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‘Yes.’ Helen looked at him defiantly. Her consciousness of her surroundings seemed to have contracted—intensified. There might just have been the two of them in the room, locked in confrontation. ‘By this stage I will explore any avenue that presents itself. I will not allow Monteagle to become derelict, and I’ll do whatever it takes to save it.’
There was a silence, then he produced another sheet of paper. ‘The surveyor’s report that you have included in your submission is twenty years old.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I felt that the recommendations made then still apply. Although the costs have obviously risen.’
‘Twenty years is a long time, mademoiselle. Having commissioned such a report, why did your family not carry out the necessary works at that time?’
Helen’s flush deepened. ‘My grandfather had every intention of doing so, but he was overtaken by events.’
‘Can you explain further?’ the smooth voice probed.
She took a breath, hating the admission she was being forced to make. ‘There was a crisis in the insurance industry. My grandfather was a Lloyds’ name in those days, and the calls that were made on him brought us all to the edge of ruin. He even thought Monteagle might have to be sold.’
‘That is still a possibility, of course,’ her adversary said gently, and paused. ‘Is it not true that you have received a most generous offer for the entire estate from a Monsieur Trevor Newson? An offer that would halt the disintegration of the house, mademoiselle, and in addition restore your own finances? Would that not be better than having to beg your way round every committee and trust? And deal with constant rejection?’
‘I find Mr Newson’s plans for the estate totally unacceptable,’ Helen said curtly. ‘I’m a Frayne, and I won’t allow the place that has been our home for centuries to be trashed in the way he proposes. I refuse to give up.’ She leaned forward, her voice shaking with sudden intensity. ‘I’ll find the money somehow, and I’ll do anything to get it.’
‘Anything?’ The dark brows lifted mockingly. ‘You are a most determined champion of your cause.’
‘I have to be.’ Helen flung back her head. ‘And if achieving my aim includes begging, then so be it. Monteagle is well worth the sacrifice.’
And then, as if a wire had snapped, parting them, it was over. The Frenchman was leaning back in his chair and the chairman was rising to his feet.
‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne, and we shall consider your proposals with great care—including the additional information and material you have supplied.’ He picked up the video, giving her a warm smile. ‘We hope to come to our decision by the end of the month.’
‘I’m grateful to you for seeing me,’ Helen said formally, and got herself out of the room without once glancing in the direction of her interrogator.
In the corridor, she paused, a hand pressed to her side as if she had been running in some uphill race.
What in hell had been going on there? she asked herself dazedly. Were they running some good cop/bad cop routine, where the upright members of the committee softened her up with their kindly interest so that their resident thug could move in for the kill?
Up to then it had been going quite well, she thought anxiously, or she’d believed it had. But her audience might not appreciate being regarded as the very last resort at the end of a long list of them, as he’d suggested.
God, but he’d been loathsome in every respect, she thought vengefully as she made her way back to the reception area. And to hell with his charm and sex appeal.
Quite apart from anything else, she knew now what it was like to be mentally undressed, and it was a technique that she did not appreciate. In fact, she thought furiously, it was probably a form of sexual harassment—not that anyone whose spiritual home was obviously the Stone Age would have heard of such a thing, or even care.
All the same, she found herself wondering who he was exactly and how much influence he actually wielded in Restauration International. Well, there was one quick way to find out.
The blonde was in the foyer, chatting to the receptionist. They both glanced up with brief formal smiles as Helen approached.
She said coolly, ‘Please may I have a copy of the organisation’s introduction pack?’
Brows rose, and they exchanged glances. The blonde said, ‘I think you’ll find you were sent one following your original enquiry, Miss Frayne.’
‘Indeed I was,’ Helen agreed. ‘But unfortunately it’s at home, and there are a few details I need to check.’ She paused. ‘So—if it’s not too much trouble…?’
There was another exchange of glances, then the receptionist opened with ill grace a drawer in her large desk, and took out a plastic-encased folder, which she handed to Helen.
‘One per application is the norm, Miss Frayne,’ she said. ‘Please look after it.’
‘I shall treasure it,’ Helen assured her. As she moved to put the pack in her briefcase, she was suddenly aware of footsteps crossing the foyer behind her. And at the same time, as if some switch had been pulled, the haughty stares from the other two girls vanished, to be replaced by smiles so sweet that they were almost simpering.
Helen felt as if icy fingers were tracing a path down her spine as instinct told her who had come to join them.
She turned slowly to face him, schooling her expression to indifference.
‘Making sure I leave the building, monsieur?’
‘No, merely going to my own next appointment, mademoiselle.’ His smile mocked her quite openly. He glanced at the pack she was still holding. ‘And my name is Delaroche,’ he added softly. ‘Marc Delaroche. As I would have told you earlier, had you asked.’
