Shiver my timbers, it's the boss man himself!'

He seized Steve's hand and pumped it vigorously, while Pickles, after marring the perfection of shoes and trousers, by shaking himself vigorously, rolled on his back, waving muddy paws, hoping for attention.

'You seemed pleased to see me,' Steve remarked to Simon, rubbing Pickles' stomach with the toe of one mud-splattered shoe. His toleration of the mongrel always surprised Noelle, and Pickles adored him. His eyes were fixed on the aloof figure of his wife, as he went on: 'Well, you do look a trio of ragamuffins!'

'Who cares, we've been having fun!' Simon cried. Some of his exuberance waned as he added doubtfully: 'We had the dinghy out—you don't mind, sir?'

'Don't call me sir, I'm your brother.'

Simon looked a little startled at this claim to kinship, then grinned broadly. Steve continued: 'I don't mind in the least so long as you both can swim, though I didn't know your sister is partial to dinghies. I've only been in a punt with her.'

Noelle had a vivid recollection of sunny afternoons, herself reclining in the stern of the punt clad in a white pleated skirt—Steve considered trousers unfeminine—a middy blouse and a wide straw hat, while he manipulated the pole; the cool, dignified unflappable Miss Esmond, a very different picture from the scarecrow she must now look in her torn sweater and disgraceful jeans.

'Oh, I can swim like a seal,' Simon assured him. 'Sis isn't exactly Olympic standard, but she can keep afloat.'

How little Steve knew about her, Noelle thought, to be unaware that she could swim, or had he forgotten? She was a better performer than Simon was implying; she and Hugh had often visited the baths together. She had not swum since he died. But Steve always saw her as a glamorous mannequin, and didn't connect her with sport. No glamour about her now, with her windblown hair, no make-up on her face, boots and jeans plastered with river mud.

'I'm sorry you found me like this,' she said apologetically, 'but I didn't expect you home today or I'd have been properly dressed.'

'I've only dropped in to collect some papers,' he explained, studying her with a hooded stare. In her boyish garb, she and Simon might have been twin youths, and of the two, she was the dirtier. 'I'm sorry to have interrupted your… fun.'

'Oh, we were coming in to get ready for lunch. Simon and I always enjoy messing about on the river.'

Steven looked as though he considered 'messing' was an appropriate word. There was something odd about his demeanour, as if he had received an unexpected shock, but surely discovering his wife behaving like a hoyden could not have been as devastating as all that? Something must have gone awry at his conference. Simon and Pickles had gone on ahead, and she said anxiously: 'Has anything gone wrong?'

Not that he would tell her if it had. He never discussed his business problems with her, she was completely excluded from that side of his life, which of late seemed to entirely absorb him.

'No, things don't go wrong when I'm in command,' he declared arrogantly, 'at least, not in business.' Then he added in a completely different tone: 'I was glad to see you looking so happy. I'm afraid my coming spoilt it.'

'Of course it didn't. I was pleased to see you, and it was time we came in anyhow.'

Noelle did not realise how her face had changed when she caught sight of him, as if a light had been extinguished. He had seen her in the distance, all laughing gaiety, but the sparkle had vanished, when she beheld him.

'Simon and I have always been pals,' she said vaguely.

'Yes, and he's nearer your age than I am.' He gave a short sigh. 'You always appeared so sophisticated when you were modelling, I hadn't realised before you aren't much more than a kid.'

She smiled nervously, wondering what that remark was in aid of. She had not seemed a kid to him when he had found her with Omar. Kids were punished with a spanking if physical chastisement was considered necessary, but what he had done to her could only be inflicted upon an adult woman.

'I'm twenty-three,' she reminded him, 'don't pretend you didn't know.'

'In years perhaps, but in that rig-out you look more like fourteen.'

So it was not only her appearance that was annoying him but the gap in years between them, but it had never been a sensitive point before. He was probably thinking that Marcia, or his other girlfriends, would never so demean themselves as to spend a Sunday morning splashing about in a rubber dinghy.

'Oh, I'll soon change that,' she said brightly. 'Are you staying to lunch?'

'I'm afraid I can't. I'll just say hello to your parents and then I must be off again.'

It was Noelle's turn to sigh. A wife and a home seemed unnecessary appendages for a man who was always somewhere else. They were slowly wending their way up the bank, and her boot caught in a loose turf; being much too big for her, it was dragged half off, and she paused to pull it on again, standing on one leg to do so. Steve watched her with an inscrutable expression, but did not offer to support her.

'If you're going to make a habit of this sort of thing, you'd better get some boots that fit,' he observed.

'Oh no, I shan't, since you disapprove.'

'But I haven't said…'

'It wasn't necessary, you looked.'

'My dear girl, why do you always try to make me out an ogre?' He sounded exasperated.

'I'm sure I don't, but a good wife should try to please her husband.'

'An excellent sentiment.' But he didn't sound as if he appreciated it. They moved on again, and Noelle summoned up courage to ask the question that had been much on her mind and for which no suitable opportunity had presented itself.

'Would it be possible to make enquiries about the Bates? The cruise must have been over long since and I would like to know if they got home safely.'

'If they want to communicate with you, they'll write.'

'But if Mary was very ill they may be stuck somewhere. She might… have died. Wouldn't the agency know their address?'

'It might not want to divulge it.'

'I'm sure you can find out if you want to. You always can.'

'What a touching faith in my infallibility!' he mocked. 'I could ask Marcia, she'll know what happened.'

Noelle stood still.

'Are you in touch with her?' she demanded.

'Not at the moment, but I'm bound to run across her sooner or later.'

