Dear Villain Page 8

  'I am not a child,' Liz ground out between clenched teeth, 'and don't be so damn condescending!' She flew to the bath-room, quite spoiling her exit by treading on one of the flapping pyjama legs and nearly falling her length. She slammed the door and noisily shot the bolt. To hell with him, she raged, I just can't fathom the man—and don't want to! She dressed rapidly, brushed out her by now dry hair and gazed appalled in the mirror. No wonder he'd looked so amused! Her hair had fluffed out like a golliwog's and her face had the shiny, scrubbed look of—well, yes, a child's. But she was past caring.

  Throwing open the door, Liz marched into the lounge and addressed a coolly nonchalant Adam, who was sitting browsing through the Sunday newspaper.

  'I'm ready when you are,' she said coldly, and ignoring his raised brows, stalked out and down to the car, only to have to wait, fuming, because the Morgan didn't appear to have any door handles on the outside. Adam followed slowly, unzipped the hood and reaching through, opened the door. Liz glared at him, willing him to smile, but he didn't, and somewhat mollified, she got in, ready to ignore him for the whole of the journey home. They were just about to drive off when the caretaker's wife appeared carrying Liz's handkerchief.

  'This was in the pocket of the dress, sir. I forgot to bring it up.'

  'Thank you for helping,' said Liz, taking the neatly ironed handkerchief.

  'That's all right, miss, only too glad.' The woman was dying for an explanation and it gave Liz great satisfaction denying it to her. She turned away, avoiding the curiosity in the woman's eyes, a direct contrast to the deferential smile on her face. The incident, however, was disquieting, and as they drove away, she muttered:

  'She'll know me again!'

  'More than likely, but she knows it's more than her job's worth to gossip,' came the rejoinder. As they pulled up outside The Laurels, good manners prompted Liz to say:

  'Goodbye, Adam. I'm sorry this afternoon has been such a fiasco. Thank you for looking after me so well and… being so… kind.'

  'Kind?' he echoed in amusement.

  'Yes, you were at first! Then you were horrid, and I heartily dislike you, Adam Carlyon.' She grabbed the handle and his arm stretched across and held her hand. Liz involuntarily winced and he lifted it, gazing at the faint bruise already showing. Frowning, he said:

  'Did I do this?'

  'Yes,' retorted Liz, then being fair, relented, saying: 'I bruise very easily.'

  'You're very forgiving, Elizabeth.' The pulse began to pound in her wrist and she pulled her hand away quickly. He smiled wryly. 'I'll have to remember that in future, won't I?'

  'Do you mean the bruising—or the forgiving?'

  'Probably both.'

  'Do you then foresee the need will arise?' Liz could not resist asking.

  'You might be foolish enough to give me the chance,' came the whimsical reply.

  Removing herself from the car, Liz said firmly: 'You have a remarkable imagination.'

  Judy took one look at her and burst out laughing. Liz smiled condescendingly and waited for her friend to control herself.

  'You had an enjoyable afternoon, I trust?' she asked sweetly. 'Everything went as planned? They seem to have scoffed all the scones and cakes, I see.'

  'I've saved you some,' spluttered Judy, dissolving once more into laughter. Liz stood it for as long as she could, then threw a cushion at her.

  'Whatever has happened to you?' Judy demanded. 'Your hair looks like a hedge!'

  'So would yours be if it had been dunked in canal water, followed by a scrub in bathwater and then dried by a gas fire. My poor mop is uncontrollable at the best of times, but under those conditions every strand rebels unanimously!'

  'Heavens above, what's happened?'

  Liz retold the canal incident to a now silent Judy, plus the bare outline of what happened at Adam Carlyon's flat. Judy shook her head slowly.

  'How awful if you hadn't been there.'

  'I'd better go and ring Helen, but I'm not telling her about it. So far as she knows, and anyone else for that matter, the car broke down.' She grinned reluctantly. 'I wonder how often Adam Carlyon's used that excuse?'

  Helen listened quite calmly to the fictitious happenings and Liz asked her about their aunt. When that topic was exhausted, Helen said abruptly:

  'Did Adam tell you about poor Rachel? She's landed herself in hospital with appendicitis.'

