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‘It’s quite a place,’ Tiffany said unsteadily, then added quickly, in case he guessed that she was overawed, ‘But a perfect setting to celebrate a bicentennial, of course. Is yours the oldest port company in the area?’ she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to keep him talking.
‘No, there are others that are much older. We’re comparative newcomers. But you haven’t got a drink.’ He looked round, saw a waiter, clicked his fingers, and the man immediately came over. Chris took one too, and sipped it as he said, ‘How come you got invited to the party?’
‘Ah, well…’ Tiffany gave him a mischievous smile and put a delicately fingered hand on his sleeve as she leaned nearer to him. ‘You promise you won’t give me away?’
An amused look came into Chris’s grey eyes. ‘I’m renowned for my discretion.’
Tiffany didn’t believe that for a minute, but she said confidingly, ‘I wasn’t really invited. A colleague couldn’t come and passed on the invitation,’ she told him, borrowing Sam Gallagher’s excuse. ‘And as I hardly know anyone in Oporto I thought it would be nice to come along and perhaps meet some people who speak English.’ She smiled up at him. ‘And you see, it worked; I’ve met you for a start.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you came. And where do you work in Oporto?’
‘Down in the commercial district,’ Tiffany said airily, adding quickly, ‘I suppose you know everyone here. Will you introduce me to a few people who speak English? Your family, perhaps?’
Chris’s mouth twisted a little wryly, as if he saw through her, but he said, ‘Of course. Now, let’s see who’s near.’ He looked round. Tall, but not exceptionally so, he was still able to see over the heads of the many Portuguese guests. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘This way.’ And, putting a hand under her elbow, he led her through the throng.
Tapping a shoulder, murmuring, ‘Com licença’ he came up to where his cousin stood. But it was the wrong cousin. He’d brought her to Francesca de Vieira, and Tiffany was angrily certain that he had done so deliberately. But even the wrong cousin was better than no cousin at all, Tiffany supposed, so she smiled as the two were introduced and looked at the other girl admiringly.
‘You’re so lucky to be tall, Princess.’
‘Please, call me Francesca. And I don’t consider it an advantage. Think what a choice of men you have compared to me.’
They both laughed and looked each other over. Tiffany guessed that they were about the same age—twenty-five—and they were both blonde, but there the similarity ended. Francesca was the willowy type, thin as a reed, and able to carry off expensive designer clothes with the elegance of a trained model. Her long hair was gathered on the top of her head in a style that looked casual with loose strands framing her face, but must have taken a hairdresser an hour to do. She wore chunky costume jewellery round her neck and wrists, along with some breathtaking rings that could only be real. She’d married one rich, aristocratic husband and had another lined up. She was sleek and pampered and, on top of everything else, beautiful.
With the great disadvantage of being short, Tiffany on the other hand had to be careful to wear clothes of soft shades, like the grey silk suit she’d hired for today; bright, jazzy colours made her look ridiculous. The same went for her hair; it had to be smooth and fairly short otherwise it looked plain untidy. And if she hadn’t already sold what jewellery she had, she could never have worn anything that wasn’t simple and small. And as for men—well, that was about par for the course where her life was concerned.
As Tiffany looked at Francesca she knew she ought to hate her, but she was disarmed by the rich girl’s warmth and friendliness.
‘Tiffany doesn’t speak Portuguese very well and doesn’t know anyone here,’ Chris explained. ‘So I’ve taken her under my wing.’
His cousin flicked him an amused, speculative look. ‘Didn’t you bring her?’
Chris returned the look, then glanced at the Count. ‘No, I hadn’t anyone I cared to invite. We met quite by chance.’
‘How fortunate for you.’ Francesca said with irony.
Tiffany realised they were sparring with one another, that they knew each other well enough to tease about their private lives. Francesca’s French Count realised it too, because he put a possessive hand on her arm.
‘The buffet is about to be served. Where do you wish to sit?’
He spoke in French and Francesca answered him in the same language. ‘If you’re hungry, then go and eat. I’ll come when I’m ready.’
And there, Tiffany thought sardonically, lies the greatest difference between us. She can dismiss a man, who obviously dotes on her, almost rudely, while I must scheme and flatter just to try to get an introduction to a man who might not even like me.
But it acted as a further goad, and Tiffany put herself out to be as warm and vivacious as Francesca, making conversation with them for the next ten minutes or so as if she were used to moving in such élite circles, being as witty as she knew how, and letting her personality make up for the inequalities between them. She told a couple of anecdotes in a droll way that made Chris and Francesca laugh in genuine amusement, Chris’s deep, masculine tones drawing the attention of several people around them. Tiffany hoped it would draw his other cousin over, because the lawn was starting to clear now as the guests moved towards the other side of the house where tables had been set out for lunch.
