Sirocco

‘Rough day?’ she asked, automatically picking up the boots and putting them away. ‘You look tired. Did Roger ring?'

‘I gather from that he hasn't rung here,’ commented Rachel, bending to rub her aching instep. ‘No, he didn't ring. I suppose if he doesn't turn up, I'll have to ring him. Steve and Laura are expecting us this evening.'

‘He'll turn up,’ said Jane carelessly. ‘Particularly as Steve and Laura are his friends, not yours. He won't want them to think there's anything wrong.'

‘You could be right,’ Rachel grimaced. ‘Er—there haven't been any other calls for me, have there?'

‘Who? Your father?’ Jane shook her head. ‘No.'

‘I wasn't thinking of my father, actually,’ said Rachel, deciding to confess. ‘I—er—I had a visitor at the office today. A man I met late last night. I just wondered how he'd found out where I worked.'

‘A man? What man?’ Jane was, intrigued. ‘Someone you met at Roger's party? Hey, that's not why he's mad at you, is it? Because you went off with someone else?'

‘No.’ Rachel sighed. ‘It was after I left the party I met him.’ Briefly, she explained what had happened, omitting to mention her own disturbing reactions to Alexis Roche. ‘He—he turned up at lunchtime. I thought perhaps he might have rung here first.'

‘Not that I know of.’ Jane pulled a wry face. ‘So who is he? What's he like? You say he's French?'

‘I said he spoke French at first,’ said Rachel, not wanting to go into details. She had thought quite enough about Alexis Roche as it was. ‘I don't know anything about him.'

‘But why did he go to the office?'

Rachel bent her head. ‘To ask me to have lunch with him.'

‘He did?’ Jane whistled. ‘And did you?'

‘Of course not.’ Rachel looked up at her friend half indignantly. ‘How can you ask?'

Jane shrugged. ‘Well, he's obviously made an effort to find out all about you.’ She paused. ‘Is he good-looking?'

‘I really couldn't say.’ Rachel got to her feet abruptly and deposited her empty cup and saucer on the nearest table. ‘I'm going to have a bath. If Roger rings, let me know, will you?'

Jane's eyes twinkled. ‘All right. And what if anyone else rings?'

‘I'm out,’ said Rachel brusquely, walking towards the door. ‘And stop looking like that! It wasn't at all funny, believe me. Sophie Tennant was in the office when he turned up, and you know what she's like! It'll be all round the office tomorrow.'

Jane's expression softened. ‘So what? You've done nothing wrong, have you? Oh, go and get your bath. I don't want to have to entertain Roger because you're not ready.'

Soaking in the bath, Rachel managed to get things into perspective. She was overreacting, she knew it. It was perfectly reasonable that Alexis Roche should come to thank her for what she had done, even if he had been less than grateful the night before. No doubt he had regretted his behaviour and wanted to make amends. And as for asking her out to lunch—well, men had asked her out to lunch before without arousing such a strong sense of indignation. It was her awareness of his physical attraction that had made her behave as she had, and he could not be held responsible for that.

Nevertheless, there remained the niggling worry as to how he had found her. As she dried herself and dressed, in the cream shirt and slacks she had laid out before her bath, she could not explain that particular puzzle, however the sound of the doorbell dispelled all other considerations. Holding her breath, she waited for Jane to answer the door, and presently she heard the familiar sound of Roger's voice in the living room. Only then did she relax, putting a final touch of eyeshadow at the corners of her eyes before putting down her brush and going out to meet him.

Her first, infuriating impression was of how pale Roger looked compared to Alexis Roche, but hard on the heels of this came the more apposite realisation that he was nervous. He was a little above medium height and stockily built, and it was unusual to see him in anything but a confident position, however right now he looked distinctly uneasy.

‘Hello, Ray,’ he said, running uncertain fingers through the dark strands of his hair, and although she normally disliked his diminutive use of her name, Rachel was too relieved at his apparent diffidence to give it a second thought.

‘Hello, Roger,’ she responded, as Jane melted away into the kitchen, and shaking his head he moved towards her.

‘I'm sorry,’ he exclaimed, taking her shoulders and drawing her unresistingly towards him. ‘About last night, I mean. I was rotten, wasn't I? I've thought about it all day, wondering if you got home okay, wondering if you forgave me ...'

