CHAPTER ONE
Tom O'Neill came through the revolving doors on a blast of icy air and stepped out on the other side into a blanket of almost oppressive warmth.
Outside London might be shivering in the biting cold of a January morning, here in the foyer of the British and Cosmopolitan Insurance building centrally heated air oozed steadily from a series of concealed vents to waft summer warmth into every corner.
Tom unbuttoned his overcoat, fished in the pocket of the dark suit which he scathingly referred to as his' city uniform ' for his identity card and flashed it at the uniformed security man.
He did not like wearing suits and he liked a collar and tie even less.
He was far more at home in jeans and a sweater or the favourite scuffed old flying jacket he had inherited from his father, who had been a Spitfire pilot in the war and he wore them whenever he could.
Occasionally his job as a private insurance investigator allowed him this privilege but there were occasions which called for him to dress more formally.
Visiting the Head Office of one of the companies that used his services in response to an urgent summons was one of them.
Without waiting for his nod and wave Tom strode past the security man to the block of six lifts beyond him.
One had just arrived at ground floor level; Tom followed two girl clerks into it and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.
He felt rather than saw the two girls glance at him appraisingly but took no notice.
At just over six foot, with thick curling brown hair and eyes that owed their startling blueness to his Irish ancestry, Tom was used to being the object of female appreciation whilst being slightly puzzled by it.
He had never thought the reflection which looked back at him each morning from the shaving mirror was particularly handsome.
His nose was too large and a little crooked since taking a devastating straight left in the boxing ring when he was fifteen years old, his chin too irregular.
But women certainly seemed to like it and that of course had its compensations.
Tom had not reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine without discovering quite a few of them.
The lift halted at the twelfth floor for the girls to get out, then whispered on towards the fifteenth.
When the doors opened again Tom emerged into a corridor, thickly carpeted in grey.
Like the twelfth floor, glimpsed through the lift doors when the girls had got out, the walls were covered with a pale lemon wash, unlike the twelfth they were hung with pictures, not Old Masters but not Boots the chemists either  prints of hunting scenes and ships and a beautiful soft sunset over a bay that might have been St Ives  pictures deemed suitable for the Executive floor of a great international company.
Tom passed them by without a glance, heading for the door at the very end of the corridor.
He knocked briskly and without waiting for a bidding went in.
The secretary seated behind the desk in the outer office looked up accusingly, then her features softened and a faint pink flush coloured her cheeks.
' Tom! '
' Morning, Lucy.
I understand the Great White Chief wants to see me. '
' That's right, he does.
I 'll buzz him. '
She depressed the button.
' Mr O'Neill is here, Mr Swansborough. '
She glanced up at Tom, a little regretfully.
' He says to go straight in, Tom. '
Tom nodded.
' Thanks. '
Watching him disappear into the inner sanctum, Lucy sighed.
Why was it the gorgeous ones passed through so fleetingly while others, like that paunchy, moist-palmed Vic Tatum from Marine Claims always managed to delay in her office, ogling, leering and making suggestive remarks that she could probably take to a Sexual Harassment Tribunal if she had a mind to!
' Come in, Tom, come in! '
Roger Swansborough half rose from his executive chair holding out his hand in greeting.
He was a big bluff man with a receding hairline and aggressively triple chin which somehow managed to make him look powerful but not fat  like a back row rugby player, Tom thought.
He had already removed his jacket in the cloying warmth of the office but his white shirt was immaculate and as he reached across the desk Tom caught the gleam of gold cufflinks against the stiff white cuffs.
' I had a message that you wanted to see me urgently, ' Tom said.
' That's right.
Take your coat off, Tom, do.
This place gets hotter every day.
I'd open a window but... '
He gesticulated towards the expanse of glass that surrounded the office on two sides.
Beyond it the sky was lowering grey, shrouding the roofs of the buildings and filtering cold dull half-light onto the streets and the distant river.
From up here on the fifteenth floor the view was a panoramic one  unfortunately this morning it was also infinitely depressing.
Tom did as he was bid, hanging his coat on the heavy carved stand behind the door.
' What's going on then, Roger?
Who's trying to swindle you this time? ' he asked smiling wryly  his job had made him cynical.
The older man grimaced.
' Not trying to swindle us, Tom.
This time it's a fait accompli  a bloody great sting to make your eyes water.
Take a look at that. '
A copy of the morning paper was lying on his tooled leather desk top; he pushed it across to Tom, stabbing at the story with a manicured index finger.
' You remember the Martin business?
No, you wouldn't, of course.
It happened twenty years ago, when you were still in short trousers.
A luxury cabin cruiser blew up off the coast of Italy.
There were two people aboard  Greg Martin, the owner, a financier with a finger in more pies than you'd care to name, and a woman, Paula Varna, wife of Hugo Varna the fashion designer.
The boat was blown to glory, nothing was ever found of it except for a few bits of debris, and to all intents and purposes both occupants were blown to glory with it. '
' British and Cosmopolitan were the insurers, I presume. '
' Too right.
Not only the boat but the lives of both Martin and Paula Varna  not peanut policies either of them as you can imagine.
She had been a top model  her legs alone were insured for a five figure sum and he had enough hanging on him to bankrupt a smaller company.
No, 1970 was not a good year for British and Cosmopolitan what with one thing and the other.
But that's our business, taking risks, and it works well enough  as long as everyone plays by the rules. '
' And this time someone didn't? '
Tom asked.
He was trying to read the newspaper upside down without much success.
Roger Swansborough's hand balled into a fist and he brought it slamming down onto the desk top so that loose paperclips jumped in the big crystal ashtray.
' Too right they didn't.
We paid out on the life of Greg Martin  and it seems the bastard wasn't dead at all but living a life of luxury in Australia. '
Tom whistled softly.
' For twenty years?
Are you sure it's him? '
' It's him all right.
He's been living in Sydney under an assumed name  Michael Trafford  with an Italian heiress named Maria Vincenti.
He was part Italian himself, of course  I understand his name was Martino originally until he decided to drop the ' o ' and Americanise it to Martin.
But he was an American citizen, born in the States as far as I can make out. '
' So why was he insured with the British and Cosmopolitan? '
Tom asked.
Swansborough shrugged.
' You tell me.
I dare say the slippery bastard had a good reason.
He left a fair old mess behind him, by the way, when he disappeared.
He'd been sailing close to the wind for years and everything was just about to blow up in his face. '
Tom reached for the newspaper, turning it towards him.
He scanned the print, seeing that it echoed more or less exactly the story Swansborough had just told him, then turned his attention to the photograph alongside  three people, obviously dressed for leisure.
A thin-faced man, balding, in a shirt open at the neck to reveal gold chains, a woman, obviously beautiful in spite of the quality of the photograph, with her hair tied under a scarf Princess Grace style, and another man with a look of the Mediterranean about him whose face was partially obscured by sunglasses.
' That's Greg Martin? '
Tom asked, pointing to the third figure.
' Yes.
With Hugo Varna and Paula  on another trip which presumably did not end in disaster, ' Swansborough said drily.
' They were quite a part of the international scene in those days from what I can make out.
Since he's made his fortune Varna has become something of a recluse, of course.
In fact there are those who claim he never got over his wife's death, in spite of the fact that he married again  Paula's younger sister, Sally, as a matter of fact. '
' Hmm. '
Tom studied the photograph.
' Well, quite obviously Mrs Varna was a real stunner.
And she was alone on the boat with Martin when the accident happened.
Something going on there, was there? '
' Varna insisted not at the time.
Said his wife had been in need of a holiday and he had been unable to get away.
Martin was a close friend of the family as well as his business partner and Varna had been happy for her to go with him.
But you can draw your own conclusions.
She was English, by the way, which could explain why they chose to insure with us. '
' A doubtful honour, the way things turned out, ' Tom said drily.
' So  British and Cosmopolitan was taken for a small fortune  and taken for fools too by the seem of it.
How the hell did it happen?
The accident was investigated at the time, you say? '
' Of course it was  and damned thoroughly too as you can see. '
Swansborough tapped the file in front of him and Tom saw the thick wad of papers which protruded from it.
' But there was nothing we could get our teeth into.
The boat had gone, not a doubt of it.
Fishermen reported hearing the explosion and bits of debris were washed up for months afterwards.
There appeared to be no survivors and there were plenty of witnesses to swear both Greg Martin and Paula Varna were on board when the yacht sailed  Martin was well known at the marina where he kept her and Paula was a highly visible character. '
He smiled thinly.
' The papers treated it all as a great tragedy as you 'll see when you look at them.
Financier and former model die in mystery explosion was the headline at the time  and the emphasis of course was on the ' former model '.
Beautiful woman, internationally known, wife of talented fashion designer  it was heaven-sent copy, especially for the more sensational press.
And she was a mother too  she and Varna had a child  a little girl who was about four at the time.
You can imagine the story it made. '
Tom nodded.
' I certainly can.
So it wouldn't have just been insurance investigators ferreting about  it would have been the world's press as well.
But in spite of the way it looked Martin had faked his own death  and done it damned successfully.
And what about the woman  Paula Varna?
Did British and Cosmopolitan also fork out a small fortune to her family to which they were not entitled?
Her family were the beneficiaries, I suppose.
Did she die  or is she, too, still living somewhere under an assumed name? '
Swansborough closed the file with a snap and pushed it across the desk.
' That, Tom is what I want you to find out. '
In a corner of the Salon Imperial of the Hotel Intercontinental, Paris, Harriet Varna braced her back against a statuesque pillar and looked steadily into the viewfinder of her camera, concentrating on her subjects so fiercely that she was almost oblivious to the electric atmosphere that surrounded her, bouncing off the Viennese dcor and the sumptuous rococo ceiling along with the heat and the light as the models of the House of Saint Laurent moved gracefully along the hundred yards of catwalk to display the new season's couture collection.
Only the constant clicking of the camera shutters of the army of photographers and the intermittent bursts of rapturous applause broke the expectant hush that January afternoon, for Yves Saint Laurent is one of the few important couturiers to show in the old manner, with no mood-setting background music.
In the late sixties he had declared ' Couture is dead! ' and concentrated instead on off-the-peg designer wear, but twenty years later his revival had been both stunning and nostalgic and the long-term wealthy and the nouveau riche had come flocking, craving the glamour and excitement, and seeking the prestige that comes from owning a couture gown, specially, individually theirs after hours of masochistic fittings.
Now they sat eagerly on the rows of brittle gilt chairs with red velvet seats, their exquisitely made-up faces carefully devoid of expression as they made brief notes on their programmes, pretending not to notice that sometimes the clicking cameras were directed not at the catwalk models, all of whom had already done a photo-call session for the photographers the previous day, but at them  the society women of America and the international circuit, the bored charity conscious wives of big businessmen, the famed actresses of stage and screen, even the occasional European princess.
The actresses, of course, were frequently loaned gowns by the house free of charge for the publicity that would be gained when they were pictured wearing them, and there were those among the society women who considered themselves above coming to the couture, ordering instead from the videos that nowadays replaced the weeks of shows of the old days  and staying away all the more determinedly as the great Paris houses vied with one another to tempt them to lend their presence to the occasion.
But there were plenty of beautiful and recognisable faces to be seen amongst the anonymous, but none-the-less powerful, fashion editors, still enough buying power in this room alone to rock empires, even if no house made a profit from the couture but rather used it for a loss-leading advertisement and a mark of prestige.
It was at none of these that Harriet's camera was trained, however.
Instead her zoom lens was pointed at the rear of the salon where the apprentices and publicity girls stood in small, highly-strung huddles, watching the gowns they had worked on and publicised pass by on the catwalk and leading the explosions of rapturous applause.
There was one girl in particular who interested Harriet, a small girl with hair cut gamin short, whose face was so expressive that it seemed to reflect every one of the emotions that they were all feeling, these midinettes who had basted hemlines and stitched hooks and eyes into place, positioned trimmings and sewed them into place with such tiny stitches that they were all but invisible to the naked eye.
Harriet hardly dared blink as she watched her through the viewfinder, terrified she might miss the moment she was waiting for.
Then, as a daring but romantic gown of navy blue silk crepe made its appearance, the moment came.
The girl's face came alive, eyes sparkling, hands raised to her parted lips in an expression halfway between exultation and tears of joy, before she began to clap furiously.
Swiftly Harriet depressed the button again and again.
Perfect  perfect!
That was what she had been waiting for, that unguarded, unforced, totally natural reaction of a lowly apprentice who sees her work unfold like a fairytale.
In a world where so much was staged artificially it was like a breath of fresh air and Harriet experienced her very own glow of excitement and triumph.
For a minute or two longer she panned the camera, too much the professional to allow her pleasure to make her risk missing another good shot.
But instinctively she knew she had what she wanted  the frames that would lend just the breadth and depth she needed to complete her picture story of the couture shows, and she let her camera fall back on its strap around her neck, rubbing her aching eyes and running her fingers up under the thick fringe of dark blonde hair that barely skimmed them.
Still the mannequins were appearing, their elongated clothes-horse frames moving with a grace which belied their tight-drawn nerves, still the bursts of applause rang out to drown the persistent clicking of the cameras, but Harriet leaned back against her pillar almost oblivious to them.
The clothes, beautiful as they were, interested her not at all.
She had grown up amongst beautiful clothes, been dressed from childhood in designer fashion, been made to stand still for fittings for her graduation dress and her first ball gown, and hated every moment of it.
Clothes were all very well, they were her father's life and she knew that all the privileges she enjoyed were hers because of clothes and the stupendous success they had brought him, but she couldn't care about them.
Except when they made wonderful pictures.
Pictures were what mattered.
And in her camera was a reel of beauties.
Harriet glanced around, wondering if she could slip out unnoticed.
It was heresy, of course, but the show was likely to last another hour at least  Saint Laurent was famous for the length of his shows  and afterwards there was bound to be the most fearful crush.
Harriet hesitated, then her natural impatience won the day and she slipped quietly towards the exit.
All eyes were on the catwalk and no one appeared to notice her, apart from a tall, grey-haired woman in the uniform of an atelier who moved towards her accusingly.
Instantly Harriet pressed her hand across her mouth in a theatrical gesture.
' I 'm not feeling well ', she whispered in somewhat imperfect French, and the woman moved hastily out of her way.
Photographers  cochons! she was thinking in disgust.
The girl had probably had too much wine to drink with her lunch.
As she emerged into the Rue Castiglione the cold hit Harriet like a slap in the face and she lifted her camera, easing the zipper of her sky-blue ski jacket right up under her chin and turning the collar up around her ears.
Some of her hair caught inside it and she flicked it out, a careless fall of dark blonde that framed her even-featured face.
' You should go to a good stylist once in a while and have that mane tamed! '
Sally, her father's wife, had advised her on more than one occasion, but Harriet had as little time for stylists as she had for clothes  and besides, she rather liked her hair just as it was.
This way she could simply wash it each morning and let it dry naturally  start trying for styles and valuable minutes had to be wasted keeping them the way they were meant to be.
I must find a telephone, Harriet thought, as she hurried, head bent against the biting wind, along the Paris street.
I can't wait to tell Nick I've got his job in the bag.
Then I 'll decide whether to post him the last reels of film in a Jiffy bag or fly back to London with them myself.
The thought gave her another fillip of excitement  her first job for Focus Now, the new picture magazine Nick was editing  and it was a corker, she knew it in her bones.
Already she could visualise the lay-out  ' The Other Side of Fashion ' she'd entitled it in her mind's eye when she'd discussed it with Nick.
And as he had said, no-one was in a better position to do a photo story like that than she was.
' All the fashion magazines and the women's pages of the newspapers do straight fashion stories, ' he'd said, tugging thoughtfully at the little gingery beard that sprouted from his angular chin.
' I want something different.
And let's face it, Focus Now is going to be different. '
She'd nodded.
She'd known Nick for years, meeting him when she'd come to London to visit her cousin Mark Bristow, Sally's son.
She had just started out on her career as a free-lance photographer, with nothing but a little talent, a lot of determination and the best camera money could buy to help her make it.
He had been a sub-editor in those days, working for a huge magazine corporation, and they had struck up an instant rapport, and when he was made first assistant editor and then editor, always moving from magazine to magazine, he had pushed work her way whenever he could.
They had even had an on-off affair and Harriet suspected he was in love with her.
But she couldn't take him seriously.
She couldn't take any man seriously  or at least not one she'd yet met.
' I think you use me, Harriet, ' he had said once, mock-serious.
' Well of course I do! ' she had teased.
' Isn't that what friends are for? '
' Friends! ' he'd echoed, his soft Scottish burr making it sound almost mournful, and Harriet had experienced a moment's sharp guilt.
But whatever his shortcomings as a prospective lover, Nick was good at his job  very good  and his talent and hard work had been rewarded when Paul Leeman, the publishing tycoon, had decided to launch the new magazine, Focus Now.
Nick had landed the job of editor and when he had told Harriet about it his enthusiasm had been infectious.
' You remember Picture Post, Harriet?
No, probably you don't.
You're too young.
You weren't even born when it folded  and besides it was an English magazine. '
' But I know about it of course, ' she'd protested.
' My mother was English, remember, and it was a classic, wasn't it?
What photographer hasn't heard of Picture Post  though I suppose the American in me world argue that all those magazines were imitators of Life. '
' Right.
Well, Paul believes the time is right to launch a new mag on the same lines.
Stories told in pictures  less copy than the Sunday supplements, more slanted to letting the photographs tell the story.
And perhaps with a social angle, too.
But whatever, it's got to be different, a totally fresh way of looking at things.
That's where you come in. '
' It sounds exciting.
But more like photo journalism than just taking pictures.
You think I could handle it? '
In spite of her apparent self-confidence, in spite of her twenty-five years, in spite of having had the best that money could buy since she was a little girl, there was an ingenuousness about Harriet which sprung from a yearning need to prove herself  to her father, to her contemporaries, to the whole wide world.
Sometimes being born with every apparent advantage in life spawns the deepest need to create something just by oneself, to say: ' This wasn't handed to me on a plate, but I did it just the same! '
' I know you can do it ', Nick had said.
' You're a bloody good photographer and the work you've been doing for the last five years proves it.
All you need is the opportunity to really express yourself  and Focus Now can give you that.
I 'm sure you 'll come up with all kinds of ideas of your own, but for starters why don't you do something you know really well  the world of fashion. '
' Fashion! '
Her tone had been scathing.
' Rich women with closets full of clothes they 'll never get around to wearing.
Fashion  one silly brainless bitch trying to outdo the others because she's bored out of her tiny mind and isn't interested in anything other than the way she looks. '
' Don't knock it, ' Nick said seriously.
' You know as well as I do it's a damned great industry  and there are plenty of facets to it that never see the light of day.
Find some of them, Harriet, mix them in with the glamour  and see what you get.
More than enough for just one feature, I 'll be bound.
Enough for a whole series, probably.
But start with Paris.
After all, to most people Paris is still the centre, the sun around which all the other satellites revolve. '
' Well I sure as hell would hate to do Seventh Avenue, ' she said with feeling.
' So  don't  or at least, not at first.
What about the sweatshops of Korea, or the rich Kuwaiti women who buy merely for their own pleasure and hide their couture gowns under their abayas because they are not allowed to display themselves... it's a far cry from the fashion world as it is usually depicted, it could make fascinating copy.
Get out there and find it for me! '
And so she had.
She'd done the photo session of couture gowns as well, of course, clicking away dutifully with those other photographers who were being dictated to by their fashion editors.
But it was the unexpected shots that would provide the spice to the story  like the ones she had just made of the little midinette enthusing as she saw the dress she'd sweated blood for, if not created, come down the catwalk to the roar of applause.
Harriet pushed back the cuff of her ski jacket and glanced at her watch  the clear faced leather-strapped Patek Philippe man's watch that she always wore in preference to the elegant Cartier her father had given her, unless of course circumstances forced her into an evening gown.
Perhaps, she decided, she would go back to her hotel and phone Nick from there.
Then she'd call the airport, enquire about flights and take the pictures to London herself.
She'd like to be on hand the moment they came out of the dark room.
And it would be nice to see Nick again too.
She raised her hand to hail a cab but the Paris traffic was zooming by at its usual break-neck pace.
Then she spotted a public telephone and decided she could not wait another minute to call Nick and tell him the job was completed.
She dived towards it, anxious some other would-be caller should not beat her to it and begin on one of those endless conversations the French seemed to have, searching through her pockets for change and trying to recall the International dialling code and the number of the line which connected direct with Nick's office, bypassing the busy switchboard, all at the same time.
' You have never got out of the childish habit of trying to do several things at once, ' Sally had said to her once; Sally, so cool, so contained, so efficient she sometimes made Harriet feel as if she were still a child, though of course she would never admit it.
At the second attempt she made the connection and heard the telephone begin to ring at the other end.
Then Nick's voice, that soft unmistakable Scottish burr.
' Hello?
Nick Holmes. '
' Nick  it's me, Harriet.
I've finished the job and I've got the most stupendous pictures.
I 'm just on my way back to the hotel and with luck I 'll be able to get a flight tonight.
I can be with you first thing in the morning  maybe even this evening, if you like. '
There was a slight awkward pause and in the tiny fraction of time that it lasted Harriet experienced a stab of pique.
Nick was usually so keen to see her she had to fend him off.
Now, just when she was bursting to talk to him about the job, he was going to be less than forthcoming.
' Unless you've already got something lined up, of course, ' she said hastily.
' No.
And I 'm very glad you've finished the job. '
What was that odd note in Nick's voice?
It didn't sound in the least like him.
' Me too.
You were right  knowing the background to the industry was a tremendous help.
Anyway... '
' Harriet  have you seen a newspaper today? ' he interrupted her.
She laughed shortly.
' You must be joking!
I've been up to my eyes in mannequins and haute couture. '
' Well  I think you should. '
She frowned, feeling his discomfort with her pores as well as hearing it in his voice.
' Why?
Someone else hasn't done my story have they?
Or, oh no!
Paul hasn't decided to fold Focus Now before it's even off the ground, has he? '
' No  no  nothing like that. '
' Then what?
Nick  my money is running out... '
She fumbled in her pocket for more change but before she could get in it into the coin slot she heard the click.
' Nick? ' she said urgently but it was too late.
The line was dead.
She swore, banged down the receiver and stood staring at it.
What the hell had he meant?
Should she try and get him back again or buy a newspaper first and try to find out what in the world he had been talking about?
A cloud of Gauloise smoke wafted past her ear and she became aware of a man standing behind her, stamping his feet as he waited with barely concealed impatience for the telephone.
His presence made up her mind for her and she turned, brushing past him and heading towards a newspaper vendor who sat shivering behind his stall at the nearby entrance to a Metro station.
All the newspapers on the front of the stall were French and Harriet cursed herself for not being a better linguist.
She had had every opportunity to be, for heaven's sake, but she'd never worked hard enough at it and now she did not feel like struggling with a foreign language to search for an item when she did not even know what she was looking for.
But tucked away at the back of the stall were some English and American newspapers.
Yesterday 's?
No, praise be, today's  the English ones, anyway.
