Lightning Encounter (10 page)

‘You don't mean that,' he said, and Karen realized, sickeningly, that he wasn't going away. ‘I do, I do,' she retorted. ‘I hate you because I'm terrified of lightning.'

‘That doesn't make sense.' He sounded puzzled. His foot steadied on the carpet, progress was slow, but assuredly he was advancing.

‘It does to me. I want to see myself through my eyes. Not yours. You despise me. In that condescending way of yours, you'll try to jolly me round. But it isn't a joke, nor is it imaginary. It's real. It can touch you and hurt you. I know what I'm talking about.'

The shadowy form that was Ian, now stood by the bed. ‘I'm not disputing that fact for a moment. But you're wrong on one count. I don't despise you. On the contrary, I admire you. You're about the bravest girl I know, and if you'd like to talk about it, I'll listen. If not we'll talk about something else.'

It was so unexpected, words failed her. The prepared ones, the come-out-fighting ones, were useless in the face of his turn-about kindness, and understanding.

‘You're
horrible,' she said, covering her eyes with her hands, though she didn't need to because it was a moonless night and quite dark.

‘I'm sorry you think so.' His voice was not sarcastic, neither did it shake with laughter. ‘Mind telling me why?'

‘You're inconsistent,' she snapped. ‘That's why. And it's incontestably horrid of you to be so kind. Anyway,'—a thought nipped in and set her brain ticking over—‘What are you about? Prowling like a tomcat?'

‘Not what you think.'

‘Didn't the nasty storm wake up little Valerie?'

‘Now who's being horrid?' His voice was tight and condemning, and for her this was familiar ground, ground she had thorough knowledge of and was acceptable because of this. She allowed: ‘Yes, I suspect I am being pretty vile. I shall hate myself tomorrow. I didn't mean what you thought I meant, even though I said it to sound like that. I'm sure your motives are always as pure as a snowdrift.'

‘Take out the always,' he said drily, ‘and that reads about right. My motives are pure on this occasion. To always have pure motives would be untenable, and I'm not sure I don't mean downright impossible.'

If there had been a candle-glimmer of light in the room, their glances would have tangled,
but
there wasn't, and so they didn't. Karen was incalculably glad, because, providing he was quick enough and astute enough, he might have read something for him in her eyes, whereas she was pretty certain she would have read nothing for her in his.

Oh, why don't you hurry up and go, she thought. Everything that should be said has been said. You heard me moaning and rightly assumed the storm had upset me, but it's passed over now. I can barely hear the rain. It's stopped rattling tin cans on the roof, and it's only a whisper on the window pane. I'm all right. Correction: as right as I'll ever be. What ails me, you wouldn't want to put right. So please go.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them there was no shadowy form by the bed.

* * *

Valerie, who not only looked like a bird, but ate like one as well, pushed aside her plate. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I can't eat any more.'

‘Suit yourself,' said Karen indifferently. There was slightness and slightness, and if the girl wanted to walk about looking like a dehydrated sparrow, that was her own business. She was about to whisk away the plate, when the newspaper shielding the third occupant at table, lowered.

‘Can't you manage just one mushroom
more?'
coaxed Ian.

The fair hair was worn this morning in two bobs. Combine that with a sunshine yellow print, and you have an impression of the original urchin. The urchin mouth was woefully straight, until Ian spoke, and then it lifted at the corners to electrifying effect. Not quite dispelling plainness; but overstamping the whole with a beauty that was ethereal, volatile, even now the smile was breaking up and beginning to evaporate, but there stayed an impression of sweetness. The lines of the face were as they were before Ian intervened, but it was a different face, or perhaps Karen was seeing it in a different light, seeing the face as Ian saw it.

‘I'm not much of a hand at breakfast, Ian,' Val explained, casting down her eyes and sounding like a child, heart-trippingly anxious not to offend. Too abasing, thought Karen, feeling her mouth pinch. Ian thought not.

‘I know, chicken,' he said. ‘You'll have to eat a big lunch. Otherwise, you'll disappear.'

‘I'll try . . but.'

‘I know you will. And to eliminate the but, I'll personally supervise.'

