Charlie's Dad. Alexandra Scott

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      And she knew she had been wrong to wear this wispy silk camisole. It was impossibly revealing, and she knew it showed every curve of the bare skin beneath, plus a fair amount of cleavage. She could hardly believe she had worn it without its usual overblouse, and certainly it hadn’t been for his benefit since she hadn’t known...

      Her breath was growing more agitated now, emphasising all the aspects she would have liked to conceal, and he must be aware of the increase in her pulse-rate. His hand on her back could hardly avoid the signals, would know how little she was wearing and would draw his own conclusions.

      A deep breath to control her trembling, and when she found her voice, it sounded gratifyingly calm and matter-of-fact. ‘There’s so little to tell. You must know it all already.’ This was her usual glib evasion of a ‘tell all’ invitation, but her resolve was undermined when she looked up into those searching dark eyes. How right she had been to be wary. Writer’s eyes, she decided sarcastically, forever trying to find copy for his novels. As bad as the paparazzi, always probing into personal secrets for financial gain. ‘And mostly so very boring,’ she finished.

      A certain amount of truth in that. So many years huddling over a knitting machine added little sparkle to one’s personality, especially when all one’s contemporaries had been out doing the clubs.

      ‘That I find hard to believe.’

      ‘No, I promise you.’ Reluctantly she dragged her eyes away, looking about her with an air of determined and slightly desperate enjoyment, searching for some banal comment and failing, resisting his attempts to pull her closer, then feeling foolish when there was a near collision with another couple.

      Easy to interpret that raised eyebrow as speaking volumes. No, he was assuring her, I’m not the least bit interested, so don’t let your imagination run riot. And she blushed spectacularly as if she had been truly reprimanded, then was startled when his amused voice did interrupt her thoughts.

      ‘Do you come here often?’ It was an attempt at humour which deserved no reply but he was persistent. ‘Now it’s your turn to say something. I have asked you if you come here often, now you must make some remark about, say, the music, or—’ An abrupt stop as again he apologised to another couple—an excuse to hold her closer for a second.

      But it was hard to remain aloof when he was speaking so like a character from her beloved Jane Austen. She glanced up in mocking reproach. ‘You stepped on my foot, Mr Congreve.’ Then it was too much for her, she smiled, and her whole personality was illuminated, transformed.

      ‘There.’ It was a moment before Ben spoke, a moment when his eyes held hers with dismaying warmth. ‘Just as I was about to give up. But I knew I could amuse you in the end. Despite your prejudice.’ Then, as her expression darkened again, he burst into laughter. ‘You’re not going to pretend, Ellie, that you haven’t been trying to take me down a peg? Just like Lizzie Bennett with Mr Darcy.’

      ‘You are quite mistaken.’

      ‘You will never convince me.’ The music ended and they returned to their table, his touch on her arm more possessive than she would have liked. ‘But I would like to know why.’

      ‘As I said, you have made a mistake.’

      ‘If you insist, I shan’t press you.’ There was a slight hold-up on the edge of the dance floor. ‘But I mean to find out in the end.’ His eyes narrowed assessingly. She had the impression of him trying to bore into her soul. ‘I have a habit of getting my own way eventually.’

      ‘Of that, Mr Congreve,’ she said, and now her voice was icy with fear and, yes, with dislike, ‘I have not the faintest doubt. People like you...’ But fortunately at that moment the path was cleared and she took the chance to sweep past him and to rejoin the company.

      ‘Always do?’ he suggested coolly as they sat down, but she turned her shoulder and was glad when he took the hint and for the rest of the evening left her in peace.

      As they were whisked back to the apartment Ellie had only half of her attention on the animated conversation as Jenny enthused about the evening’s events.

      At least he had not had the effrontery to ask her to dance again. And she wasn’t aggrieved over that. She saw no contradiction in her thoughts, although many women would have felt resentment. Three times he had asked Jenny to dance, Myra twice. But who was counting? And she had quite deliberately gone off to the powder room round about midnight when she had thought he might be mellowing towards her again.

      No, on the whole she was pleased with the way she had coped with what had been a fraught situation, and the fact that now she felt like howling with misery was due to a whole series of things—mostly to do with change of climate and fatigue, and missing Charlie of course, and nothing—well, be honest—at least very little to do with being held close to Ben Congreve.

      

      Strangely enough she was able to recuperate to an extent on the flight home, spending much of it with her eyes closed, not wholly asleep but with her brain in neutral, and Ben Congreve absent but for that vague and persistent pain in her chest. But it was time to move on, put all that behind her, and it was especially comforting when she touched down at Heathrow to find David Merriman waiting for her.

      ‘Bless you.’ Wonderful to have a kind, undemanding man to heave her luggage in the back of the car, to be relieved of any transport worries as they drove through the capital’s clogged arteries. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d be on call today.’ With a sigh she leaned her head back against the seat and turned to look at his familiar profile. ‘How did you manage to swing it?’

      ‘Oh, I can usually manage to get away when I particularly want to. I did an extra surgery at the weekend and Harry is seeing my patients today so you needn’t worry.’

      ‘I’m glad.’ Ellie slid lower in her seat. ‘Now, tell me what’s been happening at home over the past week. When I spoke to Charlie the other day all appeared to be as usual.’

      ‘Pretty much, I should say. But Charlie will be glad to see you back again.’

      ‘That makes two of us.’ After that the conversation became general as he passed on the few items of village gossip. Mrs Gatherley’s baby, she learned, had appeared four weeks ahead of schedule and Kyle James had broken his arm falling off the climbing frame in his garden.

      ‘So...’ She smiled at him. ‘Our revered GP is being kept as busy as ever.’

      ‘Alas,’ he sighed. ‘But not so busy I haven’t had time to miss you as well. Charlie isn’t the only one who has been counting the days.’

      ‘That’s sweet of you, David.’ But, sadly, her feelings for him were as ambivalent as ever. How simple life would be if she could make a sensible, obvious choice, forget the distraction of Ben Congreve and...

      ‘I have tickets for a concert on Friday, and of course I’m hoping you’ll come with me.’

      ‘Oh, Friday?’ Her search for an excuse was automatic. ‘I’m not sure... I have so much time to make up...so many things I must do...’

      ‘I’m hoping you’ll at least try...’

      ‘Of course I’ll try, David.’ How could she be so ungracious when he did so much for her? ‘I’ll do my best, but СКАЧАТЬ