She pointed to one and pulled out her remaining change to pay for it.
Then she retreated into the entrance to the Metro out of the biting wind and opened it.
She saw the story at once.
The photograph seemed to leap off the page to hit her.
Daddy.
Mom.
And... that man...
Unexpectedly Harriet began to tremble.
' RETURNED FROM THE DEAD!
FINANCIER FAXED HIS OWN DEATH, WOMAN ALLEGES. '
She inched back against the wall, part of her wanting to find some private place, yet knowing she would not  could not  move from this spot until she had read what the paper had to say.
As she finished her breathing was ragged, her eyes darting from the newsprint to stare unseeingly at the people pushing past her into the Metro and back to the newsprint again.
In the street the traffic still roared past, a ceaseless thunder interspersed with the honking of horns, but she was no longer aware of it.
Even the precious spools of film in the camera slung around her neck and tucked into the pockets of her jacket were forgotten.
They might have belonged, all of them, to another world, another life.
Greg Martin, her father's former partner, was alive.
She hardly remembered him, of course.
He was a shadowy figure from the past whose name was scarcely ever mentioned except on those rare occasions when they spoke of the accident, that terrible accident that had claimed the lives of him and her mother when Harriet was only four years old.
As for the financial crisis they had gone through, of which she suspected Greg was the root cause, that was never spoken of at all.
The whole episode had been so horrendous, so traumatic, that her father had chosen to wipe the board clean of it  on a superficial level, at least.
Harriet pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.
The street seemed to be full of perfume now, wafting around her in the biting wind  the perfume that was the most evocative memory she had of her mother, a haunting perfume, light and teasing and sweet, a perfume that smelled a little like a summer garden at dusk, a perfume, the memory of which had possessed the power to bring tears to her eyes long, long after she had forgotten how to conjure up the image of her mother's face.
Mom  oh, Mom  why did you go away?
She had cried it into her pillow at night, sobbing with the vain child's hope that tears would somehow magically make it all come right, that in the morning her mother would be there.
But of course she never was.
Her mother had died in an explosion on a luxury yacht, they had explained to her.
Gradually she had come to terms with it, accepted it as a fact of life, though the grief had been longer in going and the sadness was still sometimes there, an echo in the night.
But now...
If Greg Martin was alive then was it possible... was there the chance that it was in any way possible that her mother was alive too?
The enormity of it rocked her.
For long minutes she stood there, her thoughts not so much running circles as buffeting chaotically.
It made no sense  none  yet here in black and white was proof that nothing was the way it had seemed.
For the first time in years Harriet was overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness, and not now for New York, but for the haven of her London flat, the bolt-hole she had made her very own.
She folded the newspaper roughly, thrust it into her bag and walked zombie-like into the Metro.
Get home as quickly as possible.
Suddenly it was all that mattered.
Get home.
Then perhaps she could think things through and decide what to do.
Sally Varna stepped out of her bath, reluctant to leave the froth of delicately scented bubbles, reached for one of the enormous pink towels the maid had laid out ready for her and wrapped herself in it.
Then she padded across to a low stool and sat down, surveying herself in the mirror that lined her bathroom walls on two sides.
The face that looked back at her was smooth, slightly flushed from the warmth of her bath, certainly not a face that looked its forty-six years.
Even when made up with the finest cosmetics money could buy it would never be beautiful, but still... not bad for an ugly duckling, Sally thought, smiling wryly.
She lifted one hand and pushed aside the fair, highlighted hair which skimmed her ears.
Yes, the tiny tucks had almost gone now, just as the surgeon had promised they would.
No-one need ever know she had had the facelift if she chose not to tell them.
That was why it was so sensible to have it done early, before the little lines and pouches became obvious.
And Sally had always prided herself on being sensible, if nothing else.
Sensible Sally.
Sally ' the sensible one '.
That was how she had been known as a child when people had contrasted her with her sister Paula.
' Sally is very clever.
She has such a good head on her shoulders, ' they had said, when what they really meant was that whilst Paula was a beauty, she was really very plain but they had to find something good to say about her.
They had meant it kindly, she knew, but it had hurt all the same.
She hadn't wanted to be sensible or clever.
She had wanted to be beautiful like Paula, would have traded everything to be just a little like the sister whose stunning good looks had the power to attract and mesmerise wherever she went.
But where Paula's hair had shone and bounced as if it had caught some of the morning's sunlight her own was straight and mouse coloured, where Paula's eyes were the clearest, sharpest green hers were muddied to a very ordinary shade of hazel.
Her features were similar yet somehow blunted, her body stockier  not fat yet somehow altogether larger so that beside Paula she always felt clumsy in spite of being a full four inches shorter and almost two years the younger.
' Mummy, why don't I look like Paula? ' she had asked, staring wretchedly at her five-year-old reflection in the mirror, but her mother, herself slightly bemused by the young beauty she had produced, had been unable to give her any satisfactory answer.
As the girls had grown older things had not improved.
No matter how hard she tried to make the most of herself Sally had always been aware that she could not hope to rival Paula and the knowledge had damaged her self-confidence so that she always lived with the feeling that people on meeting her for the first time would exclaim behind after back: ' Paula's sister?
That plain little thing?
Goodness me, she was in the back row when looks were handed out wasn't she! '
The fact that very few other girls she knew could hold a candle to Paula did not help much either.
They didn't have to live with this goddess, they didn't have to compete with the legend.
In spite of this, Sally had adored Paula.
When other girls, jealous of her looks and the doors they opened for her, jealous especially of the way the boys flocked after her, made spiteful remarks, Sally had always been her fiercest champion.
No one had wanted to believe that Paula's beauty went right through her more than Sally did for she was a shining golden idol as well as a sister and it had been a shock to Sally when she had at last been forced to concede, in private at least, that the other girls might have been right in the accusations they made.
Sally stood up, letting the towel drop and shrugging on a silk wrap.
It clung slightly to her still-damp skin and again she surveyed her image in the mirror, this time full-length.
Years of dieting and exercise had banished that slight stodginess for ever; now her body looked lithe and firm, yet still blessed with more curves than Paula's had ever been, as much a denial of her years as her face.
In some ways those days when she had lived in Paula's shadow seemed a very long time ago, in others they might have been just yesterday.
She had never been able to equal her sister's matchless beauty, she knew, but at least she presented the world with a fair imitation of it.
And she had everything she had ever dreamed of  more.
This house on Central Park South, a ranch in Colorado, a home in Montego Bay, a private jet at her disposal, the wherewithal to buy anything which took her fancy.
Not bad for a girl who had grown up on a council estate.
Most important of all, she was married to the man who had been Paula's husband.
It was the final proof that perhaps, after all, she had not been as inferior to her sister as she had imagined.
Only one shadow lay over Sally's life, a secret shadow that none of the luxuries she enjoyed could quite banish.
For a moment it hovered over her thoughts then, with an ease born of long practice, she pushed it away and went into her dressing room.
Tonight she and Hugo were dining with an important senator who generally included show business personalities among his guests and she had not yet decided what to wear.
She crossed to one of the racks which lined the watered silk walls, her feet sinking into the deep cream carpet, and took out a black gown, holding it against her.
The neck was high and round, the sleeves decorously straight to the wrists.
But at the back the bodice was slit from collar to midriff and the skirt was daringly short.
Worn with her Van Cleef diamond earbobs and bracelet it would look quite stunning.
Yes, she thought she would wear the black  or perhaps the strawberry crushed velvet...
The sound of someone entering her bedroom, which lay beyond the dressing room, made Sally turn, still holding the dress against her and frowning with annoyance.
She had instructed the maids not to disturb her for she valued her privacy and having staff constantly on hand was one of the things she had found most difficult to become accustomed to.
Very nice to be able to step out of used underwear and know it would be laundered and returned to its drawer pressed and scented, even better never to have to worry about clearing a table or washing up, but nevertheless there was something vaguely disconcerting about maids who went silently, sneakily about their duties under her very nose.
' Who is it? ' she called a little sharply.
The door to the dressing room opened and to her surprise she saw that it was Hugo.
Her eyebrows, which she darkened artificially so that they no longer merged into her skin, lifted slightly.
She had not expected him home for at least another hour.
At this time of day he was usually still at his office in the 550 building on Seventh Avenue.
' Hugo! ' she exclaimed.
' What are you doing home so early? '
He came into the dressing room and closed the door, a middle-aged man of medium height wearing a grey suit with a white roll-neck shirt.
Then as he turned towards her the overhead lights that she had switched on to look through her dresses shone directly onto his face and she noticed how pale and drawn he looked, lines that were usually unnoticeable etched between nose and mouth, eyes almost feverishly bright.
' Are you all right? ' she asked.
' You're not ill? '
He did not answer, just stood there looking at her as if trying to make up his mind how to begin.
' Hugo! '
She took an anxious step towards him.
' Greg Martin is alive, ' he said.
His words stopped her in her tracks.
' What did you say? '
' Greg Martin is alive.
He's been living in Australia.
He didn't die on the Lorelei.
The whole damned thing must have been a fake. '
' Oh my God, ' Sally said.
' I know.
I couldn't believe it either.
But I've had the story checked out, Sally.
There is no doubt it's true.
I had to come home and tell you immediately.
Because you realise what it means, don't you?
If Greg is alive then the chances are Paula is alive too. '
' Oh my God, ' she said again.
The room seemed to have gone dark, as if someone had turned off the lights, and she wondered if she might be going to faint.
She stood frozen, still clutching the black dress against herself, looking at her husband and seeing only her world crumbling around her.
She had always known this moment would come one day.
Now it had arrived and still Sally knew she was no more prepared for it than she had ever been.
It had begun to snow in London.
The first great white flakes had melted on the pavements, now it was falling thicker and faster, building up on the window ledges and in the cricks and crannies, turning to slush on the roads as the traffic churned through it.
In her small workroom on the top floor of a crumbling old warehouse in Whitechapel Theresa Arnold shivered and turned on another bar of her portable gas fire.
She couldn't really afford it and when she needed a new cylinder it had to be humped up three flights of stairs, always a nuisance for which she had to enlist the help of one of her boyfriends, but when she got cold Theresa's fingers turned numb, white, bloodless lumps that no longer seemed to belong to her hands.
Then she could not work properly and it was imperative she worked or her new collection would never be ready on time.
Theresa rubbed her hands together to bring some life back into them and bent over the sheets of paper laid out on her work table, trying to forget the cold and concentrate on her designs.
They had to be good  not just good but sensational  or she would let everyone down, all those who believed in her  her small workforce of pattern cutters and outworkers, the friends from art school who dropped in to lend their help and support, and most of all her mother, who had put her house up as collateral for the bank loan that had set her up and enabled her to get started.
Theresa sighed, the cold depressing her and quenching her usual defiant optimism.
How easy it had all seemed then  how exciting!
When she had graduated from the School of Fashion she had sold her entire degree collection to Lady Jane, a small but exclusive West End boutique, who had greeted her designs with such enthusiasm that she had believed the world was her oyster and everything was about to happen for her.
Riding on a high she had decided to set herself up as an independent designer.
But it was all so much more difficult than she had ever imagined it would be.
Perhaps, she thought it was because Mark had been there at the planning stage  Mark Bristow, the dynamic young advertising executive she had met and fallen in love with when she had been chasing jobs in the heart of Somerset; Mark who, in spite of being English, had lived long enough in the States to absorb  and give off  some of the typically American blend of enthusiasm and energy.
He had encouraged and praised her, bullied her a little when she needed bullying, and given her the love and support that had made her feel, even in the darkest moments of self-doubt, that she could rise above all the problems and emerge triumphant.
It was Mark who had persuaded her to approach the bank for a loan, Mark who had suggested her old friend Linda George, who had graduated in business studies at the same time that Theresa had finished her fashion degree, should join forces with her to organise the commercial side, Mark who had given her enough confidence in herself for her to allow her mother to put up her house as security  something Theresa had fought against even whilst realising there was no other way to secure the loan she needed.
And above all it was Mark who had made her feel loved and special.
' I am very proud of you, lady ', he had said and she had glowed with happiness and a secret bubbling excitement that came from believing she could conquer the world with her talent.
But now Mark was no longer around.
He had gone out of her life suddenly and without explanation and try as she might Theresa simply could not get over losing him.
Why  why  why? she had asked herself over and over again, why did it end that way?
We were so close  weren't we?
We were in love  weren't we?
How could I have imagined something like that?
But the answers never made sense and the fact remained, whatever she had chosen to believe Mark had simply walked out on her and not bothered to come back.
She had begin to accept it now, but there was still a yearning deep inside her, his absence a constant nagging ache in her heart, and her business enterprise seemed to have been affected too, for it was as though some of her confidence had drained away, running down her cheeks with her tears.
With Mark anything had seemed possible.
Without him some of the magic had gone from her life and the dullness encroached into her work, no matter how she tried to compartmentalise it.
Now the problems were paramount.
A number of shops and boutiques had shown an interest in her clothes but she still had to produce them, innovative yet saleable, not too expensive for the market but of a good quality.
In many ways it was a vicious circle  everything cost so much more if one couldn't produce in bulk, but to produce in bulk one needed capital  and plenty of outlets.
And always she was haunted by the knowledge that if she failed her mother would lose her home.
What she needed desperately, of course, was a backer  someone to put up enough money to make her financially secure while she created.
But as yet no genie had materialised, no matter how hard she metaphorically rubbed the magic lamp.
Linda was working on that one too.
Let's hope she comes up with something pretty soon, Theresa thought.
If she doesn't I don't know how much longer I can carry on.
The sound of footsteps on the rickety staircase leading to her workroom made Theresa look up from her drawings, a small ray of hope that refused to be extinguished flickering to life.
Somehow she could never hear disembodied footsteps on the stairs without wondering fleetingly if it might be Mark returning as unexpectedly as he had left.
Then, a moment later the hope died as tall young man dressed in an aged reefer coat and brown leather cap appeared in the doorway.
' Weasel!
Hi! ' she said, smiling a greeting which she hoped concealed her disappointment.
' What are you doing here? '
It was not a question requiring an answer  Weasel was a good friend from art school days and often dropped in unannounced.
' Shit, it's cold in here, Terri, ' he said now, stamping his feet in their Doc Martens.
His breath puffed out like white smoke.
' You don't have to tell me that! ' she snorted.
' Put the kettle on if you want a coffee. '
' Oh, I want a coffee, all right, and so do you  but not here.
Come on, I 'm taking you to that little caf down the road  what's it called now? '
' Mario's  I think.
It's always changing its name.
But I can't stop to go out for coffee.
I've got far too much to do.
We can't all be gentlemen of leisure like you, living off the social. '
' Less cheek if you don't mind!
One day someone will appreciate my sculptures, you 'll see.
In the meantime I intend to stay healthy enough to enjoy success when it comes and you'd be wise to do the
' But I have to get these done. '
' You never will if you catch pneumonia.
Come on, get your coat  or are you already wearing it?
You're coming with me and I 'm not taking no for an answer. '
' All right, stop bullying. '
Theresa reached for her thick knitted shawl and knotted it around her shoulders  as Weasel had observed, she was already wearing her jacket in an effort to keep warm.
She turned off the gas fire  must save the Calor gas!  and the lights and followed him out onto the landing, locking the door behind her.
' Things no better, I assume, ' Weasel said as they tramped down the stairs, deftly avoiding those treads which had rotted.
' Fraid not. '
' Mind this patch, it's slippery, ' Weasel warned as he traversed a landing where snow had drifted in through a broken skylight.
' I know, I know.
I just wish they hadn't boarded up the windows.
It makes the staircase so dark. '
Weasel reached the bottom and pushed open the door to street level.
' What you need, Miss Top Designer 1991, is a decent place to work from. '
She grimaced.
' What I need is a miracle. '
In the gutter a copy of the morning's newspaper lay discarded, snow and slush turning it to pulp and partially obscuring the headline FINANCIER RETURNS FROM THE DEAD.
As he passed, Weasel gave the newspaper a kick with the toe of his Doc Martens.
Theresa did not even see it.
CHAPTER TWO
As the taxi swept along the Kensington street, its headlights tunnelling into the murky darkness, Harriet leaned forward and spoke through the half-open glass partition.
' Just here, please. '
The taxi squealed to a stop.
Harriet, who had been watching the meter, pulled a note out of her bag and passed it to the driver.
' Thanks.
Keep the change. '
She swung herself out onto the snow-wet pavement, hauling her bags after her.
Home!
Thank God!
She almost ran up the path.
Hers was the ground floor flat of a tall old house which had seen better days and the communal front door was reached by means of three stone steps.
Harriet had climbed them and had her key in the lock when she heard footsteps on the path behind her and a male voice called: ' Excuse me! '
She swung round, surprised and a little wary.
' Yes? '
' Miss Varna? '
There was a hint of authority but no menace in the gravelly voice and his overcoat, collar turned up against the cold, looked perfectly respectable, but for some reason Harriet's sense of unease only increased.
' Who wants her? ' she asked shortly.
' I 'm Tom O'Neill, acting for British and Cosmopolitan Assurance.
I called on you earlier but there was no reply and I could see the place was in darkness.
I was just leaving when your taxi arrived. '
' Thank you but I 'm not in need of any assurance. '
Harriet pushed the door ajar and removed the keys from the lock.
' If you 'll excuse me... '
' I 'm not selling insurance.
I want to talk to you about quite a different matter.
It concerns Paula Varna.
Your mother, I believe. '
Harriet stiffened, totally taken by surprise and annoyed with herself for not realising the moment he mentioned insurance the reason why he was here.
But it simply hadn't occurred to her.
Of course when one thought about it rationally it was obvious there was bound to be an investigation of some kind, but throughout the long flight she had been too concerned with the purely personal implications of the news item to give a thought to those who might have a financial interest in the story.
' Paula Varna was my mother, yes, ' she said, oddly defensive.
' But I'd really rather not talk to you or anyone tonight.
I have only just flown in from Paris and I am very tired. '
' It won't take long, ' he persisted without so much as a hint of apology.
' Just a few questions and I 'll leave you in peace. '
' Mr O'Neill... '
' It might be easier if we talked inside. '
Again, that suggestion of authority.
Harriet bristled.
' I 'm not in the habit of letting strangers into my flat  especially at this hour.
How do I know you are who you say you are? '
' My card. '
He passed it to her and she examined it briefly.
Somehow she had no real doubts as to whether Mr Tom O'Neill was genuine.
She almost wished he was not.
' You'd better come in then. '
She led the way into the communal hall which she personally had taken upon herself to brighten up with a vase of dried flowers and a couple of good, but ancient, rugs which she had picked up for a song at an auction sale.
In the full light she was surprised to see he was much younger than his bulky, overcoat-clad figure had led her to believe  and a great deal better looking.
Not handsome exactly.
That was not a word one would apply to Tom O'Neill.
But certainly hunky, with strong, irregular features, a full, jutting lower lip and very blue eyes.
She turned her back on him, unlocking the inner door, and as the warmth from the storage heaters wafted out to greet them she thanked God that she had had the foresight to leave them on  she didn't think she had been properly warm since reading the newspaper this afternoon  no, not even on the plane.
She was longing for a drink  some of her emergency ration of scotch  but she did not see how she could have one herself without also offering one to her visitor, something she had no intention of doing.
She switched on the lights, dumped her bag on the table and turned to him abruptly.
' Well, what can I do for you? '
' As I said, I'd like to talk to you about your mother. '
He was regarding her closely, his very-blue eyes disconcertingly direct.
' As a representative of the company who insured both her life and that of Mr Martin, not to mention the boat, I am anxious to discover the truth of what happened. '
' I 'm afraid there is nothing I can tell you.
I was four years old when my mother died. '
Something unspoken hung in the air between them.
She felt it with her pores, saw it in the slight lift of his eyebrow and the way one corner of his mouth tucked.
Then he asked suddenly.:
' When did you last see your mother, Miss Varna? '
' I told you  when I was four years old.
It was the night before she left for her trip.
She came to my room to say goodnight to me... '
She broke off as another memory stirred... that same evening, but later, raised voices coming from her mother's room, her child's feet pattering along the landing, peeping through a crack in the door...
Her eyes darkened as she relived it and his sharp investigator's eye noticed it.
' And? ' he prompted her.
' After that? '
' I tell you I didn't see her again after that night. '
' But something happened. '
' Nothing happened.
For God's sake... '
' What did she say to you, then, when she looked in to say goodnight?
Did she seem her usual self? '
' I don't know.
I don't remember.
Mom was always...
Mom.
And I can't see that what she said to me is any of your business. '
' I 'm afraid a quarter of a million pounds sterling paid out on your mother's life makes it my business. '
He crossed to a small occasional table, picking up a silver-framed studio portrait.
' When was this taken? '
Suddenly Harriet had had enough.
' Put that down! ' she snapped.
' It is your mother, isn't it? '
' Yes it is.
It was taken before I was born, as a matter of fact, when she was still modelling  she was a top model, you know.
But you have no right to come in here meddling with my things.
Even a policeman wouldn't dare poke about without a search warrant  and you're not a policeman.
You are a private investigator.
I don't have to talk to you. '
He looked up from the photograph, totally unruffled.
' I usually find that the people who lose their tempers when I start asking questions are the ones with something to hide, ' he said easily.
' What the hell do you mean by that? '
' I 'm sure you can work it out for yourself, Miss Varna. '
' No, I can't.
Spell it out for me, please.
You're accusing me of complicity in fraud, is that it? '
' A four-year-old child?
Heaven forbid!
However, it would seem that Greg Martin, your mother's companion when the yacht was lost, has been fooling us these past twenty years.
He has turned up in Australia, hasn't he? '
' I 'm sure you know a great deal more about it than I do.
I only know what I read in the papers. '
His eyebrow lifted again, an expression of polite disbelief.
' Really?
Then this must all be very distressing to you. '
She ignored the somewhat patronising platitude.
' As far as I can make out no one has yet said conclusively that this man is Greg Martin', she argued.
' True.
That is something that has to be established.
However, assuming it is, then we must look very carefully at what happened to your mother.
After all, she too might have survived the explosion. '
His words jarred Harriet and she swallowed at the ball of nerves that suddenly seemed to be constricting her throat.
In a way he was only echoing her own thoughts but to hear them spoken aloud and by this unsympathetic stranger was oddly disturbing.
' And if she isn't dead then where the hell is she? ' she demanded.
' That is what I am being paid to find out.
I had hoped you would be able to help me but since you say you can't I shall have to pursue other avenues.
It may take me a little longer but... ' he smiled, and his confidence made her dislike him more than ever, ' I promise you I shall get there in the end. '
' Then in that case I suggest you make a start right away, ' Harriet said.
She crossed to the door and threw it open.
' Goodnight, Mr O'Neill. '
' Goodnight Miss Varna.
Thank you for your time. '
She did not reply, simply stood holding the door until he had gone.
Then she leaned against it, realising that in spite of the fact that she was still wearing her ski jacket in the warm flat, she was shivering again.
She levered herself away from the door, crossed to the heavy old sideboard and took out the bottle of whisky and a glass.