‘But, Ian. You're so busy. And, besides, I feel a dreadful nuisance as it is.'

‘You are that,' he said, his mouth wearing an overcoat of humour. Karen had never seen it put on more than a light jacket for her. ‘But I happen to like nuisances. And if the day comes
when
I'm too busy to lunch a pretty girl, it'll also be the one I look round for a new job.'

It was too much. Karen got up from the table, taking her cup of coffee with her. She was drinking it in the kitchen when Ian joined her. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He just reproved in horrible silence. Ill-advisedly Karen rushed in to break it.

‘I'm sorry.' That part was all right, it was the next bit that did the damage. ‘Blame my queasy tum. I can't seem to swallow pap on an empty stomach.'

‘Is that what you call it?'

‘Have you a better name?' she thrust angrily.

‘No.' His face was deadly serious, his eyes grave and considering.

‘She's an infant who needs to be fed soft foods. But it's because of what she's been through.'

‘She's not the only one to have known a nasty experience,' she countered, swallowing on tears, fighting to show the argumentative front, and, apparently, succeeding beyond her wildest hope.

‘I know that.' Was he completely hoodwinked, because here the first hint of gentleness encroached his voice? It didn't stay, however; with calculated firmness he added: ‘The ingredients might look the same, but they're not. Whatever the cover says, you and Val are contrasting characters. You should pity
her,
not condemn her for it, and be thankful your clash with fate made you a stronger person. Oh yes,' as Karen would have interrupted. ‘That fragile appearance is deceptive. A man might think he can break you with one hand, not knowing he is in danger of breaking his hand in the attempt. In her case, it was Val who broke. The pieces were rushed to Highgate, a superior nursing home, all mod cons and resident psychiatrist. She reports back to him twice weekly out of necessity, and not because she can't bear the parting to be final. Actually she can't wait for that day, and neither can I. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Crystal.' Did he practise making her look small, or was it a natural talent? And why, she wondered, did they always quarrel? Two more whys ejected in rapid succession. Why, in every argument, did he always have right on his side? And why couldn't she pander to the soft spot of sympathy his words evoked? Because, try as she might, she couldn't, couldn't be sweet and penitent. She couldn't even lose the battle by default, she had to put her meanness and nastiness into words. In her defence, it was the appeal in his eye that goaded her to say: ‘I'll tie on the bib. But don't expect me to pick up the spoon and shover.'

She spent a miserable morning. There was no joy to be found in tidying and polishing the house, nor in setting to rights Ian's quarters
over
the garage, or shopping, or doing any of the things she had come to enjoy.

She lunched on cheese and an apple, she couldn't face more, and then got the sewing machine out from its new home in the sideboard cupboard. She selected one of the remnant pieces and cut out a nightie. If she couldn't be sweet, at least she could be decent.

When the phone rang, her thoughts automatically turned to Mitch. She didn't know why, except that he'd phoned her before. She didn't feel in a Mitch mood, and her hand very reluctantly went to the receiver.

‘Hello,' she said, and it was as well she didn't anticipate the caller by name, because she was wrong.

‘Karen?'

‘Yes?'

Unexpectedly: ‘Ian here.'

Her heart, equally unbelieving, gave a curious lurch. Perhaps he too had spent a miserable morning and was ringing to find out if they were still pals. Of course, she had a genius for being wrong, it was nothing of the sort. He'd forgotten, or the distasteful parting scene had driven it from his mind, to tell her it was Val's day to visit the psychiatrist. Her appointment was from seven till eight. He said he would deliver her to Highgate, hang around, and pick her up again at eight.

‘So you want me to prepare a meal for say, eight-thirty?' presumed Karen, crisping her
tone
to match his.

‘No, that's not it. I'm phoning to tell you not to prepare for us at all. We'll stop off in town. Get a bite. Make an evening of it. There's nothing to rush back for. Will you be all right?'

‘I'll survive. Thank you for letting me know. Have a pleasant evening.'

She didn't know why she added that, unless she begrudged it them so much that she had to make amends.

I'll survive, she thought, when he'd rung off. I've survived lightning. I've survived a car crash. Surely I can survive an attack of plain old-fashioned jealousy.