  'Rachel?' repeated Liz.

  'Rachel Weston, the actress who was taking Bianca,' Helen said impatiently. 'How many Rachels do you know?' she asked with asperity.

  'One or two, actually, but that particular one, hardly at all.'

  'Well, I don't suppose you'll get to, now. What a good job rehearsals have only been going for a week.'

  'Who's taking her place?' asked Liz, not because she was interested but because it was expected of her.

  'Tracey Miller,' announced Helen with a voice loaded with foreboding. 'I suppose we're lucky to get her at such short notice—we have Adam to thank for that. She would just jump at the chance of working with him again. But I'm sorry it has to be her—we never did get on.'

  Liz said calmly: 'It's a good job you're not working with her, then, isn't it?'

  There was a pause and Helen laughed reluctantly.

  'I shall have to come into contact with her, though. Oh, well, it can't be helped. I suppose Adam dropped you off and then went to pick her up from the station?'

  'Yes,' said Liz.

  'Well?' asked Judy, twenty-four hours later. 'What's she like? And mind that stool, I've just painted it.'

  'Blonde, clever and sexy,' answered Liz, flopping wearily into a chair. 'Good lord, what a slavedriver that man is! We all thought we'd be able to trot off home after we finished this afternoon, but oh no, back to the beginning again.'

  'You can't blame him. Time's creeping by, and with the other actress dropping out it's bound to make a difference,' Judy commented reasonably.

  'I'm not blaming the man, just abusing him. And it won't make all that much difference. Tracey Miller's played the part before and she's very quick with direction. Everyone's grumbling at being overworked, but they're all secretly satisfied.' She laughed at Judy's puzzled look. 'I know that sounds double dutch, but they know that hard work combined with Adam Carlyon will get results. They want the success, so they'll work hard—but it doesn't stop them grumbling.' She eased off her shoes and wriggled her toes. 'How's things your end? Has that motor-cyclist recovered consciousness yet?'

  'Yes, but he'll not be riding his bike again. I've been moved to Children's.'

  'Does it upset you more? Being with young children who are ill?' Liz asked slowly.

  Judy considered the question and said thoughtfully, 'Yes, at first, I think, but you accept it after a time—you have to.' She ruffled Liz's hair so that it stood out even more. 'I'm for my bed, are you coming?'

  'Yes, I'd better. It's bound to be another long session tomorrow and I feel as if I'm running round in circles half the time.'

  'You know you love it,' teased Judy.

  Liz paused outside her bedroom. 'I must do.'

  'Any repercussions from yesterday?'

  'No. Except Adam Carlyon asked me on the quiet if I wanted a punnet of mouldy strawberries.'

  There was a general air of excitement when Liz arrived at the theatre two weeks of intensive rehearsals later. Polly greeted her enthusiastically.

  'We've just had confirmation that Sir Oliver Harding is definitely coming to the official opening.'

  'Good. I've always admired him. Someone as well known as he is will bring more publicity and that will boost the bookings. He's a super actor. How are they going? The bookings, I mean.'

  'Very well, I understand. What a pity we can't squeeze into the official dinner. Never mind, I've got my seat booked for the opening night, so I'll see everyone in their finery.'

  'We'll just have to kid ourselves that it will be a very boring function,' consoled Liz. 'I suppose they've got to draw the line somewhere,
and heads of departments qualify more than we poor underlings.'

  'By the way, there's a message here for you, from Scotty. He's got to pick up some wrought iron balustrades some time today and wants to know if you'll relieve him from this morning's rehearsal. They're up on stage.'

  'I've got to go scouting round myself, but I can go this afternoon.'

  'Will you give this programme proof to Carlyon for me and ask him to look at it and see if he wants any alterations? I thought the dear man was looking rather tired.'

  'Aren't we all?' said Liz dryly. How does he do it, she wondered, even the cleaning ladies worship him!

  Quietly letting herself into the auditorium, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness and saw Paul Scott sitting half-way back. She felt her way along the seats and giving her a smile, Scotty handed over the prompt book and the small torch, pointed to where they were in the script and left.