Noelle wished she had not spoken; the last thing she wanted to do was to give Steve an excuse to contact Marcia Manning, if he were not already doing so. He was looking at her with a mischievous expression, well knowing how she felt about the other woman—and hadn't she good cause to resent her? Noelle thought bitterly.

'Oh, forget it,' she said hastily.

They moved on; they were nearly up to the top now. The breeze had strengthened, was becoming a gale. Dead leaves swirled around them, Noelle's hair blew out from her face and across Steve's chest. With an exclamation she jerked her head, as a strand of the fine, silky stuff caught on his coat button.

'Keep still, you'll scalp yourself!'

Nervous as a thoroughbred filly, she tried to edge away, pulling at her hair, but he put his arm about her to still her, pressing her against his side, while with his other hand he sought to disentangle the lock of hair. Since their return he never touched her if he could avoid it, and this was the first time they had been close. Noelle's blood leaped at the contact, in every nerve she was aware of him. Would it be ever thus? she thought wildly, hating him for his ruthless egoism, deploring his callousness, and yet she was drawn to him as by a magnet. He was the rock she needed to lean upon, the protection that she had so sorely missed with Hugh's death, and surely he could not be without feeling when he was so kind to her little dog? She herself was feeling much too much, her limbs were starting to tremble, and she said breathlessly:

'Have you got a knife? Cut it off.'

'Sorry, I don't carry lethal weapons.'

But he had as deadly ones—his masculinity, his sexual attraction. His breath stirred her hair, his arm was a steel band about her, her blood was in a tumult, and her knees threatened to give way. She wanted to cry out; Oh, Steve, Steve, let's start again; forget all the bitter things we've said to each other. I believe I love you, hard and unbending as you are, and you…

He didn't believe in love, he had told her so several times. All she could hope for was a resurgence of desire, that fierce, blasting force that had scared her twice already. Steve felt no tenderness towards her and would only sneer if she confessed to a change of heart. He might even reject her. So she remained dumb, and at last she was free.

'Thank you,' she murmured, sweeping her hair together in one hand. She could not look at him.

'Don't mention it, it was a pleasure, but perhaps we'd better walk farther apart, unless you want a repetition.'

Apart—yes, they were apart all right, Noelle thought sadly. She heard her mother's voice through an open window, carried to her on the wind.

'Steve here? But where have they got to?' and Simon's laughing reply:

'Oh, they're necking on the lawn. You'd think they would have got over that by now.'

Noelle blushed fierily and ran into the house.

Mrs Esmond did her best to make Steve change his mind, insisting he should stay at least for lunch, almost as if it were her house, Noelle thought a little resentfully, but he was adamant. The sun went in, and the sky became overcast as he left, as if he had taken the sunshine with him.

'It seemed almost as if he wanted to get away,' Marjorie declared.

It wasn't the first time Noelle had thought the same thing. Was Steve trying to avoid her?

She spent the afternoon playing records on the stereogram for Simon's amusement, but he only cared for pop music, which made her head ache.

In the evening the Esmonds went back to London and Noelle was left alone with Pickles.

The invitations for the dinner party were issued and the replies trickled in. Noelle and Mrs Ingram compiled a list of the acceptances. Some of the guests were coming from a distance and would stay the night.

All the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the nights were long, the days dreary. Steve said Noelle must have a new dress for the dinner, though she considered she had far too many clothes already.

'White,' he told her. 'I like you best in white.'

'It'll look well against the dark panelling in the dining-room, won't it?' she said acidly.

He seemed puzzled by her tone, having completely forgotten what he had said about her hair, but she knew she was to be the principal decoration at his party. That was why he had married her, wasn't it?

'Now you mention it, so it will,' he agreed.

She then surprised both him and herself by asking if she might buy it at Forbes Fashions. She had not been near the place since Hugh's death, unable to bear the associations it held for her, and had obtained employment elsewhere, but now she felt an urge to see it again.

'Sentimental memories?' Steve asked, curling his lip.

'Not exactly, just a whim.'

'Oh, you women and your whims,' he jeered.

But he did not object, neither did he offer to accompany her. It was not exactly sentiment that was prompting her, but a need to lay a ghost.

Noelle had spent her childhood, as also had Hugh, in an Essex village, to which she often looked back with nostalgia, but when commuting became more and more expensive, both families had moved into suburbia. As soon as she left school, she had gone to work for Forbes. Hugh, two years older, and related to the management, was already established there. His designs were original and he had had a way with women customers. It had not been long before she was promoted to modelling on account of her unusual beauty, and her tall slight figure, though she was below the standard height, but Hugh had insisted there was still time for her to grow, and she inspired him. Some of his most successful creations were modelled on her.

But although it was little more than two years since she had left, Noelle found the establishment completely changed, so fast is the pace of modern life. Redecorated and redesigned; the salon where she had first seen Steve had been enlarged, its layout altered so much she did not recognise it. Most of the staff also was comprised of newcomers, but the head saleswoman—in France she would have been called the
directrice—
was the same, but she was far too professional to remind Noelle of her former status. Mrs Steven Prescott was an important client, not to be confounded with the wisp of a girl who had started by running errands for her. Nor was it tactful to allude to her prior attachment. She only permitted herself one hint, and that was of reproach.

'We're honoured that you've decided to patronise us, madam.'

'I couldn't come before,' Noelle said frankly. 'It was too painful.'

The saleswoman's face momentarily softened; they had all been very fond of Hugh.

'I understand, madam.' Then it hardened. 'But we can't allow sentiment to interfere with business.'

A pronouncement of which Noelle was sure Steve would approve. But though she looked here and there, seeking something that would revive for her the memory of the young boy and girl who had worked, laughed and loved there, the once familiar surroundings were too much changed. Their images had left no lasting impression, it was just a shop.