Never to Love (8 page)

“In the summer one dines on the terrace outside, and when Notre Dame is floodlit it is a very beautiful sight,”
Leonie
went on, explaining some of the restaurant’s history. The chef, she said, was a pupil of the great Chatelin who cooked for the last czar of Russia, and the wine cellar was one of the finest in all France, with champagne and liqueurs put down more than one hundred years ago and reserved for only the most favored customers. Andrea had heard about the
speciality de la mais
o
n,
a delectable pressed duck dish, and Jacques explained that every duck was numbered.

The meal was a lively one and Andrea soon forgot her earlier fear that the Bechets would think it strange for a honeymoon couple to seek company. Jacques obviously adored his wife, and she wondered if theirs was one of the practical partnerships to which Justin had referred on the night of their arrival. But whatever the foundation of their marriage, the Bechets were plainly very happy together.

Leonie was what the French call
une jolie laide,
meaning a woman who is really rather plain but who contrives to give an impression of beauty by having great charm and style. In her simply cut dinner dress of stiff midnight-blue silk with a skein of mocha-tinted river pearls at her throat, she epitomized the famous Parisian elegance.

During the evening Justin suggested that the two women spend the following day shopping together while he and Jacques went to the races at Longchamps, and it was arranged that Leonie would call for Andrea about ten o’clock.

After dinner they went to the Folies Berg
e
re, and Andrea, who had always disliked revues in London, found herself dazzled by the whole glittering extravaganza.

Leonie, noticing the rapt childlike attention with which she was watching the tall shapely showgirls in their scanty spangled costumes and towering plumed headdresses, touched Justin’s sleeve and nodded at Andrea’s intent face. He smiled, but Leonie reflected that the smile had not touched his eyes, and she recalled several other seeming trivialities that struck her as being unusual.

The evening ended at a quiet nightclub and the party broke up at two o’clock in the morning.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Justin asked as they reached their suite.

Andrea dropped her stole onto a chair and stretched her arms above her head. The exhilarating effect of the wines they had had was still with her, and. the music at the nightclub lingered in her head.

“It was a wonderful evening,” she said gratefully. “I like the Bechets very much. It is nice of you to ask Leonie to take me shopping. I must admit I’m longing to explore the shops, but it would be rather boring for you.” She smiled. “I’ll try not to be too extravagant.”

To her consternation Justin’s face hardened into a mask of coldness.

“I wouldn’t worry on that score. The facility to be extravagant is one of your advantages under the terms of our agreement,
”
he said stiffly.

If he had rounded on her in a fury, he could not have shocked her more deeply. For a moment she stared at him aghast, and then, very pale and with all the sparkle gone from her eyes, she said tightly, “I wasn’t thinking of it like that. It’s time I went to bed. Good night, Justin.” Without waiting for him to reply, she snatched up her wrap and hurried into her room.

The next morning
they exchanged a few terse words and then ate in a constrained silence. In spite of the ruinous end of the previous evening, Andrea had slept heavily. But there were faint shadows under her eyes that she had had to hide with more than her usual makeup.

She
w
ondered if it was too late to cancel the expedition with Leonie, for she was in no mood to enjoy it with the echo of Justin’s bitter reminder of her reason for marrying him ringing in her ears.

Why had he chosen that moment to fling her mercenary motives at her? That was the thing she found so hard to understand. Was he already regretting their bargain, or had she said or done something to annoy him so strongly that he had responded in the most brutal way possible? Unconsciously she gave a deep sigh and pushed her half
eaten croissant to the far side of her plate. Shortly afterward she excused herself and went to her room to tidy her dressing table.

She was listlessly buffing her nails when Justin tapped at the door and came in.

“I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly. “What I said last night was quite inexcusable. Do you think you could forget it?”

It did not occur to her to pay him out by sulking. She was so relieved at the breaking of the chill silence between them that she said at once, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I annoyed you. It was all my fault.”

He watched her, his face still somber.

“What a strange young thing you are,” he said. “So determined to get what you want out of life and yet so easy to hurt. Poor child, I may have done you a great disservice in giving you your material objectives.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure that I know that myself,” he said with a short laugh. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly ten, though I daresay Leonie will be late. Punctuality is not one of her virtues. I’m meeting Jacques later.”

“Yes, I’ve only to put my hat on. Justin
... I wish you’d tell me when I irritate you.”

“
Why on earth do you say that
?”

“If we’re to get on we’ll have to be honest with each other. I do want to be
a ...
useful wife to you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “A very dutiful sentiment.”

“Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”

“I’m sorry.” His black eyes glinted. “The next time you jar my sensitive nerves I’ll send you a memo.”

Then, more seriously, he said, “If I’m boorish at times you must put it down to living alone for rather longer than most men. Otherwise I think we will both be well advised to take life as it comes without checking our progress too often. That won’t always be easy, but it’s the best method.”

As it happened Leonie arrived promptly at ten, looking very attractive in a gray hopsack suit with a turquoise blouse and turban, so Andrea had to hurry.

“We will see you again about six o’clock,” Leonie told Justin as they prepared to leave.

He accompanied them out to her Renault and, bending down to the window on the passenger side, said, “Take care of her, Leonie. Goodbye, little one. Have a good time.”

Then, lifting her hand from the rim of the door, he turned it over and dropped a light kiss on the palm
.
As they drove off leaving him standing on the hotel steps, Leonie said, “You are fortunate,
c
he
rie.
Englishmen have very strong characters and they are kind to children and dogs,
but, in my experience, they are not at all good lovers. Of course it is preferable to have a husband who is kind and considerate to one who is an expert at love but not kind. But the best of all is a kind man who is also a charming lover. I think
J
ustin is like that. The Spanish blood makes him more romantic than other Englishmen.”

