An Unbroken Marriage. PENNY JORDAN
But…’
‘I hope you can make it. Several colleagues of mine from South-Mid Television will be there, and Melisande tells me that you’re quite keen to break into television designing.’
‘Not particularly.’
What on earth was it about this man that set her teeth on edge; brought the tiny hairs on her skin up in atavistic dislike?
‘Melisande will be very disappointed…’
‘I don’t honestly know if I can make it,’ India temporised. ‘I have rather a lot of work on at the moment… I’ll have to look in my diary.’
‘Very well. I’ll ring you at the salon tomorrow and check if you can make it,’ he told her coolly.
After he had rung off India found it impossible to settle. She wandered about the flat, touching things, fidgeting, full of a nervous energy which eventually drove her into her small study where she worked until at last tiredness began to claim her.
She told Jenny about the invitation over coffee the following morning.
‘You’re going, of course,’ her secretary exclaimed. ‘You lucky thing!’
‘Well…’ India demurred, ‘I don’t know if I can manage it, we’ve so much on at the moment.’
‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Jenny told her briskly. ‘Look, I’ve got all the schedules here. You can’t work all day, half the night and all weekend as well!’
‘There’s Celia’s dress…’
‘Blow Celia! I don’t know why you’re wasting so much time on her anyway. If she wants to dress herself up like a plump shiny Christmas tree let her. Seriously, you ought to go. You’re the boss, I know, but I like my job and I feel I’ve got to do all I can to protect it, which includes making sure my boss doesn’t kill herself through overwork. One party; half a dozen hours out of your life…’
Put like that it did make her reluctance seem a little foolish, India was forced to admit. And why was she so reluctant? She didn’t know; she only knew that it had something to do with Simon Herries. Something; didn’t she mean everything?
‘You know,’ Jenny exclaimed judiciously, when they had finished their coffee, ‘I think you’re scared to go. Are you, India?’
‘No… No, of course not. Why should I be?’ Why indeed?
The phone rang as she finished speaking.
‘It’s Simon Herries,’ Jenny, who had taken the call, announced to her in a whisper. ‘Shall I tell him you’re going?’
‘I’ll tell him myself, thanks very much,’ India replied dryly, taking the proffered receiver.
‘Are you able to make it?’ he asked without preamble, obviously not seeing any need to waste time in unnecessary conversation.
Conscious of Jenny in the room, India forced herself to sound calm and relaxed.
‘Yes… yes, I think so.’
‘Good. Melisande would have been disappointed if you couldn’t. She particularly wanted you to come. So did I.’
Why should her pulses race simply because of those three casually spoken words?
‘Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot. Don’t bother with a taxi, I’ll pick you up. Eight, at your flat—I know the address.’
He had hung up before India could say a word.
‘Well,’ Jenny demanded, ‘are you going?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Great. Now all you have to do is to decide what to wear.’
FAMOUS last words, India thought ruefully, three days later, surveying the contents of her wardrobe. Knowing Melisande, the majority of the other guests would be culled from the ranks of the beautiful and/or socially prominent; people with whom she could scarcely compete.
Positive thinking, India told herself. She might not be either wealthy or titled, but she was young, reasonably attractive, and if she wasn’t dressed at least as eye-catchingly as the other female guests she had no one to blame but herself.
However, that was half the trouble. Her own personal preference for plain, unfussy clothes revealed itself in the garments hanging in her cupboard. If she knew Melisande and the rest of her crowd, the women would be dressed in the very latest fashions, the more outré and daring the better. She would look like a minnow in the midst of a whole host of brightly painted tropical fish!
She fingered her velvet dress, frowning as she pictured Simon Herries, looking over it—and her—with that cynical knowingness that so infuriated her. Without giving herself time to change her mind she rang for a taxi.
When it came she was ready, having bathed and carefully applied her make-up while she waited.
She gave him directions and asked him to wait while she slipped into the salon.
It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for—a dress she had designed for one of her clients to wear over Christmas. Unfortunately the girl had broken her leg the week before the dance and the dress had remained unworn.
Grabbing it off the rail, together with its protective wrapping, India hurried back to the waiting taxi.
‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised to the waiting driver, ‘but I needed to collect something.’
‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ she was assured as the taxi driver glanced down at the dress she was carrying over her arm, grinning at her as he opened the taxi door.
‘At least you’ll never be able to use the same excuse as my missus; not with a whole shopful of things to choose from—always complaining that she ain’t got anything to wear she is.’
India glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the taxi in front of her flat.
Fifteen minutes before Simon Herries was due to pick her up. With a bit of luck she should just about be ready. She had no desire to be forced into asking him into the flat while she finished dressing.
India was choosy about who she invited into her home. The salon was where she saw most of her clients—either there or at their homes; and she treasured the privacy and solitude of the flat which she kept firmly separate from the salon.
Most of the decorating she had done herself, unlike the salon; and she had chosen furniture and furnishings which appealed to her.
That, she reflected, unlocking the door, was one of the pleasures of accounting to no one but oneself. There was no one to question one’s taste!
The kitchen, with its mellow wooden units and tiled worktops, reflected her love of natural products as opposed to synthetics. The honey-coloured tiles on the worktops and the floor had been bought on a business trip to Spain, and their warm colour always reminded her of the brilliant sunshine and warmth of Spain. The kitchen had pretty green and white curtains made up in a French fabric she had found in Liberty’s; a comfortable basket chair possessed cushions of the same fabric, and green plants in pretty pots added a touch of extra colour and freshness.
The comfortable lounge was furnished with an assortment of items India had purchased over the years; an old bookcase which she had had stripped and cleaned; a huge settee which she had bought in a sale and subsequently re-covered in cream; and most prized of all, probably, the traditional Persian rug which she had bought with the profit from her first year in business on her own account.
In her bedroom, which reflected her taste for fresh, natural colours, India stripped off the clothes she had worn to go to the salon and unzipped the protective cover from the dress she had brought