Living With Marc

‘Twenty.’ Robin thought for a moment before she added, ‘Today,’ because it had been a grim birthday.

Of course Maybelle said, ‘Twenty today? How lovely for you. You must be very happy.’ Robin kept on smiling although bitter laughter was churning inside her. ‘I was married before I was twenty,’ Maybelle reminisced. ‘He was so handsome.’ She got off the sofa and went to a drawer. Robin expected photographs and leaned forward, but she came back holding something in the palm of her hand.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said, and into Robin’s hand she dropped a heavy chain bracelet. Three chunky charms hung from the fastener-ring: a cross, an anchor and a heart. ‘Faith, hope and charity,’ said Maybelle. ‘With those you can’t go far wrong.’

It looked like gold, and a gift had been the last thing that Robin had expected. She felt tears welling in her eyes and blinked them away fiercely. She never shed tears in front of anyone, but after this morning, and after Marc Hammond, she was vulnerable to kindness and this was such a generous gesture.

‘That is so kind of you,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate it and it is beautiful, but of course I couldn’t take it unless—’ She bit her lip. This was awkward. ‘Is it gold? Is it as real as it looks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no, thank you. Please, I’d feel awful taking something this valuable.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Maybelle briskly, but when Robin shook her head and gave the bracelet back she took it, keeping hold of Robin’s wrist. ‘Well, try it on.’

There was no harm in that. It was weighty on Robin’s slim wrist. She had never worn anything like it before and it should surely have been an heirloom. She said again, ‘It’s beautiful but I can’t take it.’

Maybelle did her mischievous twinkle. ‘Wear it while you’re on duty.’

‘What? Oh, we can forget that. I’m not going to be on duty here.’ As she spoke she had a pang of regret because she could have been the right one for this job, given half a chance. Which she would not be getting from Marc Hammond.

‘Marc is going to make me have a driver,’ said Maybelle. ‘And a companion. A minder is what he has in mind. He’d wrap me in cotton wool if he could and sometimes that can be comforting.’

Sometimes it must be, thought Robin, who had never had a protector who did not ask more from her than he offered. ‘So,’ said Maybelle Myson, ‘we must bring him round to accepting you.’

‘He won’t.’

Robin was sure of that. The vibes between them had been as threatening as a collision course. When she was alone she would remember how he had looked and sounded, even the touch of him, although only his eyes had touched her, and she would shake inside.

But Maybelle couldn’t know this. Now she said, ‘We’ll go through my appointments for the next few weeks and show him how far I’ll be driving and tell him how useful you would be.’

‘We’re wasting our time,’ Robin said, and then asked, because she was curious, ‘If you’re the one who’s getting a companion why does it have to be his say-so?’

‘Because Marc’s the boss,’ Maybelle Myson replied cheerfully.

She was a thoroughly modern woman in all but age but Marc Hammond made the rules, although it was a tender bullying Maybelle Myson got. He thought she should be kept safe from the likes of Robin Johnson. But it would be his fault if Maybelle went on turning down the other applicants and driving herself. She was a menace on the roads and before Robin left here she would tell him that.

‘Your legs are younger than mine,’ said Maybelle. ‘Would you go downstairs? Through the first door on your left as you come into the house there’s a bureau, and in the top drawer of that, right on top, you’ll find a notebook with a red cover. Would you fetch it for me?’

‘Of course.’ Although going over Maybelle’s appointments wasn’t going to change Marc Hammond’s mind.

Robin ran down the stairs. She would have liked to linger and look at the paintings. There was one of blue horses that made her pause for a moment but she wasn’t on a sightseeing tour. The door was ajar and this looked like a dining room, dominated by a long oval mahogany table with chairs around it—lovely antique stuff—and a big carver chair at the head.

You could have a company board meeting in here, Robin thought, and she could imagine Marc Hammond sitting in the carver chair, the other chairs filled with folk, their faces turned towards him, drinking in every word while he issued orders and laid down the law. As this was a private house it was more likely that the dining room was used for dinner parties. Although Hammond would still be at the head of the table—as the host—the company would, instead, be guests having a wonderful time. He would be smiling and friendly and that was harder to imagine.