Suppressing the thought that if he had been so worried about her, why hadn't he rung, Rachel allowed him to cover her mouth with his. His kiss was warm, affectionate, a balm to her troubled emotions, and she responded to it eagerly. But although she linked her arms about his neck and parted her lips invitingly, Roger drew back after the briefest of caresses, murmuring: ‘Jane,’ with irritating insistence.

‘Jane's not in the room,’ protested Rachel impatiently, but although Roger assured himself of this fact, he did not pursue their embrace.

‘Laura and Steve are expecting us,’ he reminded her firmly, tightening the knot of his tie and adjusting the jacket of his suit. ‘We can talk later. Are you ready?'

Rachel shrugged and went to collect a warm tweed jacket to wear over her shirt and slacks. If only Roger wasn't so conscious of what other people might think, she thought irritably, checking the silky swirl of curls about her shoulders. Still, at least they were not at odds with one another. She ought to be grateful for that.

The evening spent with the Curtises should have been pleasant enough, but Rachel found she wasn't enjoying herself. Perhaps if she and Roger had been alone it would have been better, she thought. As it was, she was conscious of what had been said the night before, and conscious also of the fact that although Roger had apologised for his behaviour, he had not said anything about retracting his words. There was still the prospect of who was to arrange the wedding to resolve, and she wished she had put her pride aside and rung him this morning before he left for Sunningdale.

Driving back to the flat later, she determined to have it out with him, and taking a deep breath, she said: ‘We've been avoiding the subject all evening, but we have to talk about the wedding, Roger.'

‘I know.’ He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance her way. ‘I suppose that's why you've been so quiet, isn't it? I just wish you wouldn't involve other people in our affairs.'

Rachel blinked. ‘Involve other people?’ she echoed faintly. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I think you do.’ Roger was precise. ‘Last evening you walked out of the apartment, without even wishing our guests goodbye, and tonight you've done your best to make Steve and Laura feel uncomfortable.'

Rachel gasped. ‘How?'

‘Well, you've hardly opened your mouth all evening.'

‘You and Steve were talking. I was listening.'

‘You could have talked to Laura. Steve and I were talking about work. It can't have been of much interest to you.'

‘On the contrary,’ Rachel was indignant, ‘I was interested. After all, when we're married I'll expect you to discuss your work with me. Just as you do with your mother.'

‘My mother is my business partner,’ exclaimed Roger impatiently. ‘That's hardly the same thing.'

‘So you would rather I talked about knitting and cooking with Laura?'

‘Of course. They are the things women usually talk about, aren't they?'

‘No.’ Rachel dug her nails into her palms in an effort to control her temper. ‘Not these days, anyway. We talk about all sorts of things, and knitting and cooking are not my strong points.'

‘Laura's an excellent cook.'

‘I know it.'

‘So perhaps you should get some pointers from her.'

Rachel trembled. ‘Laura Curtis is an anachronism, Roger. She has no conversation at all outside domestic matters. All she thinks about is her home and her husband, and the child she's expecting.'

‘So?’ Roger was not prepared to concede. ‘What's wrong with that?'

Rachel tried to calm herself. ‘I thought you said we wouldn't be having any children—not immediately, anyway.'

‘We won't.’ Roger shrugged. ‘But that doesn't mean you can't show an interest in such things.'

‘Roger, I did show an interest. We talked about quotes female matters close quotes for fully an hour! After that, I just dried up.'

‘And you showed it.’ Roger snorted. ‘I was embarrassed.'

‘Were you?’ Rachel's lips tightened. ‘I'm afraid I didn't notice.'

‘Obviously not.’ He swung off the main thoroughfare into Oakwood Road. ‘Still, that's not really relevant to the real bone of contention between us, is it?'

‘No.’ Rachel looked down at her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. ‘Have you made up your mind about the wedding arrangements?'

Roger sighed, drawing the TR7 in to the kerb outside the Victorian apartment building where Rachel and Jane had their flat. ‘I should be asking you that question,’ he said levelly. ‘It really is up to you, I suppose. I just wish you would consider my mother's offer, that's all.'

‘I have considered it.’ Rachel made a determined effort to appeal to him. ‘Darling, can't you understand? I don't want your mother interfering in something which is essentially the bride's prerogative.'

