Wild Melody (21 page)

in his voice, and the equal violence of her own reaction to this relatively

minor physical contact with him. She ached with the need to turn to him, to

press herself against him—and with the absolute necessity to do the

opposite—to stay aloof and give no hint of the furore that even his slightest

touch could create in her.

Andrew's voice from the doorway was like a sudden deluge of cold water. 'Is

anything the matter?'

'Nothing.' Catriona pulled herself free as soon as she felt Jason's grip

slacken. 'Mr—Mr Lord was just going.'

She hated the almost pleading note that she knew had entered her voice and

she stared down at the floor, unwilling to meet Jason's glance but aware that

he was standing watching her, hands on hips. After what seemed like an

eternity, he picked his leather coat off the back of a chair, slung it across his

shoulder and, with a terse goodnight to Andrew, walked out.

There was a long silence, then Andrew said quietly, 'Do you want to talk

about it?'

'There's nothing to talk about,' she said drearily.

'But you and Lord aren't exactly—strangers?'

'No,' she admitted, her gaze still fixed on the floor.

'I see.' Andrew paused. 'It explains a lot, however.'

'I suppose I would have told you eventually,' she said unhappily. 'But I have

felt dreadful about unleashing—all this on to you. I just didn't expect it to

happen like this.'

'I know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.' She looked up quickly

and saw that he was smiling at her. 'My dear girl, don't look so stricken. I

know you've acted with the very best of intentions, and I'm sure that when

we've all had time to catch our breath, we'll realise even more that the centre

can only benefit in the end. It just takes some getting used to, when you're

not used to their methods. One thing I'll say for your Mr Lord—he seems to

have some winning ways about him.'

Catriona winced inwardly. 'He's not my Mr Lord,' she said with some

constraint.

'No?' Andrew sighed. 'It's all right, Catriona. I won't pry into your business.

I have absolutely no right to cross- examine you any way. Get along home

now. It's going to be another full day tomorrow. I just hope we all bear up

under the strain.'

'So do I,' she said almost inaudibly. 'So do I.'

IT was surprising how quickly they all became used to the film crew being in

their midst. Before two days had passed, the cameras, microphones and

cables seemed like part of the ordinary furnishings, and Lucas and the others

were like old friends.

Diane, Jason's secretary, had recovered from her virus and was back at

work, taking much of the pressure from Catriona, who did not know

whether to be glad or sorry. No matter how much she might tell herself that

her feelings for Jason were a total waste of time, she still could not deny

their existence, and it was difficult to maintain the aloof pose she had

adopted for her own protection when he was around. Not that she had had

much opportunity to do anything else. Jason had offered her no more lifts or

given any suggestion that their relationship had ever been on anything but a

business level.

She saw less of him too now that filming had started. Diane worked where

he was, balancing a portable typewriter on any surface that offered, and

rarely used the office at all. Catriona tried to force her concentration back on

to the run-of-the-mill office routine, mentally kicking herself every time a

strange step sounded in the hall outside and she looked hopefully towards

the door. She was rarely completely alone, however. Mitch now spent most

of her day crouching, head bent, on the painted kitchen chair in between the

two filing cabinets, the guitar never far from her feet. Catriona had been

shaken the first time she had turned to see the silent girl sitting behind her,

her eyes fixed on the floor, but gradually she became used to the almost

noiseless opening of the office door and the quiet shuffle of feet that

heralded Mitch's arrival.

Eventually, almost in desperation, Catriona began to talk to her. She did not

expect any response and she received none. She did not even know if Mitch,

sunk in some private world where any contact seemed an intrusion, was

aware of the reflective monologue which began at first hesitantly, then with

growing confidence, to bombard her. Sometimes Catriona, listening almost

in astonishment to the jumble of thoughts and commentary on her activities

issuing from her own mouth, decided that she must be mad, talking to

herself like this for the benefit of a girl who seemed totally oblivious to her

efforts. She was on the point of deciding that the whole idea was a complete

waste of time when Mitch suddenly lifted her head and looked at her.

Catriona's voice faltered while her heart gave a sudden, painful leap. Just for

that second there had been a look in Mitch's eyes which had suggested that

for the first time she had registered Catriona as a separate being. It would

have been an exaggeration to describe it as a flash of interest, but there had

been—something, the faintest of communications perhaps, but more

hopeful than any of the vague head movements that had been Catriona's

earlier experience.

She mentioned it to Andrew when next she saw him alone, but though he

was pleased at her interest and concern, she could see that he was sceptical.

'Don't raise your hopes too high, Catriona,' he warned. 'Jean and I have

thought several times we might be on the edge of a breakthrough with her,

but each time she retreats back into that shell of hers. I don't want you to be

disheartened if it happens to you.'

Catriona kept his words firmly at the forefront of her mind during her next

encounter with Mitch, but she still felt hopeful. She kept the flood of

inconsequential chatter going, and at times she saw Mitch was watching her

with an almost puzzled expression in her eyes, like someone who has

inadvertently tuned into a foreign radio station and is trying to recognise the

language.

