Dangerous Deceiver

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Martha looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Chérie,’ Madame said kindly, ‘you do not deceive me for one moment. However, before you get your ’ackles all in a knot again, I will say not one word more!’ And for once in her life she didn’t.

Neither did Martha. For the simple reason that she rather felt as if she’d had all the stuffing knocked out of her.

But she was back at work the next morning and Madame’s avowed liking for her didn’t prevent Madame from putting her through a gruelling day, or from telling her she looked like a sack of potatoes in a certain outfit.

It was almost a fortnight before she saw Simon Macquarie again, then she saw him twice in two days.

The first time was at a pub in Fulham Road. It was a hot, dry Friday with an uncharacteristically merciless sun beaming out of an English sky. It had been a torrid week work-wise as well and she was only too happy to escape the salon during her lunch-hour and the depths of the pub had looked cool and inviting so she’d ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of iced tea. It had taken a few minutes to notice that Simon was among a group on the other side of the room, mostly men in business suits and with briefcases but one eye-catching girl with them, sitting next to him.

Sondra Grant? Martha wondered. Or a business associate? Because, for all that her bobbed, dark, shining hair, pale olive skin, slightly exotic bone-structure and deeply red painted mouth were rather stunning, she wore a plain black suit and white blouse, a man’s watch on her wrist, and, as Martha’s eyes rested on her, delved into a black leather briefcase and withdrew what looked like a formal document from it that she handed to Simon. Then again, Martha mused, watching the way their shoulders touched as they scanned the document, not altogether business associates probably...

All of which, to her disgust, had the effect of turning the salad she’d been enjoying to sawdust. She got up and left not long afterwards, taking a detour around the room so she wouldn’t come within recognising distance; hopefully.

It was her Saturday off the next day, still hot and bright, and after sleeping in for once in her life, then doing her chores at home, she walked up to South Kensington where she shopped, browsed for an hour in a fascinating bookshop, and finally walked home via Sydney Street and St Luke’s Parish Church. What prompted her to stop as she realised there was about to be a wedding she never knew. But there were a few other people standing at the iron railings and it was undoubtedly going to be a posh wedding, judging from the Rolls and Mercedes coming and going and the morning suits and fancy hats. So she stayed to watch, telling herself she had nothing else to do anyway and it was interesting to see the clothes and try to work which were designer ones and which were not.

Finally the bride arrived and she turned out to be a short, plump, pink-cheeked girl in a plain, beautiful silk dress but a mixture of nerves and stars in her eyes. And Martha saw her take a deep breath then turn to go into the dark, cavernous recesses of the church on the arm of her father with only two little page boys behind her. But for some reason Martha also found herself unusually touched as she bent down to pick up her shopping bags. By the blue of the sky and the green of the grass on the other side of the railings, the beautiful old honey-coloured stone of the church—and a plain girl taking a momentous step in her life.

So she got a double shock to find Simon Macquarie in khaki cotton trousers and a blue open-necked shirt standing right behind her, even picking up one of her bags himself—double because she had a lump in her throat that would be a dead give-away if she opened her mouth. But perhaps he saw something in her eyes because he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for the kind of person that cries at weddings, Martha.’

She cleared her throat but it was still in a slightly husky voice that she replied, ‘No? Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Perhaps I’m regretting lost opportunities, that kind of thing. What,’ she enquired coolly, having regained complete control of her voice, ‘are you doing here?’

‘I live around here.’

‘I might have known.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? By the way, I saw you yesterday, having a single, chaste lunch.’

‘Saw me? But I—–’ Martha closed her mouth quickly.

He smiled slightly. ‘Took pains to be invisible? I know. Perhaps I have a certain sensitivity—about you.’

‘After three years?’ Martha said drily. ‘I find that very hard to believe. If you’d mind handing over my meat and groceries, I’ll get going.’

‘Oh, I’ll walk you home,’ he said blandly. ‘It’s a lovely day.’ But he made no move. Instead a rather thoughtful greeny grey gaze took in her floral leggings, T-shirt and blue canvas shoes.

‘What now?’ Martha demanded through clenched teeth.