He watched with undisguised appreciation as Helen struggled against an urge to hurl the pack at his head, then made her a slight bow as upbringing triumphed over instinct and she replaced it on the desk.
She said icily, ‘I merely wanted something to read on the train. But I can always buy a paper.’
‘But of course.’ He was using that smile again, but this time she was braced against its impact.
‘A bientôt,’ he added, and went, with a wave to the other two, who were still gazing at him in a kind of dumb entrancement.
‘See you soon’, Monsieur Delaroche? Helen asked silently after his retreating back. Is that what you just said to me? She drew a deep breath. My God, not if I see you first.
She was disturbingly aware of that same brief shiver of ice along her nerve-endings. As if in some strange way she was being warned.
* * *
Marc Delaroche had said he had an appointment, but all the same Helen was thankful to find him nowhere in sight when she got outside the building.
She’d thought her nervousness would dissipate now that the interview was over, but she was wrong. She felt lost, somehow, and ridiculously scared. Perhaps it was just the noise and dirt of London that was upsetting her, she thought, wondering how Nigel could relish working here amid all this uproar.
But at least she could seize the opportunity of seeing him while she was here, she told herself, producing her mobile phone. Before she got her train back to the peace of the countryside and Monteagle.
He answered at once, but he was clearly not alone because she could hear voices and laughter in the background, and the clink of glasses.
‘Helen?’ He sounded astonished. ‘Where are you ringing from?’
‘Groverton Street,’ she said. ‘It isn’t too far from where you work.’ She paused. ‘I thought maybe you’d buy me lunch.’
‘Lunch?’ he echoed. ‘I don’t think I can. I’m a bit tied up. You should have told me in advance you were coming up today, and I’d have made sure I was free.’
‘But I did tell you,’ Helen said, trying to stifle her disappointment. ‘I’ve just had my interview with Restauration International—remember?’
‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve been so busy it completely slipped my mind.’ He paused. ‘How did it go anyway?’
‘Pretty well, I think—I hope.’ Helen tried to dismiss the thought of Marc Delaroche from her mind.
One man, she thought. One dissenting voice. What harm could he really do?
‘They seemed interested,’ she added. ‘Sympathetic—for the most part. And they said I’d know by the end of the month, so I’ve less than ten days to wait.’
‘Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Nigel said. ‘And maybe—under the circumstances—I could manage lunch after all. Celebrate a little. It’s certainly the most hopeful result you’ve had.’ He paused again. ‘I’ll need to pull a few strings, change things around a little, but it should be all right. Meet me at the Martinique at one clock.’
‘But I don’t know where it is,’ she protested.
‘But the cab driver will,’ he said with a touch of exasperation. ‘It’s new, and pretty trendy. Everyone’s going there.’
‘Then will we get a table?’ Helen asked, wondering, troubled, whether she could afford the price of a taxi.
He sighed. ‘Helen, you’re so naïve. The bank has a standing reservation there. It’s not a problem. Now, I must go. See you later.’
She switched off her phone and replaced it slowly in her bag. It sounded rather as if Nigel had gone to this Martinique place already. But then why shouldn’t he? she reminded herself impatiently. Entertaining the bank’s clients at smart restaurants was part of his job. It was all part of the world he inhabited, along with platinum cards, endless taxis, and first-class tickets everywhere.
Yet she’d travelled up on a cheap day return, needed to count her pennies, and most of her entertaining involved cheese on toast or pasta, with a bottle of cheap plonk shared with Lottie or another girlfriend.
Nigel belonged to a different world, she thought with a pang, and it would require a quantum leap on her part to join him there.
But I can do it, she told herself, unfastening the constriction of the black ribbon bow and shaking her hair loose almost defiantly. I can do anything—even save Monteagle. And nothing’s going to stop me.
Her moment of euphoria was brought to a halt by the realisation that lack of funds might well prevent her from completing even the minor mission of reaching the restaurant to meet Nigel.
However, with the help of her A to Z and a copy of Time Out, she discovered that the Martinique was just over a mile away. Easy walking distance, she decided, setting off at a brisk pace.
She found it without difficulty, although the search had left her hot and thirsty.
Its smart black and white awning extended over the pavement, shading terracotta pots of evergreens. Helen took a deep breath and walked in. She found herself in a small reception area, being given a questioning look by a young man behind a desk.
‘Mademoiselle has a reservation?’
‘Well, not exactly—’ she began, and was interrupted by an immediate shake of the head.
‘I regret that we are fully booked. Perhaps another day we can have the pleasure of serving mademoiselle.’
