An Unbroken Marriage

Usually after her evening meal, when she was relaxed, she found herself gravitating towards her sketch pad, and sometimes the ideas which came to her then proved far better than those she laboured over in her work-room at the salon, but tonight there would not be time for any work.

Jardine’s attracted a sophisticated fashion-conscious crowd of diners, and India chose carefully from her own surprisingly limited wardrobe. When one was constantly making things for other people there never seemed to be enough time to make for oneself, and as India was the first to admit, she was fussy about her clothes.

The outfit both Melisande and to some extent Simon Herries had mocked earlier in the day was one she had had for several years. The plain silk blouse had been bought in Paris and she loved the texture of the fabric and the neatly tailored lines of the garment. It had cost a small fortune, but India considered that she had more than had her money’s worth in terms of wear. The grey flannel skirt was one of her own, beautifully styled and cut, top-stitching emphasising the neat centre pleat, and with it she often wore a slightly darker grey cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. The flamboyant clothes favoured by many of her clients simply were not ‘her’.

Sliding a soft black velvet dress with a high neck edged with cream lace and three-quarter-length sleeves off its hanger, she left it on the bed while she had her bath.

Her bathroom possessed both a bath and a separate shower, and while in the mornings a quick shower was all she had time for, whenever possible she preferred a luxurious soak in scented water.

‘Arpège’ was her favourite perfume; she had read somewhere that women who favoured the aldehydic floral scents, such as Arpège, Chanel No. 5, and Madame Rochas, projected a cool, in-control image, and that they were in fact very much ‘establishment’ fragrances. Perhaps it had something to do with her childhood experiences; this desire to uphold traditions, and encourage permanence, India did not really know. What she did know, however, was that when she had tried to switch to a different type of scent, something more sensual and oriental, she had found it impossible to do so.

She dressed quickly and efficiently, a black silk camisole and matching slip trimmed lavishly with lace; sheer black stockings—one of the pleasures of being successful was that it was possible to indulge in such luxuries without feeling guilty. As she slid the fine silk over her legs she paused, remembering Simon Herries’ comment, and the way he had looked at her. She had found that look disturbing. She shrugged mentally. What did he, or his opinions, matter to her? He was not the type of man she was ever likely to want to impress—too physically dominant; almost too male for her tastes. She, unlike Jennifer, did not think he would be a good lover; he was too much aware of himself, she felt, although she had to admit that the procession of women through his life read like a Beautiful People’s Who’s Who.

The black velvet dress fitted her perfectly, the colour of the lace almost exactly matching the creamy texture of her skin.

Because she knew Mel would like it, she applied more make-up than normal, concentrating on emphasising her eyes, which because of their size and deep clarity of colour tended to look almost impossibly emerald.

It was in Paris that she had learned the importance of proper skin care, and she knew she was fortunate in having the type of bone structure which would never really age.

Again because Mel liked it, she wore her hair in a soft chignon, twisting into it a row of pearls which had been last year’s Christmas present to herself. She was just applying perfume to her throat and wrists when she heard the door, and gathering up the black velvet evening coat designed to be worn over her dress she hurried to open it.

Mel’s eyes widened appreciatively when he saw her. He bent his head towards her, but she moved slightly so that it was her cheek and not her mouth that he kissed.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said simply. ‘I wish we were spending the evening alone.’

His voice and eyes were heavy with pain, and India sensed that something was troubling him.

‘Not now,’ he forestalled her. ‘We’ll talk over dinner.’

He wasn’t driving his own car, but had come in a taxi. It had rained since India had left the salon, and the streets glistened like liquorice, reflecting the brilliantly lit store windows.

Neither of them spoke, although to India the atmosphere felt heavy with sadness.

CHAPTER TWO

DOWN a narrow street not far from Hyde Park, Jardine’s was in what had once been a small mews.

Wall-to-wall expensive cars lined the cul-de-sac; a doorman appeared from under a striped awning to open the taxi door, the requisite bay trees standing sentinel in their tubs either side of the door.

