Unguarded Moment

‘I’ll see you out,’ said Debbie.

‘There’s really no need.’ Alix let a note of sarcasm enter her voice. ‘This is still my home, and I’ve no intention of stealing anything on my way through the hall.’

‘Alix!’ her mother protested, smiling nervously. ‘I’m sure Debbie didn’t mean that.’

Alix gave her a quick kiss, aware of the tightness in her throat. ‘Goodbye, love, and look after yourself. I—I’ll telephone first next time.’

She walked through the hall without looking back, and shut the front door behind her. Then, feeling dazed, she made her way down the path to the gate. She was sure that Debbie was watching her from the front room window, but pride forbade that she should turn and confirm her certainty. It was raining lightly again, and she turned up the collar of her cream trench coat, and pushed her hands into her pockets as she hurried along towards the station.

What a total disaster of a day this had been! The grey skies as she flew in that morning had been an omen.

‘I should have flown right out again,’ she told herself with mordant humour.

Walking along, her head bent, she didn’t see the figure approaching until she found herself in a mini-collision.

She said, ‘I’m so sorry …’ and broke off as a female voice exclaimed delightedly, ‘Alix—Alix Coulter! How marvellous! Don’t you remember me?’

Alix looked into the smiling face of Gemma Allan, an old school friend.

‘Gemma—you’re the last person I expected to see.’

‘I can’t think why. Didn’t your mother tell you that Dave and I had bought the house on the corner? Didn’t she give you my message?’

Alix shook her head bewilderedly. ‘She must have forgotten. And of course I’ve been away—abroad.’

‘That I can see.’ Gemma whistled appreciately. ‘Is that an all-over tan, may one enquire? I’m brown too, of course, but with me it’s rust.’

‘Oh, Gemma!’ To her horror, Alix heard her voice become choky. ‘It’s so great to see you.’ To see a friendly face, she almost said.

‘Hey,’ Gemma took her arm, peering at her with concern, ‘what’s the matter? You’re upset—what is it? Your mother?’

‘Not really,’ Alix shook her head, fighting back her tears. ‘Oh, God, this is awful. I can’t stand in the middle of the road bawling like a baby.’

‘Then come and bawl in our house,’ Gemma said soothingly. ‘Dave won’t be home for at least another hour.’

By the time they were settled in Gemma’s small sitting room, Alix had managed to regain control of herself.

‘I’m sorry to have behaved like an idiot,’ she began.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Gemma said largely. ‘Don’t forget I’m used to it, having been at school with you. What’s troubling you? You haven’t had the sack from the dream job of yours?’

Alix smiled drearily. ‘No, but I sometimes wonder whether I did the right thing in taking it in the first place.’

Gemma stared at her. ‘Well, it has to be better than a lifetime of “Now this conveyance witnesseth as follows”,’ she said drily. ‘Is it man trouble?’

‘It is a man, and he is trouble, but not in the way that you mean,’ Alix said ruefully. ‘Look, the simplest thing is if I give you a quick run-down on “My Day so Far”.’

Gemma sat and listened attentively, her sole comment being, ‘Little bitch,’ when Alix described Debbie’s reaction to her offer of a honeymoon.

‘She must be very unhappy,’ Alix said slowly.

‘She must be very jealous,’ Gemma retorted.

‘But she had no reason to be jealous of me,’ Alix protested. ‘She’s always done exactly what she wanted, and now she’s going to be married.’

Gemma looked at her pityingly. ‘Look, love, Debbie would envy a dead man his coffin. Haven’t you seen through her yet? She’s probably as mad as fire that she wasn’t offered your job.’

‘But she couldn’t have been. She hadn’t even left school …’

‘That’s the reasonable point of view. Debbie wouldn’t see it like that. She would see it as you getting a chance she’d been denied. Being married is the only other option open to her. I hope, for her fiancé’s sake, that it works. Now, about this other business, why do you suppose Bianca doesn’t want her biography written?’

Alix sighed. ‘I wish I knew. She was all for the idea originally, when she thought someone was going to ghost it for her.’

‘In other words a self-portrait by her greatest fan,’ Gemma’s voice was dry. ‘Well, Liam Brant is no one’s fan, so I suppose she can be allowed her misgivings.’

