Desperate Measures (4 page)

A week later, she saw her father leave for America in the care of

a private nurse. She'd invented a story that some money had been left inadvertently in a company pension plan. She wasn't sure he believed

her, and if he had been well he would probably have asked some

searching questions. As it was, he was having one of his bad spells,

and he was clearly too relieved at the prospect of some treatment to

interrogate her too minutely, and she was thankful for that. Three

days after his departure, she became the wife of Alain de Courcy.

The days in between had passed in a kind of blur. Philippa

retired somewhere inside herself, and allowed events to take charge

with a kind of passivity totally foreign to her nature.

But then nothing that was happening seemed to bear any

resemblance to real life. She tried on clothes with total detachment, sat in the hairdresser's while her long hair was cut in a sleek and

manageable bob, and subtly highlighted, and listened to Monica's

impatient chivvying without actually hearing a word she said.

Reality finally impinged when she found herself on a private jet

flight to Paris in the chic amber wool going-away dress which Monica

had chosen for her. She stared down at the broad gold band on her

wedding finger, and tried to remember without success

how she'd felt when Alain had placed it there a few hours

before.

Numb, she thought. And that was how she still felt.

But at least she did not have a honeymoon to endure. They

would have to dispense with that convention for the time being, Alain had told her, because he had already taken more time off to stay in

London than he could spare. So they were going straight to his Paris

apartment.

'I hope it won't be too dull for you,' he said.

'Oh, no,' Philippa had stammered, hardly able to conceal' her

relief. Simply sharing a roof with him would be ordeal enough, she

thought. The prospect of being alone with him in the bridal suite of

some exotic location with all that implied had been more than she

could bear. And judging by the sardonic slant of his mouth he'd known exactly what she was thinking.

She put a hand to her throat and touched the string of matched

pearls which had been his wedding gift to her.

'Exquisite!' Monica had exclaimed as she helped Philippa to

change.

'Yes—but don't they mean tears?' Philippa had felt faintly

troubled as she fastened the clasp.

'Not, my dear, if you have any sense.' Monica's smile held a

touch of envy not unmixed with malice. 'Enjoy the loot, Madame de

Courcy. Because you may find that's all there is,' she added cynically, then glanced at her watch. 'Now do make haste. Your husband's

waiting.'

Your husband. Philippa stole a covert look at this unexpected

and alarming phenomenon who sat beside

her, apparently engrossed in a sheaf of papers from his

briefcase.

She didn't know whether to feel glad or aggrieved at his

absorption, and decided on balance that even if it wasn't exactly

flattering, it was a relief. At least she didn't have to try to make

conversation.

During the past ten days she had seen Alain almost daily, but

she knew him no better than she'd done that first evening when she'd

walked into the library at Lowden Square, she acknowledged ruefully.

To her relief, he had made no further attempt to kiss her, or

move their relationship on to a more intimate level than the friendship he'd promised, although they were still really no more than acquaintances, she admitted to herself.

He had been invariably charming to her, however, setting

himself, she realised, to draw her out, discovering her tastes in

literature and music as well as art, whether she preferred ballet to

opera, if she enjoyed tennis or squash, her preferences in food and

wine.

It was as if he was compiling a dossier on her. And perhaps he

was—a series of facts to be fed into a computer somewhere at De

Courcy International and resurrected at birthday or anniversary times.

And she was only just beginning to realise how very little he had

vouchsafed in return, this stranger who was now married to her for

better or worse.

For better or worse. Philippa repeated the words in her head,

and shivered suddenly.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were landing. The formalities at

the airport were mercifully brief, then Philippa found herself being

whisked away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. She supposed this was

the

kind of treatment she would have to get accustomed to.

Almost before she was ready, she found herself walking into an

imposing building in one of the city's most fashionable areas, and

travelling up in the lift to the penthouse.

The apartment, Alain had told her, was not part of the family

estate which he had inherited, but had been acquired by himself a few years previously as a pied-a-terre near his business headquarters. He was looked after by a married couple, a Madame Henriette Giscard,

and her husband Albert, and they were waiting to welcome their

master and his new bride, their faces well-trained masks.

When the introductions were completed, Alain took her to one

side. 'Will you be all right if I leave you here?' he asked in a low tone. 'I need to go to the office, and I cannot say when it will be possible to return.'

'Oh, that's all right—that's fine,' Philippa stammered, feeling the

colour rise in her face under his quizzical look.

'I don't doubt it.' Mouth twisting, Alain ran his forefinger down

the curve of her hot cheek. He turned back to Madame Giscard,

waiting at a discreet distance. 'I shall not be here for dinner, Henriette.

Make sure Madame has everything she requires.' He lifted Philippa's

nerveless hand and pressed a swift kiss into its palm.
'Au revoir,
mignonne.'

If the Giscards considered his departure eccentric behaviour for

a new bridegroom, they kept their opinions well hidden. Philippa found herself being conducted over the apartment with a certain amount of

ceremony. It seemed evident from the covert glances

she'd seen them exchanging that not only was the marriage

itself a shock to them, but that the Giscards considered her the last kind of wife they would have expected Alain de Courcy to choose. Her

lack of sophistication and experience must be woefully apparent, she

thought bitterly, and if she couldn't fool the servants, how could she hope to deceive his family and friends?

