The Other Linding Girl (18 page)

Florian walked with her to the door, and it was when they were halfway across the great foyer that she saw Nigel, talking to a man she had never seen before.

“Monsieur Florian,” she exclaimed on impulse, “there is Nigel. If—if you really want to talk to him—”

But he merely smiled and made no comment on that. And, since he insisted on waiting until she was safely installed in a taxi, she had no means of knowing if, when he went back into the hotel, he made any attempt to speak to Nigel.

It was dreadfully tantalising—just as the brief glimpse of Nigel had been tantalising—but she tried to tell herself that she must not attach any real importance to what had been little more than a half murmured thought. He had said perhaps he should talk, to Nigel. But on what terms, and about what?—Rachel—his work—Fiona? None of those could be in any way regarded as the great designer’s business, of course. But Rachel hardly thought that would deter Florian, if the impulse moved him.

In spite of the terrible shock with which the evening had begun, too much had happened which was pleasant to leave her with her spirits entirely depressed. Illogical though it might seem, an absurd little flicker of hope—unfounded but persistent—still illuminated the hour before sleep finally came to her.

But when she woke the next morning, it was to utter depression and a resistless knowledge all the harder to bear because she had delayed its acceptance until now.

She was made no happier at breakfast by having Paula say brightly to her,

“Nigel came in last night, after you’d gone. He was enquiring after you.”

“Last night? But you must have been in bed, if he came after I had gone out.”

“Yes. But he came up to say good-night to me, and sat on my bed for quite a long time. That was when he asked about you, and I told him you were out with Mr. Mayforth.”

“But I wasn’t!” exclaimed Rachel with a disproportionate feeling of dismay. “I was at the Gloria, with Monsieur Florian and his wife.”

“Were you? I just thought it was with Mr. Mayforth because it’s usually with him that you go, isn’t it?”

Rachel made no answer to that. She was hoping Paula had not given Nigel the impression that she was always out with Oliver. Though, really, how it could matter now what Nigel thought about any of her personal relationships it was difficult to see.

“He was disappointed to miss you ” Paula went on.

“Was he, Paula? What made you think that?”

“Oh, he was sort of—restless. And he said he had something he wanted to tell you.”

“To—tell me?” Rachel strove to hide her nervous concern. “A—

surprise, do you mean?”

"I
don’t know.” Paula shook her head. “He didn’t say. But anyway, you’ll be seeing him at the charity show tomorrow evening, won’t you?”

“Yes” Rachel felt faintly sick as she thought of the announcement that was to be made then. “I shall be seeing him then—in a way.”

“So shall I,” remarked Paula contentedly. “Did you know? Mummy and Daddy are going to take me too, as a great treat. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Rachel forced a smile and said that it was indeed.

“I’m going to wear my blue embroidered nylon party dress,” Paula announced blissfully. “What are you going to wear?”

So Rachel told her about the wonderful dress which the Florians had brought for her from Paris, and Paula became so passionately interested that it was only with difficulty that she was forced out of the house and on her way to school at the last possible moment.

Rachel had quite a heavy morning’s work for her uncle and Oliver Mayforth, which perhaps was just as well. At least it kept her thoughts from her own problems. But in the afternoon it was much more difficult, for she had to present a calm and even friendly front to Fiona, who was not in the best of tempers and seemed to be under something of a nervous strain herself.

Later, at the Gloria, so many people were involved in the rehearsal for the great dress show that it was easy to keep out of Fiona’s way and, unhappy though she was, Rachel could not but be fascinated by the magnificent display and by the miracle of organisation which went into the whole performance.

“But they’ve all done it hundreds of times,” Gabrielle explained with a smile, when Rachel remarked on the smoothness of the working. “And it’s always the rehearsal which goes well. It’s on the night itself that crises happen.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Rachel soberly, with her thoughts on her own particular crisis which was looming up. But she managed to hide her anxiety behind a smiling exterior, and to express nothing but pleasure and gratitude when her dress—magnificently packed in an exclusive Florian box—was handed over to her. If she had to face tragedy the following evening, at least she was to face it in style.

On the great evening itself, even Sir Everard was not proof against the general excitement, And when Rachel—who had to leave for the Gloria before the others— made her appearance in her Florian model, he was as loud as anyone in his praise.

“My dear child, you look quite wonderful!” he exclaimed.

“Like a princess!” added Paula,

While Hester simply said, “Where on earth did you get
that
?”

“Monsieur Florian gave it to her,” explained Paula, who was bursting with this interesting piece of information.

“Gave
it to you?” Hester walked round Rachel and inspected her critically, “But it’s a princely gift. What on earth induced him to do such a thing? Florian’s as mean as they come.”

“Oh, he’s not!” cried Rachel defensively. “He’s a darling. And so is she. ”

“He didn’t make his fortune by being a darling and giving away his dresses,” retorted Hester drily. “She’s a nice enough creature, though very much the doting wife, But then, of course, she was a mannequin, so I suppose she never quite got over the thrill of marrying the boss. But—Florian!
I
don’t understand it.”

Rachel didn’t really understand it either. But she was inclined to agree with her uncle, when he said indulgently,

“Well, well, some of the nicest things in life are never quite understandable. I don’t think you can fail to enjoy yourself in that frock, my dear.”

“Mr. Mayforth will
goggle
when he sees it” prophesied Paula, “and I bet Uncle Nigel will whisde too.” Rachel took that as well as she could and, having bade them a temporary farewell, went off to the Gloria.

