Act Of Possession

A pretty green batiste dress was appealing, but it seemed too summery for an April evening. A cotton two-piece was discarded for similar reasons, and the dark brown corded trouser suit, which always looked good, was dismissed on two counts: it was too warm to wear indoors, and it didn’t have a skirt.

Sighing, Antonia eventually pulled out the only item she might regard as wearable. It was a cream shirt-waisted dress, with full sleeves and a narrow skirt, that ended just above her knees. Made of Thai silk, she had bought it in a sale in Newcastle the previous January, and since then, she had simply not had an occasion to wear it. Even in the sale, it had not been cheap, and her mother had thought her quite mad to spend her money on one item when she might have had two. Now, however, Antonia knew it was exactly what she was looking for, and stripping off the bathrobe, she put it on.

She had never realised how flattering the colour was, she thought, lifting her hair out of the neckline and turning this way and that. The low vee in front drew attention to the enticing swell of her breasts, and for once she did not deplore their fullness. Since having Susie, her breasts had become heavier, and she had seen no advantages in the contrast they posed to the narrowness of her waist. Now, however, she saw that the dusky hollow just visible above the buttons of the dress was not unappealing, and her lips parted a little wryly at her unwarranted enthusiasm. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She wasn’t going to the party in the hope of attracting some man. Nevertheless, there was a certain satisfaction to be found in knowing she was looking her best, and she was still woman enough not to want Celia to go on feeling sorry for her.

When she left her flat at eight-thirty to climb the stairs to the apartment upstairs, she joined several other young people, evidently with the same destination. But they were not on their own, as she was. They were in groups of two or three, all laughing and talking together, with the easy cameraderie of long practice. They cast faintly speculative glances in Antonia’s direction—not unfriendly actually, but not specially kind—and one or two of the young men eyed her with a more than passing interest. But generally they all regarded her with some curiosity, and Antonia became increasingly convinced she should not have come. Perhaps if she turned round now, she thought, having reached the first floor landing where the buzz of music and conversation coming through the open door of the apartment was quite overpowering. Who would notice? she asked herself. Who would care? But the realisation that she would have to run the gauntlet of several more people climbing the stairs behind her drove her on, and because she had no alternative, she was obliged to take the plunge.

At least, what she was wearing was acceptable, she mused, with some relief. Although it was raining outside, it was not a cold evening, and she had seen one or two girls wearing dresses similar to her own. There were girls in trousers, but not as many as she might have expected, and the men’s clothes reflected their girlfriends’ casual tastes.

It soon became apparent that the apartment Celia and her friend occupied was approximately twice the size of Antonia’s. Unlike the floor below, which was divided into two flats—the other being occupied by the caretaker and his wife—the first floor was given over entirely to the apartment leased by the two girls. Halting on the threshold of a warmly lit entrance hall, Antonia was immediately impressed by an atmosphere redolent with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, Havana tobacco, and fine wines; and she didn’t need to see the banks of flowers or feel her feet sinking into the Persian carpet to know that everything Mrs Francis had hinted must be true.

Ahead of her, the young men and girls who had preceded her up the stairs were soon absorbed into the welcoming surge of people swelling through the matching doors that gave access to the living room. The amplified projection of the song that was presently topping the popular music charts made any formal introductions impossible, and the couple behind Antonia were compelling her to move forward. Almost without her own volition, she was propelled through the doors, and was soon engulfed by that noisy jostling throng.

The room was literally full of people, spilling over the arms of brocade-covered sofas and squashy leather armchairs on to stools and bean-filled cushions, and even the floor. The living room was large by anybody’s standards, but although Antonia had heard of its silk-hung walls and high moulded ceilings from Mrs Francis, it was difficult to appreciate its elegance tonight. The rhythm emanating from the hi-fi system and its accompanying speakers created a constant vibration, and the smoke from more than a dozen cheroots and cigarettes was sending a hazy cloud drifting irresistibly upwards. Those people who had just arrived, or perhaps those who simply preferred to circulate, made up the relaxed gathering that swelled from the entrance into the middle of the floor; and Antonia found herself a part of that gathering; anxious, and decidedly not relaxed. Where was Celia? she wondered, turning on heels that were a little higher than she usually wore. Surely she had to be here somewhere! But where?