She managed to contain her sigh of relief when Madame Giscard

expressionlessly showed her to her bedroom, a pretty Empire-style

room immediately adjoining the one used by Alain himself. In spite of the neutral attitude he had adopted towards her up to now, she had

still secretly feared some confrontation over the sleeping

arrangements once they were actually married. It was good to know

he could be trusted after all.

She requested a light dinner, and was served promptly and

without fuss with a cup of bouillon, and a perfectly grilled sole with fresh fruit to follow. Afterwards she telephoned the New York clinic, as she always did, to ask after Gavin. She received the usual response—

that it was still too early for any definite prognosis—and after that she was left pretty much to her own devices.

She decided to conduct her own, more leisurely exploration of

the apartment without Madame Giscard's chilly presence at her side.

She found the place slightly austere and unwelcoming, with its large, high-ceilinged rooms, and vaguely reminiscent of Lowden Square in its elegant formality. There was nothing in the least homelike about it,

Philippa decided, hearing the clatter of her heels on the polished floor.

The furniture and curtains seemed to warn,

'Look, but don't touch.' She found herself wondering how much

time Alain actually spent there.

But there was one blessedly familiar touch—Gavin's painting of

the bridge at Montascaux which hung over the elegant marble

fireplace in the salon. She stood, her hands behind her back, staring up at it. She had loved their time at Montascaux. She sighed soundlessly as she remembered the jumble of roofs on the steep hillside

sweeping down to the river, with the ruined chateau towering above

the gorge. They'd rented a house high above the village, with a wood

behind it. The house in the clouds, she thought nostalgically. While

Gavin painted, Philippa had done her own sketching, then shopped at

the small but cheerful market, concocting what she now recognised

must have been some weird and wonderful meals for them both. But

her father had never complained, she thought, a smile trembling on

her lips.

As she turned away, uttering a wordless prayer for her father's

safety and restoration to health, she noticed the exquisite clock which occupied pride of place on the mantelpiece.

Certainly Alain seemed in no hurry to return, she thought. Not

that she wanted him to, of course, she hastily reminded herself, but, on the other hand, he could have made slightly more effort to ease

her into her new environment. Didn't he realise how totally strange

and isolated she must be feeling? she asked herself with faint

resentment.

She tried to watch some television, but found it required more

concentration than she was capable of. And a more extensive

vocabulary too, she realised uneasily. She would probably have to

have some intensive language coaching before she and Alain did

any proper entertaining, although she could not imagine herself

ever acting as hostess in these frankly formidable surroundings.

In spite of her new hairstyle and new dress, she was still a fish

out of water. It was an oddly desolate thought, and her throat

constricted suddenly.

Oh, no, she told herself determinedly. You're not going to cry.

You're just tired and rather fraught after one hell of a day, so you'll go to bed—and, in the morning, you can start keeping your side of the

bargain by getting to grips with this new life of yours.

She was on her way across the wide entrance hall when the

telephone rang. For a moment she hesitated in case the Giscards

reappeared from whatever fastness they had retired to and thought she was usurping their prerogative, but when its shrill summons went on

and on unchecked, she reached out and gingerly lifted the receiver.

'Alain?' It was a woman's voice, low, warm and husky.
'C'est toi,
mon coeur?
'

For a second, Philippa felt as if she'd been turned to stone. But

what the hell was she surprised about? Alain had made no secret of

his proclivities, after all. It was because of them that she was here at all. She just hadn't expected this kind of confrontation so soon.

She said curtly in French, 'I'm afraid Monsieur de Courcy is not

here, madame.'

'And who are you?' Some of the warmth had dissipated.

'His wife,' said Philippa, and put down the phone.

CHAPTER THREE

PHILIPPA was shaking with temper, and another less easily defined

emotion, when she closed her bedroom door behind her. If the phone

rang again, it could burst into flames before she'd answer it, she told herself. Turning a blind eye to Alain's amours, as required, was one

thing, taking messages from them quite another.

She stood still for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to

restore her equilibrium. Madame Giscard must have unpacked for her,

she realised, as she looked round her. Her toilet things were waiting for her, and one of the new nightgowns Monica had insisted on was

lying, elegantly fanned out, across the turned-down bed.

Philippa looked at it with distaste. Its oyster satin and lace had

cost more than she'd been used to paying for a whole term's clothes at art school, she thought with irritation. What a terrible waste of money for a garment no one would see but herself!

The bed itself came in for its fair share of disapproval too. She

glanced at the draped and ruched green silk bedhead, and wondered if

she would ever be able to sleep amid such opulence.

She shook herself mentally, telling herself she was now being

petty. Maybe a warm bath would relax her a little.

The bathroom, needless to say, was the last word in luxury.

Philippa, accustomed to fighting for her

turn with half a dozen others, was in the seventh heaven as she

lay back in the deep, scented water, feeling the tensions slowly

seeping out of her.

She dried herself slowly on one of the enormous fluffy bath

sheets, then experimented with some of the deliciously perfumed

lotions and colognes provided before putting on the nightgown. She

looked at herself judiciously in one of the long mirrors, and grimaced.

The tiny lace bodice hugged her small high breasts, and each side of

the sleek shimmering skirt was slashed, almost to the thigh. With her hair hanging, straight as rainwater, almost to her shoulders, she

looked like a child playing at being an adult, she thought

disparagingly.

She flicked the soft brown strands away from her face and

walked back into the bedroom, halting with a gasp as she found

herself face to face with Alain.

He looked almost as taken aback as she did herself, she

realised, her face flaming.

He was still wearing the formal dark suit in which he'd been