‘I think it's supposed to be the bride's parents’ prerogative,’ remarked Roger pedantically. ‘And as we both know, your parents are unlikely to care how it's carried out.'

Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘Roger, if it's only a question of paying for a reception, my father can do that. As to the other arrangements—my dress, and so on—I do have friends, you know.'

‘But Mother wants this to be a special occasion,’ persisted Roger. ‘She wants to make it easy for you, can't you see that? She could book the reception, organise the food, arrange about the cake; and as for yours and the bridesmaid's dresses—well, we are in business, aren't we?'

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I only want one bridesmaid, Roger, and that's Jane.'

‘Jane!’ Roger was scathing. ‘For heaven's sake, Ray, do you want to make the whole affair look ridiculous? Jane's fourteen stone if she's an ounce! What kind of a bridesmaid would she make?'

Rachel seethed. ‘The very best kind,’ she declared tautly. ‘I wouldn't dream of leaving her out—simply because your mother has some idea of having a troop of little flower girls to follow me out of church!'

‘There you go again!’ Roger's jaw jutted. ‘Just because Mother wants you to look your best, you're determined to thwart her. Why? Why, for heaven's sake? Sandra's little girls would look delicious in pink satin!'

‘Delicious!’ Rachel's lips curled. ‘Can you hear yourself, Roger? I don't want our wedding to be remembered because of its pretty appearance! Marriage is a serious commitment. It's a serious occasion. And I want Jane to be a witness, because she's the best friend I've got.'

‘Perhaps you should be marrying Jane, then,’ declared Roger childishly, and Rachel knew a blinding moment of anger.

‘Perhaps I should,’ she retorted, thrusting open her door and getting out. ‘Don't bother to come in. There's no point in us discussing this any further.'

‘Aw, Ray——’ Roger leant across the front seat, calling after her. ‘Ray, I didn't mean it. Come back! We haven't even kissed goodnight.'

‘Call me tomorrow,’ replied Rachel, over her shoulder, and she heard the car roar away as she inserted her key in the door.

The following day was Friday, and Rachel went to work with a feeling of resignation. Still, she consoled herself, whatever was said, the weekend was close enough to dispel any rumours, and perhaps by Monday someone else might have done something noteworthy.

As luck would have it, Sophie was absent, and one of the other typists, who came to deliver a message from Mr Hollis, explained that her mother had called to say she was full of cold.

‘It's that draughty office,’ agreed Rachel sympathetically, nevertheless relieved to be free of any further explanations for the present, and the other girl nodded in agreement.

Even so, it was not one of Rachel's better days. Mr Black was in a foul mood, due no doubt to the fact that his wife had forgotten to collect his tonic from the chemist, and his chest had worsened accordingly, and Peter Rennison's appearance just before lunch did not improve matters.

Putting down the file Rachel had had one of the typists deliver to him the previous afternoon, he leant familiarly over her desk, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair. ‘Do I have you to thank for Sophie's sudden aversion to my presence?’ he enquired, bending to switch off her machine so that she could not continue typing. ‘It seems the poor girl has really taken fright. She hasn't even turned up to work this morning.'

Rachel bent and determinedly switched on her typewriter again. ‘Sophie is sick, Mr Rennison,’ she replied politely. ‘Was there something else you wanted? I'm afraid Mr Black has a client with him at the moment.'

Peter Rennison straightened. ‘Cool collected Rachel,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘Do you ever let your hair down? Emotionally, I mean?'

Rachel did not answer him, and infuriated by her lack of attention, he exclaimed: ‘I pity that poor devil you're marrying! Does he know what a frigid little madam you are? Or maybe he doesn't care. I hear he's quite a mother's boy. Is that true?'

Rachél looked up at him then, the wide blue eyes sparkling with contempt between their fringe of silky black lashes, and the man knew a frustrated sense of contrition. ‘Hell, I'm sorry, Rachel,’ he muttered, leaning on the desk again. ‘But you drive me crazy, do you know that? I wouldn't give a damn about any of the girls if you'd agree to go out with me.'

Rachel sighed and shook her head. ‘You're married, Mr Rennison. And I'm engaged. I—please don't ask me again.'

‘Don't bet on it,’ he responded, conceding defeat for the present and walking towards the door. ‘You tell that bloke you're marrying he'd better make you happy, or he'll have me to deal with!'