Taken neat the spirit burned her throat and she held the glass cupped between her hands, staring into space.
Was it possible Paula was still alive  and did she even want her to be?
Of course the immediate answer was' Yes!
Oh yes! ' but in truth it was not that simple.
What sort of woman would willingly choose to leave her husband and child without a qualm, allow them to grieve for her and believe her dead?
Certainly not the dream mother a bereaved child had created for herself.
With a sense of shock Harriet realised that in the last hours Paula had become more of a stranger to her than she had ever been during the twenty years she had believed her dead.
A beautiful face in a photograph, a few misty memories, a haunting perfume tugging at her senses, and Paula had been whatever Harriet wanted her to be.
Now for the first time she was face to face with fragmented suggestions of reality, distorted perhaps, like the sun glancing on water, but hinting at something very different from the fairy tale princess the child Harriet had claimed as her own.
Could you have done such a thing, Mom?
Harriet asked silently and was as far as ever from an answer.
The image was all she had.
She knew nothing of the real woman behind it.
The long hours of the night stretched ahead of her and the prospect opened a well of loneliness within her.
Despising herself for her weakness she reached for the telephone, dialling Nick's number.
For a long while the bell rang and Harriet felt the sense of loneliness deepen.
He wasn't there.
Then just as she was about to replace the receiver she heard his voice, that soft familiar Scottish burr.
' Nick ', she said, choky suddenly.
' Harriet  is that you?
You're back then. '
' Yes.
Just.
I was beginning to think you weren't there. '
' I 'm listening to some music.
I had it turned up a bit too loud.
I didn't hear the phone at first. '
In the background she could hear The Anvil Chorus from Il Trovatore.
' Nick  do you think...? ' she began hesitantly.
' You want me to come over? ' he asked, reading her mind.
' Would you?
I know it's late but... '
' I 'll be with you in... twenty minutes. '
' Oh Nick  thanks! '
' My pleasure, ' he said drily.
' You ask me, Harriet, all too seldom. '
' And for goodness sake, ' she said, looking at the almost-empty Scotch bottle, ' bring something good and strong to drink with you. '
In the time it took Nick to arrive Harriet forced herself to wash and change into a clean sweatshirt, though the most mundane of everyday actions seemed a huge effort.
By the time she heard his car squeezing into a parking space outside she was calmer; at least outwardly, opening the door to him with what she hoped gave the appearance of nonchalance.
' Hi!
Sorry to drag you out on a night like this. '
' Don't even think of it. '
He kissed her briefly on the lips and came into the flat, a slightly-built sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties wearing a heavy black overcoat over a sweater and cords.
From one of the voluminous pockets he produced a bottle of Scotch and put it down on the table.
' Drinks  as ordered.
I take it you are in need. '
' Too true!
What a day!
Oh, bless you Nick. '
She fetched her glass.
' Pour me one, will you, when you've taken your coat off.
And what about you?
Are you drinking too? '
' I 'll keep you company.
But better make it a small one  If I 'm driving. '
There was just the hint of a question in his tone.
She ignored it, habit making her play it coolly even now, in her moment of need.
' I got the pictures, Nick.
Some beauties, I think. '
She was annoyed to hear the slight tremble in her voice.
' Great. '
He had tossed his coat over the back of a chair and was pouring whiskies.
He handed one to her, looking at her directly.
' You didn't ask me over here to discuss the pictures though, Harriet  admit it.
It 's... the other business, isn't it?
I take it you did as I suggested and got hold of a paper. '
' Yes. '
She gulped at the whisky, then thought better of it.
' I 'll get some ice. '
When she returned from the kitchen he had made himself comfortable on the sofa.
She went over and perched herself on the ottoman at his feet.
' I've had the insurance investigators here, ' she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
' Already?
They don't waste time. '
' No.
I suppose, as the man said, with at least a quarter of a million at stake they can't afford to, but all the same, it wasn't very pleasant.
Especially since I'd only just arrived back from Paris. '
She proceeded to relate the interview, keeping nothing back apart from the effect it had had on her, but Nick knew her too well to be fooled.
' It must have been pretty gruesome, ' he said.
' Yes  well  it's such a damned cheek!
First suggesting I was involved in some insurance fraud and then as good as saying Mom walked out on us!
I realise from his point of view his company would be a quarter of a million better off if they could prove it should never have been paid in the first place, but... it is my mother he was talking about dammit! '
' Oh Harri, darling Harri... '
He reached for her, pulling her up onto the sofa beside him and putting his arm around her.
' And what do you think? '
' What do I think?
Well, she's dead of course.
She'd never do that to us... '
She broke off.
' No, to be truthful, that's what I told him, but deep down I don't know.
I honestly don't know. '
She gulped her drink.
' Does it matter? ' he asked.
She shook herself free of his arm.
' Well of course it bloody well matters! '
' That's not the point. '
' Do you really want to know the truth?
It might be a pretty upsetting business. '
' I 'm upset already, ' she admitted.
' In any case  I 'm going to have to face it sooner or later.
That O'Neill man isn't going to let up now he's got his teeth into it.
He's going to dig and dig.
God what a job!
Imagine doing a shitty job like that! '
' Not unlike a journalist really, ' Nick observed drily.
' Well, Harri, you can either sit back and let him do the digging or you can do a little investigation yourself. '
' I don't know.
I don't know whether I want to. '
' I was rather hoping you'd do a nice follow-up photo session for me ', he said slyly.
' On what? '
' That's up to you.
But you didn't cover Kuwait in this lot, did you?
Or the sweatshops of Korea, or the rip-off merchants in Hong Kong?
A trip East may be just what you need.
' Yes. '
But she sounded less than convinced.
They sat in silence for a while, then he looked meaningfully at the whisky bottle.
' Shall I have another drink?
Or am I going to be driving? '
She laughed shortly but it came out as a half-sob.
' Oh Nick, what would I do without you? '
' That is the first time I've heard you admit it, ' he said ruefully.
' You generally seem to manage by yourself very well. '
She did not answer.
' Well? ' he pressed her.
' Do I have that other drink or not? '
She reached for the bottle and half filled his tumbler.
' Have the bloody drink, Nick.
And please...
I would like you to stay. '
At first she slept, heavy, exhausted, whisky-induced sleep.
Then suddenly she was wide awake, nerves jangling again, thoughts chaotic.
She eased herself out of Nick's embrace and he did not stir.
How she hated sleeping in his arms!
Making love was all very well, pleasant and soporific if not exactly ecstatic, but afterwards... she needed her space.
I 'm a bitch, she thought sometimes.
I use Nick shamelessly and I don't like myself for it.
But he's got no one to blame but himself.
He allows me to do it.
If I were a man I'd tell me to get lost  and fast!
Tonight, however, she had no room for such introspection.
There were other things on her mind.
She eased herself out from under the duvet, reaching for her heavy wool man's dressing gown and tying it firmly around her, crossed to the window.
It had stopped snowing now and the sky was clear and black with a few stars.
Beneath her window she could see the white humps of the pot in her backyard  pots that in summer she filled with geraniums and petunias in an effort to bring some colour to the uniform greyness, beyond them the wall that bordered the yard was also white-crusted.
A familiar scene, yet one that had changed subtly since yesterday  just as everything else had been changed by that newspaper item, the whole of her life being undermined making her feel that nothing was quite as it had seemed.
In one way, of course, Nick had been quite right when he had said that whatever the truth it made no difference.
There was no going back now, no way to rewrite the years as she had known them.
And they had been good years.
With a child's resilience she had quickly adjusted to the loss of her mother, who had never been more than a glamorous appendage on the periphery of her world, and Sally had stepped in to fill the breach more than adequately.
Now, looking back with the wisdom of adulthood, she could appreciate what she had taken for granted at the time.
The moment the news had broken Sally had been there, comforting her, buffering her, cuddling her when she cried.
There was a warmth about Sally that superseded all her amusing little vanities and softened the acid remarks she was prone to making  which were in reality a defence mechanism.
Sally had a great capacity for love and a down-to-earth quality that Harriet presumed was a throw-back to her early upbringing and which had been honed and tested in the fire when she had given birth to  and kept  an illegitimate son in the days when illegitimacy was still a scandal.
To Harriet Sally had become a surrogate mother and after she had married Hugo that position had been strengthened so that Harriet had felt secure and loved, never questioning her importance to the people who were important to her.
Although the glamorous world of fashion and wealth spread wide around her, Harriet's own family circle was tight  her father, Sally, and Sally's illegitimate son, Mark Bristow.
Mark had been educated in England and later decided to live there, and it had been because of him that Harriet had first decided to come to London, though nowadays she saw little of him.
He was in advertising; he and his partner, Toby Rogers, had their own agency, and paradoxically Mark had spent most of the last year back in the States.
He was there now, setting up some important job or other.
Had he not been she might have telephoned him instead of Nick, when she had been desperate for company.
But then again, she might not.
In a way Mark was too close to home, too much a part of the world whose foundations had just been rocked, yet somehow on the outside.
No matter what the truth might turn out to be it would not affect Mark.
The foundations upon which his life were built were intact.
Winds of change might blow around him but his basics were not under threat.
Beneath the duvet Nick stirred, flinging his arms across the empty space where Harriet should have been.
She stood stock still, hoping he would drift off to sleep once more without realising she was not there.
But after a moment he turned over again, mumbling thickly: ' Harri?
Where are you? '
' I 'm here, ' she hissed.
' Go back to sleep. '
' What are you doing out of bed?
You 'll catch your death. '
' No I won't. '
His concern irritated her.
Wasn't that what she had wanted, though?
Someone to be here, to care about her?
So why now did the very fact that he was awake and talking to her seem like an invasion of her privacy?
' Come back to bed, love. '
' I 'm all right. '
' No, you're bloody not! '
He got out of bed, exclaiming as the cold air enveloped his warm sleepy frame.
' Christ, this place is like an icebox!
Hasn't your heater come on? '
' I don't have one in the bedroom, Nick.
It's healthier not to. '
' Healthier!
To catch bloody pneumonia! '
He caught her, steering her back to the bed, bundling her in, dressing gown and all.
She allowed him to do it though her irritation mounted.
She couldn't ask him to stay then yell at him for caring for her.
She lay stiffly as he huddled close, sharing the warmth.
' I was thinking, ' she said into his shoulder.
' Not now, ' he protested.
' There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. '
' No, there won't, ' she said.
' I've made up my mind, Nick.
I have to try and learn the truth.
If Mom is still alive I have to find her.
If she's not, well... '
He did not answer.
' I 'm going home, ' she said.
' On the first available flight.
I 'm sorry. '
' Don't be sorry.
I suppose you 'll do what you have to do. '
' Yes. '
' Only one thing  be sure you take your camera with you. '
She laughed softly.
' Oh Nick, always first and foremost the editor! '
' Always that. '
There was regret in his sleepy voice.
She was growing warmer now and drowsier.
With the decision made she felt a kind of temporary peace.
' All right, Nick, ' she murmured.
' I 'll take my camera with me. '
' Promise? '
' I promise. '
She had no way of knowing that he was thinking not so much of the next photo story she would submit to him as the necessary therapy it might provide.
A journey into the past, with skeletons rattling in cupboards at every dark turning, was almost bound to be upsetting.
Nick, with his unfailing journalist's instinct, felt in his bones that this one would be more traumatic than most.
CHAPTER THREE
In his office high up in the twenty-five storey building that is 550 Fashion Avenue, mecca of the New York fashion industry, Hugo Varna sat at his desk and fiddled with the executive toy Sally had bought for him last Christmas.
It was a stupid thing, he thought, three gold baubles on springs that set up a continual motion, banging one against the other, and he kept it on his desk only to please her.
But today with his mind too preoccupied to work he seemed quite unable to keep his hands off it.
It clicked irritatingly and Hugo pushed it aside, swivelling his chair around to face the window and the panoramic view of Manhattan.
Hugo Varna's showrooms occupied an entire floor of the 550 building and from the moment a potential client stepped out of the brass elevator she was treated to an ambience of unashamed luxury.
The vast foyer was carpeted in the softest green imaginable, the walls were even paler, so that at first glance they might have been taken for white, and the venetian blinds were a perfectly blended shade of moss.
The minimum of furniture emphasised the impressive size of the foyer  only small modern tables bearing huge smoked glass ash trays, two or three low chairs and a huge arrangement of dried ferns and foliage in shades of brown and gold graced the enormous expanse.
From cunningly concealed speakers piped music wafted, but music played so softly that it was almost inaudible to the human ear, a faint teasing melody that soothed the soul and created a restful atmosphere almost without one being aware of it.
This soft green womb formed an oasis of peace in the chaotic tumble that was Fashion Avenue.
Outside in the street the traffic might roar, here there was hush broken only by that soft subliminal music, outside the air might be heavy with the mingled smells of petrol fumes and donuts, Macdonalds' burgers, trash cans, and sweat, here there was just the faintest perfume of a pine pot-pourri, subtle as the music.
Even the bustling atmosphere of the 550 building itself seemed not to have invaded the Hugo Varna floor.
Here the sales staff glided about with languid grace more reminiscent of Paris than New York, the house models managed to look like elegant advertisements for Varna even after a long session of standing stock still while a toile was pinned and draped and adjusted around them, and even when a rail of sample clothes had to be wheeled across the hallowed expanse of green, carefully hidden inside grey and black sample bags to make sure they were safe from the photographic eye of a fashion spy, it was managed with what Hugo referred to as' panache '.
' The simplest of jobs can be done with panache ', he would instruct whenever one of his staff fell short of his standards of perfection  the standards that endeared him to his' Shiny Set ' customers and staff alike.
Hugo himself was lithe, elegant and charming with a slight edge of fascinating middle-European foreignness that came from his Bulgarian father.
But it was his own formidable talent that set him apart.
Mostly nowadays Hugo took for granted all the assets that talent had brought him.
Twenty years at the pinnacle of his profession had paid him handsomely and he accepted the accolades and the financial rewards as no more than his due.
But on occasions he stopped in his tracks to wonder just what he was doing here, amidst all this elegance and opulence, numbering the rich and famous and powerful amongst his clients  and his friends.
Not bad for the son of a penniless illegal immigrant, he thought then, not bad for a boy raised on the wrong side of town.
' Where exactly do you hail from, Hugo? '
Margie Llewellyn, the chat-show queen, had asked him once when she had interviewed him, and he had mesmerised her millions of viewers with the story he had told.
His father, a seaman, had jumped ship to seek a better life when Bulgaria had been on the brink of civil war in the 1920s.
He had taken the name of Varna from the name of the port from which he had sailed but he had lived his life in terror of deportation, a fear that had haunted him long after it had ceased to be a real threat, so that he had never been able to enjoy his son's success, seeing it only as something which drew unwelcome attention to the Varna family.
Hugo had been perfectly happy to talk at length on the Margie Llewellyn Show about the days when he had played on the streets of the Bronx, and how in this unlikely setting a talent for sketching had developed into an interest in designing clothes.
Apart from his father, Hugo's family had consisted entirely of women  his mother, his three sisters, his maternal grandmother and various assorted aunts and cousins all of whom (his mother excepted) had striven to dress with what Hugo would later call ' panache ' on a pittance.
He had taken far more interest in their efforts than his father had thought was right and proper for a boy and when Leonie, his eldest sister, had been apprenticed to a dressmaker his fascination had grown.
From sketching the outfits she made to inventing designs of his own was but a short step and by the time he left High School he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
His sisters, all working by this time, supported him through a course at the New York Fashion Institute of Technology.
They were inordinately proud of him, if slightly puzzled by their unusually talented brother.
When he graduated Hugo took a succession of low-paid jobs in 7th Avenue and the optimism with which he had set out began to be dimmed by the sheer sick-making banality of what he had to do  cutting samples in the disgusting fabrics with which the greedy cutthroat manufacturers he worked for made their living.
But all the while he was learning and soon the time had come when he was no longer satisfied to design for others.
He began cutting his own samples on his mother's kitchen table and getting them made up by his sister and her friends at the dressmaker's where she worked.
The situation could not last, of course.
One day Leonie's employer had got wind of what was going on, sacked Leonie and placed a telephone call to Victor Nicholson, the ignorant, ill-tempered manufacturer Hugo was contracted to at the time.
A distraught Leonie tried unsuccessfully to contact Hugo to warn him and the first he knew of the dbacle was when he was summoned to Nicholson's cramped stale-tobacco smelling office.
The moment he walked in at the door he knew something was very wrong.
Nicholson, who could often be found reading cartoon comics at this time of day, was pacing the untidy office like a caged lion, his face and his thick neck suffused ugly puce above the none-too-white collar of his shirt.
As Hugo entered the office he whirled round, blundering into his flimsy chair and almost overturning it.
' What the hell is going on, eh, you little runt?
You trying to ruin me, is that it? '
Totally taken by surprise Hugo could only stare.
Nicholson reached across the desk, grabbing Hugo by the lapels and pulling him towards him.
' Don't stand there looking like Shirley Bloody Temple.
You know what I 'm talking about.
You've been cheating me, you stinking ass hole, letting me pay you for second-rate designs while you market the best ideas yourself. '
Hugo understood then.
He began to shake, not because he was physically afraid of Nicholson, though the man was twice his size, but because he could suddenly see his world falling apart around him.
He'd taken a chance and he'd been found out.
' I suppose this means you want me to leave, ' he said with what dignity he could, half-sprawled across the desk with his chin six inches above the remains of a take-away pizza and a cardboard cup of coffee dregs.
' Too right it does.
And that's not all. '
Nicholson released him, pushing him back so hard he almost fell.
' Now hear this and hear it good.
I 'm suing you, Varna, for every cent you've made from your dirty little deals  and for the designs.
They belong to me  you're under contract, don't forget. '
Hugo snorted derisively.
Although the very thought of court action had brought him out in a cold sweat, the same grittiness which had enabled his father to jump ship and seek a new life now came to his rescue.
' Waste your money on lawyers if that's the way you want it, ' he retorted.
' You 'll make a fool of yourself though.
Those designs are mine, done in my own time and made up by my own outworkers.
You'd never use them anyway.
They have too much class for the women who buy the rubbish you produce. '
Nicholson had turned such a deep shade of purple Hugo thought he was about to suffer a stroke.
' Get out of here! ' he yelled.
' I don't want to see your ass around here again  understand?
Get out! '
Hugo had got out.
He had left the squalid little office that afternoon never to return.
It was the most important thing he had ever done in his life, he had told Margie Llewellyn, and across a nation the rich and famous, the elegant and the glittering society women who were his clients wholeheartedly echoed the sentiment.
Nicholson had never carried out his threat to sue, though Hugo had endured some worrying weeks waiting to see if papers would be served on him, and the experience had made him determined never to work for the likes of Nicholson again.
His early ventures into freelance design had been reasonably successful; with Leonie's encouragement he worked long hours as a restaurant porter to earn enough money to buy a couple of ancient industrial machines which he set up at one end of the living room of his mother's house.
Soon the place was alive with their busy whirr as Leonie and one of her friends stitched samples; to their accompaniment Hugo worked on new designs.
The story of this far from illustrious beginning was one Hugo never tired of telling, for the fact that he had started with nothing but raw talent and stubborn determination was something of which he was justifiably proud but he was less forthcoming about what had happened next.
When Margie had mentioned his association with Greg Martin, the financier who had made him the loan which had set him up in a small showroom and enabled him to move the sewing machines out of the living room and into a work room, Hugo became not so much evasive as totally silent.
Without a doubt it had been Greg's backing which had propelled him into the big league; without him, for all his talent, Hugo might have been trapped in small-time design and manufacture for ever.
But the very mention of Greg Martin's name was painful to Hugo.
He had skilfully evaded Margie's questions, moving on to talk instead about Kurt Eklund, the financial genius he had hired after Greg's death to help him avoid what had seemed at the time almost certain ruin.
It had been Kurt who had set up the dozens of licensing deals for menswear and toiletries, bedlinen and beachwear, soft furnishings and costume jewellery, all bearing the name of Hugo Varna, which had not only saved him from bankruptcy but also made him his first million.
In the process Kurt had graduated from business adviser to trusted friend; Hugo had rewarded him with a fifteen per cent share of the business and never regretted it.
Margie had not pressed Hugo to talk about Greg Martin though her professional instincts had nagged at her that if she could probe a little into the association it would produce some riveting television.
But she also sensed how deep Hugo's hurt ran and since his first wife's death was also connected with the man she told herself it would be tasteless to dwell on it.
The truth was, of course, that hard-nosed journalist though she was, Margie was as attracted to Hugo as was almost every other woman who met him and she actually wanted him to like her.
The momentary weakness had bothered her for weeks afterwards as she worried as to whether she had lost her professionalism along with the opportunity to grill Hugo Varna over the truth about his relationship  and Paula's  with the man who had died as he lived in a blaze of publicity.
But whether she had been right or wrong, Hugo had been allowed off the hook.
He did not talk about Greg Martin.
He did not even think about Greg Martin if he could help it.
As he left the studio after the interview his well-programmed defence mechanism had come into operation, and he had pushed the painful memories into a corner of his brain where his conscious mind could not reach them.
Now, however, to his intense discomfort, Hugo found there was no way he could prevent himself from thinking about Greg Martin.
From the moment the news had broken that he was not dead at all but very much alive in Australia he had been unable to think of anything else.
None of the usual tricks for shutting off memory would work now; whatever he did, whichever way he diverted his attention it would only come wandering back, like a man in a maze who continually finds himself back in the same spot.
It was insufferable  awful.
He was beginning to think he was going mad.
His nerves jangled in time with the balls on the executive toy on his desk and his brain felt as thick and muzzy as the grey January sky above the skyscrapers of Manhattan.
A slight commotion in the outer office attracted his attention.
His secretary's voice, raised in agitation: ' I 'm sorry  Mr Varna is not to be disturbed.
You can't go in there! '
And another voice, one he instantly recognised: ' Like hell I can't! '
The door flew open and Harriet burst in.
Behind her the secretary floundered helplessly.
' I 'm sorry, Mr Varna, I couldn't stop her. '
' It's all right, Nancy.
This is my daughter. '
' Oh, Mr Varna, I 'm so sorry... ' she stuttered, even more horrified by her gaffe than she had been about letting a strange woman push her way into the holy of holies.
Nancy Ball had only been with Hugo for a few months and it was much longer than that since Harriet had visited him at the office.
It had simply never occurred to her that the young woman in a ski jacket with faded jeans tucked into her boots might actually be Hugo Varna's daughter!
' Don't worry about it, Nancy, ' he said comfortingly.
' You weren't to know. '
She retreated, casting one last flustered glance at Harriet.
Sally, Hugo's wife, was always so beautifully turned out, while this girl was... well, frankly almost scruffy!
Women simply never turned up at the showrooms of one of America's top designers dressed like that, and with practically no make-up.
Hugo's daughter!
Well! well!
' Dad  I had to come, ' Harriet said as the door closed after the secretary.
' You've heard the news, of course. '
' Yes. '
Even without the simple affirmation his face would have given her the answer; he looked pale and drawn, as if he had slept even less than she had.