The Count had waited for Francesca despite her rebuff, but now she took pity on him. ‘I suppose we’d better go and eat. Tiffany, you will come and sit with us, won’t you?’ She looked round. ‘Now, where’s Calum?’
Thanking her stars that things seemed to be going right at last, Tiffany smiled an acceptance of the invitation and began to stroll along with them. Calum Brodey glanced round from the group he was with and crossed to join them. His eyes flicked to Tiffany, but then he looked at Francesca and said, ‘Remember Grandfather wants us to split up.’
Francesca pouted. ‘Do we have to? I haven’t seen you or Chris for simply ages. I’d much rather sit with you both.’
Calum gave her an indulgent look. ‘We can catch up on all our news over dinner tonight.’
‘But Grandfather will be there, and you can’t really talk when he’s listening. The dear old darling gets so upset sometimes if you tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Not to mention the parents,’ she added with feeling.
‘You shouldn’t lead such a wild life,’ Calum told her, but he was smiling as he said it, just as everyone seemed to smile at Francesca.
‘All right, we’ll split up.’ Turning towards Tiffany, Francesca said, ‘I’m so sorry, Tiffany. Now you’ll have to put up with Chris. How boring for you.’
‘Hey!’ Chris protested in an injured tone.
Calum laughed and looked at Tiffany. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
Tiffany gave a great sigh of relief and pleasure and prepared to be devastating. But just at that moment Sam Gallagher strolled up to them.
‘Tiffany! So there you are. I’m afraid the ice in your drink melted so I drank it myself.’ He looked round the group, all of them regarding him with different expressions, and said a genial, ‘Hi there.’
If Tiffany had been capable of mental annihilation he would have disappeared into dust. Couldn’t the stupid man see that he wasn’t wanted, for heaven’s sake? But he just stood there, grinning amiably, expecting her to welcome him back. She sensed Calum’s withdrawal and said quickly, desperately trying to retrieve the situation, ‘This is Mr—er—I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. One of your other guests,’ she said to Calum, with a look that disowned Sam entirely.
‘It’s Gallagher. Sam Gallagher.’ Sam held out his hand to Calum and Chris, then to Francesca. ‘I guess you must be the Princess.’
‘I guess I must be, at that,’ Francesca agreed, giving him an amused, mischievous look. ‘Have you been looking for Tiffany?’
‘Yeah. I went to get her a drink but she kind of disappeared. Found someone else to talk to, I guess.’
Chris gave Tiffany a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t intend to tread on anyone’s toes.’
Still fighting valiantly, Tiffany gave him a sparkling smile and said, referring to the way he’d bumped into her, ‘The only toes you—nearly—trod on were mine.’
But it wasn’t enough. He smiled in appreciation of her wit, but clapped Calum on the shoulder and said, ‘OK, if we have to split up, let’s go.’ And the two cousins walked off together.
If there had been a cliff handy Tiffany would have thrown herself over it. Just why was it, she wondered bitterly, that everything always went wrong for her? Just what had she done to make some cruel fate decree that every time she took one step forward she could guarantee to be knocked back to the end of the street? And just why had that same fate provided a man as thick-headed as Sam Gallagher to cross her path today of all days?
Tiffany was good at hiding her feelings, knowing that all people wanted to see was a pretty, animated face. People had enough problems of their own without being bothered by those of a total stranger. She tried to hide them as she realised that there was nothing now to stay for; she might as well leave.
But perhaps Francesca noticed, because after looking at her she said, ‘But we don’t have to split up. Come and sit with Michel and me, Tiffany. And you too, of course, Mr Gallagher.’
‘Sure thing.’ Sam put a hand on Tiffany’s arm and began to walk along with them.
She shook him off, much as Francesca had shaken off the Count earlier, and gave him a look of cold dislike. But Sam seemed immune to that too, merely giving her a lazy grin as he strode along, making her have to hurry to keep up.
Tiffany felt dwarfed by the three of them and was glad when they found one of the large circular tables with some spare seats. But there were other people already there so she and Sam had to sit on the opposite side to Francesca and Michel. As the last guests came into the garden to take their seats, she saw that the caterer, watched by Calum, was hastily ordering a waiter to lay an extra place at another table. So now the Brodeys would know that they had an uninvited guest. Just great!
A trio was playing in the background, the food on the buffet was out of this world, but all Tiffany could hear was Calum’s voice asking Chris to introduce her, and all she could taste was chagrin at the way Sam had butted in before he could do so.
