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Authors: Susan Howatch

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BOOK: The Dark Shore
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2

In the house in Consett Mews, Camilla opened the top drawer of her dressing-table, took out a small bottle and tipped two white pills into the palm of her hand. It was wrong to take two, of course, but it wouldn’t matter once in a while. Doctors were always over-cautious. After she had taken the tablets she returned to the dressing-table and re-applied her makeup carefully, taking especial care with the eyes and with the lines about the mouth, but it seemed to her as she stared into the mirror tha
t
the shock still showed in her expression in spite of all the pains she had taken with the cosmetics.

She star
t
ed to think of Jon again.

If only it were possible to keep it from Justin
...
Jon was obviously only in England on account of his English
fiancé
e or possibly because of some business reason, and did not intend to see any of his family. It would only hurt Justin to know that his father was in London and would be making no attempts to contact him.

The anger was suddenly a constriction in her throat, an ache behind her eyes. It was monstrous of Jon, she thought, to disown his family casually to the extent of returning to England after ten years without even letting his own mother know he was in the country. “It’s not that I want to see him,” she said aloud, “I don’t give a damn whether he comes to see me or not while he’s in London. It’s merely the principle of the thing.”

The tears were scorching her cheeks again, scarring the new make-up irrevocably, and in an involuntary movement she stood up and moved blindly over to the window.

Supposing Justin heard his father was in London. Supposing he went to see Jon and was drawn inevitably towards him until he was completely under his father’s influence ... It was all very well to say that Justin was grown up, a levelheaded sensible young man of nineteen who would hardly be easily influenced by anyone, let alone by a father who had treated him so disgracefully, but Jon was so accustomed to influencing everyone within his reach ... If he should want to take Justin away from her—but he wouldn’t, of course. What had Jon ever done for Justin? It was she who had brought Justin up. Jon couldn’t have cared less. Justin belonged to her, not to Jon, and Jon would realize that as clearly as she did.

She thought of Jon again for one long moment, the memory a hot pain behind her eyes.

He was always the same, she thought. Always. Right from the beginning. All those nursemaids—and none of them could do anything with him. He would never listen to me. He was always struggling to impose his will on everyone else’s and do exactly as he liked when he liked how he liked.

She thought of the time when she had sent him to boarding school a year early because she had felt unable to cope with him any longer. He hadn’t missed her, she remembered sardonically, but had revelled instead in his independence; there had been new fields to conquer, other boys of his own age to sway or bully, masters to impress or mock as the mood suited him. And then had come the piano.

“My God!” she said aloud to the silent room. “That dreadful piano!” He had seen one when he was five years old, tried to play it and failed. That had been enough. He had never rested after that until he had mastered the instrument completely, and even now she could remember his ceaseless practice and the noise which had constantly set her nerves on edge. And then after the piano, later on in his life, there had been the girls. Every girl had been a challenge; a whole new world of conquest had suddenly materialized before his eyes as he had grown old enough to see it around him. She remembered worrying in case he entangled himself in some impossible scrape, remembered threatening that he would have to go to his father for help if he got into trouble, remembered how much it had hurt when he had laughed, mocking her anger. She could still hear his laugh even now. He hadn’t cared! And then when he had only been nineteen there had come the episode with the little Greek bitch in a backstreet restaurant in Soho, the foolhardy marriage, the casual abandonment of all his prospects in the City
...
Looking back, she wondered bitterly who had been the angrier, her first husband or herself. Not that Jon had cared how angry they had been. He had merely laughed and turned his back as if his parents had meant even less to him than the future he had so casually discarded, and after that she had hardly ever seen him.

The memories flickered restlessly through her brain: her refusal to accept his wife, Jon’s retaliation by moving to the other end of England;
after his marriage he had only contacted his mother when it suited him.

When Sophia was dead, for example. He had contacted her then soon enough. “I’m going abroad,” he had said. “You’ll look after Justin, won’t you?”

Just like that. You’ll look after Justin, won’t you? As if she were some domestic servant being given a casual order.

She had often asked herself why she had said yes. She hadn’t intended to. She had wanted to say “Find someone else to do your dirty work for you!” but had instead merely agreed to do as he wished, and then all at once Justin was with her and Jon was in Canada
...
And he had never once written to her.

