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‘WHY did you lie to me?’ Milo’s face was grim.
Paige shrugged. ‘Because I didn’t want to go back with you, of course.’
‘So you knew who you were all along. This amnesia thing is all a pretence, a ploy. My God, Paige, if you—’
‘No!’ She interrupted his growing anger fiercely. ‘The woman you talk about doesn’t exist for me. But I knew as soon as I saw the photographs you showed us last night that you were telling the truth, that you and I were—connected. I could hardly fail to recognise myself, could I?’ Her face shadowed. ‘But I was—afraid. The life I have is good. Why should I want to find out about a past that is wholly alien to me?’ Her eyes met his. ‘Why should I want to find out about you?’ Looking away, she shrugged. ‘So I pretended that I didn’t speak or read English. I hoped you would think you’d made a mistake. That you’d go away again.’
‘I’m not put off that easily.’
‘No, but I wouldn’t have come back with you if it hadn’t been for Jean-Louis.’
‘For his greed.’
She gave him an angry look. ‘What would you know about needing money, Englishman? You’ve always had more than enough all your life.’
‘How do you know that?’ His eyes were watchful.
She laughed. ‘You told me so yourself, when you quoted from that newspaper cutting. You said that my family had owned half the company and yours the other half. You said that I was very rich, so presumably this company is successful. So, I repeat, what do you know about being poor and hungry? What do you know about having to prostitute your art to make a living as Jean-Louis has had to?’
His voice mild, Milo said, ‘I didn’t think that artists had to starve in garrets nowadays.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘All right. No, I’ve never been hungry—but neither would I push a woman into doing something she was against just to get money for myself.’
‘No?’ Paige’s eyebrows rose in irony. ‘But isn’t that just what you are doing? Aren’t you using me just as much as Jean-Louis is?’
His eyes grew guarded. ‘In what way?’
‘You say you were engaged to me. If we had married wouldn’t you have got all the shares, all the company?’
‘It wasn’t a financial arrangement,’ Milo replied steadily, holding her gaze. But he could see she didn’t believe him, so he added, ‘And, anyway, the question doesn’t now arise, does it? You will be giving all the money to Jean-Louis.’
‘And what if I do?’ Paige demanded belligerently.
‘It’s your money to do with as you like,’ he said with a shrug.
The train roared into the tunnel and they were silent for a moment, assimilating the change from natural light to that of fluorescence, from travelling on the surface to plunging deep beneath the sea. From openness to mystery, much as her own life had changed in the last twenty-four hours, Paige thought.
As if reading her mind, Milo said, ‘Wouldn’t you like me to tell you about your family?’
She sighed. ‘No, but I can see you’re determined to, so OK, go ahead.’
‘As I told you last night, your mother is English and your father was French. You have dual English and French nationality and passports from both countries. Presumably you travelled on your French passport when you ran away. You were also brought up to be bilingual. Your father insisted on that. But when your parents split up your mother remarried and you were sent to live with your grandmother. She saw to it that you had a good education and—’
‘Why?’ Paige interrupted. ‘Why didn’t I live with my mother or my father?’
Milo paused for a second then said without emphasis, ‘They had each formed new relationships. Your grandmother thought it would be best for you to have an uncomplicated life with her.’
‘And my parents had nothing to say against the arrangement? Neither of them cared enough about me to have me live with them?’
Milo was listening for bitterness in her tone but heard only curiosity. ‘It was—difficult. Your mother married an Argentinian and went to live there. Your father returned to his own country. They couldn’t both have you. And your grandmother is a very strong personality; it’s almost impossible to refuse her anything she sets her mind on.’
‘But they could have, if they’d really wanted to, if they’d cared enough?’
‘It wasn’t that simple, Paige.’
She looked at him for a moment, then gave a slow smile. ‘Life seldom is. Please go on.’
His grey eyes studied her face for a moment, but then Milo said, ‘Your grandmother kept you with her at her home in Lancashire until you finished school, then took you on a long tour of India and Asia that lasted for nearly a year. When you came back to England she brought you down to London to stay, and that was where we began our own relationship.’
‘We had never met before?’ Paige asked in surprise.
‘Yes, we’d met, many times, before your parents split up. But not for some years and not as adult to adult.’
Her eyes widened then grew amused. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
‘And how old am I?’