The table was too wide to talk across it to Francesca; the man on Tiffany’s other side was Portuguese and his English wasn’t very good. Sam chatted to her, but she was so angry with him that at first she didn’t answer. He glanced at her from long-lashed brown eyes, then concentrated on his food. As to be expected at a party given by a wine company, there were three wine glasses and a champagne flute in front of each guest. Waiters came to fill them with each course but it took a couple of glasses before Tiffany’s bitterness melted away and she thought, What the hell? Tomorrow can go hang, just like all the other tomorrows that have come and gone. I’m here so I might as well make the best of it.
Turning to Sam, she said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Did I mess something up?’
She gave a wry laugh. ‘Not really.’ Then she sighed. ‘No, there was nothing to mess up.’ She smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you tell me about America?’
‘America is a big country to talk about. Have you ever been there?’
‘A couple of times, when I was a young child, to Disneyland for holidays. But I haven’t been to—where did you say you came from? Wyoming, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Isn’t that cowboy country?’
‘I guess you could call it that. There are certainly a lot of cattle ranges there.’
He began to tell her about it and she listened, at first politely, but then with growing interest. Sam had a way with words, could use them to paint a picture in her mind. He was amusing, too, so that for a while she forgot her troubles and lived in his world, which seemed infinitely preferable to her own. But then, few were not. She laughed at Sam’s description of a rodeo he had attended once and, feeling herself watched, glanced across the table. The Count and the other man beside Francesca were both momentarily occupied by the people on their other sides. She had her eyes fixed on Tiffany and Sam, her head slightly tilted as she contemplated them and listened to Sam’s deep tones. When Tiffany looked at her Francesca raised a suggestive eyebrow towards Sam, the question clear.
Tiffany shook her head the slightest fraction, letting her know she wasn’t interested. Although she could have been, could have really enjoyed Sam’s company, if he hadn’t shot her ploy to pieces. Even though he was good-looking and a pleasant lunch companion, she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for that. It had meant so much—this last, desperate chance to earn some money.
Lunch came to an end; people began to get to their feet, to talk in clusters again for a while as they drank a last glass of port, deep amber-coloured this time, then drift towards one or another of their hosts to say goodbye before leaving. A feeling of fatalism stole over Tiffany: she had absolutely no idea how she was going to get out of the mess she was in. She had given it her best shot but it hadn’t worked, thanks to Sam. Excusing herself, she went in search of the ladies’ room, and found that a downstairs cloakroom in the house had been set aside for the purpose. Even the cloakroom took her breath away. There were beautifully draped curtains at the window, ornamental French hand-basins with gold taps, a dozen bottles of good perfume and hand lotion for the guests’ use. How the other half lived, Tiffany thought with irony, remembering the shabby, antiquated bathroom she had to share with a dozen others, and that covertly. By nature fastidious, she thought that that was perhaps the most difficult thing to bear.
She washed her hands and applied fresh lipstick, helped herself to a liberal application of perfume and went out, down the long, cool, blue-tiled corridor, into the sun again. The brilliant light dazzled her, so Tiffany stood for a moment in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust. She made an unknowingly attractive picture, framed by an arch of deep yellow roses that climbed the wall, and drew the eyes of several people still in the garden. Francesca was there, holding on to her cousin Chris’s arm, almost as tall as he, and laughing at something he’d said. And Calum Brodey was overseeing the distribution of glasses of vintage port, mainly to the male guests. He had just given a glass to Sam, who saw Tiffany and walked to meet her as she came into the garden.
Sam smiled, then got a whiff of her perfume. He leaned nearer, his nose close to the delicate column of her neck, and murmured, ‘Hey, you smell terrific.’
In that instant an idea leapt into Tiffany’s mind. There was no time to think about whether it was right or what the outcome might be. It was a chance and she immediately took it.
Raising her hand, she gave Sam a hard, loud slap across the face. He jerked in surprise, the hand holding his glass coming up in automatic defence, the contents flying out. But he had no chance to say anything because Tiffany exclaimed in well-simulated anger, ‘How dare you? You can take your disgusting suggestion and—and just go jump in that lake!’ she cried out, and pointed dramatically.
As she’d hoped, everyone within earshot turned to look. For a moment there was a stunned silence, then everyone seemed to move and speak at once.
Sam exclaimed, ‘What the heull…?’ but she ran a few steps away from him, in the direction of Calum who had started towards her.
He strode up to Sam, got between him and Tiffany, and said in a voice that was colder than ice, ‘My cousin will escort you to the gate.’ And he beckoned Chris over.
‘Now just a minute here, I——’ Sam began angrily.
But Chris put a hand under his elbow. ‘It’s this way.’
Sam was bigger than he was, in both height and breadth, and could probably have pushed Chris away, but he looked across at Tiffany, who was standing near Calum. For a second their eyes met and he must have realised what game she was playing. He hesitated, then, seeing the tense pleading in her blue eyes, he gave an angry, resigned kind of shrug and let Chris lead him away.