‘Are you looking for somebody in particular, or will I do?’ enquired an attractive male voice close to her ear, and Antonia swung round with incautious haste to face the questioner. Incautious, because her heel caught in the shaggy pile of the carpet, and had her inquisitor not been there to grab at, she might easily have disgraced herself completely and landed at his feet.

Instead, she clutched rather wildly for his arm, her grappling fingers barely registering the subtle softness of his suede-covered sleeve. As she struggled to disentangle her heel from its infuriating cohesion with the carpet, she was scarcely aware of him using his free hand to help her regain her balance until, in doing so, he brought her up against the lean hardness of his body. Then, as her heel came loose, she was able to look up at him, and the humorous gleam in his grey eyes made her quickly put some space between them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, colouring hotly as she apprehended what had happened. ‘I caught my heel …’

‘I know.’ The amused grey eyes were regarding her with frank appreciation. ‘But I guess I was responsible. I did attract your attention.’

‘It was you …’

‘… who spoke to you? Yes, it was.’ He smiled, his lips parting to reveal even white teeth. ‘You looked—lost. I wanted to help you.’

‘Not bring me to my knees?’ countered Antonia wryly, the humour of the situation restoring her composure. ‘Well—thank you, anyway. I’m all right.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ But he did not move away as she had expected. Instead, he collected two long-stemmed glasses of a beige, bubbling liquid, from a tray being held by a passing waiter, and handed one to her. ‘Be my guest!’

Antonia took the glass reluctantly, but a surreptitious glance about her assured her that their exchange was not attracting any unnecessary attention. On the contrary, the music and the buzz of conversation was going on as before, and it was only in her mind that she and this man who had rescued her from instant ignominy had isolated themselves from the rest.

Licking an errant drop of champagne—for that was what it was, she realised—from her lips, she cast covert eyes in his direction. Disconcertingly, he was watching her, but that didn’t prevent her hastily averted gaze from noticing how attractive he was. Straight dark hair, rather longer than was fashionable; a lean, narrow-boned face; skin that still bore the tan of a winter holiday; even without the fact that he could look down at her from the advantage of at least three inches, notwithstanding her high heels, he was a disturbing man. But it was his eyes that really disrupted her carefully composed indifference; grey, as she already knew, they were fringed by thick straight lashes, that gave a wholly sensual appeal to an otherwise ascetically handsome face.

‘Do you like it?’ he enquired lazily, and Antonia controlled her colour with difficulty.

‘Like what?’ she asked, rather too sharply for politeness.

‘Why—the champagne, of course,’ he replied smoothly, and Antonia concentrated on the wine in her glass to avoid his knowing gaze.

‘It’s—very nice,’ she answered, determinedly taking another sip. It was infuriating, but he was making her feel as gauche as a schoolgirl, and she had to remind herself that she was a divorcee with a six-year-old daughter.

‘You’re different from what I expected,’ he remarked suddenly, surprising her into looking at him again. ‘Cee said you were shy and rather ordinary. But you’re not. Though I suppose another female might not realise it.’

Antonia caught her breath. ‘Has she been discussing me with her friends? Is that why she invited me here? To satisfy their curiosity?’

Her voice had risen slightly as she spoke, and the man beside her expelled his breath a little impatiently. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he told her evenly. ‘And if you knew Cee, you wouldn’t accuse her of it. She’s not like that.’

‘She told you, didn’t she?’ asked Antonia hotly, her eyes sparkling with resentment. His words seemed to confirm all her worst imaginings, and she thought how right she had been to have doubts about coming here. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’

‘Where are you going?’

