Quest for Alexis (6 page)

“Such blind faith is touching,” said Brett. “It’s a pity
you don’t apply it to everyone.”

Even now I was shocked to see the cold scorn in
Brett’s eyes. I had been imagining he was indifferent to
me, but it was still war between us. Brett was making
it clear there would be no forgiveness. No truce, even.

In the months since we parted, I had forgiven Brett
a thousand times—and instantly hardened my heart
once more. It had been so flagrant, his relationship
with Elspeth Vane.

Brett had never denied the fact that they had been lovers but it was nothing serious for either of them, he
insisted, and over and done with before we met again,
in England. Painful though it was to know about their
love affair, I tried to accept the fact, to reconcile my
self to it. To believe Brett when he told me it was a
thing of the past. But unceasingly I was filled with
terror that, compared to Elspeth Vane, he must find
me naive and ordinary.

Elspeth had so much to offer a man. She was tall
and slender, with delicately molded features and raven
black hair. As if such looks weren’t enough for anyone
to be blessed with, she was a career woman of excep
tional ability. Within a very short time she had thrust
to the top of the younger generation of television producers. Brett had admitted to me frankly that he would
rather work with Elspeth than any other producer,
male or female.

“She’s brilliant, Gail,” he said more than once. “She
can grasp a vague idea of mine and translate it into
crisp filmic terms. I admire her work enormously. But
you don’t have to worry, darling. To Elspeth, the job
and ... and her private life are two things apart. We
work together now purely as colleagues. Honestly.”

I tried hard to believe him, to trust him completely.
I fought to suppress the flushes of jealousy that swept
me. But my constant feeling of inadequacy resulted in
angry, bitter scenes. The final showdown between us
was inevitable.

They had been making a TV film on Richard Cobden and the free-traders—Brett and Elspeth, the cam
eraman and the sound recordist who made up the team.
They were due back in London one Friday after being up in Manchester for a couple of weeks, and Brett and
I had a date for the same evening.

The previous evening I’d been working late, revising copy for the Sandalwood Cosmetics autumn campaign.
As I stepped off the escalator at the Oxford Circus tube station, by sheer blind chance I bumped into
Eddie Fox, the cameraman.

“Eddie, what are you doing back in town? I thought
you weren’t finishing in Manchester until tomorrow.”

He grinned at me cheerfully. “We got through the
last few takes quicker than we expected, and Elspeth
said we might as well pack it in and have a long week
end off.”

My heart began to pound. Why on earth had I
chosen this one evening to stay late at work? Brett
might be at my apartment at this very moment, or trying to ring me. Calling a hasty goodbye to Eddie over
my shoulder, I rushed onto the platform and just managed to jump on a train before the doors closed.

It was a long evening, waiting for Brett. As my
phone stayed unbelievably silent, I lifted it several
times to convince myself it was still working. At nine-
thirty I dialed the number of Brett’s apartment, but
there was no answer.

Slowly, suspicion crawled into my mind. I suppose it
had always been there, deep down, but at last I could
fight it no longer. Hating myself for what I was doing,
I rang the hotel in Manchester where the team had
been staying.

“Is Mr. Brett Warrender there, please?”

The night clerk didn’t hesitate. “Hold on, please,
and I’ll put you through to his room.”

I heard a low-pitched buzz, a click, then a woman’s voice, unmistakably Elspeth’s voice. Cool, crisp, con
fident.

I was too numbed to say anything, and after a mo
ment she began to get irritable. “Hello ... who is it?
There’s something the matter with this damn phone,
Brett.”

I heard him say, “Give it to me, then. Hello ...”

As if it were an intricate action to perform, I put
the phone back on its cradle. I don’t remember going to bed that night, but I suppose I must have. Some
how, feeling drained and exhausted, I got myself to the
office next day and pretended to work. In the evening,
Brett came around to the apartment as if nothing in
the world was wrong. He looked surprised at the state
I was in.

“Darling, what’s the matter?”

I had to force the words out because my throat was
tight and choked. “You stayed in Manchester last
night!”

“That’s right,” he said easily. “I told you—remember?”

“But you finished filming a day early. I know that
because I ran into Eddie.”

Brett’s face became a mask, giving nothing away.
When he spoke, his voice was clipped and distant.

“We finished ahead of schedule, so the team came
back to town. I stayed on overnight because an old
boy who’s some sort of descendant of Richard Cobden
insisted on laying on a little dinner party. He’d been so
helpful, digging out a lot of historical facts, that I could
hardly refuse.”

I said stingingly, “I notice you carefully avoided any
mention of Elspeth.”

Brett stared at me, and a faint color crept into his
face. After a long pause, he said heavily, “I didn’t
mention Elspeth because I knew how you’d react,
Gail. I’m sick to death of this crazy jealousy of yours.
It’s completely insane.”

“Insane? I was insane ever to trust you.”

He threw back his head and laughed mirthlessly.
“You’ve never trusted me for a single instant, Gail—
not since I first told you about Elspeth. You’re too
damn possessive—that’s your trouble. You resent ev
ery moment I’m not with you, every last second I’m
not at your beck and call.”

I went cold with fear at the storm I’d unleashed. I
had never suspected this depth of resentment in Brett.
Desperately, I wished I could go back, back to yester
day, to the time before my meeting with Eddie. I had
been happy then, and I longed to wipe the past twenty-four hours from my mind.