Francesca watched them go, a frown between her eyes, then came over to Tiffany. ‘Perhaps you’d better come inside with me.’
‘Thank you, but if I could just wait a while until he’s gone,’ Tiffany said in a distressed voice.
‘But your suit,’ Francesca said, pointing.
Tiffany looked down and saw that Sam’s port had spilled all down her. She gave a genuine wail of anguish. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Come into the house. I’m sure we can save it if we do something quickly.’
Calum added his voice. ‘Yes, please go inside, Miss—er——?’
‘Tiffany Dean,’ Tiffany said abstractedly, still looking down at her skirt and wondering how on earth she was going to explain this to the shop she’d hired it from.
Francesca led her inside the house again and up to a bedroom where Tiffany slipped out of the suit and it was rushed away by a maid, who pulled a pessimistic face when she saw the stained silk. There was a towelling robe hanging in the next-door bathroom. Bringing it for her to put on, Francesca said, ‘Will you excuse me, Tiffany? I must go and help say goodbye to the guests. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’
‘Nonsense. It wasn’t your fault.’
Francesca smiled and hurried away, leaving Tiffany to realise that she’d got the introduction to Calum she’d so much wanted, but had had no opportunity to follow it up. It had all been wasted. She’d used poor Sam for nothing. It was a desperate ploy that had seemed a good idea at the time, but just hadn’t worked. The way most of the ideas she had nowadays never seemed to work out. And if the suit was ruined, then she was even worse off than when she’d started.
That didn’t bear thinking about so Tiffany resolutely pushed it out of her mind. She caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length antique mirror. The robe was much too big, completely hiding her hands and falling to her feet, looking ridiculous with her high heels. She kicked off her shoes, feeling a mad urge to break into hysterical laughter. It was that or cry. Pulling the robe round her, she sat on the edge of the four-poster bed and fought back tears. Please, please, she thought fiercely, let something go right for a change. Just for once let it go right.
There was a knock on the door and Francesca came in. ‘The guests have all left and my grandfather has gone up to his room to rest.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘We haven’t told him what happened. We didn’t want to upset him. He hasn’t been very well recently, you see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. He looks all right,’ Tiffany remarked.
‘Oh, yes. It’s his blood-pressure. Arranging all these festivities for the bicentennial has been a bit much for him. Calum has tried to take as much of the organisation on himself as he can, but Grandpa has insisted on knowing every detail. It would be a shame if this—incident spoilt things for him on the first day.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Tiffany said, guilt making her voice stiff.
Francesca mistook the nuance in her voice and sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Oh, dear, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m so sorry, Tiffany. You must be feeling wretched about it yourself. The stupid man! Why don’t they ever learn? You only have to smile at them and be friendly and they immediately think you’re willing to leap into bed with them. And Sam seemed OK, too. Just shows you how mistaken you can be.’
Tiffany could only manage a stilted smile at that, and quickly changed the subject. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get home. Would it be OK to wait here until my suit’s dry?’
‘Of course. But you can’t possibly spend the whole of the afternoon in here.’ Francesca laughed. ‘I’d lend you something of mine, but you’d be swamped in it. But I’ll see what I can arrange.’ She stood up. ‘Calum wants to speak to you. He’s downstairs.’ And she headed for the door.
Tiffany stared at her. ‘What about?’
The taller girl shrugged, laughed. ‘He didn’t tell me. He never does. Come and see.’
Tiffany got uncertainly to her feet and gestured to the bathrobe. ‘Like this? I can’t possibly.’
‘Of course you can. Calum won’t care.’
With a sigh, Tiffany followed her. She’d wanted to make an impression on the heir to the House of Brodey, but this definitely wasn’t what she’d intended.
Calum was waiting in a sitting-room looking out over the lawn where the tables were being cleared. Chris was with him. They stood up politely when the two girls came in. When they saw Tiffany in the over-sized robe, just her bare feet with pink-painted toes sticking out from under it, neither man could resist a grin.
She laughed and put out her arms as she twirled round. ‘The latest creation from Paris,’ she joked.
Stepping forward, Calum took her hand and said, ‘Miss Dean, I’d like to apologise to you on behalf of my family. We’re all extremely sorry that such a thing happened here.’
There was true regret in his tone, making Tiffany flush. Something made her glance towards Chris; he was watching them with a faintly mocking curl to his lip, and she immediately knew that she might have deceived Calum but not Chris. Trying to put things as right as possible, she said lightly, ‘Oh, please, don’t apologise. I probably over-reacted. After all, I had been sitting next to Mr Gallagher during lunch, and—well, in a way I suppose it’s your fault really—you do serve excellent wine!’
Everyone laughed, even Chris’s eyebrows rising in surprise, and the tension was immediately eased.
‘And such a lot of it,’ Francesca agreed.