CHAPTER NINE

‘Okay, lady. This is a hold-up. Keep walking, or I'll let you have it.'

‘Mitch. You idiot!' she said, without looking over her shoulder.

The finger in her back dropped. Three others joined it to lightly clasp her waist. ‘Wrong approach?'

Wrong man, she thought.

‘I meant it, the keep walking bit. There's a cafe not two streets away that does good coffee and mouth-watering Danish pastries. And don't say you can't spare the time, because I've been watching you dawdling
aimlessly
for the past few minutes.'

The barb went home. He'd phoned twice during the past three weeks and both times she'd made excuses not to see him. Not because she feared Ian's disapproval—that would have chased her into his arms—but because she had this thing about using people. It couldn't be a progressive relationship, and it didn't seem fair to lead him on.

‘I wasn't dawdling aimlessly,' she disclaimed. ‘I was deciding which belt to buy. I've narrowed the choice to two. A chic brown leather, or a snazzy gilt chain belt.'

‘What's it to go with?'

‘A cream dress.'

Is it pretty?'

‘I think so.'

‘Buy both. Ring the changes.'

She threw him an old-fashioned look. ‘Have you ever had a money problem?'

He threw the look right back. ‘Darling, I always have a money problem. I've got one at the moment.'

‘Any expectations?'

‘Such as?'

‘A rich aunt pushing a hundred and two?'

‘Er . . . no.'

‘Then you're not worth cultivating.'

‘I mean no rich aunt. I do have expectations. I'd like to tell you about them, if you've a couple of hours to spare.'

‘I have,' she admitted, enjoying the repartee
and
thinking perhaps she'd been over cautious. Mitch's sparkling blue eyes contained only light amusement. He didn't look in the least sex-starved; he wasn't hungering after anything she couldn't give him. ‘It's Monday,' she added, basking in sweet relief.

His face went blank. ‘Monday?'

She explained: ‘Mondays and Thursdays my time is my own. Those are the days Val reports back to hospital.'

His mouth closed round an: ‘Oh!' Like a horse thirsting to drink but balked by contaminated water, he got off to a slow start, drifting with his own strange thoughts, or whatever whitened his face, pulling himself together, smiling exultantly, rapidly catching up. ‘In that case the cafe's had it, sweetie. My flat's just round the corner.'

‘Your flat? Will I be safe?'

‘As safe as you want to be, darling.'

She considered. ‘Okay. Let's go.'

* * *

‘Well, what's the verdict?'

‘The cake is delicious,' she said. ‘You must beg me the recipe.'

‘I doubt if Cadbury's would give it. I meant the proposition.'

‘Too daft to discuss.' She wiped her fingers on the paper serviette he had thoughtfully provided. ‘Hare-brained. Ridiculous.'

‘Well,
thank you for the vote of confidence. Now would you care to explain what's so ridiculous about it.'

‘The basic idea is all right.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I believe club turns are all the rage. You have talent. I recognized that when you played the piano, the night you took me to the Grapes. I guessed you were a pro. You fooled around, effortlessly, and made beautiful music. As you so rightly point out, the north is clubland. It's here, right on your doorstep. You say you have contacts. So go ahead. With the right partner you could make a go of it. But I'm not the right partner. It's me. Not you. I mean, can you see me as the crumpet half of a duo?'

‘Seriously, yes. Otherwise I wouldn't have put it to you.'

‘Then you must be blind, or something,' she said flatly, trying not to sound sour.

He considered before answering, taking his cue from the edge of bitterness in her voice. He supposed that just once every woman would like to be told she had ravishing features and a beautiful body, even if it was a blatant falsehood. Yet such flattery would insult her intelligence. And what did she mean by the ‘or something'? He wasn't biased, if that's what she meant.

‘I'm not blind . . . or anything,' he said guardedly. He wasn't in love with her, he
didn't
lust for her in the physical sense. On the other hand she did not repulse him. He dare not be too honest, because he was unsure of his ground. He hadn't yet decided which carrot would offer most enticement: himself, or the lolly. She might even be greedy and want both.