Camellia (66 page)

'Maybe, but it's worth looking at.' Conrad pushed her legs over and sat down beside her. 'It's all set up and equipped and he's prepared to let me have it far cheaper than I'd get it on the open market. It would be a good investment.'

It sounded the perfect way to lose his money, but Camellia had discovered early on that opposing his scatterbrained ideas only made him keener on them.

'So when are you going to meet him?'

'No time like the present,' he grinned. 'At least in this rain there won't be any traffic on the road.'

'Just promise me you won't make any decision immediately,' she said gently. She knew she couldn't deter him from going, but it was worth trying to slow him down. 'Just look and talk today. The restaurant is doing well, Con, but that's because you're here all the time, giving it the personal touch. And you wouldn't have time for your writing if you had another business.'

He didn't reply, but got up and went over to the window, looking down at the small garden.

Mel had read his book, and she thought he was a brilliant storyteller. His characters were vivid and funny, and the plot was fast moving. She wished he would concentrate on it whole heartedly. She was a little worried their more materialistic customers were beginning to influence him, however much he laughed at them. Conrad was an artist, not a businessman.

'I'm sorry I got you all fired up about Helena Forester,' he said unexpectedly. He turned back to her and his brown eyes looked huge and troubled behind his thick glasses. 'Perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part. I wanted something really nice to happen for you – you deserve it.'

Mel was touched by his concern for her. Conrad could be fiery, impulsive and hare-brained at times, but beneath that was a sensitive, deeply caring man. 'Something nice happened when I met you,' she said. 'I'm very happy here, Con. I shouldn't want anything more.'

'But you still think of Nick a great deal, don't you?' he said, moving over to the settee and running his hand over her hair almost paternally. 'Sometimes I get the idea that you're running on only one valve, and there's another one rusting away through lack of use.'

'Yes, I do think about Nick a great deal,' she admitted. 'And sometimes I think how much I'd like to meet another man, fall in love, get married and have babies. But I'm not pining for that. I'm content for now with my peace of mind and your friendship.'

Mel didn't think about her needs very often and never voiced them. But as she spoke she realised she was living in a kind of waiting room, letting life flow comfortably past her. At least Conrad reached out for what he wanted and allowed himself to be receptive to new ideas and experiences. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of his book.

'You give too much of yourself, Mel,' he said, wiggling a finger at her like a schoolmaster. 'Without you I'd never have got this place off the ground. I dread the day coming when you'll want to move on because heaven knows how I'll manage without you. But all the same, a big part of me wants to see you truly happy and fulfilled. I want to see that other valve start moving, to see a glimmer in your eyes for something other than a new supper dish or making this flat look pretty.'

'There's a glimmer in my eyes for that frayed collar.' She got up from the settee and caught hold of his shirt collar, wiggling it. 'So take it off and put something smart on. You can't let this Dunwoody chap think you might be in financial difficulties too.'

Conrad left twenty minutes later, wearing a baggy tweed suit which made him look like an Irish farmer on a Sunday. She didn't have the heart to tell him he looked better in his jeans. She heard the garden gate slam shut and the roar of his Mini as he sped out of the small lane at the back.

Sighing she picked her book up again. She hoped he wouldn't like this man Dunwoody; it all sounded a little fishy to her.

The front doorbell woke her. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was after five. She must have dropped off soon after Conrad left. Pushing her feet into her slippers she went downstairs to answer it.

To her surprise it was the tall blond man who'd left the restaurant the previous Saturday night. She was embarrassed to be caught in worn jeans and a grubby tee shirt, by someone so attractive.

'Remember me?' he asked. 'I called to apologise for running out last Saturday night. You must have thought me frightfully rude. But I suddenly found I'd left my wallet in my other suit. Thank goodness I discovered that before I started to eat or I might have spent the night washing up for you.'

Mel was startled but pleased that he'd even considered making an apology. Such good manners were rare these days. He was less formally dressed than at their first meeting, in a casual light-brown suede jacket, open-necked checked shirt and beige slacks, but even so he still looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a tailor's window.