‘Do you know him?’ Alix stared at her.

‘No, but I’ve read some of his books. Dave bought me the Kristen Wallace biog for my birthday, and what an eye-opener that was. Since then I’ve been borrowing his other stuff from the library.’

‘Have you got any of them now?’

‘I’ve one—an early one about Clive Percy, the conductor. He doesn’t pull his punches, but he really gets inside the people he writes about. He makes you feel you know them.’

‘Or at least you know what he wants you to know about them,’ Alix said with some asperity. ‘You can’t really say he’s objective.’

Gemma shrugged. ‘Well, we won’t argue about it. Have you read any of them?’ And when Alix shook her head with a little grimace, ‘Well, take the Percy one. It doesn’t have to go back for a fortnight, and if you keep it longer than that, you pay the fine. Is it a deal?’

Alix laughed. ‘Yes, it’s a deal.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for letting me talk it all out. I actually feel much better. Instead of an early night, I might just treat myself to dinner and a theatre.’

‘I was going to offer you egg and chips with us, but your plan has far more going for it,’ Gemma said cheerfully. ‘But you will come to supper soon, won’t you? Dave would love to meet you. I’ve mentioned you often. And now you’ve got my address and phone number, there’s really no excuse …’

Alix felt infinitely happier as she left Waterloo, and hailed a taxi to take her into the West End. It had been marvellous to bump into Gemma like that. They had been so close at school, but afterwards it was only too easy to lose touch. She was ashamed to think that she hadn’t even known that Gemma was married, let alone met her husband, and she couldn’t help wondering why the family hadn’t told her, because they must have known.

I could at least have sent a present, even if I couldn’t have gone to the wedding, she thought wistfully.

Gemma had referred to her life with Bianca as a ‘dream job’, but suddenly Alix wasn’t so sure. She’d begun to realise how totally and exclusively involved she was in her new life. Was it any wonder she was almost a stranger in her own home?

She would have to insist that Bianca gave her regular time off in future, so that she could set about rebuilding some of the relationships that had suffered in the past months—especially that with Debbie. She couldn’t wholly accept Gemma’s dismissal of Debbie’s attitude as resentment and jealousy. She herself must be to blame in some way, and she could only be thankful that she had the opportunity to put things right before they went too far and there was a complete estrangement.

Working for Bianca had been allowed to take her over. She lived, dressed, snatched her meals, even took her holidays at Bianca’s imperious behest. She smiled wryly as she recalled how Bianca had tossed the plane tickets and hotel reservation in Rhodes to her quite casually one day.

‘Here you are, darling. You’re looking pale and wan, and it depresses me.’

Alix could have protested—should have done, she told herself reflectively. She could afford holidays for herself. Heaven knew, she had enough money. Her living expenses were so few that she now had a healthy deposit account in the bank.

But she didn’t argue, partly because Bianca liked to have her generous impulses received with due appreciation, and partly because she wanted to get away for a while anyway.

If she looked pale and strained, Bianca might well be experiencing guilt rather than depression, she decided cynically. And it would undoubtedly be convenient for her employer to have her out of the way for a few weeks, while the affair she was having with Peter Barnet burned itself out.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, of course. Peter was a journalist working for a show business column on one of the national dailies, and he had been invited to one of Bianca’s cocktail parties. He was young, blond and undeniably attractive, and Alix had been attracted. She had enjoyed talking to him, and not been altogether surprised when he telephoned her and asked her to have dinner with him. She had seen him several times when Bianca had suggested, almost idly, that she might like to invite him to make up the numbers at a small dinner party she was giving.

Alix’s impulse had been to refuse. She knew what would happen; she had seen it all before. It was as if Bianca could not bear to see any personable man paying attention to anyone other than herself. Other men who had dated Alix had either found themselves frozen out, or overwhelmed with a display of charm calculated to undermine any masculine defences.

Alix had not been in love with Peter, or with any of the others, but all the same it had not been pleasant to sit on one side of Bianca’s gleaming dining table and watch Peter succumb without a struggle. He and Alix had talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company, but he had never stared at her with that look of hot and glittering desire that he was turning on Bianca. Dinner ended, the other guests departed and Alix invented a headache to take her up to her room.