The bureau stood against the far wall, beside one of the long windows with their midnight-blue velvet curtains. It was smooth and polished in a warm, mellow wood inlaid with marquetry. She found the redcovered book in the top drawer. Then she stroked the top flap of the desk, tracing the pattern with her fingertips. The workmanship was incredible. There was a rose, every petal in a different shade of golden wood, and she breathed deeply, almost savouring a perfume.

Then she looked up from the marquetry rose to the photograph in a silver frame on top of the bureau, and all the sensuous pleasure of stroking the rose went in a flash. Here was Marc Hammond again, his dark hair springing back from a peak, his eyebrows heavy. If he lived in this house whoe the hell would need his photograph around the place? Even if he didn’t live here it wasn’t a face you’d be likely to forget.

She took a step back and glared at it—and he was looking straight at her, demanding, ‘What are you doing in here?’

Only, of course, it wasn’t the photograph asking. The man was framed in the doorway, coming into the room, and she was desperate to get away from him, out into the hall, so that she went in a rush and he caught her by the wrist as she tried to pass. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘What were you doing?’

She had the appointments book in her other hand. All she had to do was wave that at him but he was holding her and when she jerked instinctively his grip hurt, and for the second time this afternoon her blood pounded in her temples, so that she dropped the book and raised a hand and was within a hair’s breadth of hitting him across the face. For a split second his face swam in a red haze, but while she still had her hand held high her blurred vision cleared and she gritted her teeth. ‘Let...go...of...me.’

He didn’t let go. He held her wrist, but lightly now. ‘Nice bracelet,’ he said.

Of course he recognised it, and he thought she was wasting no time in cashing in on Maybelle’s generosity. She started to say, I’m not keeping it, but his voice overrode hers. ‘You didn’t know I lived here?’

So it probably was his house. ‘I did not,’ she said emphatically. ‘If I had done I wouldn’t have phoned and I certainly wouldn’t have turned up. I know you wouldn’t offer me a job after you threw me out for being a danger to junior clerks. By the way, whatever happened to what’s-his-name?’ She remembered Tony’s name but she drawled that instead, acting blase, as if the whole thing were hazy in her memory.

Marc Hammond said, ‘He’s doing nicely, thank you. You might have done him a favour. I doubt if he’s ever been in a fight over a girl since. You don’t seem to have changed much. Still very much the firecracker.’

Even if she had wanted the job she would have blown it by now, but she said, ‘You’re not going to believe this but I can’t remember the last time I lost my head, until this afternoon. It was quite a shock seeing you sitting there and realising what sort of treatment I’d let myself in for.’

He agreed, ‘It was a shock.’ He wasn’t holding her now but he hadn’t moved away. He was still too close for comfort, sending shock waves rippling up and down her spine. She picked up the book and told him, ‘Mrs Myson asked me to fetch this for her. What did you think I was doing—rifling the drawers to see what I could find?’

‘Something like that, from the speed you took off.’

She had panicked but she couldn’t say, I was trying to get away from you because you scare me. She said, ‘You grabbed me; I hate being manhandled.’

‘Sorry about that.’ He was not sorry. She could believe that he had never said sorry and meant it in his life.

‘What’s the book?’ he asked, and she held it so that he could read ‘Appointments’. ‘Now, why should she be needing that?’

‘Ask her,’ she snapped.

‘Showing you where she hopes you’ll be accompanying her?’

She gave an exaggerated shrug and he said, ‘She’s stubborn as a mule. She’s found something wrong with everybody so far, so how have you managed to get her demanding you and nobody but you?’

‘We have red hair in common,’ Robin said silkily.

‘What?’

‘She had red hair, didn’t she?’

‘Copper-coloured.’

‘Not like mine?’

‘Not in the least like yours. You could set a house on fire.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Only to an arsonist.’

This was a crazy conversation.

‘And hair isn’t the only fiery thing about you, is it?’ he said, and she shrugged again because there wasn’t much else she could do. There was no point in saying again that today she had been at her fieriest and most stupid. But she had something serious to say before she went.

‘You should make her have a driver because she shouldn’t be driving herself. I was in a car just behind her a couple of weeks ago, coming out of the old airfield from the market, and you know how busy that road is at weekends, and she shot straight out into the traffic like a bat out of hell. I’ve seen her have near-misses more than once; she’s heading for a serious pile-up.’