She said quickly, ‘I’m joining someone—a Mr Nigel Hartley.’
He gave her a surprised look, then glanced at the large book in front of him. ‘Yes, he has a table at one o clock, but he has not yet arrived.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to enjoy a drink at the bar? Or be seated to wait for him.’
‘I’d like to sit down, please.’
‘D’accord.’ He came from behind the desk. ‘May I take your jacket?’ He indicated the blazer she was carrying over her arm.
‘Oh—no. No, thank you,’ Helen said, remembering with acute embarrassment that the lining was slightly torn.
‘Then please follow me.’ He opened a door, and what seemed like a wall of sound came to meet her, so that she almost flinched.
Nigel had not exaggerated the restaurant’s popularity, she thought. She found herself in a large bright room, with windows on two sides and more tables crammed into the rest of it than she would have believed possible. Every table seemed to be occupied, and the noise was intense, but she squeezed through the sea of white linen, crystal and silver after her guide and discovered there were a few remaining inches of space in one corner.
She sank down thankfully on to one of the high-backed wooden chairs, wishing that it were possible to kick off her shoes.
‘May I bring something for mademoiselle?’ The young man hovered.
‘Just some still water, please,’ she returned.
She had no doubt that the Martinique was a trendy place—somewhere to see and be seen—but she wished Nigel had chosen something quieter. She also wished very much that it wasn’t a French restaurant either. Too reminiscent, she thought, of her recent interrogation.
She wanted to talk to Nigel, but the kind of private conversation she had in mind could hardly be conducted at the tops of their voices.
He clearly thought she’d enjoy a taste of the high life, she decided ruefully, and she must be careful not to give him a hint of her disappointment at his choice.
Besides, they would have the rest of their lives to talk.
He was already ten minutes late, she realised, and was just beginning to feel self-conscious about sitting on her own when a waiter appeared with a bottle of mineral water and a tumbler containing ice cubes. The tray also held a tall slender glass filled with a rich pink liquid, fizzing gently.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t order this,’ Helen protested, as he placed it in front of her. ‘What is it?’
‘Kir Royale, mademoiselle—champagne and cassis—and it comes with the compliments of monsieur.’
‘Oh,’ she said with relief. Nigel must have phoned through the order, she thought, as a peace offering for his tardiness. It was the kind of caring gesture she should have expected, and it made her feel better—happier about the situation as a whole.
She drank some water to refresh her mouth, then sipped the kir slowly, enjoying the faint fragrance of the blackcurrant and the sheer lift of the wine.
But she couldn’t make it last for ever, and by the time she’d drained the glass Nigel still hadn’t arrived. She was beginning to get nervous and irritated in equal measure.
She beckoned to the waiter. ‘Has there been any further message from monsieur to say he’s been delayed?’ she asked. ‘Because, if not, I’d like another kir.’
He looked bewildered. ‘There is no delay, mademoiselle. Monsieur is here at this moment, having lunch. Shall I consult him on your behalf?’
Helen stared at him. ‘He’s here? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, mademoiselle. See—there by the window.’
Helen looked, and what she saw made her throat close in shock. It was Marc Delaroche, she realised numbly, seated at a table with two other men. He was listening to what they were saying, but, as if he instantly sensed Helen focussing on him, he glanced round and met her horrified gaze. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then reached for his own glass, lifting it in a swift and silent toast.
She disengaged from him instantly, flushed and mortified. She said, ‘You mean he—that person—sent me this drink?’ She took a deep breath, forcing herself back to a semblance of composure, even though her heart was racing unevenly. ‘I—I didn’t know that. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of having another. In fact, perhaps you’d bring me the bill for this one, plus the water, and I’ll just—leave.’
‘But you have not yet had lunch,’ the waiter protested. ‘And besides, here comes Monsieur Hartley.’
And sure enough it was Nigel, striding across the restaurant as if conducting a personal parting of the Red Sea, tall, blond and immaculate, in his dark blue pinstripe and exquisitely knotted silk tie.
‘So there you are,’ he greeted her.
‘It’s where I’ve been for the past half hour,’ Helen told him evenly. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I warned you I was busy.’ He dropped a cursory kiss on her cheek as he passed. ‘Menus, please, Gaspard. I’m pushed for time today. In fact, I won’t bother with the carte. I’ll just have steak, medium rare, with a mixed salad.’
‘Then I’ll have the same,’ Helen said. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.’
‘Fine.’ He either ignored or didn’t notice the irony in her tone. ‘And a bottle of house red, Gaspard. Quick as you can. Plus a gin and tonic.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Do you want a drink, sweetie?’
‘I’ve already had one,’ she said. ‘Kir Royale, as a matter of fact.’