She hadn’t believed it would be possible for Jon to ignore her so completely. She had not expected to hear from him regularly, but since she had taken charge of his son for him she had expected him to keep him in touch with her. And he had never written her a single letter. She had refused to believe it at first. She had thought, There’ll be a letter by the next post; he must surely write this week. But he had never written.

The tears were scalding her cheeks, and she turned swiftly back to the dressing-table again in irritation to repair
th
e make-up.

“It’s because I’m so angry,” she said t
o
herself as if it were necessary to vindicate herself from any accusation of weakness. “It’s
because it makes me so ang
ry.” It wasn’t because she was upset
or
hurt
or anything foolish. It merely made her so angry to think
that after
all she
done to help
him he had never even bothered to write
to thank her.

She glanced at her watch
. Justin would be home soon. With unsteady
, impatient movements she obli
terated the tears with a paper tissue and reached
for the jar of powder. Speed was very important now. Justin must never see her like this
...

As she concentrated once more upon the task of make-up she found herself wondering if anyone had ever heard from Jon once he had gone to Canada. Perhaps he had written to Marijohn. She had heard nothing more of Marijohn since the divorce with Michael. She had not even seen Michael himself since the previous Christmas when they had met unexpectedly at one of the drearier cocktail parties someone had given at that time
...
She had always been so fond of Michael. Jon had never cared for him, of course, always preferring that dreadful man—what had his name been? She frowned, annoyed at the failure of memory. She could remember so well seeing his name mentioned in the gossip columns of the lower type of daily paper
...
Alexander, she thought suddenly. That was it. Max Alexander.

From somewhere far away, the latch on the front door clicked and someone stepped into the hall.

He was back.

She put the finishing touches to her make-up, stood up and went out on to the landing.

“Justin?”

“Hullo,” he called from the livingroom. He sounded calm and untroubled. “Where are you?”

“Just coming.” He doesn’t know, she thought. He hasn’t seen the paper. It’s going to be all right.

She reached the hall and moved into the livingroom. There was a cool draught of air, and over by the long windows the curtains swayed softly in the mellow light.

“Ah, there you are,” said Justin.

“How are you, darling? Nice day?”

“Hm-hm.”

She gave him a kiss and stood looking at him for a moment. “You don’t sound too certain!”

He glanced away, moving over to the fireplace, and picked up a package of cigarettes for a moment before putting them down again and moving towards the long windows.

“Your plants are doing well, aren’t they?” he said absently, looking out into the patio, and then suddenly he was swinging round, catching her unawares when she was off her guard, and the tension was in every line of her face and body.

“Justin—?”

“Yes,” he said placidly. “I’ve seen the paper.” He strolled over to the sofa, sat down and picked up the
Times.
“The photograph didn’t look much like him, did it? I wonder why he’s in London.” When no reply was forthcoming, he started to glance down the personal column but soon abandoned it for the center pages. The room was filled with the rustle of the newspaper being turned inside out, and then he added, “What’s for dinner, G.? Is it steak tonight?”

“Justin darling—” Camilla was moving swiftly over to the sofa, her hands agitated, her voice strained and high. “I know just how you must be feeling—”

“I don’t see how you can, G., because to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel anything. It means nothing to me at all.”

She stared at him. He stared back tranquilly and then glanced back at the
Times.

“I see,” said Camilla, turning away abruptly. “Of course you won’t be contacting him.”

“Of course not. Will you?” He carefully turned the paper back again and stood up. “I’ll be going out after dinner, G.,” he said presently, going over to the door. “Back about eleven, I expect. I’ll try not to make too much noise when I come in.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Yes. Yes, that’s all right, Justin.”

The door closed gently and she was alone in the silent room. She felt relieved that he seemed to have taken such a sensible view of the situation, but she could not rid herself of her anxiety, and amidst all her confused worries she found herself comparing her grandson’s total self-sufficiency with Jon’s constant assertion of his independence
...

3

Eve never bought an evening paper because there was usually never any time to read it. The journey from her office in Piccadilly to her flat in Davies Street was too brief to allow time for reading and as soon as she was home, there was nearly always the usual rush to have a bath, change and go out. Or if she wasn’t going out, there was even more of a rush to have a bath, change and start cooking for a dinner-party. Newspapers played a very small, insignificant part in her life, and none more so than the ones which came on sale in the evening.