Already everything was in train. One of the largest of the ballrooms was given over to the dress show, and a narrow raised platform had been built down the centre, with a small stage at one end. Behind this, in an improvised dressing-room, half a dozen striking-looking girls of very varied personalities were chattering, making-up, arguing and dressing, under the eagle eye of Madame Moisant, Florian’s waspish but incredibly efficient Directrice.

She was gracious when Rachel came to enquire if she had all she required. But, as her gimlet glance passed over Rachel, it was obvious that she was paying tribute to the dress rather than the

wearer,

“Mademoiselle is well suited to the model,” she observed, with a nice distinction between the relative importance of Mademoiselle and the model. “Monsieur Florian was clever to arrange it so, without even one fitting.”

“It seems like magic to me,” Rachel agreed. “But then I think Monsieur Florian
is
something of a magician.”

“So his rivals say,” affirmed the Directrice, with the faintest hint of smugness. “But for them, of course, it is the black magic that they mean. And those who praise him most are the ones who find him blackest. But this is as it should be.”

Rachel was secretly intrigued to know why this was the way it should be, but she had not quite the courage to ask the formidable Madame Moisant what she meant. Instead, she went away to make a quick inspection of the supper room. For, in the last few weeks, she had learned a great deal under Fiona’s chill but efficient direction and was perfectly capable of acting as a most satisfactory deputy.

The dining-room manager took her round, showed her the magnificent buffet, and generally paid her more respectful attention than she had ever received in her life before. It was largely because of the Florian dress, she knew. One comprehensive glance from the infinitely experienced manager had priced the model with great accuracy, and placed the wearer in the range of customers one treated with the ultimate degree of respect.

It was a novel experience, to which Rachel could not be entirely indifferent. But there was a bitter little touch of irony about the fact that, on the evening when she was to receive the most agonising rebuff, she was looking more lovely than she had ever looked in her life before.

There was nothing more for her to do now, and still half an hour remained before even the first of the guests could be expected to arrive. So she went into one of the smaller rooms, which would no doubt be used later by sitting-out couples.

After the bustle of activity in the ballroom and the upper-room, it was unexpectedly quiet here and, dropping into a deep armchair, Rachel leaned back and shut her eyes, trying, in these last private minutes allowed to her, to marshal all her courage and forces to meet whatever this difficult evening might bring.

If only she could have known just when the engagement announcement was to be made! There would presumably be speeches at some point. Thanks would have to be expressed to Fiona by the representatives of the charities which were to benefit by the evening. Acknowledgements would be made to Florian. Congratulations would be offered all round. Would it be after that that she must steel herself to look no more than smilingly interested, as her deepest, inmost feelings received their public death-blow?

Perhaps she would have felt less wretched if she could have seen him just once more beforehand—to judge for herself, even, without words, how he really felt about this step he was taking. If only—

And, at that moment, the slightest sound—not more than the catching of someone’s breath—impinged on her consciousness. Her eyes flew open and she sat up—to find Nigel standing in front of her.

It was the most extraordinary thing. As though the very intensity of her desire had made him materialise before her. And for a second she could not find words. It was he who spoke first—in a tone that was quiet, but charged with emotion—and what he said was,

“Child, how unfairly beautiful you are!”

“It—it’s the dress,” she stammered, groping desperately for something that would sound natural and harmless. “The Florians gave it to me. Wasn’t it kind of them?”

He did not answer that. She doubted if he had taken in what she said. And, almost scared by his silence, she got to her feet, still trying to find words that would keep the conversation on a matter-of-fact level.

“Wasn’t it kind of them?” she repeated.

“Of whom?”

“The Florians. They—they gave me this dress. Because I had done quite a lot of work for this show. They brought it with them from Paris—the day before yesterday—as a surprise.” She had to keep on talking. “It—it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

She turned slowly, as though to show off the dress. But the second her glance was off him it was as though a spell were broken. He took one step forward and, the next moment, he had snatched her into his arms.

“Yes—it’s lovely,” he said, as he turned her to face him.
“You ’re
lovely. The loveliest thing I ever saw, God help me.” And he kissed her once or twice—quick, passionate kisses which had a quality of despair about them.

“Don’t do that," she whispered, though she had already kissed him back just once. “Don’t kiss me like that, Nigel. Not
now!”

And because the shadow of Fiona was chill upon her, and the only defence against this dangerous rapture was anger, she suddenly blazed out at him,

“How dare you do that to me! Do you suppose I’m content to be kissed or rejected, as you think fit?”

“Of course not. Don’t be a little fool.” Suddenly and inexplicably, he was as angry as she. “I love you—don’t you understand?—I love you. You’re the only thing—”

“You have no right to say that to me.” She was cold and quite calm all at once, and incredibly authoritative. “It’s an insult that you should say it, in the circumstances. You’re not a free agent—you’re not independent—and there’s nothing between us. Nothing, nothing, nothing! No stolen, meaningless kisses. No—”

“You don’t love me, do you?” he cut in, and his voice was as cold as hers. “You couldn’t possibly speak like that if you loved me.” “Very well—” for she saw she must erect the final barrier now or be lost—“I don’t love you. I think you’re clever and charming and, in your strange way, even idealistic. But you want the best of both worlds, Nigel, and you don’t mind who pays the price. But I’m not playing that game, and I ask you now to stop making a nuisance of yourself. ”

“A nuisance?” He seemed more stung by that word than anything she had said before. “Well, that does say the whole thing, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Rachel. I’ll never be a nuisance to you again.” And he turned on his heel and went out of the room.

She would have recalled the word willingly, if he would have given her time. Qualified it, changed it— anything, so that he should not have gone from her in such white-faced anger. But it was too late now and, dropping into the chair again, she covered her face with her hands.