What happened after that was anyone’s guess. And Alix didn’t want to know. Nor, she found, did it help to tell herself that the ache in her heart was dented pride and no more. She was tired of having to face the fact of how easily Bianca could eclipse any charms she might have. It was hurtful to see someone she had liked apparently forget that she existed.

She knew the pattern, of course. Bianca’s little flings were unvarying. There would be flowers delivered, and long intimate phone calls, often while Alix was in the room, with Bianca lying on her chaise-longue, the receiver cradled against her cheek.

Alix couldn’t really be sorry that she was going to miss this particular episode in the long-running saga of Bianca’s love life.

And she thought, ‘I’d be frightened to let myself love someone in case she did the same thing to him. I might have loved Peter, for all she knew, but it made no difference. She still has to prove that she’s irresistible.’

As she queued at the box office of the theatre of her choice, Alix found herself wondering without too much curiosity what had happened to Peter. She could imagine, of course. One day, out of the blue, he would have found that Miss Layton was no longer accepting his calls. She wondered if he had accepted the situation with dignity, or made a scene. Not that it would have mattered. When it was over for Bianca, it was over, and there were no reprieves.

The disappointments of the day were still with her when she reached the box office window, to be told regretfully that all the seats had been sold, including the few returned tickets. And there was no prospect of any more cancellations.

Alix turned away ruefully. There were other theatres and other plays, of course, but this was the one she had set her heart on. She should have realised the necessity to book. She stood in the street outside the theatre, trying to decide what to do next. She would have dinner, of course, and then back to the house, she supposed, for an early night. Or she could always read the Clive Percy book, she thought with a glance at the parcel in her hand.

There was a small Italian restaurant just round the corner and she would eat there, she decided, deliberately removing from her mind the remembrance that Peter had taken her there.

Even though it was comparatively early in the evening, the restaurant was quite busy, its tables mostly occupied by couples. Alix was shown to a corner table, given a menu and offered an aperitif. She ordered a Cinzano and leaned back in her chair, a feeling of relaxation and contentment beginning to steal over her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have an early night after all. There was a musical she wouldn’t mind seeing—and there were cinemas. She would ask the cheerful proprietor if he had an evening paper and see what was on.

Aware that someone had stopped beside her table, she looked up with a smile, expecting that her drink had arrived.

Liam Brant said courteously, ‘Good evening, Miss Coulter. We meet again.’

Alix felt the smile freeze into something like a grimace. Without stopping to think, she said hotly, ‘You wouldn’t be following me, by any chance?’

His brows lifted. ‘You flatter yourself, secretary bird. As it happens, I often eat here. The food is good and the service is quick. I hope that reassures you.’

It wasn’t particularly reassuring to know that she’d just made a fool of herself, so Alix remained silent, staring down at the checked gingham tablecloth.

‘And what are you doing out of your gilded cage?’ the infuriating voice went on.

‘I was hoping to enjoy myself,’ Alix said coolly.

‘Until I showed up,’ he supplied.

She shrugged. ‘You said it—I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t have to. Has no one ever told you that your face is the mirror to your thoughts?’ To Alix’s annoyance, he drew out the chair opposite and sat down.

Stiffening, she said, ‘I don’t remember inviting you to join me.’

‘There’s nothing the matter with your memory—you didn’t,’ he returned. To the waiter who had just brought Alix’s Cinzano, he said, ‘A whisky and water, please. And we’ll both have lasagne.’

Alix’s fingers curled like claws round her glass. In a voice almost molten with rage, she said, ‘I did not intend to order lasagne.’

‘Then you should. It’s particularly good here. Or do you always play safe with steak or scampi wherever you happen to dine?’

‘Of course not,’ she began, then compressed her lips angrily. She was not going to be drawn into a discussion of her eating habits. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m perfectly capable of making my own choice from the menu, and I’d prefer to eat alone.’

‘Is it a preference you often indulge?’

She had expected him to leave, but he showed no signs of moving. And now the waiter was bringing his drink, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a carafe of house wine. She could have screamed.

‘Well, why don’t you?’ he said.

‘Why don’t I what?’