‘Twenty-one. Nearly twenty-two. Your birthday is next month, on the seventeenth.’
‘And when did this so passionate relationship begin?’
‘You came to London about two years ago.’
With a mocking twist to her lips, Paige shook her head at him. ‘When I was only nineteen? Perhaps I preferred older men—a father figure. Tell me, did I fall head over heels in love with you?’
She was needling him deliberately but he didn’t rise to it, instead saying, ‘Maybe one day you’ll remember.’
Suddenly she was all French again, pouting her lips and crossing her legs as she sat back in her seat. As she did so her legs brushed against Milo’s knees and Paige glanced at him from under her lashes but he didn’t react. ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ she said shortly. ‘And my loving parents, are they still alive?’
‘Your mother is. She still lives in Argentina.’
‘And does she own part of the company? What did you call it—Chandos and Caine?’
‘Caine and Chandos,’ he corrected her. ‘No, the shares she inherited were all transferred to you when she remarried. Your grandmother insisted on it.’
‘She sounds a formidable old lady.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Milo’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘And not one to whom I would have entrusted the upbringing of a sensitive young girl.’
Paige frowned for a moment, then her eyebrows rose. ‘You mean me? I was a sensitive young girl?’ Her rich laugh rang out, making the other people in the carriage glance round. ‘How quaint.’ Her eyes taunted him. ‘I’m no longer any of those things.’
‘But you are still young.’
She gave a small smile. ‘Oh, no; somehow I think that I’ve become very wise for my years.’ Adding deliberately, ‘And very experienced.’ Seeing his mouth tighten, Paige leaned forward and said on a soft but compelling note, ‘You would do well to forget that girl you talk about, forget her as I have done. Because she no longer exists and you can’t bring her back.’
He met her gaze squarely. ‘I know that. I shall have to get to know you all over again.’
‘But you don’t like what I am.’ It was a positive statement.
‘What makes you think that?’
She sat back, but kept her eyes on his face. ‘You make your disapproval very obvious.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t disapprove of you; I just find the change in you difficult to accept, that’s all.’
‘I expect people change when their circumstances change.’
With a sudden smile, Milo said, ‘Now that is a very wise and experienced remark.’
She gazed at him for a moment, taken aback by the smile, then flicked her eyes away. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to my father,’ she reminded him.
‘I’m afraid he died. He had a heart attack some years ago.’ Paige merely nodded and he said, ‘It means nothing to you?’
She gave him an irritated look. ‘What do you expect me to do—throw myself down and weep because someone I can’t remember has died? Someone, from what you’ve told me, who more or less abandoned me? Of course it means nothing to me.’
Suddenly they were out of the tunnel and into daylight again. The train slowed for its journey through the Kent countryside and Paige looked out of the window for a few minutes before turning to Milo and saying, ‘Is that it? Is that the sum total of this famous family you were going to tell me about?’
He nodded. ‘That’s about it.’
‘So I’ve a mother, and presumably a stepfather, who live in Argentina. And a grandmother. Is that all?’
‘I believe you have some relations on your father’s side—cousins, that kind of thing—but no one close. And you have aunts and cousins in England on your grandmother’s side of the family. I’m afraid neither of us comes from very productive lines.’
‘When I marry Jean-Louis I intend to have a large family, six children at least,’ she told him provocatively.
‘Have you told him that?’
Smiling, she said, ‘Jean-Louis is a very earthy person. He likes the sun and the open air, he loves light and colour. He’s not like you.’ Her eyes went over him disparagingly. ‘You’re an indoor person, without imagination, grey and colourless.’
To her immense surprise Milo laughed, the first time she’d known him to do so. ‘If you think that then you, too, have got some relearning to do.’
Soon the train pulled into London and they got into the car again. It was only then that Paige asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘To your flat.’
‘My flat? I have an apartment of my own?’
‘Yes. In Chelsea.’
It turned out to be a garden flat in one of the quiet, tree-lined streets that led down to the River Thames. An old house of dark, weathered brick with a smartly painted black front door. Very respectable, very genteel. As she got out of the car Paige looked at the street and the house with strong distaste. Taking a small bunch of keys from his pocket, Milo unlocked the door.
‘You have a key to my flat?’
He glanced at her. ‘You left your keys behind when you—went away.’