His hand circling her wrist was the final humiliation, and she was on the point of threatening to throw the remainder of her champagne in his face if he didn’t release her, when another hand touched her shoulder.

‘Darling,’ exclaimed Celia, as Antonia was abruptly released. ‘You’ve met my downstairs neighbour already. Antonia,’ the other girl circled them to slide a possessive arm over the man’s sleeve, ‘what do you think of this Irish rogue who’s asked me to be his wife?”

CHAPTER TWO

ANTONIA’S office adjoined that of Martin Fenwick’s. It wasn’t much of an office really, just a desk and a chair and a filing cabinet, in a room large enough to accommodate them and her, but at least it offered her some privacy. And her work was interesting.

Seven years ago, when she had had to give up all thoughts of a career to have Susie, she had been in the second year of a sociology degree at Durham university. Working with people and for the community had always interested her, and her intention had been to try and get a job in some branch of the social services. But Simon’s advent into her life had interrupted her plans, and afterwards, when she had found it necessary to look for work, her qualifications were sadly limited. Of course, had she had the money, she could have returned to university as a mature student and taken up her studies again, but that was out of the question with Susie to support. Instead, she had applied for any job that had offered the chance of working in a similar field, and in spite of its disadvantages in terms of distance, she had been delighted to accept her present position.

The institute, where she worked as Assistant to the Director, was an independently operated youth training establishment, offering skills in various manual trades, as well as academic qualifications. Courses in book-keeping and accountancy, shorthand and typewriting, competed with mechanical engineering and carpentry, and the students were encouraged to try more than one course before deciding on the one that suited them best.

Antonia considered herself very fortunate to have been offered the post, and she felt she owed a debt to her past tutor at Durham for giving her his backing and support. Without the reference he had been able to supply, she felt sure she would not have been so lucky, and the doubts she had had about leaving the north of England had been stifled by the faith he had had in her.

To her relief Mr Fenwick, who had been absent the previous week due to an apparently seasonal attack of lumbago, was back at work on Monday morning, and Antonia was able to return to her own duties. Her experience at the job had not yet equipped her to handle all the hundred and one little problems that could occur in the course of a working week, and there were several outstanding difficulties she was going to have to discuss with him when he had the time.

But to begin with, the institute’s director had enough to do handling the enormous backlog of mail, which had required his personal attention, and Antonia spent most of Monday morning trying to catch up on her own duties.

Even so, she did not find it easy to apply herself to practical matters. It wasn’t that her work was difficult or anything. It was simply that her mind kept drifting away from what she was doing, and several times she found herself staring into space, totally detached from her surroundings.

It was the remembrance of Saturday night that was troubling her, of course. The party, which she had not wanted to attend, and which was now lodged painfully in her memory. Just thinking of that scene in Celia’s living room caused Antonia’s face to flood with colour, and it still amazed her that she had stayed so long when all she had really wanted to do was escape.

She should have made her apologies as soon as a decent interval had elapsed, she thought, and hurried back to her own apartment. Certainly, Celia’s flatmate, the Honourable Elizabeth, Liz, Ashford, had thought so. It had soon become apparent that the other occupant of the first floor apartment did not share her friend’s enthusiasm to mix with their neighbours, and her greeting had been distant, to say the least. The other female guests seemed to take their lead from her, and regarded Antonia with something less than cordiality, and it was left to Celia and the male contingent to try and put her at her ease.

That it hadn’t worked was mainly due to Antonia’s own behaviour. She had not come to the party to be propositioned, and she was not used to finding herself the centre of attraction. Besides, if she was honest she would admit that the awareness of Reed Gallagher in the background, watching her embarrassed attempts to break free of her admirers, had coloured her attitude towards them, and what might have been an amusing situation turned into a trial of nerves.