She thought his skin whitened under the tan as if she had struck a nerve, or a memory. Then he said, ‘You’ve got a licence, of course?’

‘Of course.’ Was he considering her?

‘I’d want to see it.’

‘Of course.’ It was a clean licence and that would surprise him.

‘At least there’d be somebody around who could use a phone if she needed help.’

‘I think I could manage that,’ she drawled. She had forgotten she didn’t want the job. Maybelle was a danger on the roads and Robin would never forgive herself if the old lady had an accident that she might have prevented. And she liked Maybelle; being her companion-driver could be fun.

Being around Marc Hammond would be far from funny, but when he said, ‘Come on,’ and led the way upstairs she followed.

Maybelle was still sitting on the sofa with her feet up. She seemed pleased when Robin and Marc walked in together, as if this had to mean they were getting along. Robin wondered what would happen if she told Maybelle, We nearly came to blows just now. My wrist could be bruised and I was halfway through a swing to sock him across the face.

If she had hit him Marc Hammond would probably have thrown her out of the house bodily, as he had chucked out Jack the biker three years ago. He might look like the well-bred gentleman—expensively dressed, impeccably groomed—but Robin was convinced that he could turn in a flash into the toughest street fighter she had ever encountered.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Maybelle took the appointments book from her as Marc Hammond seated himself in a winged easy chair, his long body stretched out, strong hands resting on the arms. Robin sat down again on the little stool. He was relaxed and she tried to give the impression that she was too.

‘Did Robin tell you why I wanted this?’ Maybelle asked him.

‘You tell me,’ he said.

But he had guessed right and as she explained, ‘To show you how useful Robin could be—I’ll be doing a lot of driving,’ he nodded. ‘I think it was meant to be,’ said Maybelle, encouraged. ‘What were the odds against Robin arriving here just when I needed her?’

‘It’s a small town,’ Marc Hammond said drily. ‘The odds against somebody local seeing the “Situations Vacant” in local papers can’t be that high. It’s a slight coincidence that you’ve met before, but hardly fate taking a hand.’

Robin said nothing. Sitting low, fingers linked over her knees, the bracelet gleaming on her wrist, she waited for what Marc Hammond. was going to say next, because now he was looking at her. ‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘I would prefer this to be a living-in arrangement; how would you feel about that?’

‘That would suit me perfectly.’ She had expected to go from here to call on a friend and ask her for a bed for the night. A living-in job would solve that problem. Even with the prospect of Marc Hammond being under the same roof.

‘When could you start?’ Maybelle was taking this conversation as Marc’s grudging consent and was anxious to get everything settled.

‘Right away,’ said Robin.

‘Today?’ That was fine by Maybelle.

‘Yes,’ said Robin.

‘Where have you been living?’ Marc asked.

He hadn’t thought she would want to live in, on duty twenty-four hours more or less, and her enthusiastic response had increased his misgivings. He noticed that Robin didn’t answer at once.

Her tongue licked her lips as if they were dry and it was Maybelle who said, ‘Robin lives with her aunt and uncle. She has done since she was very young.’

‘And now she wants to leave?’

Why not? Nearly everyone left their childhood home. And Robin said, ‘Well, yes, I think it’s time I did,’ and smiled at Maybelle because she had a sickening feeling that if she met Marc Hammond’s piercing eyes he would know what had happened this morning—every move, every word. ‘I’m twenty,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time?’

‘Twenty today,’ said Maybelle. ‘It’s Robin’s birthday, so isn’t this a red-letter day?’

‘There’s another coincidence,’ said Marc. ‘And that, I presume, is a birthday present.’ He meant the bracelet, and he probably thought she had lied about her birthday so that the old lady would find something pretty, and possibly valuable, to give her.

‘Want to see my birth certificate?’ Robin asked with heavy sarcasm.

‘Not at the moment,’ he said blandly, and Maybelle hastily changed the subject.

‘And Robin is staying.’ Marc wouldn’t go back on that now.

‘That is how it looks.’ He was reluctant but resigned. ‘I’m not happy about the situation; you both know that. I don’t consider her suitable.’