As they entered the restaurant India noticed at least half a dozen famous faces and repressed a small sigh. In many ways she would far rather have eaten in the cheerful family-run Italian restaurant round the corner from her flat, but she recognised that Mel probably thought he was giving her a special treat, which was merely another pointer against their relationship, she reflected. If he really knew and understood her, he would have known that she had little liking for the trappings of success.

She studied her reflection critically for a moment in the cloakroom while she waited for the girl to take her cloak. The black velvet dress accentuated the creamy pallor of her skin, her neck rising slenderly and elegantly above the crisp lace, her eyes deeply and intensely green, almost too large for the delicacy of her face. But India saw nothing of the delicate beauty of her features; all her concentration was focused on her dress. Most of the other female diners were wearing evening dresses of one sort or another, the majority of them baring vast expanses of flesh. Was she prudish? She shrugged the thought aside, but it was not quite as easy to dismiss the memory of the manner in which Simon Herries had commented on the contrast between her clothes and the sheer silk stockings she had been wearing with them; almost as though he had been accusing her of deliberately trying to project a false image of school-girlish innocence. Drat the man! What did it matter what he and his kind thought?

They were shown to a table discreetly set aside from the majority of the others in a small alcove, but which by its very ‘apartness’ negated its intimacy by making it almost a focal point of the room.

The restaurant had not been open for very long, and had been designed to represent a Victorian conservatory, the marble-topped tables set among a profusion of indoor plants, cleverly illuminated in the evening.

With such a vast expanse of glass the restaurant could have been cold, but fortunately the owners had had the foresight to install an efficient central heating system.

‘All we need is for a parrot to come flying down out of the foliage,’ Mel commented jokingly to her as he studied the menu.

‘Either that or Tarzan,’ India agreed.

‘Don’t you like it? We could go somewhere else. This place is all the rage at the moment and I thought…’

‘It’s fine. Give me a quick nudge if you see me staring round open-mouthed—the last time I saw so many stars was on television, at a Royal Command Performance.’

‘Umm, it does seem to be patronised rather heavily by the acting profession. What do you fancy to eat?’

‘I think I’ll start with the seafood platter, and then perhaps chicken in white wine.’

Mel gave her order to the hovering waiter, adding his own. He was a very traditional male, India reflected; not a male chauvinist, but a man who genuinely believed that women were the frailer sex and needed protecting. He reminded her in many ways of her father; she felt comfortable and safe with him, or at least she had done until recently.

He waited until their food arrived and the wine had been poured before mentioning the reason for his invitation, for once his normal businesslike self-control deserting him.

‘India, you know how I feel about you,’ he blurted out without preamble. ‘Oh, I know you refuse to take me seriously, but you aren’t either a fool or insensitive, I know that. I also know how you feel about my marriage, and it’s to your credit, although there have been times when I’ve wished that you were less… old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned?’ India queried lightly.

‘Moral,’ Mel submitted, ‘even though in my heart of hearts I wouldn’t have you any other way. I only wish I’d met you ten years ago, before I married Alison. Even if you were willing to have an affair with me, I don’t think I could. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to destroy that shining look of self-respect you always seem to have about you. India… If I divorced Alison would you marry me?’

She had known it was coming, but nevertheless it was a shock. Her face went white, her hand trembling as she reached for her glass. Her fingers reached for the stem, her emotion making her clumsy, and as the glass overturned she stared helplessly at the wine flowing across the table and on to the floor.

Unfortunately she had barely touched it, and while a waiter discreetly mopped up, Mel tried to reassure her that it didn’t matter.

‘It happens all the time—and you didn’t even break the glass,’ he joked. ‘Even if you had it isn’t the end of the world!’

India herself didn’t really know why she should be so distraught, unless it was because she was so rarely clumsy. Fortunately the wine had not gone on her dress, but her fingers were a little sticky, and it was as she bent down to open her handbag and find her handkerchief that she became aware of being watched. She raised her head slowly, disbelief mirrored in her eyes as she glanced across the restaurant and encountered the hard, inimical grey eyes of Simon Herries. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably, her mouth dry with a tension which owed nothing to the contretemps with the wine glass.

