Masquerade. Anne Mather

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      “Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what do you do?”

      Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.

      “I’m a writer,” he replied, without qualification.

      Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. “What do you write?”

      Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.

      Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.

      “I’ll have a tomato juice, please,” she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre. Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.

      “What will you have, Mr. Mallory?” she was asking gushingly.

      Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. “Scotch,” he said easily. “And bring this young lady a sweet sherry instead of tomato juice.”

      Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.

      “You don’t object, do you?” he asked half-mockingly.

      Samantha shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. “Why did that stewardess act so strangely?”

      Patrick grinned. “Strangely?” he mocked.

      “Yes. You must know what I mean. She … well …” She flushed.

      Patrick looked at her through a haze of smoke. “When you get a bit more experienced, you won’t ask questions like that.”

      “Won’t I?” Samantha shrugged.

      Patrick laughed softly. “Here are the drinks. Cheers.”

      “Cheers,” she echoed slowly, and sipped her sherry.

      Lunch was served soon afterwards, a delicious meal although it had all been pre-cooked. Samantha looked out on the fluffy cotton-wool world of cloud below the aircraft and wondered why people made such a fuss about flying. There was absolutely nothing to be seen and it did not seem so much different from bus-riding at home.

      Home! She sighed. She had got to stop thinking about Italy as her home. Soon Daven House in Wiltshire was to be her home. There was no going back. If she returned to Italy it would be to marry Benito, but as the distance between them increased, she felt the ties between them decreasing.

      She took the opportunity after lunch of going back to the ladies’ room. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. The eyes that stared back at her through the glass were scared eyes and she inwardly chided herself. Why should she feel scared? After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was these women she was going to meet today who ought to feel ashamed.

      Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to her seat to find Patrick Mallory absorbed in some papers he had extracted from his briefcase. He did not even glance at her as she reseated herself beside him and Samantha found her thoughts returning to the problem of the next few hours. She felt that she was gradually becoming more and more nervous and she would be glad when this day was over at last.

      Her eyes strayed once more to her companion, as though drawn to him. In profile his features were just as attractive and from his immaculate tailoring and ease of manner she guessed he was a man who knew the world and what life was all about. He looked quite young and she speculated about his exact age. He must be about thirty, she decided, and wondered whether he was English. His name was English enough and yet there was something slightly alien about his dark complexion and tawny eyes. Cat’s eyes, Samantha thought. Like those of the tiger she had once seen in a travelling circus. Pondering, she wondered whether he was virtually quite as dangerous. He was very easy to talk to and she could understand a woman enjoying the attention he would devote to her. He treated Samantha rather like an overgrown schoolgirl and she wondered whether she acted that way. It was rather disconcerting to find that after having thought yourself quite grown-up a man, like this man, could make you feel quite gauche. It was apparent that the men of the village could hardly be compared to Patrick Mallory.

      He was a writer, too. She wondered what he wrote. He had not wanted to talk about that. But the stewardess obviously knew him and he had expected her to recognize his name.

      From these thoughts she returned to thoughts of Benito. He had insisted on coming to the airport to see her off, and had made the scene she had half-expected. After his early capitulation he had changed and become sullen and resentful. Samantha suspected that his family was to blame. They had not taken kindly to her plans for going to England. His mother had been quite blunt.

      “Benito needs a wife,” she had said. “Not some fly-by-night creature who goes shooting off to England at the whim of a relation she has not seen for seventeen years. Don’t blame Benito if he finds someone else while you are away. Plenty of the village girls would give their right arm to have your opportunity with him.”

      There had been more in this vein, and Samantha had left, knowing that it was very unlikely that she would ever go back. That was partly why she felt so scared. She had burnt her boats. The villa had been rented by a young couple from Ravenna and Matilde had gone there to live with her sister. At the moment she felt in transit. She had nothing left for her in Italy and ahead! Who knows!

      She was roused from her reverie by Patrick Mallory. He offered her another cigarette and then said:

      “You were very thoughtful, just then.”

      Samantha smiled rather wistfully, Patrick thought.

      “Yes.” She smiled. “Have you finished your work?”

      Patrick shrugged. “I don’t suppose I shall ever be finished,” he replied enigmatically.

      Samantha digested this and then said: “How much longer now? Before we land, I mean.”

      Patrick glanced at his watch. “Only about a quarter of an hour. Is someone meeting you?”

      “Yes. My grandmother.”

      “I see. And are you going directly to Wiltshire?”

      Samantha shook her head. “I’m not sure. My grandmother is staying at the Savoy at the moment, so I don’t really know what her plans are.”

      “Is she indeed?” Patrick was impressed. This rather shabby little creature did not look the type to stay at the Savoy, but of course, appearances could be deceptive. “I hope you find London to your liking.”

      “Do you like it?”

      Patrick raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s a place to work. I prefer somewhere quieter when I have the time.”

      Samantha frowned. “Oh, dear. I hope I shall like it.”

      “Is it so important?”

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