Rachel couldn't suppress an unwilling smile as he left the office, and she cupped her chin on one hand and stared disconsolately into space. She couldn't help thinking that if Roger had been more like Peter Rennison she might feel more sure of him, instead of harbouring the suspicion that his mother's feelings would always come first.

She was still sitting there in a daydream when the door opened again, and this time Mr Hodges, the caretaker, came into the office. To her surprise, he was carrying a long white box which he set down on her desk, and she gazed at it in wonder as he gave her his grudging smile.

‘This came for you, Miss Fleming,’ he said, touching the white ribbon which encircled it. ‘Aren't you going to open it? Looks like flowers to me.'

‘And to me, Mr Hodges,’ said Rachel eagerly, abandoning her daydream for an unexpectedly welcome reality, and tearing off the ribbon, she displayed the box's contents.

It was full of roses, pure white roses, as fresh as the moment they were picked from the bush. Long-stemmed, some starting to open their petals, others little more than ivory buds, they spilled their fragrance into the dusty atmosphere of the office, and as Rachel gazed at them, a lump came into her throat.

‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny,’ remarked Mr Hodges drily, bending his head to enjoy the bouquet. ‘Must be more than a couple of dozen of them in there. Roses in February! What next?'

Rachel lifted all the roses out, looking for the card which she was sure must accompany them. But there was none. Just the pure white roses in their pure white box, eloquent enough of the meaning behind them, she decided.

Mr Hodges was lingering, and eager to get on the phone to Roger, Rachel thrust one of the delicate blooms into the old man's hand. ‘A buttonhole,’ she said, smiling, and the caretaker took his dismissal happily, tucking the stem through his lapel.

Her first attempt to reach Roger was not successful. He was not in his office, his secretary told her, and realising it was lunch time, Rachel agreed to call back. Then, collecting a couple of empty milk bottles, she filled them with water and deposited the roses in them, discovering as she did so that he had indeed sent her twenty-four.

‘Two dozen,’ she murmured to herself, as she made her lunchtime cup of coffee. He had never done anything like that before. Which made it all the more appealing, revealing as it did his desire to really mend the breach between them.

She eventually got through to Roger at a quarter to three, and although he came on the line, she could tell at once that he was not pleased to be disturbed.

‘Rachel, I've got the buyer from Streetline with me at the moment,’ he exclaimed, evidently involved in making a sale. ‘Could we talk tonight, do you think? Come to the apartment. We can talk there.'

‘All right.’ Rachel squashed her disappointment that she was not to have more time to thank him right now. ‘I—I just wanted you to know, I love them.'

There was a pause, and then Roger asked half irritably: ‘What was that?'

‘The roses,’ said Rachel urgently. ‘I love the roses. Thank you for sending them. It was a—a wonderful thought.'

‘Wait a minute ...’ Clearly Roger was fighting a losing battle with his curiosity, ‘what are you talking about? What roses? I didn't send any roses. They must be for somebody else.'

Rachel noticed he didn't say from somebody else, and for the first time she wondered how Mr Hodges had known they were for her. There had been no indication on the box, no card, as he had seen. She shook her head bewilderedly. If Roger hadn't sent them, who had?

The answer was too outrageous to be true. In spite of his professed affection for her, Peter Rennison would never do something as incriminating as send flowers, and in any case, what other man of her acquaintance could afford to spend so much money on two dozen roses? It had to be someone to whom twenty-five or thirty pounds meant very little; someone who wore Italian leather jackets and Cartier watches, and treated a Lamborghini Countach with casual indifference ...

‘Is that all?'

Realising Roger was still waiting for her response, Rachel pulled herself together. ‘What? Oh, yes—yes,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, Roger. Goodbye.'

‘Until later,’ he inserted, reminding her of her promise to go to his apartment, and nodding her head, she added: ‘Until later,’ in a low unenthusiastic voice.

When she rang Mr Hodges’ small office to enquire about the roses, he was quite definite that they were hers. ‘A gentleman brought them,’ he said, sniffing down the phone. ‘For Miss Fleming, Miss Rachel Fleming. Now you know there are no other Miss Flemings in the building, let alone a Miss Rachel Fleming.'

Rachel sighed. ‘The man——’ She paused. ‘What was he like?'

‘I dunno. Foreign-looking. Tall and dark——'

‘Dark, did you say?'