Learning that the man she had been so arbitrarily crossing swords with was really Celia’s fiancé had been a shock. Not that she had any interest in him personally, she assured herself, but his attitude towards her had not been that of a man desperately in love with his fiancée. At least, not in her experience it hadn’t. Perhaps their sort of people behaved differently. Perhaps, even in this day and age, it was to be a marriage engineered for convenience. But then, remembering the way Celia had clung to her fiancé’s arm and the adoring looks she had cast in his direction, Antonia felt convinced that for her part, Celia cared madly for her handsome Irishman. And probably he did, too, she reflected cynically, refusing to admit that initially she, too, had been disarmed. Whatever his feelings, she was unlikely to discover them, though she had the distinct suspicion he was not as careless and superficial as he would have had her believe. And when he had taken hold of her wrist …

Shaking her head to dislodge the irritating recollection of the cool strength of Reed’s fingers against her skin, Antonia endeavoured to apply herself to the application forms in front of her. The institute was always oversubscribed on all their courses, and it was to be part of her duties to consider each application on its merit, and winnow them down to a more manageable thirty-five or forty from which Mr Fenwick could make his final choice. New trainees were admitted in September, and interviews were apparently held in May and June to reduce the eventual intake to approximately twenty in each department. It promised to be an interesting part of her work, particularly as Mr Fenwick had informed her that in his opinion aptitude for a particular occupation was worth more than any number of academic qualifications.

This morning, however, Antonia’s brain refused to function, and by eleven o’clock she was still studying the second form. When Martin Fenwick appeared to ask her to come into his office, she abandoned her task with a feeling of relief, following him into his room with an enthusiasm untempered by her usual impatience to get on with her own job.

Blowing his nose before taking his seat, her boss regarded her rather speculatively. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Sheldon?’ he asked, gesturing her to a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘You’re looking rather tired. Did you go home at the weekend?’

Not entirely relishing his probably well-meant enquiry, Antonia shook her head. ‘If you mean to Newcastle—then, no,’ she answered politely, wondering if she had bags under her eyes. ‘I … er … didn’t sleep very well last night.’

Martin Fenwick nodded. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well myself,’ he confessed, sinking down into his chair. ‘Lumbago’s the devil of a thing. Wakes you up, every time you turn over.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Antonia summoned a small smile. ‘But you’re feeling better now.’

‘Well—it’s bearable,’ he essayed heavily, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘I suppose at my age I have to expect something. Be thankful yours is not a chronic condition.’

‘Yes.’

Antonia conceded his point, although lying awake in the early hours it had felt very much as though it was. She had blamed the fact that on Sunday she had done nothing but laze around the flat, but that wasn’t entirely true either. What she was really doing was coming to terms with the rather unpalatable realisation that in spite of her unfortunate experience with Simon, she was still not immune to sexual attraction.

‘So—shall we get down to business?’ suggested Mr Fenwick now, smoothing one hand over his bald pate as he read through the report she had prepared for him. ‘This is good, very good. Very comprehensive.’ His slightly rheumy eyes twinkled as he looked up at her. ‘I knew you were the woman for the job, as soon as I set eyes on you.’

Antonia was grateful for his confidence, and she did her best to satisfy all his enquiries, and learn how to deal with problems in his absence in the process. The failure of the hydraulic lift in the motor repair workshop had caused her some difficulties, she confessed, and the trainee joiner who had cut his hand badly on an electric saw deserved a reprimand she had not felt able to give him. Nevertheless, on the whole, there had been no insurmountable set-backs, and she knew by the end of their discussion that Mr Fenwick felt his belief in her abilities had been justified.

The afternoon proved rather less traumatic. After a snack lunch in the dining hall with Heather Jakes, Mr Fenwick’s secretary, Antonia returned to her desk to find her concentration was much improved. Determining not to waste any more time weighing the pros and cons of her attendance at the party, she put all thoughts of Celia Lytton-Smythe and her fiancé aside, and applied herself instead to the relative merits of a certificate in woodwork and an ability to type.