' I tried to call you but there was no reply from your flat. '
' I was in Paris on a job.
I saw a newspaper there.
I rushed back to London, packed a few fresh things and came straight here. '
' Harriet...
I 'm so sorry. '
' Why should you be sorry? '
' It must have been a terrible shock for you... '
' And for you! ' she said hotly.
' After all this time  it's almost unbelievable.
Do you suppose there's any truth in it? '
He spread his hands helplessly.
' I wish I knew.
But I can't see why anyone should invent a story like that. '
' Maybe she's some kind of nut. '
' Maybe.
But as you said, Harri, it's such a long time ago.
Most people have forgotten all about Greg Martin.
I can't imagine what would prompt this woman to dredge it all up if there wasn't some truth in it.
I can think of a dozen men of much more recent notoriety if she was simply inventing it for some cranky reason of her own.
Besides... '
He broke off, staring for a moment at the glinting gold balls, then raising his eyes to meet Harriet's directly, ' if you look at the past, it's quite feasible that she knew Greg.
There was a connection. '
' You knew her? '
Harriet asked, surprised.
' No, but I know of her family. '
' Who is she then?
The paper said she was Italian, didn't it? '
' That's right.
Her family were fabric manufacturers with mills and factories around Lake Como.
Greg was working on some kind of deal in Italy not long before he... before the accident.
It's quite conceivable they were involved in it and he met Maria as a result.
He swept her off her feet, I shouldn't wonder. '
His lip curled in a bitter smile.
' He was very attractive to women, was Greg. '
Harriet ignored the implication.
' But Dad  twenty years!
If it's true and he is alive where has he been all this time?
And why the hell should he have pretended to be dead if he wasn't? '
' Because I guess it suited him. '
Hugo ran a finger under the roll collar of his shirt.
It felt tight and hot in spite of being made of the softest combed cotton.
' He left one hell of a mess behind him, Harriet. '
' Financial difficulties, you mean? '
' And some!
Oh yes, he'd overstretched himself, all right.
And there was the suggestion of fraud, too.
It took months  and the best financial brains in New York  to unravel his dealings and what they found was a web of debt  and worse.
What a time that was! '
His eyes darkened at the memory.
' For a while I thought we'd go down because of it.
If it hadn't been for Kurt I would have done.
He rescued me, not a doubt of it, and thank God he did.
But as for Greg...
I suppose you could say I was all kinds of a fool to trust him, but I 'm a designer, not an accountant.
And I wasn't the only one taken in by him  far from it.
There were plenty of others with more experience in these matters than I who were deceived.
Oh yes, if Greg had been around when the storm broke he'd have faced ruin  and probably gone to gaol into the bargain.
No doubt about it, he made a very timely exit one way or the other. '
Harriet was silent for a moment, chewing on her thumbnail.
So...
Greg had been little better than a crook on the business front  and he had very nearly dragged her father  and his stupendous talent  down with him.
She had suspected as much, though it had never occurred to her that Greg's death had been anything but an accident.
But important as all this might once have been it did not concern her now.
Hugo had weathered that particular storm with Kurt's help and backing.
No one had charged him with anything more serious than naivety and now he was one of the most successful fashion designers in New York.
Besides, business dealings never figured very largely in Harriet's reckoning.
There were other, far more important aspects to life  and death.
' Greg is only half the story though isn't he, Dad? ' she said quietly.
His eyes narrowed, emphasising the small lines and creases around them.
' What do you mean by that? '
' Oh Dad! ' she remonstrated.
' You know very well what I mean.
What about Mom? '
He looked away.
' What about her? '
' Dad  come out from that clam shell of yours.
I know how good you are at hiding away inside it when you don't want to face up to the real world.
But it's out here and it won't go away. '
' Your mother is dead ', he said flatly.
' Is she though? '
Harriet shook her head slowly.
' We don't really know that any more do we?
We were always led to believe there were no survivors when the Lorelei blew up.
Now it seems that wasn't the case.
If this Maria Vincenti is to be believed, Greg survived.
So I repeat  what happened to Mom? '
' Harriet... '
He leaned on his desk wearily, not looking at her.
' It's so long ago now. '
' What difference does that make?
Twenty weeks  twenty months  twenty years  the questions are still the same and they have to be answered.
If we don't ask them someone else will.
The insurance people are already starting to probe.
One of them came to see me last night when I got back from Paris.
He wanted to know when I last saw Mom. '
He blanched visibly.
' Bastards!
I was afraid of something like this.
So they think... yes, I suppose they would.
What did you tell him? '
' That I'd never seen her from that day to this, of course.
But that's no longer enough, is it?
For God's sake what happened when the Lorelei blew up?
And what happened afterwards?
Don't you want to know?
Dad  stop fiddling with that damned desk toy and listen to me! '
He straightened, whirling round on her suddenly, much as he had turned on Victor Nicholson all those years ago.
Gone was the vagueness, gone the composure.
His eyes were bright now with suppressed passion and pain.
' No, Harriet, you listen to me.
There are some things best left alone  some things it's better not to know. '
' But the explosion might not have been an accident, ' she persisted.
' Have you thought of that?
It would explain how Greg manages to be in one piece while the Lorelei is nothing but a few planks of driftwood.
And If what you say about the state of his finances is true then he'd have every reason for faking his death to escape the music.
But it doesn't answer my question.
What happened to Mom? '
' Your mother is dead. '
' So you keep saying.
It's almost as if you want to believe it. '
' Perhaps I do. '
His voice was tired.
' Perhaps even that is preferable to thinking she could just disappear and let us think she was dead. '
' But Dad... '
' How would you feel if you discovered that was the case?
That she could abandon you  her four-year-old child  and never see you again?
Is that what you want to hear? '
' No, of course not! '
' There are things I hoped you'd never find out, Harriet, ' he said'.
' But I see now there's no point in hiding them any longer.
Besides, you are a grown woman now, and I dare say the truth will come out whether I tell you or not.
Your mother was having an affair with Greg Martin.
She was besotted by him.
When she followed him to Italy I believe she had already made up her mind to leave us and go to him.
That was why what happened on the boat makes very little difference to me.
Whether she was killed or not is almost immaterial.
As far as I am concerned, she was dead to me the moment she walked out the door. '
Harriet crossed to the window and looked out.
The towers of Manhattan seemed almost to be touching the cold grey sky.
Far below, in the street opposite the 550 building, stood the tall statue of the Garment Worker, strangely distorted from this angle, and around the plinth on which it stood ant-like figures of vagrants and layabouts sat, oblivious to the cold.
For long minutes Harriet stared down, unseeing.
It was not her father's revelation of an affair that surprised her.
The official story had always been that Greg was simply a close family friend, but a child could have seen through the pretence and she had not been a child for a very long time, perhaps not since that long-ago night when she was four years old and had stood, unseen, outside a bedroom door...
No, it was her father's attitude that had shocked her.
' She was dead to me, ' he had said and she could see he meant it.
She was used to his ostrich ways  his ability to bury his head in the sand and shut out the things that displeased or upset him.
But all the same...
Harriet gave her head a small shake, hardly able to believe that even he could be quite so coldly dismissive.
' Could I have a drink? ' she requested.
' Coffee?
I 'll buzz Nancy. '
' No  a proper drink.
The alcoholic sort. '
She broke off with a short laugh.
' Don't look at me like that, Dad.
This may be the middle of the afternoon to you, to me it's evening  and the end of a very long day. '
' Whisky?
Bourbon? ' he asked, opening the elegant black- lacquered cabinet.
' Whisky, please.
Scotch if you've got it  or are you waving the emerald flag for the benefit of certain up-and:coming Irish politicians of the lineage of the closest thing we in the States have to a royal family? '
' I have Irish whiskey, of course  but also Scotch. '
He poured her some and handed it to her.
' I won't pretend it pleases me to see you drinking it, Harriet.
I know you're a grown woman but so are most of the others who lurch their way down the not-so-primrosy path to the Betty Ford Clinic. '
' Dad! '
She rolled her eyes heavenward.
' I know.
I sound like a nagging father.
But I've seen a few of them on the slippery slope  the Shiny Set, the stars, the Washington
widows. '
' Inadequates. '
' Don't be so sure.
It gets a hold of you, Harriet. '
' All right, Dad, you've made your point.
I wish I hadn't asked for the damned drink now.
But as I said, my body hasn't adjusted to the time-lag yet.
When it does, I promise not a drop will pass my lips before dinner.
Except of course... ' she broke off to toss back the rest of the whisky and set the tumbler down on Hugo's desk, ' except of course that I don't suppose I shall be here long enough to make the adjustment. '
He was unable to hide his disappointment.
' You're going back to London? '
' No.
Not yet.
I 'm going to Australia. '
' Australia?... oh! '
She nodded.
' Yes.
I 'm going to try and find Greg Martin.
I 'm sorry, Dad, but I can't just let this thing pass  sit back and pretend it hasn't happened.
It's very important to me  and, I should have thought, to you too.
It's Mom we're talking about  not a stranger in a sensational newspaper item  and there are too many unanswered questions about her death  or her disappearance.
If Greg Martin is alive then perhaps he is the only person in the world who can supply the answers. '
' But Harriet, it sounds as if he has gone into hiding again.
If the police can't find him what makes you think you could?
And if they have picked him up he 'll be in custody.
They'd never let you see him. '
Her mouth set in a stubborn line he knew so well.
' You may be right.
But I have to try.
Perhaps you don't want to know the truth  that's how it looks from where I 'm standing.
But I want to know.
I want to find out what happened.
Damn it  I 'm going to find out! '
He shook his head.
' What good do you think will come from it, Harriet?
If she is alive and you find her  do you think that would mean you'd have your Mom back?
Of course it wouldn't.
But I honestly believe she is dead.
I have thought so for a very long time. '
' If that is so then it is all the more important to find out the truth, ' she said quietly.
' Why?
What difference can it make now? '
' Because it seems as though Greg arranged the accident in order to fake his own death.
That's what the woman alleged and what you have said confirms it is quite likely.
But when he sailed Mom was with him  no dispute about that is there?
So if he survived and Mom died then  don't you see?
He murdered her. '
' Harriet  for God's sake! '
' I 'm sorry, Dad, but it's true.
It has to be a possibility.
And that is why I 'll see Greg Martin if it's the last thing I do. '
His eyes were distant.
He looked like an old man suddenly and she realised how he had aged since she had seen him last.
Aged since yesterday, perhaps?
Never a big man, overnight his frame seemed to have become almost frail and the sinews in his neck were raised and stringy above the cotton roll-neck.
She put her arms around him.
' I don't want to upset you, Dad, but I have to do it.
You must see that... '
She stopped speaking as the buzzer on his desk interrupted her.
He broke away, depressing the button.
' Yes, Nancy?
What is it? '
' I 'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Varna, but I have a Mr O'Neill here who says he is from the British and Cosmopolitan Assurance Company.
He insists on seeing you. '
' The man who more or less forced his way into my flat last night! '
Harriet said grimly.
' What is he doing in New York? '
' Come to see me, obviously, ' Hugo returned drily.
But his smile was strained and Harriet was alarmed by how drawn and old lie suddenly looked.
' Leave him to me, Dad.
I 'll deal with him. '
Tom O'Neill was in the outer office looking at one of the pictures that lines the walls  Rena, Hugo's favourite house model, wearing a loose cut trench coat over a tailored shirt and doe-skin pants.
' Mr O'Neill, I really would prefer it if you didn't bother my father just now.
There is nothing he can tell you beyond what I already have  that as far as we are concerned my mother has been dead for more than twenty years. '
' Perhaps. '
Today, in the half daylight, half white neon of the office, his eyes managed to look bluer and sharper than ever, like the ice-cold waters of a sunlit fiord.
' Nevertheless I am afraid I must insist on seeing him, Miss Varna. '
' Look  he's in no fit state... '
Harriet argued.
' Why don't you go to Australia and talk to the Vincenti woman before you start bothering us? '
' That is my next port of call, ' he said easily.
' But right now I am here.
So if you would kindly tell your father... '
' Mr O'Neill, I 'm telling you... '
' Quit trying to protect me, Harriet. '
Hugo was standing in the doorway of his office.
' I know you are only trying to help but the sooner we get this over with the better.
I 'll see Mr O'Neill now.
I have nothing to hide. '
' Dad! '
' You go home, Harriet.
I 'll see you at dinner.
And perhaps you'd warm Sally I might be a little late. '
' Dad! '
' Come this way, please, Mr O'Neill. '
The door closed after them and Harriet could do nothing but glare at it impotently.
Dammit, he deserved to be reported to whatever professional body insurance investigators belonged to and if he upset her father she'd see to it that he was.
Still fuming at the insensitive arrogance of the man she turned and left the office.
CHAPTER FOUR
In her room at Hugo's Central Park triplex Harriet was dressed and ready for dinner.
At home in London she rarely bothered with such irrelevances; here she knew it was expected of her and accordingly she had showered, dumped her travel-weary jeans into the laundry basket from which they would be rescued by a maid, washed, ironed and returned to her next day, and dressed herself in a loose silk jersey jacket and pants suit, simple and easy enough to please her yet enough of a transformation to satisfy her father and Sally.
She was tired out now, her eyes ached from lack of sleep and jet-lag, and she glanced longingly at the king-sized bed with its lace-trimmed peach silk sheets.
Oh to be able to fall into it and sink into oblivion!
But it would be several more hours yet before she could do that.
Was her father home yet? she wondered.
She was anxious to see him the moment he arrived, and make sure he was all right after the trauma of the interview with the insurance investigator.
But when she went to the head of the stairs and looked down she could see that his study door was ajar and the house was quiet and she returned to her room.
He had said he might be late, after all, and she decided to snatch a few more moments of privacy to recharge her batteries in the one place in the whole luxurious house where she was able to relax and feel she was her own person.
What was it about unashamed luxury, Harriet sometimes asked herself, which made her feel so uncomfortable?
Most people would be only to happy to be able to enjoy such surroundings.
A top line interior decorator had been given a free hand when Hugo had bought the triplex two years ago and no expense had been spared  the walls were hung with some of Hugo's collection of Old Masters, glowing against the background of watered silk, the shelves were lined with leather bound first editions which neither Hugo nor Sally would ever open, much less read, every nook and cranny was filled with treasures and objets d'art displayed on dainty pedestals.
The sofas and chairs were deep and soft enough to fall asleep in, a fireplace was topped by an Adam mantel which Hugo had had flown out from England and everywhere there were fresh flowers  long stemmed hothouse roses, orchids flown in from Singapore, daffodils and narcissi and heavy perfumed hyacinths.
But to Harriet the grandeur and studied comfort were somehow artificial, the atmosphere more reminiscent of a luxury hotel than a home.
Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had never lived in this house.
There was nothing to arouse childhood memories.
Only in the room Sally had chosen especially for her was Harriet amongst familiar echoes of the past and she never entered it without feeling a wave of gratitude towards her aunt.
Here, at Sally's instigation, were many of the things Harriet remembered and loved from her childhood and growing-up years  the rosettes she had won with her pony, her graduation dress, her old collection of Osmond and Jackson records, her early attempts at photography, proudly framed, a pressed flower that reminded her of her first proper date.
Small things, but important, the little touches that were typical of Sally and which made it possible to feel charity  and love  for her when she was fussy or critical or just plain annoying as she had been when Harriet had arrived without warning this afternoon.
' Why didn't you let us know you were coming? '
Sally had chided when the taxi had dropped Harriet off and she had bundled unceremoniously into the house.
' You should have called, darling, and warned us.
I might have been out or anything. '
' There wasn't time, ' Harriet had said, kissing her.
' And anyway, you weren't out. '
' No, but I will be tomorrow.
I have a charity luncheon to attend and... '
' I probably won't be here tomorrow either.
It's a flying visit only. '
' Oh if only I'd known!
I'd have asked Mark to dinner.
He's in New York, you know, though he insists on staying with a friend in that dreadful apartment over on the West side.
He'd have loved to see you. '
' And I'd have loved to see him.
But that's not why I 'm here, Sally. '
' Why then?
Oh no, don't tell me. '
Sally held up a manicured hand.
' I don't think I want to know.
Your father and I talked about nothing else last night.
Harriet, I 'm sorry, but I don't think I could stand to begin going all over that again  not just now.
And I think I just might try to get hold of Mark.
It might not be too late to invite him to dinner, If he's got nothing else planned.
I 'll warn Jane we shall be at least one, possibly two, extra... '
' Sally, hang on a minute. '
Harriet managed to interrupt her flow.
' I can understand your reluctance to talk about what's happened but you can't just push it to one side.
That's Dad's trick, but it's not like you. '
' It's just that I don't like wasting my energy worrying about things I can do nothing about, ' Sally said matter-of-factly.
' Please, Harriet.
I have had it up to here! '
She drew an imaginary line across the base of her throat, brushing her double-strand pearl choker.
' Can't we just leave it? '
Harriet sighed.
' No, I don't think we can.
I called in to see Dad before coming here and while I was there an insurance investigator called Tom O'Neill came to see him.
The same man was at my flat last night asking questions and for all I know his next visit will be here, to see you, so... '
She broke off.
Sally's hand was clutching at her pearls now and she had turned very pale beneath her makeup.
' Sally, are you all right? ' she asked swiftly.
' An insurance investigator, you say? '
Sally repeated in a shocked voice.
' That's right.
There was a big pay-out on Mom's life, wasn't there?
Well, the insurance company seem to have got it into their heads that If Greg Martin is alive Mom might be too.
They're more or less accusing us of some kind of fraud. '
' My God, ' Sally said.
' It's not the end of the world, ' Harriet exclaimed, irritated by Sally's uncharacteristic behaviour.
' As Dad said, we have nothing to hide and hopefully he 'll soon realise that and go away.
But it's pretty unpleasant, especially for Dad, to have all this raked up.
He's under a terrible strain. '
' Aren't we all? '
Sally said faintly.
' Perhaps, but it's different for us, ' Harriet said, mindful of what her father had told her.
' She was his wife, after all. '
' And your mother.
And my sister. '
' Yes, I know that.
But all the same...
I think we should do all we can to support him.
Sally, are you listening to what I 'm saying? '
Sally was staring into space, still plucking at her pearl choker in agitation.
A tiny muscle was working near her mouth, making her lip tremble.
' I knew something like this would happen, ' she whispered.
' It's what I've been afraid of. '
Harriet stared at her.
' I suppose it's inevitable, ' she conceded.
' But there's no point getting so worked up about it.
I just wanted to warn you, that's all.
And to ask you to support Dad. '
' Yes. '
Sally collected herself.
' I expect you'd like to bath and change, Harriet.
You must be exhausted.
And I was going to try to get hold of Mark.
I 'll ask Danny to bring up your things. '
' It's all right, I can manage them.
Don't bother Danny. '
Danny was the chauffeur.
Harriet picked up her hold-all and escaped.
She was puzzled by Sally's reaction.
Anger, yes, she'd expected that.
But Sally had seemed really upset, not at all her usual contained self.
She was getting quite neurotic, Harriet reflected, and the same thought occurred to her now as she checked her image in the full length mirror, tucking her camisole top more neatly in at the waist of her pants and straightening the ornamental clasp of the loose belt she had fastened around her hips.
She only hoped Sally was able to get hold of Mark.
It would be nice to see him and his presence would lighten things.
Mark always managed to be deliciously irreverent, no matter how heavy things got.
It was the English in him, she supposed, that laid-back refusal to take himself  or anyone else  seriously.
Somewhere in the house a telephone was ringing.
Harriet took no notice of it but a minute or two later there was a tap at her door and a maid stood there with one of the portable receivers  there was no extension in Harriet's room.
' For me? ' she asked, surprised.
The maid nodded.
Harriet waited until the door had closed after her and flicked the button, feeling oddly apprehensive.
The last thirty-six hours had held too many unpleasant shocks for comfort.
' Hello? '
' Harriet  it's me. '
' Nick! '
' Hi.
I 'm just about to go to bed and I thought I'd ring and see how things are with you. '
' Oh, I 'm fine. '
' You arrived safely then? '
He sounded so close he might almost have been in the next room instead of the other side of the Atlantic ocean.
' Yes.
I've seen Dad and we shall soon be having dinner. '
' Good.
Tired, I expect? '
' Exhausted. '
' But otherwise all right? '
' Yes. '
There was a silence.
There was really nothing else to say.
' I won't keep you then.
I just thought I'd let you know I was thinking of you. '
' Thanks, Nick, it was sweet of you. '
' OK.
Take care then, Harriet.
And keep in touch. '
The slight sense of claustrophobia he could always arouse in her stirred.
' Yes.
Goodnight, Nick.
Thanks again for ringing. '
Then he was gone and she held the receiver for a moment feeling unexpectedly bereft.
He was so good to her.
So caring.
Why couldn't she let him in to that private part of herself that sometimes cried out for  what?
But she couldn't.
Nick was there for her and she was grateful, but that was all.
The moment she knew it she didn't want him any more, simple as that.
What the hell is the matter with me?
Harriet wondered briefly.
She glanced at her watch.
Half an hour or so to dinner.
She might as well go down, have a pre-dinner drink with Sally and see if her father was home yet.
Halfway down the stairs she heard voices and through the partly-open drawing-room door caught a glimpse of Sally in peacock-blue cashmere and the tall figure of a young man, fine hair above a chestnut brown suede jacket.
Her heart leaped and she ran the rest of the way like a child in her delight.
' Mark!
Oh, it's so good to see you! '
' Hey, steady! '
He set down his glass and hugged her.
' Fancy you being in New York too.
What a turn-up for the books! '
' I know.
But I had to come.
You've heard the news, of course. '
' Yes.
I talked to Sally on the telephone last night.
It must have come as one hell of a shock for you, Skeeter. '
It was his nickname for her; he had started calling her that when she was small and it had stuck even though she was now a respectable five-feet-seven.
' For all of us. '
She glanced at Sally, but her aunt seemed to have regained her composure.
' Is Dad home yet? '
' No.
I hope he's not going to be much longer. '
' I left him with an insurance investigator, ' Harriet explained to Mark.
' Mark  get Harriet a drink, ' Sally said.
' I 'm going to ask Jane to hold dinner back a bit. '
She hurried out, but not before Harriet had seen the haunted look was back in her eyes.
' What will you have, Skeeter? '
Mark asked.
' Oh  better make it Martini.
I've already had one telling-off from Dad today for drinking Scotch.
If he finds me at it again he 'll be convinced I 'm on the slippery slope. '
' Right. '
He poured it for her and watched with one eyebrow raised as she gulped at it.
' It's all been a bit bloody, I gather. '
' Yep. '
She brought him up to date with what had happened.
' Your mother seems to have taken it pretty badly ', she concluded.
' Yes, she does look a bit grey for her doesn't she?
Of course she was very close to Paula, I understand.
Anyway, let's talk about something quite different.
What have you been up to? '
She told him about Paris and her new assignment for Focus Now.
' And what about you? ' she asked.
' How is the advertising business? '
' Booming.
I think I've just sewn up a deal on a new account. '
' Good for you! '
She looked at him over the top of her glass.