This time Robin glared back at him and wished she could say, And I don’t want any job where there’s a risk of coming into contact with you. But she did want the job—for practical reasons and because she liked Maybelle, and there was satisfaction in getting the better of Marc Hammond. Deep down he must be fuming at the idea of the wild child he’d thrown out of his offices moving into his home.

It wouldn’t last, of course, and that was what he was implying when he said, ‘But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now.’ He meant he would be waiting for an excuse to dump her again. And something probably would happen because something usually did.

Robin heard herself laugh scornfully. ‘You won’t give me the benefit of the doubt. You were against me from the first day I was working for you, before there was any trouble at all. All you said was “Good morning; I hope you’ll be happy here,” but I knew what you were thinking.’

He almost laughed himself. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re sharp enough, I’ll grant you that. I thought, We’ve got a time bomb here—and a few days later there was blood on the floor.

‘As I’ve already said, you don’t seem to have changed. You’re still trouble on a short fuse and there had better be none of it around Maybelle. So watch it, Miss Robin Johnson, because I shall be watching you and I rarely miss a trick...’

CHAPTER TWO

ROBIN said, ‘Fair enough.’ It wasn’t fair that Marc Hammond should turn up when things could have been fine without him, but that was life.

‘So I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and uncoiled himself out of the winged armchair, and once he was out of the room Robin felt her spirits rising and her strained smile become relaxed and real.

Maybelle Myson’s smile was gleeful. ‘We’ve done it, haven’t we? Isn’t this splendid?’

‘Isn’t it just?’ said Robin. She would be out before long—he’d see to that—but for now it was an enjoyable break for both of them.

‘First of all, your salary.’ Mrs Myson named a figure. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Great. Yes, thank you,’ said Robin. It was very fair indeed, especially as she would be living in, and, it seemed, she was living in starting now, because Mrs Myson asked her if she wanted to stay tonight and she said, ‘Yes, please.’

‘You’ll have to let your family know.’

‘I’ll phone,’ Robin said, although she couldn’t speak to Aunt Helen yet and Aunt Helen always answered the phone.

They went through a few pages of the appointments book. ‘Not much tomorrow,’ said Maybelle. ‘I have to go to an animal-rescue centre in the morning. The rest of the day’s free. I’ve some friends coming round in the evening.’

She seemed to lead a full and pleasant life; Robin had been mistaken in wondering if she might be lonely. She had plenty of friends, but at her age someone should be seeing that she didn’t overtire herself, put too much strain on her heart.

I could do that, Robin thought. I’d have loved a grandmother like you. I could take care of you if he’d let me.

When it began to grow dusky Robin switched on a lamp which bathed the room in a mellow glow, and suggested, ‘Shall I take the tray down? Can I get you anything?’

‘We’ll have supper later, but perhaps a glass of milk.’

Robin carried the tray downstairs towards the back of the house, opening what looked like the kitchen door.

It was a big room, a model modern kitchen so far as equipment went, but also with an old Welsh dresser that reached to the ceiling and with a scrubbed-topped table. The woman called Elsie sat at the table and Marc Hammond lounged against a worktop on which a coffee percolator was bubbling away.

He had taken off his jacket and was in shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. His throat had the same deep tan as his face and Robin thought his arms and his chest would have too. She couldn’t imagine his being pale and soft-skinned anywhere.

He was relaxed now, but the coffee looked black and bitter enough to fuel his brain while he worked all through the night.

‘I’ll take that.’ Elsie jumped up and took the tray from her, quickly, as if she was afraid that Robin might drop the good china. She put the tray on the table and looked at Marc Hammond with beady, bright eyes.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘She’s Maybelle’s choice.’

Elsie stared at Robin then. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? I thought that when I let you in.’

‘Around town, probably,’ said Marc. ‘She’s a girl who gets noticed.’

‘Are you an actress?’ There was a theatre company locally.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Marc.

‘No, I’m not,’ Robin said.

‘You’re going to be driving Miss Maybelle?’ Elsie was not happy about that. Her mouth was pursing into worried lines.

‘That’s the idea. And generally making sure that she behaves herself,’ said Marc.