‘Two things,’ he drawled. ‘You look ridiculously young and untouched in that gear but—–’ he overrode her ‘—I was just wondering what kind of a scene you were going to make to—dispel the illusion.’

‘Well, you’re in for a surprise,’ Martha said conversationally, having fought a very brief battle with herself and decided she would rather die than afford him the satisfaction of a scene, despite the fact that it might be playing right into his hands. But then he’ll be in for a shock there too, she vowed as she continued sweetly, ‘Do you know, and I’m surprised—–’ she started to stroll along, swinging her bags ‘—really surprised no one’s told you this, but men who think they know everything are the most boring men on earth.’

He laughed but said only, ‘Come and have a drink. We could expand this theory of yours—–’

‘No!’

‘Not even at the Chelsea Farmer’s Market just across the road? You’d be quite safe. Did you think I was planning to lure you back to my house? Now I don’t think that would be safe at all, Martha,’ he murmured. ‘For either of us.’ And with one quizzical look that seared her to the depths of her soul he simply crossed the road with her meat and groceries still in his hand and walked through the entrance to the colourful market.

‘Not such a bad idea after all,’ he said lightly after she’d eaten a hamburger and was sipping a glass of chilled white wine. ‘Mind you, I must admit it’s often hard work to get models to eat lettuce leaves, let alone hamburgers, but you didn’t finish your lunch yesterday, did you?’

Martha narrowed her eyes against the sun and refused to be provoked. ‘Nor had I had lunch today.’

‘I know the feeling.’ He stretched his long legs out and put his hands behind his head. ‘Well?’

‘Well? I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. That I’ll never make the top if I go on eating hamburgers, which was entirely your suggestion by the way, or—–’

‘No, I was merely pointing out that we can relax in each other’s company.’

‘So we can,’ she murmured. ‘Although I’m not sure what the point of it is.’

He grinned. ‘Perhaps even old adversaries like us, if you can call it that, can’t keep fighting all the time. How’s work?’

Just keep cool, Martha warned herself. ‘Your aunt is highly temperamental so that I doubt if working for her is ever a peaceful experience, but the new range, the off-the-rack one, is quite stunning. I’m enjoying it despite all the drama,’ she confessed.

‘I think she’s enjoying having you,’ he commented. ‘She said to me the other day, “Ah, that one, she ’as a mind of ‘er own!”’

Martha looked across at him. ‘You were discussing me with her?’

‘Not at all. Your secrets are quite safe with me.’

‘So how did I come up?’ Martha enquired drily.

‘She was showing me some of the photography for the new range.’

‘Is that all she said?’ Martha bit her lip.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ She sat up. ‘Thanks for lunch but I’d better get going.’

‘Tell me something before you go, Martha. Have you made any friends?’

‘No, as you so rightly observed, I’m still managing to stay chaste.’ She directed him a blue gaze full of irony.

‘So you’re going home to wash your hair and spend this lovely Saturday evening watching television?’ he said with a mocking little glint in his eye. ‘What a waste; but there are not only men friends to be had in this world.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Martha said, counting to ten beneath her breath as she fished in her purse and started to count out the exact money for her lunch and wine. ‘And no, I haven’t made any other friends as yet, but it will come, I’m sure. It also seems to me that sworn enemies such as you and I can’t help fighting, so I was right, there seems little point in this kind of truce, besides which it’s a bit exhausting. But never let it be said I’m cheap in the matter of free lunches.’ And she pushed the pile of coins in front of him, adding with what she hoped was insouciance and her best Australian accent, ‘Good-day, mate.’

But as she went to turn away he caught her wrist, and said, so that only she could hear in the colourful throng enjoying the sun in the open air. ‘You won’t last, you know, Martha. If I hadn’t had my wits about me you’d have gone to bed with me three years ago.’

But Martha stayed to hear no more. With an upward chop of her wrist she broke his grip, gathered her bags and strode away.

‘Ah-ha!’ Madame said with deep satisfaction a few days later, days during which Martha had reminded herself of an angry tigress lashing her tail, but it hadn’t appeared to affect her image.