' You're spending a good deal of time in New York now, Mark.
I thought you were in love with London. '
' I 'm in love with wherever the business is.
And at the moment it's in New York. '
' Are you sure that's the real reason?
It's not that you're deliberately staying away from London by any chance is it? '
He tossed back his drink.
' Now why should I do that? '
' Oh I could think of several reasons. '
She eyed him shrewdly.
' But I think the most likely is that it has something to do with a girl. '
The moment she said it she knew she had hit the nail on the head.
It was there in his expression though he feigned bored impatience.
' Now why the hell should you think that? '
' Feminine intuition.
Who was it, Mark?
What went wrong?
You must have cared an awful lot about her to deliberately stay away from London because of her.
Now wait a minute  it wouldn't be that young fashion designer, would it?
The one with the place over in Whitechapel? '
He set his glass down sharply.
' What do you know about her? '
' Nothing really.
Just that someone told me you'd been seeing her.
It is her, isn't it?
Oh come on, Mark, you can tell me! '
' Hasn't it occurred to you, Skeeter, that I might not want to?
Being my step-sister doesn't give you a God-given right to know all my business. '
His tone was still laconic but she heard the undertones and was warned.
Mark could bite If upset  and of course he was quite right, she shouldn't pry into what was none of her business.
' Sorry, ' she said.
' It's all right. '
But he still looked a little spiky.
The girl must have given him the elbow, Harriet decided.
Most unusual  where Mark was concerned it was usually the other way round.
' Shall we have another drink? ' he suggested.
She hesitated, then pushed her glass towards him.
' Why not?
If Dad is going to brand me an alcoholic I might as well have the game as well as the name! '
When Hugo returned home dinner was served as soon as he had had time to change.
It was a sombre meal in spite of Mark's presence.
Hugo looked even more tired and strained than he had earlier, Harriet thought, and Sally was edgy and preoccupied though she seemed greatly relieved when Hugo told her that the insurance investigator, Tom O'Neill, had seemed satisfied with what he had been able to tell him and had not expressed any desire for a further interview or the need to come to the house to speak to Sally.
' He tells me he is going straight on to Australia to see Greg, ' Hugo said.
' Let's hope the whole thing ends there.
Though somehow I doubt it. '
' Why?
Why should you doubt it? '
Sally demanded.
Harriet noticed her hands were shaking.
' Because the son of a bitch won't let up while he thinks there is the slightest chance of getting back his quarter of a million, ' Hugo said.
' Then why don't you just give it to him? '
Sally suggested.
' It would be worth it, Hugo, to get him off our backs. '
' If that were the case he could have it and welcome.
But it would simply look like an admission of guilt and I 'm damned If I 'm going to do that when I've nothing to hide. '
' Sydney, New South Wales, ' Harriet said irrelevantly.
They all looked at her questioningly and she explained: ' I was just thinking aloud '.
' You're not still entertaining this foolish idea of going to Australia to try to see Greg Martin yourself, I hope, ' Hugo said sharply.
' Yes', Harriet said.
' I am.
I 'm sorry, Dad, but I can't see it the way you do.
I 'm not prepared to simply brush it under the carpet and try to pretend it hasn't happened.
I want to find out the truth. '
' For goodness' sake, Harriet, don't do anything so foolish... '
Sally had turned pale again.
' You don't want to see Greg! '
' It 'll be a wasted journey.
If he's in police custody as he may well be by now they 'll never let her see him, ' Hugo said.
' I intend to try. '
' All I can say is I hope you weren't too rude to that insurance investigator then, ' Mark put in drily.
' If you want to see Greg then he's got to be your best chance.
You should persuade him to let you pose as his secretary or something. '
' Oh for heaven's sake, Mark, do you have to make everything into a joke? '
Harriet demanded.
' I 'm not joking  I 'm perfectly serious.
He 'll be given access to Martin, I should think.
He is a professional investigator, after all. '
' I wouldn't ask him for help if I were on a sinking ship and he was the only one with a lifebelt! '
Harriet said decisively.
At that moment Sally knocked over her glass of wine.
It ran in a red river across the polished table top and cascaded onto her peacock-blue cashmere skirt.
She leaped up, dabbing at it with a napkin.
' Oh no!
It 'll be ruined!
I must take it off at once and give it to Donna so that she can rinse it... '
She hurried from the room.
' Sally is in one hell of a state, ' Mark said easily.
' This business has made her really jumpy.
She's not herself at all. '
' Is it surprising? '
Hugo snapped.
' I should have thought anyone with a grain of sensitivity would realise how painful it is for all of us to have this all raked up again.
As if it wasn't bad enough for us to live through it once... '
Harriet stood up.
' I 'll go and see if she's all right.
I don't want any more dinner.
I am honestly not hungry. '
' Neither I think are any of us, ' Hugo observed.
In her room Sally eventually managed to get out of her dress though her hands were trembling so much she had great difficulty with the zipper.
Then she kicked it away and sank onto the bed covering her face with her hands.
God in heaven, where was this nightmare going to end?
Was it really only the day before yesterday when everything had been so pleasant and normal?
When she had been able to plan her charity lunches and her dinner parties, go shopping, gossip with friends, look at her life and know that at last she had achieved all she had ever wanted, even If sometimes it was a little lonely, a little empty?
Now in every corner, wherever she looked, the ghosts of the past seemed to be congregating to mock her until she felt sure she must be going mad.
A tap at the door and without waiting for her answer it opened a fraction.
' Sally? '
It was Harriet s voice, Harriet s anxious face peeping round.
' Are you all right? '
' Yes. '
Somehow she got a hold of herself and went to pick up her dress.
' How could I be so clumsy? '
' You're upset.
Let me take the dress to Donna while you find something else to put on. '
Sally let her take it.
Then before she could stop herself she asked: ' You're not really going to Australia are you, Harriet? '
' Yes, I am. '
Sally caught at her arm.
' Don't go, darling, please.
You never know, you might find out something you'd rather not know. '
Harriet's brows came together in a puzzled little line.
' Dad said something similar.
You're afraid, both of you, that I might discover Mom isn't dead at all, aren't you? '
Sally said nothing, and Harriet went on: ' You don't really think she could do something like that, do you?
Disappear and let us all think she was dead if she wasn't? '
For a moment Sally did not answer.
' Your mom was a very determined lady when she wanted something, ' she said, avoiding Harriet's eyes.
' She usually got it one way or another. '
' You mean you do think...
Sally, she was your sister, dammit! '
' Yes', Sally said softly.
' She was my sister all right. '
She crossed to one of her closets, sliding hangers along the rail.
' Go back to the others, Harriet.
I 'm all right.
I 'll be down in a minute. '
For a moment longer Harriet hesitated, then she nodded.
' If you're sure you're all right. '
' Yes, really.
Go along with you. '
The door closed after Harriet, and Sally rifled through her wardrobe looking for a dress of mauve-sprigged white seersucker, slightly yellowed now, and quite out of place amongst the designer gowns.
She should have thrown it out years ago but somehow she'd never had the heart.
She'd loved that dress, felt so grown up in it!
She slipped it off its hanger and held it against herself and it was almost as If the face looking back at her from the mirror across it was fourteen years old again.
As she stood there holding it the memories came flooding back  and not all of them pleasant.
For she had been wearing this dress the night she had first glimpsed the truth about her sister, a truth that was as unpalatable now as it had been then.
' Oh Paula! ' she whispered and suddenly tears were running down her cheeks, making rivulets in her carefully-applied make-up.
' What happened to you?
And dear God, what happened to me? '
She stood quite still, holding the dress with arms folded around her waist, and remembered.
CHAPTER FIVE
As she climbed the stairs Sally could hear the low voices and the giggles coming from the bedroom she shared with her sister and knew what it meant.
Paula had brought her friend Louise home with her and they would be sharing the sort of older-girl talk that always made Sally feel like an intruder  and a very gauche, childish intruder at that.
She hesitated, torn between the unaccountable shyness she always felt in Louise's presence and the overwhelming desire to be in on whatever it was they were giggling about, even if she was only a barely tolerated spectator.
Fascination with the older girls won just as it always did and she crossed the landing, an expanse of lino dotted with what her mother referred to as' slip mats', pushed open the door and went in.
Two pairs of accusing eyes focused on her.
Paula, wearing tight pedal pushers and a cotton off-the-shoulder jersey, was sprawled on her elbows on the tiled fire-surround, smoking and puffing the smoke up the chimney whilst Louise, stripped to her sexy black lace underwear, was lying on the bed pounding at her thighs with some kind of massager which appeared to consist of a collection of rubber pimples on a brush head.
' Sally!
What are you doing here? '
Paula demanded.
' It's my room too, ' Sally said defensively.
' I can come in if I like. '
' Oh you're such a nuisance!
Go and listen to the radio or something. '
' There's nothing on the radio.
I want to get a book. '
' Well hurry up and leave us alone. '
' Oh, chrie, don't be so hard on her! '
Louise said, still pounding away at what she considered to be her fat legs.
Louise was French and luscious, as every male in the district between the ages of fourteen and eighty-four would testify  most from wishful thinking but quite a number from experience.
Louise was what was known as an ' exchange student '; at home in N?mes she was training to be an English teacher and she was doing a year's exchange as part of her course, teaching French conversation at the local grammar school.
She and Paula, who was in the sixth form, had struck up a close relationship; when Louise was not occupied in tantalising and inflaming some poor young man she and Paula were always together, drinking endless cups of espresso coffee to the accompaniment of Elvis and Cliff and Tommy Steele on the juke-box in the Black Cat Coffee Bar, haring about on Louise's smart little Lambretta scooter, or simply spending an evening painting one another's toenails, plucking one another's eyebrows and generally trying to make themselves even more fatally attractive to the opposite sex, which, without doubt, they already were.
' You are not kind to your little seester! '
Louise said reprovingly.
' Don't stand in the doorway, Sally, come in.
Come in quickly or the smell of smoke will go downstairs, will it not? '
' Oh no! '
Paula wailed.
' If Mum finds out I've been smoking she 'll kill me.
Don't you dare tell her either, Sally, or I 'll kill you! '
' Of course I won't tell.
But she's bound to smell the smoke anyway. '
' She won't.
It's going up the chimney.
And if you stay you're not to tell her what we're talking about either.
Go on.
Louise, you were telling me about Roger Clarke.
Is he a fast worker?
Everybody says he is. '
Louise giggled.
' 'ee theenks'ee is.
But I could teach 'im a thing or two.
All he wants to do is to get his hand inside my blouse or up my skirt, but if I gave him the chance to do anything more he'd be so scared he'd wet his pants. '
' You wouldn't let him though, would you? '
' I might.
And then again I might not. '
Louise gave her thigh one more enthusiastic pummel, then sat up.
' There  that ees better.
Do you want a go with this theeng, Paula? '
' No, it's made your legs go all red. '
' That will soon go.
And it's better than being fat.
But then, you are not fat, are you, Paula? '
She gazed enviously at Paula's long legs, slim and shapely in the skin-tight pedal pushers.
' What about you, Sally?
Do you want to try? '
' Don't encourage her, ' Paula warned.
' Why not?
Why shouldn't Sally look nice too? '
She turned to Sally, who was kneeling in the corner beside her bookcase, trying to make herself unobtrusive.
' Come on, Sally, let me look at you.
You 'ave fat legs like me.
We big girls must stick together. '
Sally was unsure whether to be pleased that Louise was including her or annoyed that she had called her fat.
She wasn't fat, but then neither was Louise, so perhaps it was all right.
She slipped out of her cotton skirt and the enormously full paper nylon petticoat she wore beneath it.
It lay like a great wounded butterfly on the rug.
Then she sat on the bed, trying not to wince as Louise rubbed cream into her thighs and pounded at them enthusiastically.
' What are you wearing to the youth club dance on Saturday night, Louise? '
Paula asked, stubbing out her cigarette and concealing the end in an empty lozenge tin she used as an ashtray.
' Oh, I don't know... '
The older girls drifted off into one of their exclusive conversations and Sally bit her lip against the rasp of Louise's massager and wished desperately that she could go to the youth club dance too.
Not only would it make her feel almost as grown up as Paula and Louise, but Pete Jackson, with whom Sally was hopelessly in love, was certain to be there.
Pete was in her form at school and whenever she looked at him little quivers she could not identify started deep inside her.
Sometimes she thought from the way he seemed to watch her that he might like her too but he had never said anything and Sally was beginning to be afraid he never would.
But if they were to meet away from school, out of uniform, no longer under the watchful eye of the masters and mistresses in their chalk-marked black gowns, then maybe it would be different.
' Do you think Mum would let me come too? ' she asked.
' I shouldn't think so, ' Paula said quickly.
' There is someone you fancy? '
Louise asked perceptively, and when Sally blushed she turned to Paula.
' Oh, we could tell your mother we will look after her.
Then she would let her go, no? '
' No! '
Paula protested.
Most of her life, it seemed to her, she had been hampered by having to look after Sally and she had no intention of having her Saturday evening's fun spoiled.
There was a boy she fancied herself  Jeff Freeman  and she was busy laying plans to entice him away from his steady girlfriend.
The presence of her kid sister would inhibit her horribly.
' She hasn't got anything to wear anyway ', she continued scathingly.
' Then I shall lend her something of mine.
We are about the same size, no?
I shall make her so beautiful no boy will be able to resist. '
She ran the massager up the inside of Sally's thigh again but suddenly it did not hurt any more.
As the rim brushed her groin Sally felt a sharp sweet pleasure which seemed to shoot up inside her on silken cords to that deep core where the trickles of excitement played every time she thought of Pete.
As Louise moved away she experienced a powerful urge to grab the massager and tug it close to her secret places again but she did not dare.
She just lay thinking how wonderful it would be if she could actually make Pete notice her.
It had always seemed such an impossible dream, but with Louise talking about it so matter-of-factly it seemed almost a fait accompli.
Much to Paula's annoyance Louise persuaded Gwen Bristow to allow Sally to go to the dance.
Sally was triumphant, but by the time Saturday came she was almost sick with excitement and apprehension.
Oh, if only she looked more like Paula! she thought longingly.
If only she could lose her puppy fat and get her hair done at a proper salon instead of having it cut by Ivy Tucker who lived down the road and who did hairdressing for pin money.
But it wasn't easy to lose puppy fat when Mum fed her on stodgy good home cooking  stews with dumplings and meat pies with pastry crusts and steamed sponge puddings, and there was no money to spare for proper hairdressing salons.
Sally knew her mother had trouble making ends meet on the nine pounds ten shillings a week that her father brought home from his job as an electrician's mate and she didn't have the heart to plead for luxuries she knew they could not afford as Paula did.
Too often she had seen her mother frowning with anxiety as she divided the contents of her father's wage packet up between the jars labelled ' Rent ' and ' Electric ' and ' Coal Money ', too often at the end of the week she had watched her count out the pennies for a pound of sausages only to be able to buy just a half-pound, two for her father, one each for Paula and Sally, and only the scrapings of the pan to go with her own potatoes.
' When I grow up I 'll make sure I've always got enough money for a whole pound of sausages and eggs to go with them, ' Sally thought, but she never said anything.
She did not want to add to her mother's troubles.
At four o'clock Louise arrived on her scooter and parked it outside the Bristows' council house.
The house was semi-detached, which put them on a higher social level than the people who lived in the long uniform ranks, a pleasant, gravel-faced house which had been built after the war and which had a good sized garden back and front, three bedrooms, a bathroom  and an outside toilet, coal house and glory hole.
Sally loved the house.
Before moving into it the family had lived with Sally's grandparents and it had been very cramped.
Their grandparents had made the lounge into a bedroom so that Grandad didn't have to do the stairs with his bad legs and a bedroom had been turned into a sitting room and furnished with a table, chairs and sideboard that her parents had acquired when they got married though they had no house to put it in.
When Paula and Sally played records on the wind-up gramophone in the sitting room Grandad banged on the ceiling with his stick to warn them to be quieter.
After this the council house seemed the height of luxury to Sally.
She kept rabbits in a hutch in the back garden behind the rows of cabbages and the clump of rhubarb and did not mind at all that in winter she had to wash at night in a bowl set on a sheet of brown paper in front of the living room fire because there was no heater in the bathroom.
Louise was carrying a large bag which she had managed to balance on the handlebars of her scooter.
Paula and Sally took her straight up to their bedroom.
' Thees is the dress I bring for you, ' she announced, pulling it out of its tissue paper and spreading it, slightly creased, on the bed.
' You like it? '
' Oh yes! '
Sally gasped.
It was a beautiful dress, white seersucker dotted with small mauve flowers.
It had a deep ' sweetheart ' neckline, little puffed sleeves and a full skirt gathered into three tiers.
Next out of the bag came a paper nylon petticoat with many more layers of frothy rainbow-coloured net than the one Sally carefully washed in sugar water after each wearing, and then, to Sally's delight, a saucy little white basque, boned and trimmed with lace.
' She can't possibly wear that! '
Paula exclaimed, scandalised.
' She's much too young  and it will never fit her, anyway. '
' Of course it will.
It fits me.
And with this dress she needs a tiny waist.
Why can't she wear it? '
' You could have lent it to me, ' Paula said, peeved.
' No, it is for Sally.
Please try it on, Sally. '
Sally held her breath as Louise fastened the multitude of little hooks and eyes and tried not to notice the little roll of fat that squeezed out above and below it.
' Now the petticoat. '
It rustled satisfyingly.
' And the dress... well, what do you think, Sally? '
Sally tipped the dressing table mirror to get a view first of her top half, then her lower.
' It's lovely  but what about shoes?
Mine are clumsy and awful. '
Louise dived into her carrier bag again.
' Voila! ' she said, producing a pair of strappy white sandals.
Sally squeezed her feet into them and surveyed her image again.
Unbelievable!
Just wait until Pete saw her!
He was certain to ask her to dance when she looked like this!
' Now  your hair, ' Louise said matter-of-factly.
' We will make it wet and put it in rags.
It will be dry by the time we leave for the dance. '
Sure enough, it was.
When the rags came out the mass of frizz made Sally screech with horror but when Louise had teased it a little with her Mason Pearson brush and a long tail comb Sally saw that the usually severe schoolgirlish cut had been transformed into a mop of pretty curls.
Paula and Louise were looking lovely too  Paula in a little white top with a boat shaped neck and a bright turquoise circular skirt, Louise in a figure hugging number which left none of her curves to the imagination  but for the first time in her life Sally felt she could compete with them on equal terms.
' Be sure to come straight home after the dance.
And make sure you stay together, ' Grace warned.
Paula pursed her lips and tossed her head, looking annoyed.
But Sally scarcely noticed.
By nine-thirty the dance was in full swing.
As it was a special fundraising dance instead of the regularly fortnightly hop, a three-piece band had been brought in to replace the usual stack of gramophone records and there was' real food '  fishpaste sandwiches, sausage rolls and cheese and pineapple on sticks  which the ' committee ' had spent the entire afternoon preparing.
Paula and Louise had been nominated to sell the raffle tickets and did a round of the hall, flirting outrageously and telling all the boys the tickets were ' sixpence each or two shillings a strip '.
Naturally most of the boys opted for ' the strip ' and each time the innuendo was made the girls pretended it was terribly witty and original, If a little naughty, just as they did when they were asked for the twentieth time if perhaps they might be the prize.
Selling the tickets gave Paula an opportunity to make her play for Jeff Freeman.
She waited for Jean, his girlfriend, to go to the Ladies, and then pounced, flirting madly and manoeuvring him into bartering with her that he would buy two whole strips if she would have a dance with him.
Then without the slightest compunction she thrust her basin of money and book of tickets into Sally's lap and let him drag her, protesting theatrically, onto the dance floor.
When Jean returned from the Ladies there was no sign of either of them, for at the end of the dance they had slipped unnoticed out of one of the wide-open fire exits and around the back of the hall where only courting couples went.
Half an hour later they were still missing.
When she finished selling the remaining tickets Sally looked around for them, realised what had happened and went back to sit on one of the hard upright chairs which lined the hall.
She was feeling wretched.
For her, the evening had not turned out at all as she had hoped.
Several boys had asked her to dance but she had refused them all, afraid she might miss her chance with Pete, but he seemed not to have noticed her at all in spite of Louise's dress.
Once she had thought he was coming in her direction and her heart had begun to pump with excitement but he had walked straight past, heading for the bar that was selling soft drinks only (with a crate of beer hidden under the counter for the benefit of the band).
Tears pricked her eyes and she stared hard at the floor.
' Wan na dance? ' a voice enquired and Sally looked up to see a boy in a velvet-collared jacket, drainpipes and crepe-soled shoes standing in front of her, a lick of greasy hair falling across a face shiny with perspiration.
' No thank you, ' she started to say, then caught sight of Pete  dancing with someone else.
Her heart dropped like a stone and somehow she got to her feet.
The boy grabbed her hand with his sweaty one.
She danced in a haze of misery, scarcely noticing when the music changed from vibrant rock-and-roll to ' the creep ' and when the lights were lowered and he pulled her close she couldn't be bothered to protest though she was revolted by the smell of beer on his breath (where had he got it?) mingling with strong body odours.
The teddy-boy seemed to take her listlessness for acquiescence.
His hands strayed down to a spot just below the first frill on her skirt and he pushed his hips against hers so that she could clearly feel the bulge between his legs.
Suddenly it was all to much for Sally.
She grabbed his hands and removed them from her bottom.
Then she turned and fled from the dance floor, pushing her way between the smooching couples and heading for the Ladies, a box of a room with pegs lining two walls, a flyblown mirror over a grubby cracked china sink and two cubicles.
Ignoring the girls who were primping in front of the mirror she ran to the cubicles and dived inside one, slamming the door after her and leaning against it.
What a disaster!
If only she could just go home, hide away and never have to see anyone again  but she had promised to stick with Paula and there would be all kinds of awkward questions and recriminations if she arrived home alone.
High heels pattered across the cloakroom floor and someone pushed at the toilet door.
' Damn, ' said a voice outside.
' They're both occupied. '
' Never mind, they won't be long. '
' I haven't got long.
If I don't get back and find Jeff soon it 'll be time for my last bus and I can't go without seeing him.
He is supposed to be my boyfriend, after all. '
' Supposed to be.
Some boyfriend if you ask me! '
Sally stood motionless.
She had recognised the voices  Jean, Jeff's girl and her friend, Peggy.
' I wouldn't stand for it If I were you, ' Peggy was saying indignantly.
' I wouldn't let him treat me like that. '
' It's not his fault.
It's that Paula Bristow  Lady Muck herself.
Who does she think she is? '
Jean's voice was rising; she sounded tearful.
' Don't upset yourself, Jean.
He's not worth it.
Nor is she.
She's a fast cat.
She 'll let the boys do what they like.
That's why they flock round her.
You ask my brother.
The things he could tell you about her would make your hair curl.
She's got no pride.
She just doesn't care. '
Sally began to quiver with anger.
Forgetting her own misery and embarrassment she threw open the door.
' That's my sister you're talking about! '
For a moment the two girls stared at her, shocked, then Peggy recovered herself.
