Unguarded Moment (5 page)

Alix sighed. 'I wish I knew. She was all for the idea originally, when she thought someone was going to ghost it for her.'

'In other words a self-portrait by her greatest fan,' Gemma's voice was dry. 'Well, Liam Brant is no one's fan, so I suppose she can be allowed her misgivings.'

'Do you know him?' Alix stared at her.

'No, but I've read some of his books. Dave bought me the Kristen Wallace biog for my birthday, and what an eye-opener that was. Since then I've been borrowing his other stuff from the library.'

'Have you got any of them now?'

'I've one—an early one about Clive Percy, the conductor. He doesn't pull his punches, but he really gets inside the people he writes about. He makes you feel you know them.'

'Or at least you know what he wants you to know about them,' Alix said with some asperity. 'You can't really say he's objective.'

Gemma shrugged. 'Well, we won't argue about it. Have you read any of them?' And when Alix shook her head with a little grimace, 'Well, take the Percy one. It doesn't have to go back for a fortnight, and if you keep it longer than that, you pay the fine. Is it a deal?'

Alix laughed. 'Yes, it's a deal.' She stood up. 'Thank you for letting me talk it all out. I actually feel much better. Instead of an early night, I might just treat myself to dinner and a theatre.'

'I was going to offer you egg and chips with us, but your plan has far more going for it,' Gemma said cheerfully. 'But you will come to supper soon, won't you? Dave would love to meet you. I've mentioned you often. And now you've got my address and phone number, there's really no excuse…'

Alix felt infinitely happier as she left Waterloo, and hailed a taxi to take her into the West End. It had been marvellous to bump into Gemma like that. They had been so close at school, but afterwards it was only too easy to lose touch. She was ashamed to think that she hadn't even known that Gemma was married, let alone met her husband, and she couldn't help wondering why the family hadn't told her, because they must have known.

I could at least have sent a present, even if I couldn't have gone to the wedding, she thought wistfully.

Gemma had referred to her life with Bianca as a 'dream job', but suddenly Alix wasn't so sure. She'd begun to realise how totally and exclusively involved she was in her new life. Was it any wonder she was almost a stranger in her own home?

She would have to insist that Bianca gave her regular time off in future, so that she could set about rebuilding some of the relationships that had suffered in the past, months—especially that with Debbie. She couldn't wholly accept Gemma's dismissal of Debbie's attitude as resentment and jealousy. She herself must be to blame in some way, and she could only be thankful that she had the opportunity to put things right before they went too far and there was a complete estrangement.

Working for Bianca had been allowed to take her over. She lived, dressed, snatched her meals, even took her holidays at Bianca's imperious behest. She smiled wryly as she recalled how Bianca had tossed the plane tickets and hotel reservation in Rhodes to her quite casually one day.

'Here you are, darling. You're looking pale and wan, and it depresses me.'

Alix could have protested—should have done, she told herself reflectively. She could afford holidays for herself. Heaven knew, she had enough money. Her living expenses were so few that she now had a healthy deposit account in the bank.

But she didn't argue, partly because Bianca liked to have her generous impulses received with due appreciation, and partly because she wanted to get away for a while anyway.

If she looked pale and strained, Bianca might well be experiencing guilt rather than depression, she decided cynically. And it would undoubtedly be convenient for her employer to have her out of the way for a few weeks, while the affair she was having with Peter Barnet burned itself out.

It wasn't the first time it had happened, of course. Peter was a journalist working for a show business column on one of the national dailies, and he had been invited to one of Bianca's cocktail parties. He was young, blond find undeniably attractive, and Alix had been attracted. She had enjoyed talking to him, and not been altogether surprised when he telephoned her and asked her to have dinner with him. She had seen him several times when Bianca had suggested, almost idly, that she might like to invite him to make up the numbers at a small dinner party she was giving.

Alix's impulse had been to refuse. She knew what would happen; she had seen it all before. It was as if Bianca could not bear to see any personable man paying attention to anyone other than herself. Other men who had dated Alix had either found themselves frozen out, or overwhelmed with a display of charm calculated to undermine any masculine defences.