‘—wearing a kind of chauffeur's uniform.'

‘Oh!’ Rachel's brief moment of uncertainty fled. ‘Oh, well, thank you, Mr Hodges. I'm very grateful.'

With the receiver restored to its rest, there remained the problem of what she was going to do with them. Her first instincts were to leave the roses in the office, but to do so would evoke exactly the kind of interest she most wanted to avoid. And besides, Mr Black would not appreciate their presence. He would probably say they aggravated his asthma, and with the weekend coming, it wasn't fair to leave them to die. She would have to take them home and hope to goodness Roger did not question her too thoroughly as to their sender's identity. She could always pretend they had been delivered by mistake, but no one knew to whom they really belonged.

In consequence, she emerged from the building that afternoon carrying the white box in her arms. Against the dark material of her double-breasted jacket, it was distinctly noticeable, but happily it was raining and the other girls were in too much of a hurry to get home to pay her any attention. It was a little cumbersome, too, coping with its length and the copious wedge of her shoulder bag, but she gasped indignantly when it was suddenly lifted out of her grasp.

‘Permettez-moi, mademoiselle,' said a rather gutteral French voice, and she looked round in surprise to find a man in chauffeur's uniform at her elbow.

‘I beg your pardon——’ she began, more because she was astounded at his effrontery than at his use of another language, and the man, whose harsh features were not altogether reassuring in the half light, bowed his head apologetically.

‘Forgive me,’ he exclaimed, his English overlaid by a heavy accent, ‘but I am here to escort you, mademoiselle. You wish me to carry your bag, also?'

‘No.’ Rachel was vaguely alarmed by his intrusion. In the fading light of an early evening, it was disconcerting to be accosted when there was no one she knew to come to her assistance, and while she suspected Alexis Roche was behind this, she didn't want to get involved with him either. ‘I——’ She looked regretfully at the box of roses in his arms, and then, realising she could hardly claim them in the circumstances, she shook her head. ‘No, I don't need any help, thank you. Excuse me, I have a bus to catch.'

‘Ah, mais non.’ To her dismay, his hand curled round her sleeve, gripping her gently, but firmly, in the kind of grasp she knew would tighten like a vice if she tried to get free. ‘Monsieur Roche is waiting for you, mademoiselle. Come with me. It is not far.'

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL gasped. ‘Will you let go of me!'

‘Please, mademoiselle, do not make a fuss.’ The chauffeur started propelling her along the street without any apparent effort. ‘Monsieur Roche would not wish for you to cause any embarrassment. See, the car is there.’ He pointed to a vehicle parked some yards further along the narrow thoroughfare. ‘It is parked on your yellow lines, non? Let us not keep my master waiting.'

‘I don't give a damn about your master,’ protested Rachel fiercely. She really couldn't believe this was happening, and she looked at the faces of passers-by wondering why none of them was trying to help her. But, amazingly, no one seemed to be taking the slightest notice of her, and she assumed that with the cold and the wet they were more concerned with their own comfort than hers. No doubt they believed she was being escorted to her car by her chauffeur, she thought, a sob of hysteria rising in her throat. The box of roses tucked beneath his arm seemed to confirm this, and no would-be kidnapper had ever had a more powerful ally. The chauffeur was huge, easily six feet three or four, with massive shoulders and the kind of build more in keeping with a professional wrestler. It would take a brave man to tackle him indeed, and Rachel couldn't imagine any of the umbrella-carrying brigade they were passing doing such a thing.

As they neared the car, which she identified as being the most recognisable status symbol of them all, the door was pushed open from inside and a man emerged. Although he was warmly garbed in a thick fur-lined overcoat, his pale hair was unmistakable, and Rachel stared at him frustratedly.

‘How dare you?’ she exclaimed, as soon as they were near enough for him to hear her words. ‘How dare you abduct me like this? I don't know what they do in your country, but in England men do not go around kidnapping young women!'

‘Did you do that, Hassim?’ Alexis Roche enquired lazily, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. He lifted his shoulders carelessly, without waiting for a reply. ‘My only intention was to offer you a lift, Miss Fleming.'

‘Well, I don't need a lift,’ retorted Rachel, finding herself free at last and rubbing the arm which Hassim had gripped so purposefully. ‘And you had no right to send me those roses. When I want flowers, my fiancé will buy them for me!'