' It's true, anyway, ' she said defiantly.
' And you're as bad as she is!
You 'll let any boy paw you too.
I saw you just now with Gary.
His hands were all over you! '
' You're just jealous! '
Sally cried, her face scarlet.
She pushed past the girls and marched over to the wastepaper bin beneath the sink.
It was full of used cloakroom tickets, torn paper towel, bits of face-powdery cotton wool and the shavings of eyebrow pencils.
She picked it up, went back to the two girls and dumped it unceremoniously over Peggy's head.
Then she ran from the cloakroom, down the narrow dark passage and out into the night.
The sound of merriment emanating from the hall jangled her nerves, the sight of the courting couples pressed against the wall was enough to bring her to the edge of tears again.
What an evening!
Bad enough that Pete didn't want her.
But to overhear Jean and Peggy saying those things about Paula was somehow almost worse, for in her heart Sally knew they were not far removed from the truth.
For the first time in her life she felt as if the veil had been stripped from her idol and she was looking at the real person who hid away inside a beautiful body, seeing her through the eyes of others who had no family love for her to colour what they saw.
Paula was a flirt.
She did think she was a little bit better than everyone else.
And she was prepared to go to any lengths to get what she wanted  and almost always succeeded.
' Oh sugar! '
Sally said.
And there in the darkness, with half an hour to wait before she could even start looking for Paula with a view to going home, she began to cry.
CHAPTER SIX
After three weeks of misery Sally woke up one morning and realised she was no longer in love with Pete.
The fact that her stomach no longer turned over when he looked at her came as a surprise and disappointment  even unrequited love was better than no love at all.
A fortnight after she had made this earth-shattering discovery she was amazed when he stuttered out an invitation to the cinema.
Hoping to rekindle the fire Sally accepted, but it was no use.
Close to, she discovered, Pete smelled of carbolic soap, a dreadful turn-off, and when he kissed her in the dark it was so wet and sloppy she longed only to search for her handkerchief and wipe her mouth dry.
During the next year Sally fell in and out of love a half dozen times and each time it proved to be just as disastrous.
A few boys asked her out but never the right ones, never the ones she wanted to ask her, and Sally began to wonder how two people ever came to be in love with one another at the same time.
It was a miracle that so many people managed it  and for long enough to get engaged and married.
But perhaps they were luckier than she was, or just plain less fussy.
Paula certainly never seemed to encounter such problems.
She had a string of boyfriends and no matter how badly she treated them there were always others lined up and waiting.
But then of course Paula was so lovely she had only to look at a boy to have him crazy about her, Sally thought wretchedly.
Then, in the spring when she was sixteen, the miracle happened.
His name was Edward Blake and he was nineteen years old  really grown up!
Besides this he was stunningly handsome.
It was the beginning of the tennis season.
As a member of the school team Sally was expected to stay behind after school to practise.
One afternoon after an especially long session she was forced to catch a much later bus home than usual.
She sprinted across the playground, hampered by her satchel and tennis racket, just as the bus was about to pull away, and leaped aboard.
The bus was full and the conductor grumpy.
' Hold on tight now! ' he called, ringing the bell.
Sally staggered down the aisle, trying not to bang the other passengers with her tennis racket.
' Let me take that, ' said a male voice and turning she found herself looking into a pair of startlingly blue eyes.
' There's a seat here, ' he went on, moving to let her in.
She sat down, settling her satchel on her lap and stealing another glance at him.
Thick fair hair, a wonderful complexion  not a sign of a spot!  and those blue eyes!
Sally felt a little flush of excitement creeping up her cheeks and she was acutely conscious of her gingham uniform dress and the beret which school rules said must be worn at all times when outside the school grounds.
Failure to do so was punished by being forced to wear the hated beret for a whole day in school  for lessons, lunch, everything, a badge of shame Sally had so far managed to avoid.
But just now she thought she would willingly endure any punishment if only she dared take her hat off without making it perfectly obvious she was making a pass at him.
' You aren't usually on this bus, ' he said and Sally felt her cheeks grow hotter.
Oh please don't let me blush now! she prayed.
' No, I 'm late.
I've been playing tennis. '
' That explains it. '
He shifted the racket between his knees.
' Do you play a lot? '
' When I can. '
' Are you good? '
' Not bad, considering the shaky start I had.
When I was a first year I was put in as ballboy and I didn't know the rules.
I kept throwing the ball back to the wrong player.
Every time I thought I'd got the hang of it the service changed.
And then I was sent to retrieve the balls from the headmaster's garden.
I was terrified of knocking on the door of the house to ask permission but I was even more terrified of going back and making a fool of myself because of my ignorance on court so I spent the rest of the afternoon skulking behind the sweet peas. '
He laughed.
He had a nice laugh, she thought.
They chattered until Sally realised the bus was pulling up at her stop.
She scrambled to her feet.
' I get off here. '
He handed her her racket.
' When can I see you again? '
' Oh! '
She knew her cheeks were flaming now.
' I don't know... '
' Are you getting off or not? ' the conductor yelled, his finger on the bell.
' Can you get to Bath?
I 'll see you on Saturday  half past seven at the bus stop, ' the boy said.
' Yes, all right... '
She staggered down the gangway, shell-shocked, and walked home feeling as if she was floating on air but as Saturday approached the nervousness began.
she could get a bus to Bath, but how would she get home again?
Where would he take her?
What should she wear?
She didn't even know his name but she did know that this time she was IN LOVE!
The question of what to wear was easily settled.
Louise had gone back to N?mes now but she had left Sally the white dress as a parting gift and even without the waspie-waisted basque it was by far the nicest thing Sally owned.
She wore it with a pair of new white sandals and a lacy white cardigan her mother had knitted for her.
At a quarter past seven she got off the bus in Bath worrying that he might stand her up.
But he was there waiting and looked more handsome than ever in a grey suit with a white shirt.
' Would you like to go to the dance at the Regency? ' lie asked.
' Oh yes  only I've got to catch the last bus home and it leaves at a quarter to eleven... '
' Don't worry, I 'll have you on it, ' he promised.
The Regency had once been a Palace of Varieties.
There was a bar selling alcoholic drinks and two milk bars, one at floor level, one in what had once been the balcony, and a huge multi-faceted glass ball which hung over the dance floor.
A narrow gallery ran around the other three sides of the hall from which it was possible to watch the dancers or enjoy the band  a real band, at least a dozen musicians, all in uniform blazers and bow ties.
Sometimes the big name bands came to the Regency  Kenny Ball and Ted Heath, Acker Bilk and The Temperance Seven, but tonight it was the resident band.
The whole place seemed to be throbbing with the music they made.
Sally left her bag in the cloakroom and met Edward in the balcony milk bar where he had a strawberry milk shake waiting for her.
She sipped it through a straw looking around with interest.
The place hadn't filled up yet but she noticed that the boys were congregating at the end of the hall beneath the balcony and on the left hand side while the girls were spread between the tables and chairs on the opposite wall, chatting and giggling and trying to pretend they were not waiting to be asked to dance.
A few girls were dancing together as they did at the youth club hops and the dancing was of the proper ' ballroom variety '  waltzes, quicksteps and foxtrots.
When Edward suggested they dance Sally was grateful for the lessons she had endured in the school gymnasium with Miss Smart the games teacher yelling ' slow, slow, quick quick, slow ' in time to the music.
Edward danced well, guiding her with confidence, and soon he was holding her very close.
Unlike Pete he smelled nice  Sally thought it was Old Spice  and when he pressed his hips against hers she was excited by the sensations it aroused, not revolted as she had been with the Teddy Boy at the youth club dance.
Over his shoulder she glanced at the clock over the door  the hands seemed to be moving very fast and she was reluctant to say it was time she was going.
At last she could postpone it no longer  she had just ten minutes to get to her bus!
She collected her bag and hand in hand they ran all the way  just in time to see the bus disappearing along the road.
' Whatever will I do?
Mum will kill me! '
Sally wailed.
' Don't worry, I 'll get you a taxi, ' he promised.
He'd never ask her out again now, Sally thought gloomily.
But as they walked to the taxi rank he said: ' Could you get into Bath in the week?
We could go to the pictures, ' and she agreed happily.
Edward paid the taxi driver in advance and all the way home she sat in a happy daze.
The curtains twitched as the taxi pulled up outside her house and her mother was in the doorway.
' What on earth are you doing coming home in a taxi? '
' Edward got it for me. '
' Edward is it?
Well all I can say is he must have money to burn! '
' He just wanted to make sure I got home safely, ' Sally said smugly.
For the first time in her life she felt she had outdone Paula, who had never, ever, arrived home in a taxi!
That summer was the most exciting Sally had ever known.
Twice weekly she went to Bath to meet Edward, though ever afterwards he made sure she was on the last bus home.
Sometimes they went to the cinema, sometimes they sat in coffee bars holding hands across the table, sometimes they walked in the park, and on Saturdays they almost always went to the dance.
Sally lived in a happy whirl marred only by worrying about how far she should go.
After the first few dates when he had kissed and cuddled her and only touched her breasts through her blouse, he had started slipping his hand inside.
Although she felt a little guilty about letting him do it Sally found she quite liked the feel of his fingers stroking her flesh and teasing her nipples but when he tried to put his hand up her skirt beneath her scratchy petticoats she tried to stop him.
' Don't, please, ' she begged, grabbing his hand.
' Why? ' he asked, creeping up further.
' Because. '
But he refused to take no for an answer and after a few unseemly tussles Sally decided it was easier to give in and let him explore inside the leg of her panties.
At first it wasn't too bad but soon his finger was prodding right inside her and that hurt, a sharp, squeaky sort of pain like someone drawing a fingernail across a sheet of plastic.
As he prodded around all the dreamy romantic feelings she experienced when he kissed her disappeared and all she could think of was when would he stop, and couldn't he please just hold her again, very close, with the firm bulge of his body against her, far more erotic through several layers of clothes than his scratching, poking finger.
The next thing was that he wanted her to hold the bulge.
The first time was in the cinema.
In the darkness, under cover of which they had been kissing cuddling so much (with his hand inside her blouse) that she had not the first idea what the film was about, he took her hand and guided it down to his lap.
Sally almost jumped as she encountered the rigid roll.
She took her hand away, but Edward only replaced it.
What was she supposed to do?
Taking a deep breath she gripped the roll and held onto it, not moving.
She simply couldn't bring herself to stroke or rub it.
But Edward seemed satisfied.
He kissed her fervently and they stayed that way until the lights went up and the usherettes began moving down the aisles with their trays of icecream.
Sally sat with her hands folded in her lap, squinting down to make sure her blouse was done up properly and embarrassed to meet Edward's eyes.
Presumably everybody else in the world did it she thought.
But remembering still made her blush all over.
One thing she was quite certain of  she was in love with Edward and that meant she would have to continue to let him  or he would find someone else who would.
Boys were like that  the girls at school said so.
The trouble was that if you permitted intimacy you would be thought of as' cheap ' and perhaps be talked about as the girls at the dance had talked about Paula, only by the boys, which was worse, but if you didn't no boy would be prepared to bother with you for long.
The dilemma threatened to spoil Sally's happiness but one thing she was certain of  whatever it took she would do it because she couldn't bear to lose him.
' Sally, I want you to do something for me, ' Paula said.
Her voice had that familiar note that was halfway between wheedling and autocracy and Sally's heart sank.
When Paula used that tone it usually meant trouble.
' What? ' she asked, rather aggressively.
' Sally! '
Paula gave her a hurt glare.
' I don't very often ask you to do anything for me  and I did lend you my ear-rings when you went out with that Edward last week. '
' All right  what is it you want? '
' Help me get out of going to Gran's on Sunday. '
Once a fortnight on a Sunday afternoon the girls went to tea with Gran Bristow in the little house that had once been their home.
Sally quite enjoyed the visits but Paula had no patience for making conversation with Gran, who tended to have very old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool ideas and was easily shocked, and she hated having to eat her way through the ham salad and bread and butter, Victoria sponge and tinned fruit and cream which Gran not only laid on but also piled high on her plate because she thought Paula much too thin.
' Oh Paula! '
Sally scolded.
' You know how Gran looks forward to seeing us.
And Mum and Dad are going off on holiday on Saturday, so they won't be popping in to visit for a couple of weeks. '
' Exactly.
That's why you can tell Gran a white lie and she won't know any different. '
' What sort of a white lie? '
Paula's face took on a vixenish wickedness.
' I did think you could say I had a cold because you know how frightened Gran is of catching colds.
But it's a bit boring and it is the middle of summer.
So tell her I broke the heel on my shoe as we were walking over. '
' Won't she expect you to come over once you've been home and changed your shoes? '
Sally asked reasonably.
' You can say I twisted my ankle when the heel broke, ' Paula improvised.
' But why don't you want to go to Gran 's? '
Sally asked.
' It's a drag.
All my friends will be at the coffee bar. '
' I 'm not telling lies for you just because you want to go to the coffee bar, ' Sally objected.
' In fact I don't like telling lies for you full stop.
If you don't want to go you 'll just have to say so. '
' Well, if you're going to be like that... '
Paula said slyly, ' I might just tell Mum what you and Edward get up to in the pictures. '
' What do you mean? '
Sally demanded, but a scarlet flush was creeping up her neck at an alarming rate and flooding her cheeks.
Paula smiled, enjoying her sister's discomfort  and the feeling of power it gave her.
' As if you didn't know!
But if you really want me to go into details Valerie Mitchell was sitting not far from you last week.
And she was pretty shocked, I can tell you. '
Valerie Mitchell lived in the next road and travelled to work on the same bus as Paula.
What she had actually said was: ' Your little sister has grown up, hasn't she?
Well, enough to have a good time in the back row at the pictures anyway, ' and she had certainly not elaborated.
But Sally was not to know that and she was mortified.
Oh God, if Valerie had been shocked perhaps she was going too far!
And if Paula should tell her mother she thought she would die of shame!
' I shouldn't think Mum would let you go out with Edward again if she knew what you get up to, ' Paula said carelessly.
' But of course if you tell Gran about my broken shoe on Sunday there really won't be any need for her to know. '
' Sometimes I hate you, Paula, ' Sally said.
' Sometimes I wish you weren't my sister.
You really aren't very nice at all. '
Paula shrugged, looking very smug.
' Who cares about being nice? ' she asked.
' Getting what you want is much more important.
And I am going to get what I want, aren't I? '
Sally nodded.
' Yes, ' she said in a small, ashamed voice.
' Yes, I suppose you are.
You always do. '
In spite of all the worrying about it the next stage with Edward still took Sally by surprise when it actually happened.
They were in a dark corner behind the bandstand in the park and had quickly gone through all the other stages, including the one Sally liked best, kissing and pressing the lower half of their bodies close together as if they were dancing.
Tonight her skirt was rucked up almost to her waist and she found this was even better than usual because the bulge fitted neatly between her thighs and touched even deeper chords of excitement.
So ecstatic was she that she did not notice Edward fumbling with his clothes until she became aware of moist clingy flesh, thrusting and rubbing.
Her heart came into her mouth with a great choking leap.
' Edward  stop it! ' she gasped.
He did not seem to hear her.
He was rocking and moaning, his breathing heavy and catchy.
' Edward! ' she protested, wriggling.
She could feel the tip probing up the leg of her panties and she knew it should not be there.
This was not just embarrassing, it was downright dangerous.
She put her hand down to push him away and he grabbed it, squeezing it around the erect penis and forcing her to rub it up and down.
As she felt the muscular ridges pulsing and throbbing she almost sobbed aloud from a mixture of fear, curiosity and excitement, but at least the thing was no longer between her legs.
Then she felt it jerk violently and Edward shuddered and bit her neck as warm sticky fluid spurted into her hand.
She stood quite still not knowing what to do and after a moment he pulled away, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped himself, his hand and hers.
Then he threw his handkerchief into a bush.
' Can't take that home, ' he said with a shaky laugh.
Sally felt shaky too.
She wriggled her skirt down over her thighs and when she risked a look she was relieved to discover Edward had done his trousers up again.
Suddenly she longed to have him kiss her again and hold her close.
That would somehow make everything all right.
But he no longer seemed interested.
' It's time for your bus, ' he said.
Inexplicably Sally felt like crying.
He held her hand as they walked through the streets but Sally could not feel any of the warmth she so desperately needed.
It was a clear night and there was an enormous moon which was reflected in the dark waters of the river Avon  it should be so romantic, Sally thought, but somehow it wasn't.
She felt sadder than ever.
' I 'll see you on Saturday, same time, same place, ' Edward said giving her a quick peck and pushing her up the steps of the bus.
On the way home Sally could feel people looking at her and wondered why.
It was only when she got home and looked in the hall mirror that she saw the enormous dark red love bite on her neck.
Quickly she covered the bruise with her collar.
Heaven knew how she would conceal it at school tomorrow, especially as she had games.
Perhaps face powder or foundation?
Sally felt even more like crying.
She loved Edward.
But why did it all have to be so messy and complicated?
Why did it have to make her feel so horrid and ashamed?
She was still looking in the mirror making sure there were no other tell-tale signs of the evening's activities when the living-room door was thrown open and her mother, looking very stern, appeared.
' Sally  come in here this minute! ' she ordered.
Sally quaked inwardly.
Oh God, she must have been found out!
But who could have seen her in the park and reported back this quickly?
Nervously smoothing her skirt and praying there were no stains she had missed, she went along the hall and into the living room.
She knew at once it was serious because her father was still up.
Having to get up very early in the mornings he tended to be in bed by the time she arrived home on the last bus from Bath.
But here he was, still sitting in his chair (and looking as though he wished he weren't) whilst her mother stood on the hearth-rug, arms folded and wearing a furious expression.
Sally began to tremble in earnest.
' Well, madam! ' her mother demanded.
' What I would like to know is why you saw fit to tell barefaced lies to your grandmother while your Dad and I were on holiday. '
Sally was so surprised she could only stare.
' And what a stupid lie too! '
Grace went on furiously.
' Saying she'd broken the heel on her shoe!
The minute your gran told me about it I knew it wasn't true  and so did she, or suspected as much, anyway.
Why did you do it, Sally?
You know I won't have you telling lies. '
' I... well, Paula told me to, ' Sally said miserably.
' Oh yes, made up a story like that that she'd have known her gran would see through...
I can believe that. '
' She did.
She told me to say it. '
' I've already talked to Paula about this, ' Grace said sternly.
' She tells me she wasn't feeling well.
That was what you were supposed to tell your gran. '
' No. '
' Don't lie again, Sally.
I suppose you thought you'd paint Paula in a bad light and make it seem as though she couldn't be bothered to go.
Well, I 'm ashamed of you, I am really.
No! ' she wagged a finger to silence Sally's protest, ' I don't want to hear any more.
But I promise you this, my girl, if you tell lies again, particularly spiteful ones, then I shall find some way of punishing you that you won't forget in a hurry.
Go on to bed now. '
Sally went, relieved at not having had her love bite spotted but filled with indignation at having been blamed so unjustly for the Gran Bristow episode.
Paula was already in bed, reading a paper novelette.
' I've just caught it hot and holy for telling Gran lies, ' Sally yelled at her.
' You've got to tell Mum I only said what you told me to. '
Paula did not even look up from her book.
' No.
Why should I? '
' Because it's not fair!
They think I did it to get you into trouble or something.
You've got to tell them the truth! '
' I 'm not saying anything.
I'd only end up in the doghouse myself wouldn't I?
Just leave it, Sal. '
' But why should I get the blame? '
Sally cried.
' Because you're the twit. '
' And you're a horrible, selfish cow and I hate you!
Oh, how I hate you! '
There was a loud bang on the door and Grace's angry voice called: ' And you can stop that quarrelling, the pair of you.
You're like a pair of tom cats! '
' I hate you!
I hate you! '
Sally hissed under her breath.
' Keep quiet, Sally, you heard what Mum said. '
' And I 'll never forgive you.
Never! '
But even as she seethed she knew it was not true.
By this time tomorrow the whole thing would be forgotten and she would have forgiven Paula.
Paula could not help herself.
It was just the way she was.
Others might say they hated her and mean it.
Sally never would.
Whatever Paula did, however mean and underhand, however selfish, in the end Sally would find an excuse for her.
Wasn't that what sisters were for?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ever since she had left school Paula had worked in one of the big department stores in Bristol and she loved it, although the lengthy journey made for very long days and the bus fares ate holes in her meagre salary.
But to Paula Ladies' Fashions was a veritable Aladdin's cave of delights.
She loved the rails of beautiful clothes  the tailored suits and the beaded evening dresses, the taffeta and lace and wool baratheas and most of all the furs, and when she could she would slip into one of the changing rooms and try things on.
Because she was so tall and slim all the clothes looked marvellous on her and the other girls would groan their envy.
It simply was not fair that anyone could look so good in absolutely everything!
Paula disagreed.
The greatest unfairness, she thought, was that the women who could afford to buy the beautiful clothes simply did not do them justice, while she, who showed them off so well, had to save for weeks, even given her staff discount, for the most modestly priced item.
All too often she had to watch the garment she had set her heart on disappear out of the store inside one of the giant shiny carrier bags with rope handles.
One day, she promised herself, she would be rich enough to buy whatever she wanted  not only clothes but jewellery and perfume, real leather shoes and the very best cosmetics  no more Miners and Outdoor Girl from Woolworths!
Jenkinsons, the department store, occupied a grand old building in the heart of Bristol and a good third of the top floor was taken up by a restaurant  The Palm Court.
Genteel and restful with lace cloths on the little tables, parlour palms in pots around what might almost have been a dais for a three-piece orchestra, and table service by waitresses in neat black dresses and white lace caps and aprons, the Palm Court was invariably at its busiest with morning coffees and afternoon teas when shoppers were tempted with an array of dainty cakes and pastries and hot toasted teacakes in silver dishes complete with lids.
The clientele made a perfect captive audience and in the early autumn of Paula's second year at the store the management decided to bring in models to show the new season's fashions at the times when the restaurant was most likely to be full of ladies who had accounts with Jenkinsons and cheque books in their capacious handbags.
A local model agency provided the girls for the twice-weekly shows and Paula was detailed to help ' backstage '.
When the three girls arrived she was surprised to find that in spite of their sophistication they were not much older than she was and as she watched them glide out in the first selection of fashions she felt a small prickle of excitement.
If they could do it  why shouldn't she?
She was as tall as they were, she wore the clothes just as well and she was just as pretty, if not prettier.
Whilst dressing the models she tried to chat to them and ask how they had come by their jobs but they were not very forthcoming.
It was as if they considered themselves above socialising with a mere shop assistant.
Paula was annoyed but not subdued.
Her own self-confidence made her impervious to the intended snubs.
One morning as she was rushing back to the changing rooms one of the models slipped and twisted her ankle.
As she hobbled and hopped in agony Mrs Freer, the Fashion Buyer, fumed.
' We haven't shown the cornflower blue yet and I particularly wanted it to have an airing.
At the price it is, the sooner I can find a buyer for it the happier I 'll be. '
Paula, who was zipping one of the other models into a cocktail dress, felt her skin begin to prick with excitement.