  They were going through the final scene and Adam was prowling around the auditorium. He stopped the action a few times and instructions or new moves were given. Liz watched fascinated as once or twice he leapt on to the stage and showed them how he wanted a certain line delivered. It never failed to amaze Liz, and satisfy her, how emphasis on a different word often gave a new and more subtle meaning. I wonder if he'll ever act again, she thought, watching him work out a movement with Martin and Louise. It must be difficult after having your own way to take direction. Whoever produces him in future, she reflected, will have to be someone he greatly respects.

  The Scene was started once more and this time Adam settled himself in the next but one seat to Liz. Still keeping his eyes on the stage, he gave a few notes but, for the most part, sat hunched-shouldered, chin on hand, frowning intently. Liz didn't think he needed to worry. The scene, a difficult one, played well, Louise performing her final, long speech with extreme skill. When the last lines were spoken, Adam called out:

  'That'll do. Break for lunch,' and the stage gradually cleared.

  Liz didn't know whether he'd noticed that Paul had left and she had taken his place, but he obviously had, for he said, without looking at her.

  'Make a note, Elizabeth, that in Kate's final speech I want the Widow and Bianca about two paces back from where they've been playing it, and in case I forget when we come to light it, I shall want a good well lit Kate.' He flicked through his script. 'Yes, here it is. Gradually building up to "thy husband is thy lord".' He stopped and gave her a quick look, tapping his pencil pensively on the back of the seat in front and saying thoughtfully: 'It would be interesting, Elizabeth, to have your views on that final speech.' His voice was low as he quoted the words. ' "Thy husband is thy lord, thy faith, thy keeper… one who cares for thee… and craves no other tribute at thy hands but love, fair looks and true obedience".' His dark eyes held a challenge. The provocation to engage in the contest now being offered was tempting, but Liz had learnt her lesson. Instead of accepting the challenge she collected her folder and said briskly:

  'You're talking to a female of the twentieth century-need I say more? Could you cast your eye over this programme, please, and let Polly know if there are any alterations? Oh, and Paul would like you to have a look at the samples for the drapes, they're in the props room. Do you want me for anything more?'

  He shook his head, saying softly: 'Coward.'

  'Not at all,' said Liz, pausing in the gangway. 'Today, Prudence is my middle name.'

  Helen invited herself to watch the Saturday rehearsal and was gratifyingly enthusiastic.

  'Of course,' she said afterwards to Liz, 'the play will really come to life when it's in full dress, but even now a certain something is there.'

  'Your reactions will be very welcome. They've just realised we open next Wednesday.'

  'Adam was telling John that he thinks it will hit the peak right on target.' Helen looked at her watch. 'There's not much left of the evening, is there? I must dash back now and relieve the sitter. Why don't you come over to our place? Bring Martin,' and blowing a kiss, Helen left in a hurry.

  It was dusk by the time they arrived. Martin pulled up behind the white Morgan which they had followed into the drive. Liz watched as Tracey Miller emerged gracefully from the depths of the low-slung sports car and tucked a possessive arm through that of her escort.

  'I wonder how she does it? Get out like that, I mean,' said Liz enviously. 'Oh well, we can't have everything, I suppose,' and she promptly fell up the garden step.

  'You're not safe to be let out,' groaned Martin, picking her up. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yes, I think so,' Liz answered breathlessly, 'just dirty hands.'

  'Emulate Miss Miller and stick your arm through mine,' and laughing, they arrived at the door without further mishap. Helen looked at Liz's hands with resignation.

  'In you go, Martin, demand a drink from John while I borrow this clumsy sister of mine.'

  'I do know where the bathroom is, Helen,' commented Liz, following her upstairs, the sound of music and laughter drifting after them.

  'I want to talk to you.'

  'Oh dear, that sounds ominous,' said Liz. 'Who on earth's here, Helen? There sounds quite a lot of people down there. Has this small, informal gathering blossomed into one of your usual everyone's welcome?'

  Helen shrugged. 'Well, darling, you know how it is,' and Liz, washing the garden from her hands, laughed.

  'John saw Simon at lunch, he said he might pop in later.'

  'Oh, good. I haven't seen him for ages.'