It was getting harder all the time, finding things to say. Catriona had dealt

with her work at the centre, her friendship with Sally and even her visit to

the television centre and her singing debut at Moira Dane's party, and it was

oddly painful to discover how many quite innocuous reminiscences could

suddenly produce their own no-go areas. It would be altogether too

tempting to use the silent Mitch as a sounding board for the wild confusion

of her feelings about Jason. She was somehow certain that she needed to put

this confusion into words, to hear herself describe the pain, the loneliness

and the sheer wanting that assailed her day and night. But at the same time

she knew this was not the time and Mitch was far from being the right

person to receive these confidences. One day there would be someone she

could tell and then she would be healed, she told herself.

It was inevitable that eventually she should turn back to Aunt Jessie and the

days in Torvaig, and this brought its own but different pain. It was as if she

was reciting the details of someone else's life, someone else's experience.

As if the things that had happened to her since she reached London were the

only reality, and the thought brought guilt and bewilderment in its wake. I

am the same person, she cried out to herself silently, but she knew it was not

true, and that in a matter of weeks she had changed irrevocably from the girl

who had set out with such blithe naivety. Then, she had known safety and

security. Now, her only awareness seemed to be her own uncertainty, and

she shivered.

But her introspection vanished when she glanced up and caught Mitch

staring at her. She could hardly believe what she saw in the other girl's

eyes—a questioning mixed with anticipation as if the silence troubled her.

She wants me to go on, Catriona thought, burying her own problems with a

swift rush of exhilaration. She actually wants me to go on. Deliberately she

hid her delight, resuming her usually casual tone, resisting the temptation

to-look at Mitch too often, seeking a reaction. Her voice warmed, became

slightly husky, as she remembered things—theendless June evenings, the

impromptu
ceilidhs
, the smell of baking bread and oatcakes, the warmth of

the sea loch where she had learned to swim—even the bustling quay at

Mallaig, the usual focus of holiday treats with Aunt Jessie, where she had

stood entranced watching the ferries leave for the islands and the fishing

boats disgorging their hoards in glittering silver showers.

She only halted when she realised that Mitch was no longer listening, if she

ever had been, but was staring instead over her shoulder, her eyes wide and

nervous and her body rigid. Catriona swung round and saw Jason was

standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the doorpost, his hands

thrust into his pockets, and he looked as if he had been there for ever.

Catriona felt the colour begin to creep into her face as she nerved herself to

meet his cynical regard.

'You paint an idyllic picture, Miss Muir. Perhaps you should offer your

services to the Scottish tourist board.'

Catriona bit her lip, 'I do have a job already,' she said quietly.

'Indeed you have—and is this part of it?' Jason glanced significantly at

Mitch, who had snatched up her guitar and was obviously on the point of

flight.

'I happen to think so.' Catriona watched Mitch's precipitate departure with

disappointment. It was the old pattern repeating itself, she thought

despondently.

Jason watched her go too, then turned back to Catriona. 'I would stick to

what you're paid for, Miss Muir.' He nodded towards the elderly typewriter.

'You may break your nails, but your heart should remain intact.'

Out of sight, her hands clenched involuntarily, but she answered him

steadily enough. 'Are you trying to tell me not to get involved?'

'Well, that is your usual policy, isn't it?' He produced a packet of cheroots

and lit one with deliberation. 'To stay aloof, and make sure you don't allow

any feelings intrude. Beware, Catriona. The woman in you could be trying

to escape, and that girl could just be the catalyst that will make it happen.'

Hurt prompted her to recklessness. 'You sound bitter, Mr Lord. Could it be

because you failed to be the—catalyst yourself?'

'You flatter yourself, darling.' Icy grey eyes seemed to strip her

contemptuously. 'Perhaps I wasn't interested enough to exert the necessary

pressure.'

Some black angel made her go on. 'Of course, with Miss Dane, you wouldn't

need to exert any pressure—would you?'

'You don't really expect me to answer that. I advise you to sheathe your

claws, Catriona, before someone decides to clip them for you. Your

praiseworthy efforts with that girl don't make you an expert on human

nature.'

She bent her head, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyelids. 'I'm sorry,'

she apologised constrictedly.

'Forget it,' he said briefly. 'May I use the telephone in here?'

'Yes, of course.' Struggling for self-control, she moved hurriedly away from

the table. 'Is it private—I mean, do you want me to leave the room while you

make your call?'

He shrugged. 'It's up to you. I'm calling Miss Dane, as a matter of fact, to

invite her to have dinner with me tonight. Perhaps you'd like to stick around

and see how much pressure I have to exert.'

She said in a stifled voice, 'Thank you—no.' She was past him and at the

door even before he had begun to dial.

Andrew met her as she crossed the hall, making for the kitchen.

'Oh, Catriona.' He was looking harassed. 'Lucas wants to know if we can fix

the
ceilidh
for tomorrow night. He wants to wrap up the filming, apparently,

and feels the
ceilidh
would be a lighthearted contrast to other elements in the

programme.'

'Heavens!' she stared at him, dismayed. 'I—I didn't imagine they would want

to film that. Does Mrs Henderson know?'

Andrew's lips tightened slightly. 'I don't think she does. Lucas and Jason

Lord have both been in contact with her, it seems, and asked her to come to

the centre to be interviewed against its background—chatting with the

residents, helping around—that sort of thing. She refused point blank— said

she would prefer to be interviewed at her own home, or during the studio

discussion after the programme.' He sighed. 'I think she's making a big

mistake. She's drawn her own conclusions about the way the programme is

being slanted, and I'm afraid she's in for a shock. If she'd only come down

and co-operated, at least she would have been forewarned.'