' Let me wear it, Mrs Freer! ' she suggested.
' It fits me.
And I could model, I know I could! '
The other girls looked at her with dislike but Paula ignored them.
' Very well, ' Mrs Freer said after a moment's consideration.
' Try it on.
Hmm.
It does look good on you.
But you 'll need a little more eye shadow  blue to bring out the colour of the suit.
And will the hat sit right on your hair? '
On the shop floor Paula wore her hair in a French pleat.
Now she let it down and tied it at the nape of her neck with a scarf.
Above it, the hat sat perfectly.
A touch more eyeshadow and mascara and she twirled for Mrs Freer.
' Will I do? '
' Yes.
Now take your time, won't you?
Don't rush.
Give the customers plenty of opportunity to see you from all angles and let them feel the cloth if they want to.
And don't, for heaven's sake, bump into a table or one of the waitresses... '
' I know, ' Paula said impatiently.
Hadn't she been watching the models for weeks and dying for a chance to imitate them?
As she walked onto the floor her heart was beating fast with excitement but her face was a smiling serene mask.
She moved with natural grace, gliding between the tables, approaching customers who showed an interest to give them an extra twirl, unbuttoning the little figure-hugging jacket and posing with her hand on her waist, rucking up the jacket slightly to display the blouse underneath as she had seen the professional models do.
She was enjoying herself so much that she stayed on the floor longer than she should have done and it was only when she saw Mrs Freer making furious faces at her from the doorway that she turned and glided back.
She felt as if she were floating on air.
' Over exposure won't help one bit! '
Mrs Freer hissed as she passed her and in the dressing room the other models pointedly turned their backs on her, annoyed that an untrained shop girl should have been allowed to trespass in their territory.
But to Paula's triumphant delight the suit was snapped up the moment it went back onto its hanger  a solicitor's wife who had stopped for a coffee had fallen in love with it, even if the skirt did have to be taken up four full inches to make it fit her less-than-willow tall frame.
' You did quite well, ' Mrs Freer admitted grudgingly, then spoiled it by adding: ' Don't let it go to your head. '
The remark was lost on Paula.
She knew now without a moment's doubt exactly what she was going to do.
On her very next day off Paula made herself up carefully, put on her smartest suit  a cheap version of the one she had shown in the restaurant  and caught a bus to Bristol.
The model agency office was in a tall old house in Clifton and Paula splashed out some of her savings on a taxi so that she could at least arrive in style.
Her stomach was turning nervous somersaults as she rang the bell but she was determined no one should realise it.
Arlene Frampton-Cox, who ran the agency, had once been a model herself  and it showed.
She was tall and beautifully groomed with iron-grey hair, a smooth, high-cheekboned face and a most intimidating manner.
When Paula was shown into her office Arlene looked up from a sheaf of photographs which were spread on her desk with just a hint of impatience.
' Yes? '
' I want to be a model, ' Paula said directly.
' Could you take me onto your books? '
Arlene looked her up and down with a practised eye.
Although she gave no hint of it, she liked what she saw.
' What training have you had? ' she enquired.
' I haven't, ' Paula admitted.
' But I did stand in for one of your girls at Jenkinsons last week  and I sold the suit I showed. '
Arlene's scarlet lips tightened a shade.
She did not approve of amateurs, especially amateurs who thought they could step into the shoes of professional models.
' I 'm sorry but I 'm afraid there is no way I could take an untrained girl onto my books.
Though it may look easy there is a right way to walk, to sit, to turn, to remove a coat. '
Paula's heart sank.
She had thought she knew how to do these things but this imposing woman was making her feel very gauche, very uncomfortable.
Arlene's mouth twitched slightly but Paula did not notice it.
' Of course, if you wish to learn I do run classes in the art of modelling, ' she continued smoothly.
' Twelve lessons is normal, though if a girl is particularly adept eight might be sufficient.
I use a room at the Grand Hotel twice weekly, on a Tuesday and Thursday evening and do all the teaching myself.
That way I can be certain my pupils are properly trained. '
' And if I took the classes then you would take me onto your books? '
Paula asked.
' If you do well enough I would consider it. '
The steely-grey eyes ran over Paula again.
' How tall are you? '
' Five nine and a half. '
' And what are your measurements? '
' 33  21  32. '
' Too big in the bust, ' Arlene said shortly.
' But I dare say we could get around that.
A good strong binder instead of a brassiere  it's been done before. '
Paula shuddered.
She had spent most of her life wishing she had ' more up top '.
To be told she would have to get rid of some of the little she had was not what she had expected  or wanted to hear.
But she was too determined to be put off now.
' When can I start? ' she asked.
For the first time during the interview Arlene smiled faintly.
' Come along next Tuesday and I 'll see you are enrolled, ' she said.
' Modelling? '
Grace repeated in horror when Paula told her of her plans.
' I've never heard of such a thing!
Whatever put an idea like that in your head? '
' Why shouldn't I? '
Paula argued.
' I 'm the right shape  Mrs Frampton-Cox said so.
And I want to do it!
It's a wonderful job! '
' You have a good job. '
' No I haven't.
I've got a crummy ordinary dogsbody job.
I want to do something special. '
' But modelling!
Whatever will people say?
I've always been so proud of you, Paula.
I'd never be able to hold up my head again! '
' Oh really! '
Paula retorted.
' I shall be modelling clothes, not doing a strip-tease. '
' One thing leads to another, ' Grace said darkly.
' It's the life, Paula.
It's not right for a young girl.
Is it, Reg? ' she appealed to Paula's father, who was reading the Daily Mirror and enjoying a Woodbine after his well-earned tea.
' I don't suppose she 'll come to much harm, Grace, ' he replied mildly.
Grace sighed with exasperation.
Couldn't Reg ever take anything seriously?
Couldn't he see, as she could, the moral dangers of getting into that sort of fickle world?
' I don't care what you say, I 'm going to do it, ' Paula said and Grace shook her head resignedly.
Paula might look as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth but when her mind was made up to something it took a stronger woman than Grace to talk her out of it.
It had always been the same, ever since she was a little girl.
' Well I hope you 'll look out for yourself and remember how we've brought you up ', Grace warned.
Paula smiled, all sunshine now she had her own way, and treated her mother to a hug that was enthusiastic yet somehow oddly impersonal.
' I will.
And when I 'm famous you 'll be proud of me, ' she promised.
After only eight lessons Arlene asked Paula to wait at the end of class.
' If you're interested I have a job for you, ' she said shortly.
' Really? '
Paula's heart leaped.
' You mean you think I 'm good enough? ' she asked tentatively.
She had enjoyed the classes but the first thing they had taught her was how much she did not know, denting her confidence somewhat, and she was still terrified of the daunting Mrs Frampton-Cox.
' You've done quite well, ' Arlene conceded, keeping to herself the growing excitement with which she had been watching Paula over the past weeks.
The girl had something  quite apart from her natural grace and outstanding good looks, quite apart from the lithe, leggy body that was simply made for modelling, there was a quality about her that made her stand out from all the others girls in the class, which drew the eye and held it, so that even someone as cynical as Arlene looked and wanted to go on looking.
Sometimes, in fact, she had felt she was in danger of neglecting the rest of her pupils for though her voice continued to drone on, snapping out an instruction here, a correction there, she was in reality watching Paula out of the corner of her eye, and experiencing the same excitement of discovery that she had felt on the day when Paula had first walked into her office.
The girl could be a top model, not a doubt of it.
She needed a little experience here in the provinces first, of course, just enough to give her finesse and confidence, not too much so that she became jaded, and then...
I can get her work in London  I know it!
Arlene thought, barely able to conceal her jubilation.
Anyone would be delighted to have her, maybe even the top couture houses.
The thought was a heady one.
Though she had been quite a successful model herself Arlene had never reached those giddy heights  the thought that now a pupil and protg of hers might achieve it made her prickle with excitement.
She glanced at the girl standing eagerly in front of her.
' It's a fashion show for charity, ' she explained.
' Two of the big stores in town are getting together to put it on.
There will be two rehearsals, one on the previous Saturday, one on the afternoon of the show.
I shall expect you to be there promptly, with a selection of shoes.
The stores will provide the jewellery and accessories.
The show is on the Thursday evening, by the way.
Can you do it? '
' Oh yes! '
Paula breathed.
Already her mind was busy with the practical problems  did she have the right shoes and if not how could she afford to buy them.
And Thursday was not one of her days off  how could she be free in the afternoon?
But somehow she would manage it.
She'd beg, borrow or steal the money for the shoes, and if she was given notice at the store when she insisted on having the afternoon off, well, so be it.
Modelling was going to be her career from now on.
And she was going to make sure that nothing stood in her way!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Edward had a car  an ancient but still magnificent-looking Ford Zephyr.
When Sally got off the bus he was waiting for her, leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette and looking more than ever the dashing young man-about-town.
' Well, what do you think? ' he asked her.
' It's beautiful! ' she gasped, much impressed.
' I thought we'd go for a drive and put her through her paces, ' he suggested.
Sally agreed readily.
To go for a drive in a boyfriend's car seemed the height of sophistication.
She only wished there was someone who knew her to see her climbing in.
The car had a bench seat in the front and smelled of warm leather and old cigarette smoke.
Edward took her on a tour of Bath  perhaps he was also hoping to be seen by someone who knew him!  and then headed out into the country.
It was a fine warm autumn evening and although the light was already dying out of the sky the trees still looked magnificent, shades of gold and red blending with some still-green foliage.
As they bowled along the country roads Sally sat erect on the bench-seat feeling like a queen.
After about an hour's driving Edward pulled onto the forecourt of a country pub.
' This is supposed to be a nice place, ' he said.
' All the best pubs are out of town. '
The pub was picturesque and cosy with beams laden with gleaming horse-brasses, farm implements on the walls and a huge inglenook fireplace.
They found a wooden bench seat in a corner and squeezed into it with their drinks  Edward had a pint of bitter and Sally a Babycham in a pretty glass decorated with a dancing fawn in a blue neck-bow.
Edward put his arm around Sally and little prickles of excitement started deep inside her.
She sat quite still enjoying them.
Why didn't they last when Edward tried to go further, she wondered?
When she thought about the things he did they became even sharper, so that it felt as if an electric shock was passing right through the centre of her body.
But the reality was different.
All the lovely prickles and twists stopped and she was left with nothing but a feeling of panic, able to think of nothing but how could she stop him without making him angry.
And afterwards there was just a feeling of let-down, of wanting him to hold her and kiss her and pet her like a little girl.
No  pet was the wrong word.
Petting meant doing that so no, she certainly did not want to be petted and much less to pet Edward.
Perhaps there was something wrong with her, Sally thought glumly.
' This is the life? '
Edward said, squeezing her gently.
' What a day! '
' We had some excitement at home yesterday, ' Sally offered.
' My sister is going to model in a charity show.
I told you she was taking classes, didn't I? '
' Yes, you said. '
Naturally Sally talked about Paula.
For one thing she was very proud of her, for another when she talked about her lovely sister and her exciting life she felt as if some of the glamour rubbed off onto her.
But Edward had never met Paula.
' Sounds as if she's doing well, ' Edward said.
' I know.
She's only done half the course and already she has been picked out for this job.
I think she's going to go a long way  which she deserves to. '
Sally speared the cherry which was floating in her Babycham and popped it into her mouth.
' Where is the show? '
Edward asked.
' Bristol.
Why? '
' Don't you think we ought to go along and support her? '
Sally was so surprised she almost choked on her cherry.
She did not think men were interested in fashion.
' Now that I've got the car we can do things like that, ' Edward went on.
' We could take your sister home afterwards  if she wants a lift, that is. '
' So we could, ' Sally said, pleased.
The thought that she was the one with a boyfriend with a car made her feel very important  one up on Paula for a change!
They finished their drinks and left.
It was completely dark by now, a black velvety night sprinkled with stars.
Sally sat close to Edward on the bench seat and he drove with one arm around her, somehow managing to change gear with his right hand.
When they were almost home Edward pulled into a farm gateway and turned off the engine.
He pulled Sally close, kissing her, and she wound her arms round his neck, enjoying the first little prickles of yearning.
All too soon however his hands began their usual wandering, slipping inside her blouse to unclip her bra hooks, pushing her skirt well up her thighs and trying to slip her panties off.
Sally sat down hard on them, forcing her legs together, but as usual in the end he won and she retrieved the panties from the floor, pushing them behind her on the seat before they were trampled underfoot.
' Let's get in the back.
It would be much more comfortable, ' Edward suggested.
' No! '
Sally said, realising the dangers of the back seat.
' We ought to be getting home.
Mum will be expecting me to be on the bus, remember. '
Edward ignored her protest, somehow contorting himself so that he could kiss her breasts, bare now, since her bra was around her waist, and still keep his hand between her legs beneath the rucked-up skirt.
Something about the feel of his lips tugging at her nipples began to excite Sally and though she still felt nothing but discomfort from his probing finger she relaxed a little, leaning her head back into the corner provided by the bench seat and the window.
It really was a rather pleasant sensation.
Edward contorted again, biting first at her throat and then kissing her full on the mouth, forcing her lips apart with his tongue.
Sally could taste the cigarettes and beer and found that that too was exciting.
Then somehow she was spreadeagled along the seat and he was half-kneeling, half -lying on top of her and suddenly she did not think that what was between her legs was his finger.
It was less sharp, bigger, hotter and instead of scratching painfully it felt good.
Carefully Sally moved against it and felt a sort of yearning begin in the sensitised area between her thighs.
She moved again experimentally.
It was nice  oooh, really nice.
Edward was still kissing her, his tongue circling inside her mouth, but all she could think about was this new sensation between her legs, a little like the way she felt when they danced, but even better.
' Oh, Sally! ' he whispered, his breath ragged.
Then suddenly he lunged and the pleasant sensation was gone, replaced not by pain but by a strange, full feeling and Sally began to feel frightened again.
She wanted him to stop yet at the same time wanted him to go on in the hope that the lovely sensations would begin again.
She was also dimly aware that they had passed the point of no return  now she had allowed him inside her it seemed wrong to yell at him to stop or begin fighting him.
After a few thrusting minutes Edward gave a strangled cry that seemed to come from deep in his throat and jerked out of her.
He sprawled back behind the steering wheel, eyes closed, breathing heavily and clutching a handkerchief to himself.
Sally lay without moving, looking at him in the light of the moon.
She felt stunned, as if what he had done to her had somehow paralysed not only her limbs but her senses too, leaving her tense.
There was no satisfaction, no pleasure, just a kind of aching emptiness.
Then suddenly she became aware of how inelegant she must look, sprawled there with her skirt up around her hips and her bra dangling out of her open blouse.
She sat up, straightening her clothes just as Edward opened the steamed-up window of the car and dumped the handkerchief out into the hedge.
' You won't have any hankies left as this rate, ' she said, then giggled with embarrassment.
What a stupid thing to have said!
' Who cares? '
Edward asked grandly.
He reached for her to kiss her again and Sally clung to him hoping that somehow the contact would make everything come right.
But after a minute he put her away and started the engine.
' I'd better get you home, ' he said.
Sally felt like crying again.
There must be something wrong with her.
They'd gone all the way and still she didn't feel any of the things one was supposed to feel  elated, contented, together.
Now that it was over Edward seemed to have gone a very long way away from her, as if she was no more than a stranger to whom he was giving a lift.
For the remainder of the journey she fiddled with her clothes, trying to make sure she would look respectable when she arrived home and arranging the neck of her blouse to cover her throat where she was sure she must have another love bite.
' See you on Saturday  same place? '
Edward said as he stopped the car outside her house.
Sally nodded, the feeling of let-down growing.
She had hoped he might arrange to come and collect her now that he had the car  and now that things were, well, serious between them.
But she didn't like to suggest it.
As she slammed the car door she saw curtains at lighted windows twitching up and down the road.
Well, at least he'd brought her home.
At least the neighbours would know she had a boyfriend with a car.
Walking up the path to the front door on legs that felt slightly wobbly Sally realised she would have to be satisfied with that.
Sally and Edward sat in the very front row of the audience at the Fashion Show on canvas hospital-style chairs.
Two feet in front of them was the catwalk, a bare narrow wooden platform angling away from a curtained entrance.
Sally stared at the curtains wondering what was going on behind them.
Chaos, probably.
Paula had told her there were twelve models in the show and each of them had to wear at least ten outfits.
One hundred and twenty outfits, not to mention all the shoes and hats and gloves.
How on earth did they keep track of them all?
When she was dressing to go out Sally was invariably unable to find the belt she wanted, one shoe had gone missing or one stocking developed a ladder.
But one hundred and twenty outfits  what a nightmare!
She glanced around at the audience who were appearing in twos and threes.
Mostly they were very smart women in suits and soft draped dresses.
Sally had agonised over what to wear  she was so afraid of letting Paula down  but eventually she had settled on a neat shirt-waister blouse and pencil skirt and Paula had loaned her a poplin duster coat in duck-egg blue with a thick soft grey Lucca Lamb collar.
Sally felt good in it  the fur was gorgeously soft when she buried her chin in it and she thought that at least she could hold her own in the midst of all this elegance.
The background music stopped and was replaced by an expectant hum, then that too ceased as the curtains parted and a man in a dinner jacket and black bow tie stepped out onto the catwalk.
' Ladies and gentlemen  welcome! ' he boomed.
His microphone whistled a little and Sally winced in embarrassment.
The first model appeared on the catwalk, looking so glamorous, so unbelievably chic, that Sally could scarcely believe that her very own sister could be a part of this glittering performance.
But a few moments later there she was  tall and beautiful in a little green boucl dress with matching jacket.
' It's her  it's Paula! '
Sally hissed, almost falling off her chair in excitement.
' That is? '
Edward whispered back, stunned.
' Yes, doesn't she look marvellous? '
Someone behind them coughed pointedly and they went quiet but Sally was wishing she could shout to the whole room: ' That's my sister! '
She was so proud she thought she would burst.
And so happy and excited that it did not occur to her to worry about the devastating effect Paula was having on Edward.
Behind the scenes Paula slipped out of one outfit, letting it fall to the floor, and reached for the next, hanging in the correct order on her clothes rail.
The girl who was dressing her pulled up the zipper while Paula kicked off a pair of black suede shoes and eased her feet into crocodile ones.
A quick flick of a comb through her hair  there was no hat to accessorise this dress  she reached for the crocodile clutch bag and moved towards the doorway for Arlene to give her a quick check before she stepped out onto the catwalk again.
She felt alive as never before, and her eyes were glittering with excitement.
Her initial nerves had all gone now although it still felt strange to be on a catwalk rather than the carpeted floor of the room at the Grand Hotel.
Arlene gave her a small push to indicate it was time and she moved out.
She couldn't wait to be back under the lights again with all eyes on her.
As she sashayed down the catwalk she caught sight of Sally and Edward.
The first time out she had seen nothing but a sea of faces, so hard had she been concentrating on what she was doing.
Now she let her eyes dwell on them for a moment  Sally glowing with pride, Edward with a slightly dazed expression on his handsome face.
Not bad!
Paula thought.
Not bad at all.
You have quite a catch there, little sister.
She did not dare look at them for too long for fear of missing her footing or forgetting a move but the look on Edward's face added another notch to her enjoyment.
She twirled slowly, feeling his eyes on her so that it was as though she was receiving an injection of adrenalin.
Oh how she was enjoying herself!
She wanted it to go on for ever and ever!
She was back at the curtains again.
Time to turn, hold one last pose, then move out.
But there were still eight outfits to go.
Paula intended to make the most of every one of them.
' Well, did you enjoy it? '
' Oh yes!
Paula, you were wonderful! '
The show was over, the audience had drifted away to a reception room where they would be further wooed with a glass of champagne and a selection of canapes and nibbles and Paula, dressed now in one of her own suits, smart black barathea, had emerged from the dressing rooms to meet the waiting Sally and Edward.
She was still on a ' high ', the potent adrenalin pumping through her veins, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing with a becoming flush that owed nothing to the skilfully applied make-up.
' Did you see anything you'd like to buy? '
' Oh yes  everything!
But you know very well I can't.
And anyway, it was you we came to see. '
' You weren't supposed to be looking at me.
You were supposed to be looking at the clothes, ' Paula said artlessly.
She was watching Edward out of the corner of her eye.
Yes, he was every bit as good looking as she had thought he was when she had glimpsed him from the catwalk.
And he owned a car!
Not bad at all.
He was only an office worker, of course, a clerk of sorts, Sally had said, not quite in the class that Paula intended to aim at, but very presentable for all that.
And to think he was going out with Sally!
The fact was somehow offensive to Paula's ego.
In that moment she made up her mind.
She didn't really want him, of course but she simply had to prove to herself that he would prefer her to Sally, given the choice.
She smiled at him and felt his quickening interest.
It was so easy, so incredibly easy.
What was the expression?
' Taking candy from a baby. '
It summed up the situation perfectly.
' Did Sally say you might be able to squeeze me into your car? ' she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
' Hardly squeeze, ' Sally began, embarrassed, then broke off.
Edward was not listening.
Neither of them were.
Edward was staring at Paula and Sally did not like the expression on his face.
She felt the pit of her stomach fall away.
' It's a big car, ' she finished lamely.
' Are you sure I 'm not making a nuisance of myself? '
Paula gushed.
' Of course not.
I have to drive Sally home anyway. '
The way he said it made Sally feel like a parcel for delivery.
' I won't be long.
I 'll just get my things... '
Paula disappeared through the swing doors.
Edward gazed after her.
There was a glow about him that all men had when they were around Paula.
Sally felt sick.
' What are we going to do on Saturday? ' she asked, catching at his arm, desperate for reassurance.
' Hmm?
Oh...
I don't know.
Where does your sister go?
Perhaps we could make up a party.
That would be fun. '
For you, maybe, not for me!
Sally thought.
Paula reappeared, carrying the little modelling case she had had to buy and equip with cosmetics, shoes and spare tights.
' I was just saying to Sally, why don't you come out with us on Saturday? '
Edward suggested.
' We could go as a crowd. '
' Oh what a shame!
I've already made arrangements for this week. '
But her eyes were flashing  nice try, Edward.
Ask again sometime.
Who knows?
' Are you ready? '
Sally asked.
All the shine had gone out of the evening.
Suddenly all she wanted to do was get home and bury her head under her pillow.
On Saturday Edward was late.
Sally was frantic.
He had never let her down before.
Suppose something had happened to him?
She waited and waited, the feeling of living a nightmare that had been with her ever since Thursday intensifying.
At last just as she was contemplating getting the next bus home he arrived.
She ran to meet him, weak with relief, but he was very vague as to why he was late and there was a remoteness about him that she could not penetrate.
Something was wrong she knew though she could not have said what it was and she was not in the least surprised when he made some excuse about being a bit busy next week and unable to see her.
When he stopped the car on the way home Sally threw herself at him.
Tonight she would have been quite willing to let him do anything he wanted just as long as things would go back to being the way they had been.
But Edward just didn't seem interested.
' When will I see you again? ' she asked desperately.