  'I saw him the other day with your Judy,' admitted Helen, a speculative gleam in her eyes.

  'He was probably giving her a lift to the hospital,' said Liz airily, following her into the bedroom.

  Helen sat at the dressing table and lazily tweaked a curl.

  'Miss Miller has annoyed me quite considerably so far this evening and will, no doubt, continue to do so.'

  'That must have been quick, then, she only arrived just before we did.'

  'Nevertheless, she managed it,' her sister asserted firmly. 'What do you think of her, Liz?'

  'Knowing you of old, that air of studied disinterest means you're up to something,' accused Liz, receiving a pained look from Helen. She sighed resignedly. 'I think Tracey is attractive, a good, competent actress, has stunning dress sense, beautiful hair and is a first class bitch.'

  Helen smiled triumphantly. 'For once, Lizzie, you show perception. Whatever is Adam thinking of?' she demanded. 'She's not right for him!'

  'Perhaps Adam sees some quality in her that we do not, sister dear,' Liz suggested mildly, although she too had wondered at the relationship that had blossomed (or re-blossomed) since the actress had stepped in after Rachel's illness.

  'Lizzie.' Helen turned and looked at her earnestly. 'What went wrong in London?'

  Liz didn't pretend to misunderstand and said gently:

  'Nothing went wrong, Helen. If you thought that there could have been anything between Adam and myself, you were a fool—I'm not his type.'

  'Rubbish. He hasn't got a type.'

  'I agree. He just likes women, full stop.' Liz joined her at the dressing-table. 'No one would suppose we were sisters, would they?'

  'Don't change the subject.'

  'It wouldn't work, Helen.'

  'Maybe not, then. You were going through a difficult time. But now that you've met again… Liz, isn't there a chance that you and he…?'

  'I don't know what it is about happily married couples, they always seem to try their hand at matchmaking,' Liz interrupted in amused exasperation. 'And the answer to your question is sitting in your lounge, drinking your best sherry and making eyes at your husband.'

  'Nonsense. I'm not at all worried about John succumbing to the Miller's fatal charms. It's Adam I'm worried about.'

  'I'm sure he would be most touched by your concern,' ventured Liz, 'but why so worried? There's been hordes of names coupled with Adam's… even,' she flicked a quick look at Helen, 'even yours.'

  'Mine?' echoed Hel
en in delight, and then giggled. 'How marvellous! You've just made my day. Poor man, I'd drive him mad in a week and we both know it. Where on earth did you get that from?'

  'Oh, just something I overheard when I was in London,' replied Liz lightly.

  Helen frowned. 'That didn't have any effect on you and…?

  'Good lord, no!' broke in Liz quickly. 'Anyway, you haven't answered my question. Why are you worried now?'

  'Even the cleverest of men get caught, and although he's nobody's fool, Adam could find himself married to Tracey Miller before he wakes up to what she's like!'

  'Married!' said Liz, startled. 'I didn't think Adam Carlyon bothered marrying them?'

  'It was something he implied the other day, and if that woman gets Adam to the altar, it will only be over my dead body!'

  'For heaven's sake, Helen, keep out of it. If John knew what you were thinking, you'd be in trouble.'

  Her sister walked to the door, smiling serenely. 'I've already put plan A into operation. You'll find the Miller happily engrossed in the conversation of a business associate of John's. Someone connected closely with the film industry.'

  'You're incorrigible,' gasped Liz, 'but you can count me out of any of your schemes,' she added firmly, and following Helen out of the bedroom paused, saying softly: 'I won't be a moment, you go on down.'

  'If you wake her, she's your responsibility,' warned Helen.

  Gently opening the nursery door, Liz tiptoed in. The light from the landing cast a beam across the room, enabling her to see the cot easily. Peeping over the side she saw, to her amazement, two blue eyes staring unwaveringly up at her. Tucking the covers more securely, Liz said softly:

  'Naughty girl, you should be asleep.' This admonishment from her loving aunt didn't fool Emma for one moment and only brought forth a beautiful smile. Liz brushed a finger against the soft velvet of the child's cheek and gently caressed it. A shadow crossed the beam of light. The blue eyes passed to the newcomer's face and the smile appeared again.