1972 - Just a Matter of Time (3 page)

‘I like anything.’ She got into the car, careful with her skirt.

She showed Patterson only her knees as he closed the door.

Patterson got in beside her. Obviously, she thought, he had been home for he was freshly shaven and was wearing a dark suit and a fresh shirt. She could smell his aftershave lotion.

‘I think it’s going to be all right,’ he said as he edged the car into the heavy evening traffic. ‘There are things we have to talk about, but right now, it looks good. Everything will depend on you from now on.’

‘Yes.’ She leaned back in the comfortable seat. ‘It is very kind of you, Mr. Patterson, to take so much trouble.’

‘Oh, I’m an interested party.’ He laughed. ‘I have to see Mrs. Morely-Johnson quite a lot. There are certain chores I had to discuss with her late companion. It wasn’t much fun as she didn’t approve of me.’ He laughed again. ‘You and I, I hope, could get along together.’

‘Yes.’

He glanced at her. She was looking through the windshield at the red taillights of the cars ahead of them. The line of her throat stirred him. He imagined holding her, his mouth pressed against that lovely firm flesh. From past experiences he knew women reacted violently when he kissed their throats.

He slowed and turned off the boulevard.

‘We’re just here. This is my favourite restaurant. Not only is the food good but the doorman takes care of the car.’

He pulled up outside a doorway over which was a blue and gold canopy. The doorman, dressed in blue and gold, opened the offside door, lifting his peak cap.

‘Evening, Mr. Patterson. Evening, miss.’

‘Hi, Fred! Take her away, will you, please?’ Patterson got out of the car and came around as Sheila got out. He put his hand possessively on her arm and led her into the restaurant.

Ahead of them, down a short corridor, she could see the crowded restaurant, but Patterson guided her towards a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Up you go,’ he said. ‘We’re on the first floor.’

At the head of the stairs, a smiling maître d’hôtel was waiting, a bunch of leather menus under his arm.

‘Evening, Mr. Patterson . . . ma’am.’ Sheila was aware of his sharp scrutiny, then seeing his smile broaden, she knew he approved of her. ‘This way, please.’

He opened a door and ushered them into a small room containing a table set for two, two red and gilt plush chairs, the walls covered with red plush and before the curtained window a broad red plush settee.

‘Two champagne cocktails, Henry,’ Patterson said. ‘Right away.’

‘Certainly, Mr. Patterson,’ and the maître d’hôtel vanished.

Sheila looked around the room, eyed the settee, turned and looked at the door, noting there was a brass bolt to it.

‘I didn’t know such places still existed,’ she said.

Patterson pulled out one of the chairs from the table and waved her to it.

‘Not many . . . I use this place quite a bit for business.’ He smiled. ‘It always makes an impression and the bank pays.’

As she sat down, she looked directly at him.

‘Will the bank be paying tonight?’

He laughed as he sat down.

‘No . . . this is my pleasure. Do you like oysters?’

‘Yes . . . very much.’

The maître d’hôtel returned, followed by a waiter bearing two champagne cocktails.

She sat back and watched Patterson glance at the menu. He was quietly efficient and she could see he could quickly make up his mind. Without consulting her further, he ordered nine oysters each and the fish pie.

‘The usual white wine, Mr. Patterson?’ the maître d’hôtel asked.

Patterson nodded. When they were alone, he said, ‘Fish pie might sound dull, but here it is good . . . their specialty: lobster tails, mussels and shrimps in a white wine sauce, covered by the lightest pastry and served with fonds d’artichauts. Sound all right?’

‘It sounds wonderful.’

He raised his glass.

‘Here’s to your success.’

Without touching her glass, she looked directly at him.

‘Mr. Patterson, do you always treat companion-helps’ this way?’

Patterson lifted his left eyebrow, smiling.

‘This is the first time I’ve tried to engage a companion-help,’ he said. ‘So you have me at a disadvantage. The answer, I suppose, is that it depends on the companion-help.’

She picked up her glass, sipped, then put it down.

‘You think I have a chance?’

‘Yes . . . a good chance.’ He drank half his cocktail, then went on, ‘But when dealing with old people you can never be sure. In confidence, I have quite a time with the old lady when she is in the wrong mood, but she was in the right mood this evening . . . the snag is she could be in the wrong mood by tomorrow.’