'Did you find anywhere to eat later or did you have to go to bed hungry?'

'I found one of those late night hamburger places.' He leaned on the doorpost nonchalantly, and gazed at her.

Mel blushed. If this was only an apology, a phone call would have sufficed. Could it be he was going to ask her out? She wasn't sure how she felt about that; he wasn't quite her type. 'Next time you'd better book a table,' she said. 'It was nice of you to apologise. I actually thought you'd grown tired of waiting to be served. We were very busy that night.'

'I guess I'd better come clean,' he smiled. 'Helena Forester sent me! I'm her manager – my name is Edward Manning.'

Shock made her jaw drop open.

Delight, disbelief and embarrassment precluded any intelligent questions. His expensive clothes, the suntan and a hint of an American accent all fitted in with someone in the movie business. But she was a little uneasy that he'd found it necessary to make an incognito visit first.

'You'd better come in,' Mel's voice trembled. 'I just wish I looked a little tidier!'

'Did Helena get many letters,' she asked as she gave him tea. 'I mean from Camellias?'

'Thirty-four in all, and no more than four were even named Camellia,' he said with a wry smile. 'Most of them were stage-struck teenagers, their letters full of all the films they'd seen of her, and how they knew all along there was some link between them.'

'How did you know I was the right one?' Mel asked.

'Quite simple. You had the correct date of birth, the right surname.'

'So why did you check me out last week?'

He looked penetratingly at her, his blue eyes suddenly very cold. 'We had to be absolutely certain. Helena is very vulnerable. I didn't want her to become involved with anyone who might be slightly off centre.'

This explanation was slightly offensive, but Mel decided that it was at least an honest one. He wasn't the easiest man to talk to – he seemed humourless and reserved, and she had a feeling he didn't actually approve of this mission. But then as Helena's manager it was his job to protect her interests. Mel felt she would need to charm him into being less guarded.

'Tell me about Helena,' she asked. 'You see I'm entirely in the dark, my mother never spoke of her. I'm afraid I haven't even seen one of her films, though Conrad who is a great fan has filled me in with some of her background. Have I ever met her? I mean when I was small.'

When he didn't answer immediately Mel thought perhaps she'd said the wrong thing.

'Helena Forester isn't an easy person to describe,' he said at length, as if choosing his words very carefully. 'Her public image as one of the greatest musical comedy stars of our time is rather at odds with her private one. She is an intensely private person, Camellia, extraordinarily beautiful with a warm and loving nature.'

Mel wondered if Edward was something more than Helena's manager. He sounded as if he'd lifted that description from a press release, but at the same time there was passion in his eyes which said he adored her.

'Bonny Norton hurt her very badly many years ago,' he went on, looking at her hard, as if he held her accountable. 'They fell out and perhaps that is why she never told you about Helena. As I understand it, you were about three or four at the time of their last meeting, too young I suspect to remember it. But Helena is a very compassionate and forgiving woman. When she discovered on her return to England that both your parents had died, her first concern was for you.'

'How did she find out? Did Magnus tell her?' Mel felt a rush of wild excitement. 'Is she staying at Oaklands with him?'

'Magnus? Oaklands?' He looked baffled. 'I'm afraid neither of those names mean anything to me.'

'Magnus Osbourne was a friend of my mother's. I thought perhaps he knew Helena too.' Mel felt a little foolish, and disappointed. But if Edward didn't know about Magnus and Bonny, she wasn't going to volunteer the information. 'It was just an association of ideas. You see I used to work at his hotel in Bath, and I thought she might just be staying at Oaklands.'

'She has taken a house quite near to Bath,' he said stiffly. 'But that is because the film is being made nearby. As far as I know she has no acquaintances in the town. I believe she got the news about your parents from an old friend in London. But you can ask her about that yourself.'

'When can I meet her?' she asked bluntly. She didn't think she could stand being kept on tenterhooks for another couple of weeks.

'My plan was to take you to her now,' he said. 'If that is all right with you of course.'