Melisande was with him, but as yet the actress seemed to be unaware of India’s presence, and it was as though the two of them, India and Simon Herries, were locked in some primaeval conflict, which excluded the other diners as though they simply did not exist.

‘India…’

‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I wish he was. Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised, seeing Mel’s worried frown. ‘It’s just Melisande’s latest man. She brought him to the salon this afternoon, and for some reason he rubbed me up the wrong way, I don’t know why.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Simon Herries—you must have heard of him. He’s always appearing in the gossip columns… Are you all right?’ she asked, noticing the sudden jerky movement he made, his face oddly pale. ‘Mel…’

‘I’m fine… It’s nothing, India,’ he began with a kind of desperation, ‘Would you… would you marry me if I divorced Alison?’

She reached across the table, touching his hand with hers, her expression compassionate.

‘I admire you, Mel; I value your friendship, and there’s no one I would rather turn to in a crisis, but…’

‘But you don’t love me,’ he supplied heavily. ‘Well, I guess I knew what the answer was going to be, but a man can’t help hoping.’

‘I wish I could love you,’ India surprised herself by saying. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of love—the kind of love which burns so fiercely that nothing else matters.’

There was understanding and pain in Mel’s eyes as he looked at her.

‘You are, my darling,’ he told her huskily. ‘It’s just that as yet you haven’t met the right man, but never doubt yourself in that way, and never demean yourself by giving yourself to someone without it.’

It was an oblique reference to the fact that she had never had a lover, and India was a little surprised by his astuteness. It was not a subject she had ever discussed with him—or indeed anyone, and she could only hope that no one else found her equally transparent. Knowing in what light the majority of her acquaintances would view a twenty-five-year-old virgin, she took immense pains at least outwardly to preserve a modern, almost cool attitude towards sex.

Darling, you never told me you were dining here tonight.’ Melisande’s sharp eyes appraised Mel. ‘You’re looking tired, Mel,’ she told him, adding to India, ‘What have you been doing to him, darling?’

Simon Herries was at her side. It was apparent that they had finished their meal and were on the point of departure. Mel looked even paler than he had done before. He had stood up when Melisande approached the table, and although he was a tall man, Simon Herries topped him by several inches. Even she had to tilt her head to look up at him, India acknowledged; something that was quite rare when she wore, as she was doing tonight, in defiance of smaller girl friends’ advice, high-heeled shoes.

‘We’re going on to Tokyo Joe’s,’ Melisande told them, mentioning one of the newer clubs. ‘Why don’t you come with us? I’ve read this divine new play; the lead part could have been written for me… but it costs a fortune to put on a production nowadays…’

She was looking at Mel as she spoke, but he didn’t respond, and the actress pouted a little.

‘Persuade them to come with us, darling,’ she demanded of Simon Herries. ‘It will be fun.’

‘I suspect the sort of “fun” Melford and Miss Lawson have in mind requires only two participants,’ he drawled in response, ‘despite the almost puritanical appearance of Miss Lawson.’

‘Darling!’ Melisande protested in half shocked, half fascinated breathy tones, her eyes rounding with surprise. Mel was already on his feet, and India saw the way his fingers bunched into his palm, the giveaway muscle beating sporadically in his clenched jaw.

She reached towards him instinctively, her voice low as she begged him to let matters alone.

‘Such modesty; such quiet, well-bred manners!’ Simon Herries mocked savagely. ‘No one looking at you would guess that what you’re really doing is stealing someone else’s husband, or is it simply that you’ve discovered that it turns some men—especially older men—on to project that quakerish, “touch-me not” image?’

He turned on his heel before India could respond, his hand under Melisande’s elbow as he escorted her out of the restaurant. None of the other diners seemed to have noticed the small piece of byplay. India looked at Mel. He was as white as a ghost, the skin stretched ageingly over his bones, his eyes pained and defeated.