Robin waited for Elsie. to ask, That who behaves herself? But Elsie only sighed deeply and said, ‘Well, I suppose anybody’s better than nobody. Miss Johnson, is it?’

‘Robin,’ said Robin, hiding a wry smile, and Elsie looked as if that was a name she could hardly believe either.

‘May I have a glass of milk for Mrs Myson?’ asked Robin.

Elsie took a glass from the dresser and poured milk from the fridge, enquiring as she handed over the glass, ‘She’s stopping upstairs, is she?’ and when Robin said she didn’t know the housekeeper went on, ‘I’ll bring her supper up in about half an hour; will you be staying?’

‘Robin has been persuaded to live with us,’ Marc drawled. ‘She’s taking up her duties right away. You will be moving in tonight, will you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Robin said sweetly, and thought, Is that meek enough for you?

‘Well, I never,’ said Elsie.

He held the kitchen door open and they went into the hall together, Robin carrying the glass of milk, he with a large cup of very black coffee. As he turned into the room where he had interviewed her she saw the papers on the desk and asked impulsively, ‘You don’t want any typing done or anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ He turned that down flat. ‘Nothing on that desk concerns you,’ he said.

Trying to show him she was not a dead loss was a waste of time. She knew the papers were confidential and she said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t be snooping.’

‘You won’t be getting the chance.’

He shut the door behind him and she said, ‘I hope the coffee scalds you,’ but not loudly enough to be heard through a closed door.

When Elsie arrived with a tray—soup and a little fish—Mrs Myson said, ‘You’ve met Robin; you know she’ll be staying with us?’ Elsie said she did, and Mrs Myson pondered, ‘Which room, do you think?’

‘Next one along?’ Elsie suggested. Mrs Myson was happy about that and Elsie took Robin along to the next door on the landing.

It was a pretty room—curtains, bedspread and wallpaper in co-ordinating pastel florals, and a small shower room leading off. The window overlooked lawns and what, in the gathering gloom, seemed to be a large garden. Elsie stood in the doorway and asked, ‘Will this do for you?’

‘It’s lovely!’ Robin exclaimed, and from Elsie’s expression it was as though she had expected Robin to be less enthusiastic.

‘Right, then,’ said Elsie. ‘I’ll leave you to it’

A couple of hours later Robin was back in her room. Mrs Myson kept early nights. She had found Robin a new toothbrush and produced a white lawn nightdress. Then she’d said goodnight and hoped Robin would sleep well.

With no luggage Robin was glad to find the toiletry basics of toothpaste and soap in the shower room. She had no change of clothing, no make-up except for a lipstick and a comb in her purse, and she would have to go back tomorrow and collect some of her belongings.

She showered and put on the nightgown and sat at the window in the darkness, revelling in a quietness that wrapped comfortingly around her like the big, fluffy white towel she was huddling in.

She hadn’t phoned home. When Mrs Myson had asked, ‘Is this all right with your family?’ she had said yes as if she had made the call.

She didn’t want to go back tomorrow either. Some time she had to, because all the little she owned was there. But tomorrow Aunt Helen would probably be waiting for her, and the next day, while Wednesday was Aunt Helen’s bridge night. She never missed that. On Wednesday Uncle Edward would be home alone and Robin could say goodbye to him in peace while she packed.

Mrs Myson had said that tomorrow morning she would advance her a month’s wages, and that would be enough to buy essentials and clothes to carry Robin over. Every day here, if all went well, Robin would be feeling stronger and calmer. When she went back there would be no screaming if she could postpone it until Wednesday evening.

Marc Hammond was walking in the garden below. There was just enough moonlight to see him, and this time his presence was no surprise. He was probably needing a breath of fresh air by now, and if it had been Robin’s garden she too would have walked there alone at night, revelling in the silence and clearing her mind.

She was sure that that was what he was doing, coming slowly towards the house. She kept well back, watching the dark figure approaching in the shadows down there. If he walked right under her window she could drop something on him. A pink lustreware bowl of pot-pourri, on the window-ledge, would be just perfect.

She would have enjoyed that immensely, but it was only a glorious fantasy. He couldn’t see her but when he glanced up at the house she almost fell back into the room, as though he could see in the dark, and scrambled into her bed, between the cool sheets.