'Now?' Mel stared stupidly at him.

'The restaurant isn't open on Sundays is it?' he said. 'It's only a couple of hours drive. You can stay with her tonight and I'll bring you back in the morning or pop you on the train.'

There was no sensible reason she could think of as to why she shouldn't go immediately. But all the same it did seem a bit sudden.

As if sensing that she needed further reassurance, he took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. 'Take a look at these,' he said more gently, pulling a batch of snapshots from it. 'Helena has kept them close to her all these years.'

They were all pictures of Mel, from tiny baby to the age of about four. In one she was looking at a birthday cake with two candles, in another she was naked in a paddling pool. The most recent one was of her sitting on the steps outside their Mermaid Street house, a plump, serious-faced four-year-old, nursing a dolly.

'Does that tell you how she feels about you?' Edward asked pointedly.

Mel felt a prickle in her eyes.

'Don't make her wait any longer to see you.' His tone was suddenly warm and persuasive. 'She has so much to talk to you about, so many years to make up for. Come with me now – there's nothing keeping you here is there?'

Mel glanced about her. She had her book to finish, and Conrad would want to tell her about the place in Brighton when he got back. But that wasn't as important or as exciting as discovering a little more about her mother.

'Well, no,' Mel said, aware that if he left without her she'd be kicking herself within half an hour of his departure. 'It's just that I look a mess. I wanted to look my best when I met her.'

He smiled then, as if he'd finally decided he approved of her. 'You look lovely to me,' he said. 'But there's nothing stopping you changing first if it will make you feel more comfortable.'

She left him sitting on the settee looking at the Sunday paper while she ran upstairs to change. Her new navy and white striped dress had seemed perfect when she bought it last week, but now as she put it on she wasn't so sure. The rather demure white sailor collar, and the long bias-cut skirt now looked a little old-fashioned and far too summery. But it was too late to find anything else, so she dug out tights and a white cardigan, brushed her hair, tied it back at the neck and slipped her feet into her navy-blue platform shoes.

Edward looked up and smiled as she came back down to the living room with a small overnight bag, make-up on and her raincoat over her arm.

'I wish all ladies could transform themselves so quickly,' he said. 'You look very pretty. I think Helena will be startled to find the chubby little girl she remembered has turned into such an elegant young lady.'

'I could have done even better with a little more time,' she laughed, and picked up an old envelope and pen to write Conrad a brief message.

'Helena's manager, Edward Manning, turned up to take me to Bath,' she wrote. 'I'll be back tomorrow sometime. Love Mel.'

'Are you always a girl of so few words?' he asked, raising one blond eyebrow sardonically as he glanced at the propped-up note on the table.

'Not usually,' she grinned. 'But whatever I put won't be enough for Con, and we haven't got time for me to write a full report have we?'

Edward's car was a new dark-blue Jaguar, and Mel sank into the soft leather seat, sighing with appreciation. She had never ridden in such a splendid car before and it seemed like an omen for a whole new chapter in her life.

'How long have you known Helena?' she asked as they reached the start of the M4. Edward had barely spoken since they left Fulham and it was making her just a little tense.

'Since 1945,' he said. 'We were in a show together in London. I was an actor then, but I've been her manager now for almost twenty years.'

He went on to tell her about other shows they'd been in together, saying that sometimes he played the piano. It grew more and more obvious he adored Helena. Mel found it touching how they'd kept in touch by letter when they couldn't work together and how Edward had taken pianist's jobs in towns where she was performing, just to be near her.

'Did you know my mother?' she asked.

'Yes, I did,' he said. 'She was one of the dancers in that same first show.'

Mel waited, expecting him to go on reminiscing, but he added nothing more. 'You didn't like her, did you?'

'No,' he admitted, glancing round at her. 'I'm sorry if that's hurtful to you, Camellia, but I'm afraid we never really got on.'

'I'd rather people were honest,' she said, hoping this might make him open up a bit more. 'But most men seem to have been fascinated by her.'

When he didn't answer immediately, Mel looked round at him. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles were white.