‘He had no right to speak to you like that,’ he said thickly. ‘No right at all. God, I could have killed him!’

‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter,’ India lied lightly.

‘I hadn’t realised what I was doing to you, what interpretation others would put upon our friendship.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And all for nothing! India, there’s something I have to tell you. Oh, if I thought there was the slightest chance that you might marry me… Alison, my wife, is pregnant…’ He grimaced when he saw India’s expression. ‘Yes, I know, but then, my darling, men are like that. Despite what I feel for you I still make love to my wife. Despicable, aren’t I? And knowing you as I do, I haven’t told you before, because I knew you would never let me leave her while she was carrying my child. But that isn’t all of it. After the boys Alison was told she wasn’t to have any more children. Perhaps that’s why…’ he frowned. ‘God, I shouldn’t be burdening you with all this, but the fact of the matter is that after Johnny was born we took to sleeping separately. She had a bad time, and then the doctor warned us that she wasn’t to have any more. The pill didn’t agree with her… and what with one thing or another we just never got it together again. Until now. Her parents came to spend a weekend with us along with her brother and his wife. We needed the extra bedroom space, so I spent the night with her…’

‘What will she do?’ India asked, her mouth dry. ‘Have an abortion?’

Mel shook his head. ‘No, she’s totally against the idea, and I have to confess that so am I. No, tonight was the final tie-breaker. If you’d agreed to marry me, I would have asked Alison for a divorce. I’m fortunate enough to be able to support two wives, two families, but as you won’t, I feel I owe to my son, or daughter, whichever the case may be, to at least make an effort to provide a stable home. Alison isn’t well, and…’

‘Does she… does she know how you feel, I mean…’

‘About you?’ Mel shook his head. ‘Not specifically. ‘Oh, she knows that all is not as it should be, perhaps even how I feel about you, but nothing else. I’m going to go away for a while, India. I know that my duty, I suppose I should call it, lies with Alison and my children, but I need time to come to terms with it, time to gather my strength, if you like…’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

They left the restaurant in a silence which continued during the taxi journey, almost morose on Mel’s part, and pitying on India’s—not just for Mel, but for his wife as well, and it wasn’t until the taxi stopped that she realised where they were. The taxi had come to a standstill outside the expensive block of apartments where Mel lived.

‘Come in and have a drink with me, please,’ he begged, and India hadn’t the heart to refuse.

She had been in his apartment before, but never late at night, alone with him. It had a curiously sterile appearance, despite the obvious expense of the furniture and fittings.

‘Alison hates this place,’ he told India over their drink. ‘She prefers the country. I think I’ll give the apartment up. After all, I’ve got to a position in life now, where I can quite easily work from home… Alison and I should never have married. We’re too different.’

‘How did you meet?’ India asked him gently, sensing his need to talk.

‘At a charity function. She was what was then called a deb—her mother’s family are very well connected; not much money but generations of blue-blood and the “right” marriages. She was small, and dark, and was the only person there who didn’t seem to look down on me. I was very conscious in those days of my “nouveau-richeness”. To cut a long story short, we both convinced ourselves that what we felt for one another was love and we got married. It didn’t take very long for the gilt to tarnish. Alison tried to re-model me along the lines of her friends’ husbands; and then the boys came along and she seemed to lose interest in me altogether…’

‘You loved her once,’ India reminded him softly, ‘and she loved you. You both have a responsibility to your children and to each other.’

‘Responsibility!’ Mel laughed bitterly. ‘God, that’s a sterile, relentless word. Come on, I’d better get you a taxi.’

‘It isn’t very far—I’ll walk.’

‘No way.’

Reluctantly she allowed him to order her a taxi, smiling a little at his insistence on accompanying her downstairs to the street when it arrived.

‘What do you think’s going to happen to me?’ she teased, her expression changing when she saw the haunted look in his eyes. Oblivious to the taxi and the passing traffic, she put her hands on either side of his face.