He stood back to let her enter and Paige stepped past him into a hallway. There were two front doors facing her. The one on the left had the letter A and a name-plate holding a card saying ‘Major (Rtd.) and Mrs C.D. Davieson’. The door on the right had the letter B, but the name-plate was empty. After unlocking the latter, Milo again stood back.
Aware that he was watching her, Paige pushed open the door. There was an inner lobby that gave on to a corridor lined with framed nineteenth-century prints. The floor was carpeted and the air was warm. There was no dust on the hall table that stood against the wall, no smell of mustiness, only of beeswax polish. No feeling that the place had been empty and neglected for nearly a year. Slowly she walked to the nearest door and pushed it open. It was a sitting-room, quite large and ornate with an elaborate plasterwork ceiling, and luxuriously decorated in shades of cream and pale green, the carpet thick, the curtains opulently swathed. There was a wooden-framed reproduction three-piece suite, again in pale green, that hardly looked inviting; in fact it looked almost unused. There was a bookcase with leather-backed volumes—they didn’t look interesting enough to be called books—which had probably been chosen for their decorative effect, and a couple of brass lamps with cream shades. A television set hidden away in a cabinet and a music stack concealed in its twin seemed to be the only concession to modern life.
Paige opened the doors of the cabinets, made a face, and walked out of the room to look at the rest of the place. There was a dining room with a pedestal table and six chairs that looked genuine antiques instead of reproduction, a kitchen with pseudo country fitted cupboards and, at the back of the house looking over the garden, a large bedroom. It had a four-poster bed, a dressing table and fitted wardrobes across the whole of one wall. She stood for a long moment looking round the room, then opened the door of one of the wardrobes and looked at the clothes. Pulling some out, Paige saw that they were mostly neat suits with straight, tailored skirts and jackets, and to wear with them there were long-sleeved silk blouses in pale colours. With an angry gesture she tossed them onto the bed and jerked open more doors. Every kind of clothes a girl would need, and all expensively made, but they were all drab, drab, drab!
Turning on Milo, she said vehemently, ‘You have got to have made a mistake. No way could I ever have worn all these dull clothes!’
His lips twitched. ‘I assure you, you did. And you looked extremely good in them.’
‘I don’t believe it. Even a nun wouldn’t look good in these—’ words failed her ‘—these uniforms!’
Milo laughed outright ‘I rather think you’re working up to a good excuse to go shopping.’
Smiling in return, Paige said, ‘I don’t need an excuse to go shopping.’
There was a door in the far wall. Going over to it, she found that it led into a bathroom, the bath white, the walls pale green again.
‘Is this a rented flat?’ she asked in dissatisfaction.
‘No, it belongs to you.’
‘And did I choose the decor?’
‘No, I believe your grandmother hired a firm of decorators to do it while you were still in India. She wanted it to be a surprise for you on your return.’
‘I see.’
‘If you don’t like it you can always change it.’ The suggestion had been put in a mild voice but Paige didn’t miss the implications. With a shrug, she said, ‘What do I care? I shan’t be staying here.’
Milo didn’t argue, just said, ‘I’ll get your suitcase.’
Paige followed him into the corridor just as someone turned a key in the front door and came in. It was an elderly grey-haired woman, thin and very upright, wearing a pale blue woollen suit.
‘Paige, my dear.’ The woman stepped forward with her hands outstretched. ‘How wonderful that you’re back. I was so excited when Milo rang to tell me.’
Milo stood back but Paige caught his sleeve. ‘Who is it? Is it my grandmother?’
A disappointed look came into his eyes. ‘No. This is Mrs Davieson who lives in the flat upstairs.’ He turned to the other woman. ‘As I told you, Paige is suffering from loss of memory. I’m afraid she doesn’t remember you.’
‘How dreadful!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘But you mustn’t worry about a thing. The Major and I will take care of you till your grandmother gets here. We’re old friends of hers, you know; she and I knew each other as children out in India and then we were at school together.’
‘Really?’ Paige looked down at the outstretched hands. ‘I see you have a key to the flat.’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve been looking after the place for you.’
Paige frowned, not being able to imagine it. ‘You’ve been doing the cleaning?’
‘No, not personally, of course.’ Mrs Davieson tittered with amusement at the idea. ‘But making sure the cleaner and the gardener do their work properly, informing Milo here of any maintenance work that needed to be done, that sort of thing. Absolutely essential, of course, when the owner is away.’