‘Swear at me—throw your drink in my face—storm out. Whatever hostile fantasy you’re harbouring. I told you that you were transparent. Why don’t you follow the family tradition and go into films? You’d probably make your fortune.’

‘Because I’m quite content as I am, thanks.’ Alix made her face and voice impassive. Transparent, she thought, simmering inwardly.

‘That’s a dull thing to be at your age. And I don’t believe you.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to the other Alix Coulter, and may she soon stand up.’

‘There is no other.’ Alix did not respond to the toast, or drink from her own glass. She was afraid she might choke.

‘Oh?’ He gave her a long speculative look which covered the pinned-back hair, and the muted neutral colours of dress, trench coat and bag. ‘Then the girl I glimpsed on the stairs today was someone else—or a mirage, was she?’

Alix had forgotten the glimpse he had caught of her. She felt the colour rise in her face, and knew angrily that he had noticed it too and was faintly amused by it.

She said between her teeth, ‘Mr Brant, I came here for a quiet meal, not to be interviewed. I’m not interested in being copy for your next book any more than my—than Bianca is.’

He said softly, ‘I’ve no intention of writing a book about you, darling. Your cumulative experience of life could undoubtedly be covered in a short article, probably for a parish magazine. My questions are prompted by a normal male curiosity about why an attractive young woman insists on dragging about the place like a facsimile of Little Orphan Annie. I assume it is deliberate.’

‘I’m a working girl, Mr Brant, not some kind of starlet. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

‘It doesn’t satisfy anything about me.’ His eyes never left her face. ‘You’re a walking intrigue, Miss Coulter. I shall look forward to solving your particular mystery over the next few weeks. What was that wrongly buttoned dress—a Freudian slip?’

‘I had to change in a hurry.’ Alix heard a sudden breathless note creep into her voice. He was right about there being nothing the matter with her memory—she could remember the details of that little incident only too well.

‘So did Cinderella when the clock struck midnight. Do you have some private timing device to tell you when the ball is over?’

‘I really don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ Alix said with a hint of desperation. ‘Just because I prefer to dress in a—in a businesslike way during working hours …’

‘Another of these famous preferences of yours—you prefer to dress badly—you prefer to eat alone. Or are either of those choices, in fact, yours?’

‘What do you mean?’ Alix was stung. ‘I don’t dress badly. How dare you!’

‘I dare quite easily. That dress you’re wearing, for example—the style doesn’t flatter your figure, and the colour does nothing for you at all.’

‘Are you an expert on women’s clothes as well as character assassination, Mr Brant?’

‘I have a certain amount of expertise in a number of things,’ he drawled with a sudden sideways grin, and she felt that betraying blush flood her cheeks again, as shaken as if his hand had brushed her skin, or his mouth touched hers …

The waiter bustled up with the dishes of lasagne, and she thought she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Not that she felt like eating. On the contrary, any appetite she had had was destroyed, although she had to admit that the smell of meat and spices emanating from the dish in front of her was a beguiling one.

‘You’re staring at it as if you think it might leap out of the dish and bite you instead.’ Liam Brant sounded amused. ‘I promise you it won’t. Nor does it contain a secret drug which will put you in my power. Here,’ he took the fork from her unresisting fingers, and scooped up a portion, offering it to her as if she had been a child, ‘try it and see.’

She didn’t want to take the food from him. She could see the couple at the next table exchanging indulgent glances.

She thought hysterically, ‘They must think we’re lovers. This is the sort of game lovers play—feeding each other with titbits at candlelit tables. I ought to tell them the truth—that I don’t trust him, that I could even hate him. And yet at the same time that it would be easy—so easy to be in his power. And it wouldn’t need secret drugs.’

She bent her head and ate the proffered forkful in silence.

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ His voice was still amused.

‘No, you were right. The food here is delicious.’ She sounded cool and composed, and she was proud of herself. ‘Now, if I could have my fork, I did learn to feed myself as a child.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But what else have you learned since?’

Alix took another gulp of wine. How nice it must be to have an answer for everything, she thought sourly. No doubt when she was in bed later, trying to sleep, she would think of a dozen coruscating remarks with which she could have put him down permanently.