The oysters arrived on a silver tray of crushed ice. While the waiter fussed with lemons, Tabasco and bread, they said nothing.

When he had gone, Patterson went on, ‘The trouble is, Miss Oldhill, she’s a bit worried about your age . . . I warned you about this.’

‘I understand.’

‘Yes.’ Patterson speared an oyster and conveyed it to his mouth. ‘But this problem can be solved if you are willing to go along.’

She ate an oyster before asking, ‘What does that mean?’

Patterson leaned towards her, looking directly at her, his warm smile enveloping her.

‘Has anyone told you how attractive you are?’

She stared down at the empty oyster shell, then looked up, meeting his gaze, her smoky blue eyes remote.

‘Yes . . . Dr. Fosdick among others.’

Patterson freed another oyster from its shell.

‘Yes . . . I had forgotten Dr. Fosdick. Well, the old lady is half blind, but not all that blind. I suggest when you see her tomorrow you should make yourself less attractive.’

‘Am I to see her tomorrow?’

‘At eleven o’clock, and please be punctual. She has a thing about time.’

They ate in silence. Patterson kept glancing at her. He could tell nothing from her calm expression of what was going on in her mind. The oysters finished, the waiter came to remove the plates. Patterson was growing uneasy. Could she be frigid? He didn’t believe this: not with this sensuality that oozed out of her. She couldn’t be, and yet she wasn’t reacting to his charm.

He felt that. She was cool, undisturbed by his smile. His smile had gained him so many easy conquests in the past. He moved restlessly as the waiter served the fish pie.

When he had gone, they ate for a moment in silence, then she said, ‘This really is delicious.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’ He moved a morsel of pastry with his fork. ‘I’ve told her about you. The fact you are Henry Oldhill’s daughter made a big hit with her as I knew it must. But once the enthusiasm was over, she said: “She must be quite a child.” I told her you were thirty-eight, serious, and I told her about your bowing arm. Then she said, “Why should a girl like that want to look after an old woman like me?” I got a bit of an inspiration.’ Patterson sat back, smiling. He looked very pleased with himself. ‘I told her you had always admired her playing, that you thought she was even greater than Myra Hess, and you would consider it a privilege to be of help.’

‘Then you were telling the truth,’ Sheila said quietly. ‘It would be a privilege for me to do something for her and to hear her play again.’

Patterson cut into a lobster tail. He was becoming baffled by this woman. Was she serious or was she conning him? Didn’t she realize that this whole operation was to be repaid by her getting into his bed? Or did she really imagine that a busy bank executive like himself would go to all this trouble, buy her an expensive dinner and then expect nothing in return except a polite thanks?

‘Yes.’ He ate for a moment, then decided to sink in a barb. ‘She liked that of course. So she wants to see you. She did ask if I had found an alternative, and I have, just in case she still thinks, after she has met you, that you are too young.’ He glanced to see her reaction, but her face remained calm and she seemed to be enjoying the fish pie as if he hadn’t made the half-concealed threat. ‘You see, Miss Oldhill, this is a little tricky for me. I mustn’t lose Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s confidence. That’s important to me and to the bank. I had to get another candidate lined up. In some ways, she is more suitable than you. She has had a lot of experience and she is around fifty-five. Mrs. Morely-Johnson will be seeing her at ten o’clock tomorrow; you at eleven. Then she will make her decision.’

Sheila nodded.

‘Of course,’ she said in that quiet, controlled voice that always infuriated Hammett. ‘I understand.’

They finished the fish pie and Patterson touched a bell to call the waiter.

‘They have some marvellous desserts here. There’s a strawberry sorbet . . .’

‘I’d rather have just coffee, please.’

‘Me too.’ He told the waiter as he cleared the table to bring coffee, then he took out his heavy gold cigarette case, another gift from Mrs. Morely-Johnson and offered it. When they had lit up and when the coffee had been served and the waiter gone, she said, ‘Could you suggest, Mr. Patterson, how I’m to make myself less attractive as you call it?’

He studied her.

‘Alter your hair style. Make it more severe. No make-up. Wear something dark. Lower your hem line and wear flat-heel shoes.’

She looked startled.

‘You are quite an expert. I’ll follow your suggestions.’

He took from his breast pocket a pair of spectacles, severe, oblong-shaped frames and put them on the table.