' I 'll be in touch, ' he said vaguely and though it was a long time before she would admit it to herself Sally knew it was all over.
That night she cried herself to sleep wondering where she had gone wrong and thinking she could not bear it if she never saw Edward again.
It was probably because she was always so reluctant to let him make love to her, she decided.
Everyone knew it was what boys wanted.
If only she had been a bit more accommodating, a bit more enthusiastic.
As it was he had obviously grown tired of the regular struggles and gone off to find someone who gave in more readily.
But in spite of what had happened at the fashion show she did not think Paula had any hand in it until next day at breakfast.
Paula, nibbling an Energen roll spread with reduced-calorie marmalade, said airily: ' Oh, who do you think came into the store yesterday?
Your friend Edward!
And I think you should know he wanted me to go out with him. '
Sally began to tremble.
' What did you say? ' she asked.
' That I couldn't possibly two-time you, of course, ' Paula said, watching Sally slyly.
' I told him that whilst he was dating my own sister it was quite out of the question.
He argued, of course  said that there was nothing serious between the two of you and you knew that.
But I was adamant all the same. '
Her eyes narrowed.
' You are still going out with him, aren't you? '
' I don't know, ' Sally said miserably.
' Well the rat! '
Paula said, but she looked pleased.
' You... you wouldn't go out with him, would you, Paula? '
Sally asked, hating herself for still wanting him.
' Oh Sally, what do you think I am? '
Sally did not answer.
She did not think Paula would have liked what she had to say.
Edward never did get in touch with Sally again.
She was sick with wretchedness, convinced she had only herself to blame  and of course the devastating effect Paula had on men  but still puzzled that it could have ended so suddenly without a word of explanation on his part.
Besides being heart-broken she felt foolish and a failure.
But she never did find out if he was successful in persuading Paula to go out with him now that he was free.
She did not want to know.
Once, months later, when she went to the Regency on a Saturday night with some girlfriends she practically bumped into him on the stairs.
But he merely looked embarrassed and said: ' Oh  hi! ' as he passed as if she was just a casual acquaintance.
During the evening she caught sight of him a few times, always dancing, holding his partners very close, and managing to avoid her eyes.
After that night Sally never saw him again.
CHAPTER NINE
' I have a very important assignment for you, Paula, ' Arlene Frampton-Cox said.
She inserted a Du Maurier cigarette into her long tortoiseshell holder and sat back, looking at Paula, who was seated in the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk, long legs crossed elegantly.
Paula looked every inch a model these days, Arlene thought with a touch of proprietorial pride.
Her long hair, shining gold, was swept back and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow, make-up, expertly applied, accentuated the classically beautiful lines of her face, and she wore her well-cut suit with all the panache that was expected of her.
A good suit was a working model's uniform  Paula now bought two each season and wore them with perfectly matching accessories, hat, bag and shoes.
This one was in soft light green with a boxy shaped jacket and narrow skirt and the same green-and-white check material of the little sleeveless blouse had been used to line the jacket and face the wide reveres.
Paula's bag and shoes were patent black leather, her gloves white, and she carried a long walking umbrella neatly furled in its fur-trimmed case.
Perfectly groomed from head to toe and with all that assurance, she was ready to take on the world, Arlene thought with satisfaction, for she looked on Paula as her very own creation.
The raw materials might have been there before  indeed, hadn't it been she, Arlene, who had spotted them?
But the transformation of a leggy young filly into a sleekly beautiful racehorse had been her doing.
eighteen months on the model circuit had eliminated all trace of her former Somerset accent.
She had listened to Arlene's own voice and set about imitating it for she held her mentor in the highest esteem whilst still being a little afraid of her.
The House of Mattli is expanding from couture into ready-to-wear and one of the big Bristol stores, Taylors, are putting on a show to publicise the fact that they will be stocking the new prt--porter ', Arlene explained.
' I have been asked to supply the models and I would like you to be one of them. '
' Mattli! '
Paula repeated, impressed.
The House of Mattli was a husband and wife team who were numbered amongst the top ten names in the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers.
Furthermore Madame Mattli was a Frenchwoman, an accident of birth which added to her glamour, for was not Paris the fashion capital of the world?
' Madame Mattli will be coming to Bristol herself, ' Arlene continued.
' Taylors have a certain amount of stock but she will be bringing extra samples from London especially for the show.
I only want the best of my girls on this job.
Madame Mattli, remember, is used to the best.
We can't afford any sloppiness.
I can count on you, Paula, I feel sure. '
' Oh yes, ' Paula said, brimming with suppressed excitement.
' You can count on me! '
Madame Mattli was almost exactly as Paula had imagined she would be, a petite perfectly turned out woman with an air of chic that was unmistakably French.
Her dark, grey-streaked hair, which she wore in a long bob, had been cut by Vidal Sassoon and she wore a beautifully tailored black suit relieved only by a little white flounce at the neckline.
In the fitting rooms at Taylors she fussed and fretted over her creations like a mother hen and though Paula was overawed by the great designer she also liked her on sight.
Madame Mattli might be a stickler for detail, with a generous helping of the artistic temperament which kept her tight-coiled as a spring and which would explode into frenzy if the smallest detail was not as it should be, but she also had a kind face and deep perceptive eyes.
Half way through the day's programme of shows, while the dressers went off to grab a sandwich and the model girls, who would not dare to eat while they were showing, revived themselves with cups of black coffee, Madame Mattli took Paula to one side.
' Little one, I would like to speak with you. '
Paula's stomach turned a somersault.
Had she done something wrong?
' I have been watching you work, ' Madame Mattli said directly.
Her accent reminded Paula of Louise  perhaps that was why she warmed to her in spite of the fact that she was so awe-inspiring.
' You are exactly right for a couture model.
You have all the physical attributes. '
' Thank you, ' Paula said faintly.
Madame Mattli waved a dismissive hand.
' Do not thank me.
I am not saying this to make your head swell.
On the contrary.
The fact is that I have a vacancy arising for a couture model.
I believe you are exactly what I am looking for.
I would like you to come to London to work for me. '
Over Madame Mattli's shoulder Paula could see Arlene watching her, a tiny smile lifting one corner of her scarlet mouth, and Paula knew her well enough by now to know exactly what she was thinking.
She did not want to lose Paula, who was one of her best models, but already she was enjoying the reflected glory that came from having personally trained a house model for one of the great London couture houses.
She had known about the vacancy at Mattli and hoped that the job might be offered to Paula.
It was the seal of approval for her own judgement.
' Well? '
Madame Mattli demanded.
' Can I have a little time to think it over? '
Paula asked boldly.
' A little.
But please do not delay too long.
My present house model leaves at the end of the month and there are plenty of girls who would jump at the chance. '
' I 'm sure.
But all the same I couldn't make such a move without giving it some thought, ' Paula said grandly.
But inside she was bubbling with excitement.
Time to think?
She didn't need a single second.
The moment Madame Mattli had offered her the job she had made up her mind.
She was going to take it  of course!
A month later Paula, smartly dressed in a new tweed suit with the obligatory matching bag and shoes, and lugging both her modelling case and a brand new cream leather suitcase, took the train to London to begin her new career.
She had booked herself a bed at a YWCA hostel for the time being.
It was not quite what she envisaged for herself but it had the advantage of being cheap and it went some way towards satisfying Grace, who was convinced that London was a den of iniquity waiting to swallow up her unsuspecting daughter.
From the hostel it was only a short tube ride to South Audley Street where Madame Mattli had her showrooms  yet another advantage, Paula thought, trying to weigh up the points in favour of the hostel, which she hated on sight.
Sharing a small spartan room with two other girls  Northerners whose accent Paula found almost incomprehensible and with whom she had nothing in common, making breakfast in the communal kitchen, queuing for the bath, adhering to a strict curfew after which time the doors were locked and bolted  none of these were restrictions Paula had the slightest intention of enduring for long.
But for now it would have to do.
And at least she was in London, centre of the British fashion industry.
As for the House of Mattli, it might have been in a different world to the hostel, with its air of being a cross between a workhouse and a boarding school.
The first time she rang the bell and went in through the front doors of the elegant old house where the showrooms were situated (Mattli had no rear entrance) Paula felt she was stepping into the place of her dreams.
Deep carpet covered the floors and the stairs swept up to the showrooms and the warren of workrooms beyond, and though the window drapes and furnishings were ever-so-slightly faded, as if they had seen better days, they were of the finest silks and velvets and every corner was swept, polished and cleaned daily so that no single speck of dust, let alone a cobweb, dared show itself.
The showroom was neither large nor small, decorated in muted shades of aubergine which would not detract from the clothes.
There was a low table and three or four dainty chairs with aubergine velvet seats and gilded spindle legs.
The crystal chandelier was for effect only  lighting that would show off the clothes to their best advantage was brilliant yet discreet, and along one wall were racks holding some of the ready-to-wear garments.
In contrast to this elegant frontage the workrooms beyond were a hive of frenzied activity.
Pattern cutters, fitters, sewing hands and their assistants all worked at an incredible speed.
This, Paula soon discovered, was the way of the fashion world  a constant frantic rush against the clock, to have collections ready on time or to complete individual couture garments for customers who always considered their order more urgent, more important, than that of anyone else.
Paula was amazed by the security arrangements that were necessary to ensure that the new season's collections remained exclusive  the windows at the rear of the premises were heavily barred and practically the first thing she had to do on commencing her employment was to sign a contract promising that she would not breathe a word about the designs she saw.
On her second day Madame Mattli took her to Vidal Sassoon's salon in Grosvenor House so that her hair could be cut in an up-to-the-minute style.
Unlike some couturiers Madame did not mind if her model girls did not have the same colour hair but she did insist on identical styles.
By the time Vidal Sassoon had finished with her Paula's long fair locks had been shorn to a sharp geometric shape and she scarcely recognised the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror.
Among the rich and famous who had come to the salon to have their hair cut, tinted and set, Paula recognised Dusty Springfield, the pop singer, her eyes big and sooty, her lips pearly pink, and was unable to suppress the thrill of excitement which ran through her.
This was her very first taste of only the best being good enough  and she liked it!
It was Paula's job to show samples, parading slowly up and down in front of the clients as they sat on the elegant spindle-leg chairs taking in every detail of the garments with a critical and practised eye.
Sometimes they came alone, sometimes with a man in tow  to foot the bill!
Paula guessed.
The appearance of a famous face in the show rooms always caused a stir amongst the girls, who all longed to hook a wealthy husband  and if he had a title, like the Aly Khan, or was a film star like Omar Shariff, then so much the better!
Not everything that Paula had to do was quite so glamorous, however.
In the long hours when there were no customers to show she was expected to lend a hand with some of the unskilled tasks  running errands and making tea, unpicking a seam or a hem, even sewing on a button or a hook and eye when she had been taught the proper way to do it.
Paula was not very clever with her needle but she soon learned to be careful so as not to incur the wrath of the seamstress.
There were new tricks of modelling to be learned too  how to remove a coat, sliding It carefully off her shoulders with the sleeves hanging in perfect balance, never for one moment allowing the inside to be on view, for samples were often unlined.
This trick took hours of practice, up and down the landing at the hostel while the other girls looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.
Although she enjoyed her job Paula was lonely.
Even the most popular of girls soon discovered that in this highly competitive world where models vied with one another for the most glamorous jobs and the wealthiest and best-looking men there was far more bitchiness than in the provinces  and Paula was far from popular.
The other girls disliked her for her outstanding looks and her haughty ways and made no attempt to be friendly on anything but the most superficial level and the pattern cutters and sewing hands hurried home to their families and boyfriends the moment they finished their long day's work.
Paula spent most of her free time alone, window shopping, visiting News Theatres, where she sometimes watched the programme of cartoons twice round, and drinking endless cups of Espresso coffee in cafs and coffee houses.
Her favourite was the coffee shop in Fenwicks in Bond Street for this was the haunt and the meeting place of all those from the world of fashion.
One lunchtime when she had been at the House of Mattli for a few months Paula went there for her usual coffee and the cottage cheese salad that was her staple diet now that it was so important that she did not add a single half-inch to her wand-slim figure.
She took her tray to the pay desk, opened her bag and felt for her purse.
It was not there.
Frantically she rooted round, then checked her pockets without success.
' I 'm sorry.
I seem to have lost my purse... ' she explained.
The girl behind the till stared at her stonily.
Paula was going hot and cold by now.
Had it been stolen?
No, she remembered her bag tipping over in the cloakroom at Mattli  it must have fallen out then.
But without it she could not pay for her coffee and salad.
' Having trouble? ' a voice beside her asked.
' Don't worry.
Let me. '
Paula turned gratefully, then gasped with surprise as she recognised the slight figure in black roll-neck sweater and skin tight pants.
' I don't believe it!
Gary Oliver!
What are you doing here? '
' The same as you I expect, Paula  getting my strength up to face the rest of the day.
Let me pay and then we 'll have lunch together and do some catching up  unless you're meeting someone, of course. '
' No  no, I 'm not. '
Paula picked up her try and moved aside waiting for him, flushed with pleasure at seeing a familiar face.
Gary Oliver was a designer, young and very talented.
She had met him back home in the west country when he had come to supervise a show put on by one of the big ready-to-wear labels, Carnega, for whom he worked as a junior member of the design team.
For a whole week they had worked closely together, sharing flasks of coffee and packets of cigarettes and Paula had grown to like the pixieish little man who by his very nature offered her no challenge  and no threat.
Gary should have been a girl, she had thought, for he was half a head smaller than she was with fair curling hair, baby-blue eyes and long thick lashes that were the envy of every woman who met him.
' Shall we sit over there in the corner? '
Gary suggested.
He led the way, his slim hips in the tight fitting pants snaking gracefully between the tables.
They unloaded their trays on to a table.
' What are you doing in London then, Paula?
Apart from mislaying your purse, I mean. '
He grinned at her impishly.
She told him.
' And what about you?
Aren't you with Carnega any more? '
He shook his head.
Dimples played in his cheeks.
' No  now I 'm with the House of Oliver. '
' The House of Oliver...?
Oh! ' she squealed as light dawned.
' Your own house?
You've set up as a designer in your own right, Gary! '
' Yep.
In a small way at the moment, of course, but things are happening.
I came into a bit of money when my grandmother died and I decided to put it to good use. '
' Isn't it a bit of a risk? '
Paula asked.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders.
' Perhaps.
But I wanted to work for myself.
Designing clothes for Carnega was all very well and I made a good living at it I won't deny but I wanted to be free to do my own thing  and to have my own name on the labels.
I have quite a few contacts  people who knew me when I was designing for Carnega  and they have been very encouraging.
So I have decided to move to London and open a showroom.
In fact I have just been looking at a place in South Audley Street, not far from Mattli.
If it works out we shall practically be neighbours, Paula. '
' What a small world!
I had no idea, ' Paula said, surprised she had not already heard the news.
Usually the slightest whisper travelled like jungle drums through the world of fashion.
Until now Gary had been an out-of-town designer, of course.
But if he was moving to London his new fashion house would soon be a talking point.
' We must keep in touch, ' Gary said as he finished his cheese roll.
' Promise you 'll look in and say hello when you have time. '
' I will.
Apart from anything else I owe you a coffee. '
' True.
I don't suppose I could persuade you to work for me in return?
I 'm looking for a couple of good models.
Though I don't suppose I could afford to pay you as well as Mattli does  yet.
Maybe one day... '
Paula laughed.
' I don't earn that much!
By the time I've paid for my room at the YWCA and bought all the make-up and clothes I need there never seems to be anything left over.
I 'm looking for a rich husband to take me away from it all. '
' And I 'm sure one day you 'll find him.
In the meantime, don't forget your friends, eh Paula? '
' I won't, ' she promised, glancing at her watch.
' Oh hell, I shall have to go. '
' Me too.
But it was great to see you again, Paula. '
They walked back to South Audley Street together, weaving their way through the lunchtime crowds on the pavements, the tall, striking girl and the young man whose pixieish looks belied his twenty-six years.
Outside the front entrance of the House of Mattli Paula turned to give him a quick impulsive hug.
' Thanks for the lunch, Gary.
And good luck with your new venture! '
She held up her fingers, tightly crossed for him.
He grinned.
' I 'll need it.
Don't forget to come and see me, will you?
I shall be expecting you. '
' I won't forget.
'Bye for now! ' she called, and ran in through the imposing front door.
Madame Mattli was furious.
In all the time she had been with her Paula had never seen her so angry.
' I hear you have been seen going into the House of Oliver, ' she said, her immaculately painted lips tight with fury.
Beside her Monsieur Mattli, a small Greek-looking man, some ten years her senior, was also quivering with indignation.
' Not once but several times, ' he added.
It was so unusual for him to contribute anything to the conversation that Paula glanced at him in surprise.
Though he was always in evidence it was invariably Madame who did all the talking, giving orders, fussing around clients, so that Paula was never quite certain what his role was.
' Gary Oliver is a friend, ' she said defensively.
Madame Mattli snorted angrily.
' I do not pay you to have friends in rival fashion houses. '
' He's not a rival... '
Paula broke off.
It seemed ridiculous that a newcomer like Gary could be any threat to a well-established house like Mattli.
But in the cut-throat world of fashion up and coming designers were to be feared  and already Gary's reputation was growing.
' You know that we insist on complete loyalty, ' Madame Mattli continued.
' The security of our designs is paramount.
Oh Paula, how could you! '
' But I would never mention anything I have seen here! '
Paula protested.
Madame snorted again.
' How can I be sure of that?
Even if you do not intend to be disloyal there is always the risk that you might be careless.
Pillow talk is the most dangerous. '
' Pillow talk! '
Paula repeated, stunned.
Close though her friendship with Gary had become she had never once breathed a word to him about the new collections she saw taking shape at Mattli  and as for ' pillow talk ' the notion was absurd.
There was nothing like that between them and never would be.
Gary was not interested in girls.
Surely that must be obvious to everyone who met him.
' You must stop visiting him, ' Madame said firmly.
' Either I have your word on It or I am afraid you can no longer remain in my employ.
I want you to promise me here and now that you will not see Gary Oliver again. '
Paula was trembling.
Her job with the House of Mattli was her life.
But to allow herself to be dictated to in this way when she knew she had done nothing wrong was tantamount to admitting guilt.
And she couldn't bear the thought of being sucked back into the ebb tide of loneliness again either.
With Gary she enjoyed a relationship she had never experienced with anyone else  the easy-going friendship of a male who made no demands whatever on her  and it meant more to her than she had realised.
' I have never betrayed any confidence and I never will.
But you can't expect me to cut myself off from my friends, ' she said.
' I am afraid I do expect it, Paula, in this case. '
' I can't promise not to see Gary again. '
' Very well. '
There was a hint of sadness now in Madame's eyes but her mouth was set and determined.
' I shall be sorry to lose you, Paula.
You are a good model and you suited me very well.
But you leave me no choice.
Please do not bother to come in again.
I shall contact the agency for a replacement immediately.
And I warn you, if any of my designs or anything like them turn up in the showroom at the House of Oliver I shall sue  and win the sort of damages that will put your little friend out of business for good.
Do I make myself clear? '
Paula was still afraid of Madame Mattli  and she was also close to tears.
But she was determined Madame should not be aware of either.
' Yes, Madame.
I 'm sorry to leave you, but I assure you you need not worry on that score. '
The showrooms of the House of Oliver were smaller and less grand than those at the House of Mattli but the dcor was newer and fresher, pale grey drapes, ultra modern black furniture and a great deal of gleaming stainless steel.
Gary was in the workroom when Paula arrived, pinning a length of vibrant pink chiffon sarong-style around one of his models.
His mouth was full of pins.
' What are you doing here? ' he asked without moving his lips.
Paula perched herself against the cutting table trying to look nonchalant.
' I've left Mattli, ' she said.
Gary stared at her for a moment, pins spewing from his mouth and catching on the front of his black jersey.
Then he unpinned the length of chiffon and let it fall to the floor.
The model stood motionless, clad in nothing but her bra and stockings, waiting for his instructions.
' We 'll leave this for now, Claudia ', he said.
' See if you can rustle up a cup of tea for Paula and me, please. '
The girl pulled on her wrap and moved to the door looking back over her shoulder as she went and Paula was aware of the hostility in her gaze.
Why was it all women hated her so, even when they didn't know her?
She shrugged.
Oh well, she should be used to it by now...
Gary got up, took Paula by the arm and led her over to the low sofa.
' What's all this about, lovey?
You can't have left Mattli. '
' I have. '
Paula related what had happened and saw Gary turn pale.
' Oh Lord!
You mean she thinks you've been spying for me!
If she sues I 'll be ruined.
Even worse, someone of her stature could make a hell of a lot of trouble for me, even if she doesn't. '
' But Gary  I haven't been spying for you!
I haven't even mentioned a single detail of the Mattli collection. '
' You know that and so do I. But suppose I've done something similar?
It happens every season  by sheer chance and law of averages some of the ideas are bound to come up.
There are always accusations of piracy and copy-catting, though they can't usually be substantiated.
But if she can prove that you and I... '
' That's nonsense!
We haven't done anything wrong. '
Gary ran a distracted hand through his mop of fair hair.
' You're going to have to describe the Mattli collection to me.
Every detail. '
' Gary! ' she objected, shocked.
' You're an original.
You can't steal their ideas! '
' No, idiot  not so that I can steal them.
So that I can go through my designs and make quite certain that there is not one collar, not one cuff detail, not the slightest influence that they could accuse me of copying from them.
Oh Jesus Christ!  suppose there's something major?
My peg top evening gown  my beautiful cerise lace  I could end up having to rethink the whole collection! '
' For goodness sake stop panicking! '
Paula said, though she could feel the seeds of panic herself.
' I 'm sure there's nothing to worry about. '
' I only hope you're right! ' he said in anguished tones.
The model came in with the cups of tea, still glowering darkly at Paula from beneath her fringe of false eyelashes.
It was clear she was blaming Paula bitterly for the interrupted afternoon and her boss's drastic change of mood.
' That girl is a dog! '
Paula said when they were alone again.
' I 'm sure she can't do justice to your designs.
And with a miserable face like hers I 'm surprised you ever get any work done at all. '
Gary looked crestfallen.
' She's the best I could get... '
' Oh what rubbish! '
Paula said roundly.
' Anyway, you've got me now so you can get rid of her. '
' What do you mean? '
Gary asked.
He looked like a worried small boy.
' I told you  I've left Mattli.
I 'll come and work for you. '
' Oh Paula! '
Gary's expression became even more anxious.
' You know I'd give my right arm to have someone as good as you to model for me!
But I told you before  I couldn't afford to pay you what you're worth.
Well, not for ages, anyway.
It's going to be a long struggle getting established and until I am I don't see how... '
Paula smiled.
For the first time she felt the stirrings of something like power.
It was not unlike the feeling she experienced when men looked at her and wanted her though she knew it could not be that for there was nothing sexual between her and Gary and never would be.
But it was just as exciting, nevertheless.
It made her feel strong, invincible almost, and just a tiny bit as if she had drunk too much wine.
Her smile spread.