Oh, please let me wake up tomorrow and find the past twenty-four hours has all been a bad dream, she appealed silently to whatever benevolent deity might be listening, but without a great deal of hope.

She tried to make herself relax and enjoy her food, because if she obeyed her instinct and pushed her plate away almost untouched, he would probably guess that he was disturbing her and be amused.

‘What did you eat the last time you came here?’ he asked.

She put down her fork and stared at him. ‘The last time?’

‘With Peter Barnet,’ he said. ‘It was you.’ A statement, not a question.

Alix moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I—I forget.’

‘Clearly a memorable meal,’ he said softly. ‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘As you appear to know my every move,’ she said clearly, ‘you tell me.’

‘No, you haven’t.’ He leaned back in his chair, dark eyes watchful under hooded lids. ‘Tell me, does Bianca Layton choose your clothes and hairstyle?’

‘So that’s it!’ Alix gave a little artificial laugh. ‘Not very clever, Mr Brant. What exactly are you probing for—some evidence of discontent? You won’t find it. If you’re trying to goad me into saying something about Bianca which you can interpret as disloyalty, then you’re wasting your time. We have a very close relationship, and I’m grateful to her for all the opportunities I’ve had since I’ve been working for her. I’m sorry if my dress sense doesn’t meet with your approval, but you sought my company, remember. I didn’t seek yours.’

‘Quite a speech,’ he said drily. ‘Didn’t Shakespeare say something about protesting too much?’

‘He may well have done,’ she said. ‘But I can assure you it doesn’t apply in this case.’

He smiled lightly. ‘As you wish. Now eat your food.’

‘My appetite seems to have deserted me.’

‘You’re far too sensitive,’ he remarked. ‘Not a desirable attribute for anyone attached to the Layton ménage, I would have thought.’

‘If you disapprove of Bianca so strongly, why do you want to write about her? I thought biographers were supposed to be objective.’

‘Who told you that?’ he queried. ‘I want to write about her because she’s a great star, if not a great actress, and I’m interested in analysing the elements which come together to make such a being.’

‘As you did with Kristen Wallace?’

‘Right,’ he agreed.

‘Then you’ll understand why I won’t want you within a mile of Bianca.’ She met his gaze fully, her own eyes blazing.

‘The lamb leaps to protect the tigress,’ he mocked. ‘Calm down, Miss Coulter. There’s no need for all this defensiveness, unless you already know that your idol has feet of clay. My researches may well reveal that under that highly lacquered exterior beats a heart of pure gold. I could always ask Peter Barnet’s opinion.’

‘Ask who you damned well like,’ Alix said fiercely. ‘But I’m telling you now, you’ll get no co-operation from me, or from anyone else who works for Miss Layton. If you insist on writing this book, it will be an unauthorised biography, written without credibility, a rehash of everything that’s been said before, with an additional helping of your own scurrilous brand of speculation, I have no doubt. Just don’t expect any help.’

‘What would you say,’ he said softly, ‘if I told you that you’d already helped more than you knew? Your lasagne must be stone cold by now. Would you like something else? Coffee, perhaps, and a brandy. You look as if you need it.’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ Alix said fiercely. She snatched up her handbag. ‘If you’ll tell me what my share of the bill is, I’ll be going.’

‘There’s no hurry.’ The dark face was smooth and enigmatic as he watched her. ‘The curtain doesn’t go up for at least half an hour.’

‘For once your Sherlock Holmes instinct has played you false,’ she said between her teeth. ‘I’m not going to the theatre. There are no seats left for the play I wanted to see.’

‘There are, if you’re talking about the show at the Galaxy. I was intending to go there myself tonight, but something’s come up, so if you want one of my tickets you can have it.’

Alix stiffened. ‘No, thank you.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not trying to entrap you into spending the remainder of the evening with me.’ He produced a slip of yellow paper from his wallet and put it on the table between them. ‘It’s a ticket for a play you want to see, that’s all.’

‘I want nothing from you,’ snapped Alix on a little flare of temper.

‘As you wish.’ He shrugged slightly, then crumpled the ticket into a ball and tossed it into the empty ashtray. ‘Have a pleasant evening.’ He pushed back his chair and rose.