Red Rose For Love. Carole Mortimer

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      ‘A man like that?’

      ‘Yes, a man like that!’ Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘You know the type as well as I do, Derek. They think their money can buy them anything.’

      ‘He was rich too, was he?’

      She gave him a sharp look. ‘Who was?’

      Derek shook his head and stood up. ‘This last few days your guard has really started to slip, Eve. I think maybe Bart Jordan is starting to get to you.’

      ‘No man “gets to me”!’ Her expression was fierce.

      ‘Not since the last rich man who let you down, no,’ he agreed calmly. ‘But everyone has a type they fall for again and again, and I think maybe rich men are your type.’

      ‘I’ll show you what I think of rich men!’ she told him explosively, picking up the roses and throwing them out into the corridor. ‘I’d do the same to Bartholomew Jordan if he was here,’ she added childishly, wondering why she was letting a man like Bartholomew Jordan bother her in this way. And he was bothering her.

      She meant it when she told Derek that no man got to her—they hadn’t, not since Carl. And she wasn’t going to let Bartholomew Jordan upset the even tenor of her life. Once she got back to Norfolk she could forget his very existence. In fact she would make sure she did.

      She walked out of the dressing-room, her head held high, the crumpled roses completely ignored, forgotten as she stood in the wings waiting to go on stage.

      But Carl wasn’t forgotten, would never be forgotten. And just making her think of him like this was reason enough to hate Bartholomew Jordan.

      She ran out on stage as the music began to play, a bright artificial smile fixed on her lips as she began to sing the first number. Her gaze was drawn reluctantly to the seat Bartholomew Jordan had occupied the night before. It was empty! Not occupied by someone else, but empty. What was the man trying to do to her? First of all he sent her roses, then he snubbed her by not turning up to watch her concert. He had to be the holder of that ticket, it was too much of a coincidence for him not to be.

      Once again it was her anger towards Bartholomew Jordan that inspired her to give a brilliant performance, and the audience were very appreciative at the interval as she tried to get off the stage.

      ‘Fantastic!’ Derek glowed, handing her the glass of fresh orange juice that was all she liked to drink when she was performing.

      Eve noticed that the roses were gone from the corridor; they were also noticeably absent from her dressing-room as she slumped down into a chair.

      Derek frowned at her paleness. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked worriedly.

      ‘I—not really,’ she admitted dazedly, the charged tension of the last hour and a quarter seeming to have drained her of all her strength. She felt weak, lethargic, and the thought of going back on to that stage stretched like a nightmare in front of her.

      ‘You have to get changed.’ Derek stood up to take the red suit out of her wardrobe. ‘You only have another ten minutes before you have to go back on stage.’

      She fought off feelings of dizziness. ‘I—I feel—strange, Derek.’

      ‘Drink some more orange juice,’ he encouraged desperately.

      She gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to do any good.’

      His expression was angrily impatient. ‘It has to. You can’t let me down now, Eve. I’ve just about sold my soul for you to do these five concerts.’

      ‘No one asked you to!’ Her eyes flashed, deeply blue between thick dark lashes. ‘Okay,’ she stood up, swaying slightly, pushing back the feelings of faintness, ‘you go out, I’ll get changed.’

      ‘I’ll help you——’

      ‘You damn well won’t!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been dressing myself since I was three years old, I don’t need any help.’

      ‘Maybe that’s your trouble, Eve,’ he stormed over to the door. ‘You won’t accept help from anyone. No one can go through life independent of other human warmth.’

      ‘I can,’ she glared at him. ‘Now get out of here.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’m going!’ He slammed the door so hard behind him the whole room seemed to shake.

      Oh dear, what had she done! Derek was the one true friend she had, and she had just thrown him out of her dressing-room.

      She ran to the door, wrenching it open. ‘Derek!’ she cried after him as he walked away from her. ‘Derek, please,’ she begged.

      He turned slowly, his face stony. ‘Yes?’ he asked curtly.

      ‘Oh, Derek, I’m sorry!’ She held out her hand pleadingly.

      For a moment it seemed he was going to ignore that plea, then he relented and gave a rueful smile. ‘Our first argument.’ He shrugged. ‘Not bad after five years.’

      ‘I really am sorry,’ she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

      ‘Nerves,’ he dismissed. ‘Hurry and change, Eve. Only another hour to go and then you can sleep for twelve hours if you want to.’

      ‘Tomorrow’s rehearsal…?’

      ‘Forget it. You couldn’t be any better than you are right now. And I happen to think you need the rest more. Just get through this hour, Eve, and you can take tomorrow off.’

      ‘All right,’ she nodded, her smile bright, but that smile faded as she went back into her room.

      She was trembling all over, her skin cold and clammy. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and yet she knew she couldn’t let Derek down. Derek? Shouldn’t she be going through this gruelling torture for herself, and not because of loyalty to Derek?

      She knew he wasn’t lying when he said he had just about sold his soul to get the money together for this weekly booking. She had had one hit record, her second was slowly starting to creep up the charts, but that didn’t make her a star. Backers for a relative newcomer weren’t easy to come by, and it had taken Derek months of hard work to get the cash together.

      And now she wished it were all over, wished she never had to perform in front of an audience again. She loved to sing, had always enjoyed it, but maybe the reviewers were right when they said she didn’t have the stamina to compete in the big time.

      It took all her will-power to change into the red suit, but her entrance back on stage was greeted with ecstatic applause. She was halfway through the first number when the spotlights playing across the stage picked up the fair head set at an arrogant angle on the first row of seats, the bright light emphasising the many shades of blond.

      Bartholomew Jordan was now sitting in the seat he had reserved! He must have come in during the interval. She hadn’t spotted him at first because it just hadn’t occurred to her that he would arrive this late in the show.

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