On that particular evening, she had just finished changing and was embarking on the intricate task of make-up when an unexpected caller drifted in
t
o the flat and upset all her carefully-planned schedules.

“Just thought I’d drop in and see you
...
Hope you don’t mind,
I
say, I’m not in the way, am I?”

I
t
had taken at least ten minutes to get rid of him
, and even then he
had wandered off leaving his ta
tt
y unwanted ra
g of an evening paper behind
as
if he had deliberately intended to leave his hall-mark on the room where he had wasted so much of her valuable time. Eve shoved the paper under the nearest cushion, whipped the empty glasses into the kitchen out of sight and sped back to add the final touches to her appearances.

And after all that, the man had to be late. All that panic and rush for nothing.

In the end she had time to spare; she took the evening paper from under the cushion and went into the kitchen absently to put it in the rubbish bin, but presently she hesitated. The paper would be useful to wrap up the bacon which had been slowly going bad since last weekend. Better do it now while she had a moment to spare or otherwise by the time next weekend came
...

She opened the paper carelessly on the table and turned away towards the refrigerator.

A second later, the bacon forgotten, she turned back towards the table.

“Jon Towers, the Canadian property millionaire
...”

Towers. Like
...
No, it couldn’t be. It was impossible. She scrabbled to pick up the page, allowing the rest of the paper to slide on to the floor, not caring that her carefully-painted nails should graze against the surface of the table and scratch the varnish.

Jon without an H. Jon Towers. It was the same man.

A Canadian property millionaire
...
No, it couldn’t be the same. But Jon had gone abroad following the aftermath of that weekend at Clougy
...
Clougy! How funny that she should still remember the name. She could see it so clearly, too, the yellow house with white shutters which faced the sea, the green lawn of the garden, the hillside sloping down to the cove on either side of the house. The back of beyond, she had thought when she had first seen it, four miles from the nearest town, two miles from the main road, at the end of a track which led to nowhere. But at least she had never had to go there again. She had been there only once and that once had certainly been enough to last her a lifetime.


...
staying in London
...
English
fiancé
e
...”

Staying in London. One of the more well-known hotels, probably. It would be very simple to find out which one
...

If she wanted to find out. Which, of course, she didn’t.

Or did she?

Jon Towers, she was thinking as she stood there motionless, staring down at the blurred uncertain photograph. Jon Towers. Those eyes. You looked at those eyes and suddenly you forgot the pain in your back or the draught from the open door or a thousand and one other tiresome things which might be bothering you at that particular moment. You might loathe the piano and find all music tedious but as soon as he touched those piano keys you had to listen. He moved or laughed or made some trivial gesture with his hands and you had to watch him. A womanizer, she had decided when she had first met him, but then afterwards in their room that evening Max had said with that casual amused laugh, “Jon? Good God, didn’t you notice? My dear girl, he’s in love with his wife. Quaint, isn’t it?”

His wife.

Eve put down the paper, and stooped to pick up the discarded pages. Her limbs were stiff and aching as if she had taken part in some violent exercise, and she felt cold for no apparent reason. After putting the paper automatically in the rubbish bin, she moved out of the kitchen and found herself reentering the still, silent livingroom again.

So Jon Towers was back in London. He must have the hell of a nerve.

Perhaps, she thought idly, fingering the edge of the curtain as she stared out of the window, perhaps it would have been rather amusing to have met Jon again. Too bad he had probably forgotten she had ever existed and was now about to marry some girl she had never met. But it would have been interesting to see if those eyes and that powerful body could still infect her with that strange unnerving excitement even now after ten years, or whether this time she would have been able to look upon him with detachment. If the attraction were wholly sexual, it was possible she would not have been so impressed a second time
...
but there had been something else besides. She could remember trying to explain to Max and yet not being sure what she was trying to explain. “It’s not just sex, Max. It’s something else. It’s not just sex.”

And Max had smiled his favorite tired cynical smile and said, “No? Are you quite sure?”

Max Alexander.

Turning away from the window she went over to the telephone and after a moment’s hesitation knelt down to take out a volume of the London telephone directory.

BOOK: The Dark Shore
4.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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