Alix had not been in love with Peter, or with any of the others, but all the same it had not been pleasant to sit on one side of Bianca's gleaming dining table and watch Peter succumb without a struggle. He and Alix had talked and laughed and enjoyed each other's company, but he had never stared at her with that look of hot and glittering desire that he was turning on Bianca. Dinner ended, the other guests departed and Alix invented a headache to take her up to her room.

What happened after that was anyone's guess. And Alix didn't want to know. Nor, she found, did it help to tell herself that the ache in her heart was dented pride and no more. She was tired of having to face the fact of how easily Bianca could eclipse any charms she might have. It was hurtful to see someone she had liked apparently forget that she existed.

She knew the pattern, of course. Bianca's little flings were unvarying. There would be flowers delivered, and long intimate phone calls, often while Alix was in the room, with Bianca lying on her chaise-longue, the receiver cradled against her cheek.

Alix couldn't really be sorry that she was going to miss this particular episode in the long-running saga of Bianca's love life.

And she thought, 'I'd be frightened to let myself love someone in case she did the same thing to him. I might have loved Peter, for all she knew, but it made no difference. She still has to prove that she's irresistible.'

As she queued at the box office of the theatre of her choice, Alix found herself wondering without too much curiosity what had happened to Peter. She could imagine, of course. One day, out of the blue, he would have found that Miss Layton was no longer accepting his calls. She wondered if he had accepted the situation with dignity, or made a scene. Not that it would have mattered. When it was over for Bianca, it was over, and there were no reprieves.

The disappointments of the day were still with her when she reached the box office window, to be told regretfully that all the seats had been sold, including the few returned tickets. And there was no prospect of any more cancellations.

Alix turned- away ruefully. There were other theatres and other plays, of course, but this was the one she had -set her heart on. She should have realised the necessity to book. She stood in the street outside the theatre, trying to decide what to do next. She would have dinner, of course, and then back to the house, she supposed, for an early night. Or she could always read the Clive Percy book, she thought with a glance at the parcel in her hand.

There was a small Italian restaurant just round the corner and she would eat there, she decided, deliberately removing from her mind the remembrance that Peter had taken her there.

Even though it was comparatively early in the evening, the restaurant was quite busy, its tables mostly occupied by couples. Alix was shown to a corner table, given a menu and offered an aperitif. She ordered a Cinzano and leaned back in her chair, a feeling of relaxation and contentment beginning to steal over her. Perhaps she wouldn't have an early night after all. There was a musical she wouldn't mind seeing—and there were cinemas. She would ask the cheerful proprietor if he had an evening paper and see what was on.

Aware that someone had stopped beside her table, she looked up with a smile, expecting that her drink had arrived.

Liam Brant said courteously, 'Good evening, Miss Coulter. We meet again.'

Alix felt the smile freeze into something like a grimace. Without stopping to think, she said hotly, 'You wouldn't be following me, by any chance?'

His brows lifted. 'You flatter yourself, secretary bird. As it happens, I often eat here. The food is good and the service is quick. I hope that reassures you.'

It wasn't particularly reassuring to know that she'd just made a fool of herself, so Alix remained silent, staring down at the checked gingham tablecloth.

'And what are you doing out of your gilded cage?' the infuriating voice went on.

'I was hoping to enjoy myself,' Alix said coolly.

'Until I showed up,' he supplied. ,

She shrugged. 'You said it—I didn't.'

'You didn't have to. Has no one ever told you that your face is the mirror to your thoughts?' To Alix's annoyance, he drew out the chair opposite and sat down.

Stiffening, she said, 'I don't remember inviting you to join me.'

'There's nothing the matter with your memory—you didn't,' he returned. To the waiter who had just brought Alix's Cinzano, he said, 'A whisky and water, please. And we'll both have lasagne.'

Alix's fingers curled like claws round her glass. In a voice almost molten with rage, she said, 'I did not intend to order lasagne.'

'Then you should. It's particularly good here. Or do you always play safe with steak or scampi wherever you happen to dine?'