‘Oh, Mel, please don’t look like that,’ she whispered. ‘It will all work out… I know it will.’

‘Will it?’ With a muffled groan he pulled her into his arms, kissing her with a fierce urgency which she did nothing to prevent, knowing in her heart that this was his final goodbye.

Held fast in his arms, overwhelmed by pity, she was unaware of the sleek green Ferrari speeding past them, or of the bitter cynicism in the eyes of the man who observed them.

Another hour and she’d have to call it day, India decided wearily. She had spent the last week working on designs for dresses for one of her oldest customers and her daughter for the latter’s eighteenth birthday party. Celia Harvey was small and plump with smooth dark hair and an almost Madonna-like expression, and India would dearly liked to have dressed her in something soft and flowing, almost pre-Raphaelite, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by the young lady in question that she wanted something slinky and sexy à la Anthony Price. Her mother had raised her eyebrows in despair, and India sympathised.

Well, either Celia would like it, or she would have to find herself another designer, she decided at length, frowning critically over the multitude of careful drawings she had sketched. Her head was beginning to ache with familiar tension and she flexed her back, rubbing the base of her neck tiredly. Jennifer and the girls from the workroom had left hours before, and outside the streets were in darkness. She glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. Another evening almost gone, and all she wanted to do was to go home, soak in a hot bath and then go to bed.

She grimaced as she remembered the letter she had received that morning from her accountant. It was time they had a meeting, he reminded her. The trouble was that her clientele was expanding all the time, and it was becoming too much of a burden for her to design, and run the financial side of her business. The obvious answer was to take on someone to deal with the financial side, but who? It was at times like this that she missed Mel—selfishly, she admitted. She hadn’t seen him since the evening they had dined together at Jardine’s, and she had presumed that he had gone away, as he had said he intended to do, to sort himself out.

She herself was badly in need of a holiday. Summer had never seemed farther away. London was having one of the worst springs on record, with cold, blustery winds, and almost constant rain.

Of course it was impossible to find a taxi when she emerged into the street. Rather than wait for a bus she set off at a brisk pace in the direction of her flat, and got caught between bus stops in an icy downpour which soaked through her raincoat, the fierce wind making it impossible to keep her umbrella up. To cap it all, a speeding car, screeching round a corner in front of her, sent freezing cold water all over her legs, soaking through the hem of her coat, and by the time she reached the sanctuary of her flat she was both frozen and bad-tempered.

She ran a bath, and luxuriated in it for half an hour, feeling the strain of the day seeping away. With her newly shampooed hair wrapped in a towel she padded into her small kitchen to heat a bowl of soup. When she worked as she was doing at the moment her appetite seemed to desert her. She could have done without Celia’s dress right now; she already had enough orders to keep her going until the autumn.

She was becoming obsessed with the salon, she told herself wryly. Jenny had been saying only that morning that she never went out anywhere any longer. She had pleaded the excuse of there simply being not enough time, but Jenny had scoffed and quoted direfully, ‘All work and no play make’s a spinster dull and grey.’

Something must have happened to her sense of humour lately, India acknowledged, because the comment had jared.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jenny had said later when she apologised. ‘We all suffer from it from time to time.’

When she had unwisely asked, ‘Suffer from what?’ Jenny had eyed her assessingly and said, ‘Frustration, of course.’

Was that the answer? She wasn’t consciously aware of the need for a lover, but then perhaps she had grown so used to ignoring her natural urges that she was no longer attuned to them; and spring was notorious for having an odd effect on the lonely.

But she wasn’t lonely, she told herself. She had plenty of…

The phone rang, cutting across her thoughts. She padded into the hall and lifted the receiver,

‘Miss Lawson?’ a crisp male voice intoned decisively. ‘You may not remember me. Simon Herries.’

Her free hand clutched at the silk robe she had pulled on as though by some means he was able to see how little she was wearing. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart pounding heavily.

‘Yes, Mr Herries,’ she managed. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s not what you can do for me, but what you can do for Melisande,’ she heard him say in response.