Perhaps if Brett could convince me that I’d been
wrong...

I said, “If
...
if you can give me your solemn word
that you and Elspeth weren’t... that you didn’t...”

His face went dark. “No, I won’t give you my sol
emn word. You can bloody well take me on trust, or
we might as well finish. It’s up to you.”

We were suddenly caught in a knot of silent fury, glowering at each other, hating each other. Confronting Brett, I felt pitifully small and vulnerable. I could only think of hitting back at him.

“All right then, we’ll finish,” I heard myself say in a shrill voice. “If that’s the way you want it—goodbye.”

Turning my back on him, I stared out of the win
dow, seeing nothing through the mist of my tears. Brett
said my name softly. I stayed quite still, not looking
round. A moment later he flung out of the room, slam
ming the door behind him. I heard his footsteps on the
stairs, the street door closing. I heard his car start up and drive away, and it seemed as if Brett had aban
doned me, wounded and bleeding.

Opposite, down on the pavement, some people were
laughing.

* * * *

Now, in a different room, a different time, we stared
at each other and relived the bitterness of that last
quarrel. Then, abruptly, Brett walked past me to the
door.

“It’s a waste of time trying to argue with you,” he
said. “My father tells me you have some idiotic plan
to go rushing off to Majorca. What earthly good do you
think that will do?”

“I have to go,” I said. “To get at the truth.”

“You know the truth, Gail, only you won’t accept
it. Don’t be such a fool. Think of Madeleine and stay
here.”

“I
am
thinking of Madeleine,” I cried. “You don’t
imagine I want to leave her at a time like this, for
goodness sake. But I must, can’t you see?”

Brett stood in the doorway, looking back at me. His
eyes were cold, his mouth set in a hard straight line.

“If you’re really determined to go, Gail,” he said at
last, “then I’ll come with you.”

Beside me, Rudi couldn’t have been more astonished
than I was myself. Brett didn’t wait for me to answer
but walked out into the hall, remarking over his shoulder, “You’d better let me know what you decide.”

Rudi turned to me and said uneasily, “He was telling
me, just before you came downstairs, about your plan
to go to Majorca. Is it wise, Gail? I don’t see what you
can hope to achieve.”

“What can I hope to achieve by doing nothing? At
least I shall have done my best. I’m going, Rudi—I’ve
made up my mind. Don’t try and argue me out of it,
please.”

“Brett means what he says, you know. If you insist
on going, he’ll go with you.”

“No, I won’t let him.”

“How can you prevent him? Please, Gail, why don’t
you drop the whole idea? I can’t bear to think of you
being hurt.”

“I’m hurt already, Rudi. It can’t be any worse than
it is now. But I don’t intend to have Brett tagging along. I’ll have to think of some way of stopping him.”

Rudi was frowning. “Why does he want to go with
you, Gail?”

“I wish I knew.”

“He was in love with you once. Perhaps he still feels
the same way?”

I laughed shakily. “Oh no, it’s not that. Brett doesn’t
care about me or Alexis or anyone else—except him
self. He’s just angry because that wretched film of his is
ruined, and he thinks he’s been made a fool of.”

“Suppose ... suppose I told him you had changed
your mind about going? I know he’s got to return to
London this evening, and if he thinks you’re not going
to Majorca after all, you’ll be able to slip away in the
morning without Brett realizing.”

“Oh, Rudi, would you really? I’d be so grateful.”

He smiled ruefully. “You know I’d do anything for
you, Gail. I’m dead set against the idea of you going
at all, but if you must go, then I’d rather
he
wasn’t
with you.”

* * * *

Caterina, in her typically generous and thoughtful
way, had sent Jenny through with a message that I
wasn’t to bother about preparing a meal as she would
provide something for us. Promptly at seven-thirty her
cook, Mary, appeared with a laden cart—a roast
chicken and all the trimmings and a lemon mousse for
dessert. But in spite of the excellent food, dinner was
an uncomfortable meal for me.

Madeleine was there; she always came down to the dining room in the evening unless she was feeling par
ticularly unwell. Freda Aiken sat with us too, making
not the slightest effort to help while I served the meal.
An agency nurse who knew her rights.

How different she was from Belle Forsyth! Belle,
much more than a nurse-companion, had become vir
tually the housekeeper at Deer’s Leap, always ready
and willing to turn her hand to whatever needed doing.
And she was a good cook, too.

I had liked Belle in every way. I found it almost as difficult to believe that she had ruthlessly deserted her
patient as that Alexis had deserted his wife. And
yet
...

Tonight, the atmosphere around the table was edgy,
none of us talking very much. It was as if we were all
watching and waiting. There was one awkward mo
ment when Madeleine turned to me, saying, “Gail,
dear, you didn’t tell me where it is you’re going tomorrow.”

“Oh, didn’t I?” I hated having to lie to her. Poor
Madeleine was so trusting that it was pathetically easy.
“I’ve got to go up to London. It’s an awful bore, but a
rush job has cropped up.”

She smiled at me sorrowfully. “It’s really not fair, is
it, darling? That firm of yours gives you a holiday, and
then they expect you to go to the London office and work.”