‘I’d like you to wear these,’ he went on. ‘I got them after I talked to Mrs. Morely-Johnson. They’re plain glass. You won’t need to wear them all the time, of course, but just put them on when you see her. They’ll alter your appearance a lot.’

The waiter came with the coffee. When he had gone, she put the spectacles on, left her chair and looked at herself in the wall mirror. She returned to the table.

‘You are quite right, Mr. Patterson . . . how clever of you, and thank you. You couldn’t have been more helpful.’

Patterson pressed the dimple in his chin with his forefinger.

‘I just want you to get the job. Look, I’m willing to bet you will get the job so we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other in the future. Could we drop the Mr. Patterson-Miss Oldhill routine? My name’s Chris, Sheila.’

‘Of course.’ She suddenly smiled. It was the first real smile he had had from her and in spite of the spectacles it made her even more attractive to him.

‘For God’s sake, take those glasses off . . . they make you look like a school-marm.’

She laughed and removed the glasses.

‘Better?’ She pushed the sugar bowl towards him. ‘I don’t take it.’

‘Nor do I. Well, that’s settled then. You go to the Plaza Beach Hotel at eleven tomorrow morning. Ask the reception clerk for Mrs. Morely-Johnson and tell him your name. I’ve already alerted him. There’ll be no fuss.’

‘How very efficient you are, Chris.’

‘You could say that.’ Patterson leaned back and smiled. He looked very sure and pleased with himself. ‘Oh, there’s your salary. I pay it from petty cash I handle for the old lady. I pay all her bills. The last one got a hundred a week . . . everything found of course. You’ll live in the penthouse. Your room is nice . . . really luxe . . . TV . . . everything. I suggested she should pay you a hundred and forty. She agreed. Okay?’

‘Thank you. It’s most generous.’

He had hoped for more than this. After all a hundred and forty with all found was damn good money, but she didn’t react. He had had quite a tussle with the old lady to get her to agree.

They finished their coffee. There was a slight pause, then Sheila turned and looked pointedly at the red plush settee. Patterson followed the direction of her eyes.

‘That interest you?’ he said, trying to sound casual.

‘I was just thinking it was convenient.’ She looked at him and her eyes were again remote. ‘Also the bolt on the door.’

He felt his heartbeat quicken.

‘The bolt’s unnecessary.’ He was aware his voice was unsteady. ‘After coffee is served the staff never intrude.’

She regarded him. The probing stare made him feel uncomfortable.

‘You know that from experience?’

His warm smile now was a little forced.

‘You could say that.’

‘Chris. . .’ She paused as she crushed out her cigarette, then she looked up and her lips moved into a half smile. ‘I believe in paying my debts, but not this way.’

‘Way? Sheila!’ He pretended to be shocked. ‘This means nothing . . . there are no strings . . . I wouldn’t want you . . .’

‘Please!’ She held up her hand. ‘I take sex seriously. I think it is the most God-given experience and that it should never be abused. Sex to me is not taking off my pants and pulling my dress up to my neck and lying on a plush settee in an expensive restaurant where waiters don’t intrude after the coffee has been served. But I always pay my debts. Could we talk about this when I have the job?’

For the first time since he could remember Patterson felt embarrassed. He also knew he was flushing and sweat beads had broken out on his forehead. He had never believed it would be an easy conquest, but this veiled promise of a future payment left him breathless.

‘You don’t have to talk like that,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea . . .’

She pushed back her chair.

‘I will telephone you as soon as I know.’

He looked up at her as she got to her feet.

‘Do you want to go?’ He began to feel bewildered by the way she was controlling not only the conversation but now, the evening.

‘I have to. I have letters to write before I go to bed and it is getting late.’

He knew now this was no ordinary woman and that his charm was a blunted weapon. But he wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman. He was shrewd enough to know that he had to give her free rein.
I pay my debts
. Patience, he told himself.

‘That’s all right.’ He got up and followed her to the door.

While he was signing the check, she went down to the street.

He joined her.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Chris,’ she said. ‘I’ve enjoyed it so much and thank you again for. . .’

‘Let’s hope it will work out,’ he said. He was still thinking of what she had said. I take sex seriously. I think it is a God-given experience . . . The thought of having her in his bed made him incoherent.