'Of course not,' she began, then compressed her lips angrily. She was not going to be drawn into a discussion of her eating habits. 'What I'm trying to say is that I'm perfectly capable of making my own choice from the menu, and I'd prefer to eat alone.'

'Is it a preference you often indulge?'

She had expected him to leave, but he showed no signs of moving. And now the waiter was bringing his drink, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a carafe of house wine. She could have screamed.

'Well, why don't you?' he said.

'Why don't I what?'

'Swear at me—throw your drink in my face—storm out. Whatever hostile fantasy you're harbouring. I told you that you were transparent. Why don't you follow the family tradition and go into films? You'd probably make your fortune.'

'Because I'm quite content as I am, thanks.' Alix made her face and voice impassive. Transparent, she thought, simmering inwardly.

'That's a dull thing to be at your age. .And I don't believe you.' He lifted his glass. 'Here's to the other Alix Coulter, and may she soon stand up.'

'There is no other.' Alix did not respond to the toast, or drink from her own glass. She was afraid she might choke.

'Oh?' He gave her a long speculative look which covered the pinned-back hair, and the muted neutral colours of dress, trench coat and bag. 'Then the girl I glimpsed on the stairs today was someone else—or a mirage, was she?'

Alix had forgotten the glimpse he had caught of her. She felt the colour rise in her face, and knew angrily that he had noticed it too and was faintly amused by it.

She said between her teeth, 'Mr Brant, I came here for a quiet meal, not to be interviewed. I'm not interested in being copy for your next book any more than
my
—than Bianca is.'

He said softly, 'I've no intention of writing a book about you, darling. Your cumulative experience of life could undoubtedly be covered in a short article, probably for a parish magazine. My questions are prompted by a normal male curiosity about why an attractive young woman insists on dragging about the place like a facsimile of Little Orphan Annie. I assume it is deliberate.'

'I'm a working girl, Mr Brant, not some kind of starlet. Does that satisfy your curiosity?'

'It doesn't satisfy anything about me.' His eyes never left her face. 'You're a walking intrigue, Miss Coulter. I shall look forward to solving your particular mystery over the next few weeks. What was that wrongly buttoned dress—a Freudian slip?'

'I had to change in a hurry.' Alix heard a sudden breathless note creep into her voice. He was right about there being nothing the matter with her memory—she could remember the details of that little incident only too well.

'So did Cinderella when the clock struck midnight. Do you have some private timing device to tell you, when the ball is over?'

'I really don't know what all the fuss is about,' Alix said with a hint of desperation. 'Just because I prefer to dress in a—in a businesslike way during working hours…'

'Another of these famous preferences of yours—you prefer to dress badly—you prefer to eat alone. Or are either of those choices, in fact, yours?'

'What do you mean?' Alix was stung. 'I don't dress badly. How dare you!'

'I dare quite easily. That dress you're wearing, for example—the style doesn't flatter your figure, and the colour does nothing for you at all.'

'Are you an expert on women's clothes as well as character assassination, Mr Brant?'

'I have a certain amount of expertise in a number of things,' he drawled with a sudden sideways grin, and she felt that betraying blush flood her cheeks again, as shaken as if his hand had brushed her skin, or his mouth touched hers…

The waiter bustled up with the dishes of lasagne, and she thought she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Not that she felt like eating. On the contrary, any appetite she had had was destroyed, although she had to admit that the smell of meat and spices emanating from the dish in front of her was a beguiling one.

'You're staring at it as if you think it might leap out of the dish and bite you instead.' Liam Brant sounded amused. 'I promise you it won't. Nor does it contain a secret drug which will put you in my power. Here,' he took the fork from her unresisting fingers, and scooped up a portion, offering it to her as if she had been a child, 'try it and see.'

She didn't want to take the food from him. She could see the couple at the next table exchanging indulgent glances.

She thought hysterically, 'They must think we're lovers. This is the sort of game lovers play—feeding each other with titbits at candlelit tables. I ought to tell them the truth—that I don't trust him, that I could even hate him. And yet at the same time that it would be easy—so easy to be in his power. And it wouldn't need secret drugs.'