It was nearing six o’clock when Antonia reached the stone gate-posts that marked the boundary of Eaton Lodge. She had been grateful to find there was a short drive leading up to the house. Her rooms, being on the ground floor, would have adjoined the street otherwise, and she was still not accustomed to the sound of traffic at all hours of the day and night. Her mother’s house, in a suburb of Newcastle, was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac, and it had not been easy for her to make the transition.

Even so, she was glad that she did not have expensive train fares to add to her living expenses. The flat, in Clifton Gate, was only a bus ride from the institute in the Edgware Road, and on summer days she planned to walk to and from work. The exercise would do her good, and the resultant savings might enable her to pay more frequent visits to Newcastle—and Susie.

As she walked up the short path to the house, the black Lamborghini overtook her, and for the first time she saw Reed Gallagher at the wheel. It was early for him, she thought, aware of an unwelcome tightening of her stomach muscles. She couldn’t remember seeing the car in the drive much before seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the past, though she had to admit that until Celia pointed it out, she had paid little attention to their visitors. Now, however, she was all too aware of its occupant, and it took a certain amount of stamina to continue up the drive as if nothing untoward had happened.

By the time she reached the entrance, Reed had parked the powerful sports car, crossed the forecourt, and was waiting for her. In a dark blue three-piece business suit and a white shirt, he looked little different from the less formally dressed individual she had met at the party. With a conservative tie narrowly concealing the buttons of his shirt, and his hands pushed carelessly into the pockets of his jacket, he appeared relaxed and self-assured, confident in his cool male arrogance—and Antonia resented his somehow insolent supposition that she might be pleased to exchange a few words with him.

‘Hi,’ he said, as she came up the steps, his lean frame successfully blocking her passage. ‘How are you?’

Antonia held up her head and without looking at him, made her intentions evident. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Gallagher,’ she responded stiffly, edging towards the door. ‘Do you mind?’

Reed regarded her steadily for a few moments—she could almost feel those disturbing grey eyes probing her averted lids—then he politely stepped aside. ‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, allowing her to precede him into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘It’s cold out tonight, isn’t it? Very chilly!’

Pressing her lips together to suppress the immature retort that sprang into her mind, Antonia rummaged in her handbag for her key. If only she’d thought to do this before she came inside, she thought frustratedly. It was difficult to see what she was doing without the benefit of a light.

Aware that Reed had not continued on upstairs as she had expected, her fingers were all thumbs, and when she eventually found the key, it slithered annoyingly out of her grasp. With a little ping, it landed on the floor at Reed’s feet, and with a feeling of helplessness, she watched him bend and rescue it for her with a lithe graceful movement.

‘Let me,’ he said, avoiding her outstretched hand, and she stood stiffly by as he inserted the key in the lock and deftly turned the handle. ‘No problem,’ he added, dropping the key into her palm, and knowing she was behaving badly, but unable to do anything about it, Antonia gave him a curt nod before scurrying into the flat.

She was still leaning back against the closed door, her heart beating rather faster than was normal, when she heard the brisk tattoo on the panels behind her. Realising it could be no one else but him, she was tempted to pretend she hadn’t heard his knock, but she knew that would be childish. There was no likelihood that she might not have heard his summons, and by not answering her door she would look as if she was afraid to do so.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered together the two sides of her camel-hair jacket, which she had just unbuttoned, and turned. With carefully schooled features, she swung open the door again, holding on to the handle, as if there was any chance that he might try to force himself inside.

Reed was leaning against the wall to one side of the door, but when she looked out he straightened, and turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ she said tersely, unable to keep the hostility out of her voice, and his dark features took on a rueful aspect.

‘Can I come in?’

Antonia could not have been more surprised, and it showed. ‘I beg your pardon …’

‘I said, can I come in?’ he repeated levelly, glancing over her shoulder into the small apartment. ‘I want to talk to you, and I’d prefer not to do so in Mrs Francis’s hearing.’

‘Mrs Francis?’ Antonia’s tongue circled her lips, and Reed nodded.

‘Any minute now, her door is going to open—just a crack,’ he confided drily. ‘So?’