Andrea made a noncommittal sound and was thankful that the heavy traffic made
it impossible to pursue the conversation.

She looked back on the first shopping expedition as one of the most pleasurable experiences of her whole life. Her love of beautiful clothes was not, like that of many women, based on vanity. She had a connoisseur’s appreciation of exquisite fabrics, elegant lines and perfect workmanship.

“Is there a better way to spend money than to make yourself beautiful for your husband?” Leonie demanded when Andrea looked guiltily at the pile of packages accumulating in the back of the Renault. “Justin is very rich. A few thousand francs will not ruin him,
petite.
Ah, if I had your figure I would be the most glamorous woman in Paris.”

She patted her own trim but well-rounded hips and gave a mock sigh of despair. “You are indeed very fortunate.
Your husband is handsome, gallant and wealthy. It is the perfect combination.”

Andrea flushed, wondering how Leonie would react if I she knew the truth.
They returned to the hotel laden with parcels, and by the
time the men arrived the sitting room was strewn with discarded wrapping paper and drifts of pink and blue tissue. At the sight of the confusion Jacques gave an exaggerated groan and warned Justin that he was undoubtedly bankrupt.

Justin studied the swirl of pale green chiffon and lilies of the valley that Andrea had been trying on when they came in.

“Very pretty,” he said. “I can see you enjoyed yourself.” He indicated the disorder of parcels, but this time there was no cutting edge to his tone.

When the Bechets had left Andrea set about clearing up her shopping and Justin had a bath. She was still busy when he brought her an aperitif and stayed to talk.

“How did you get on with Leonie?” he asked.

“Very well, she’s such a friendly person. Actually we were rushing about too fast to talk much. Have they any children? She didn’t mention any.”

“Not now. They had one boy, Charles, but he died two years ago in a polio epidemic and Leonie can’t have any more. Naturally it was a great blow to them, particularly as the child had always been very robust and lively.”

“Oh, how dreadfully sad!” Andrea exclaimed compassionately. “What a good thing I didn’t ask her if she had any.”

“She wouldn’t have minded. Oddly enough, neither of them is embittered. In fact Jacques was telling me today that they are considering adopting a boy. They feel that all the things they would have given their own son shouldn’t be wasted.”

Andrea put the last parcel away and sat down to relax with her drink.

“Do you think there always has to be some flaw in people’s lives?” she asked thoughtfully. “I mean that one can never have everything one wants.”

“It depends what you mean by everything. Most people I have one basic objective—money, power, fame or perhaps love. They want other things as well, but to a lesser degree. Some reach the basic goal, some don’t. Quite a few get what they want and find it isn’t as good as it looked from a distance, or they spend their lives chasing a rainbow without noticing the pot of gold under their noses. It is said that contentment doesn’t come from having all you want, but from making the best of what you have.”

She would have liked to ask him what his own basic objective was, but something held her back.

The days passed
with surprising swiftness, and all the time Andrea was discovering unsuspected facets of his character. On their last night in Paris they dined at Maxim’s before going to the opera and then to a nightclub in Montmartre. Unlike the noisy overcrowded “bals” and students’ clubs in St. Germain des Pres, it was a quiet place with tables secluded by high wooden partitions and lighted by candles.
A
s they arrived a girl was leaning against the piano singing a melancholy blues number in a husky contralto, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, her hips undulating in time to the languorous rhythm.

A
fter a light supper they danced. Perhaps it was only as a concession to the intimate atmosphere of the club that Justin held Andrea closer than usual, but she was very conscious of their nearness and the strength of his arm about her.
It was after three o’clock when they left and the streets were deserted.

“Are you tired or do you feel like a stroll?” he said.

“I’m not a bit tired.”

It was true. She felt the renewed vitality that comes in the early hours of the morning, and after the close atmosphere of the club, the night air was cool and refreshing.

Justin tucked her hand through his arm and they walked at a leisurely pace, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

“Will you be glad to get home?” he asked, looking down at her in the dimness.

“In some ways. I’m looking forward to showing Jill the things I’ve bought and telling her about the opera and our
o
nion soup breakfast at Les Hailes the other morning and all the other places we’ve seen.”

“So
you
have
enjoyed
it?”

“You know I have. It’s been wonderful—like something out of a dream.”

“And now we have to come back to reality,” he said in an odd tone.

He must have felt her stiffen slightly, for he said, “Are you still afraid of me?”

She swallowed. “I’ve never been afraid of you. Why should I?”

“Not consciously, perhaps.” There was a pause before he said, “ ‘Afraid’ may be the wrong word. ‘On guard’ is better. I told you once that we are two of a kind. You’re still not sure of that, are you?”

“I don’t know what you—”

What happened next had a
nightmare quality. They were passing a narrow alley when a dark figure suddenly emerged from the shadows and growled something in rapid French. Justin’s arm tensed and he replied in a voice that she had never heard him use before.

The man accosting them snarled a retort and made a threatening movement that was abruptly arrested as Justin’s fist shot out and caught him in the stomach with a force that sent him reeling backward. A moment later the man regained his balance and lurched forward with a snarl of rage, something glinting in his upraised hand.

With a swift movement Justin pushed Andrea behind him and parried the blow. Then the two men were locked together in a violent struggle.

Andrea watched their grappling figures in petrified horror. The tough was shorter than Justin but more heavily built, and for a few ghastly seconds it seemed certain that he must win. But it was over as quickly, as it had begun. There was a howl of pain, a metallic clatter as something hit the curb and the thug crashed backward against the wall and slumped into an inert heap.

“Justin! Are you all right?” Andrea darted forward and clutched his sleeve.

He was breathing hard and swaying slightly, but to her amazement she saw that he was grinning.

“Sorry about that. We ought to have taken a taxi,” he said huskily, raking back his tousled hair.