‘Thanks, Bishop. But it’s not the mosquitoes I’m worried about.’
Miss Bishop laughed. ‘You mustn’t worry about Lukas, George. He is so charming. Not a bit the way they write about him in the papers.’
‘Really?’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was his “charm” they concentrated on.’
Miss Bishop bridled. ‘You know that you can’t believe what you read in the papers.’ She saw George’s expression and had the grace to blush. ‘Well, not everything. When Lukas telexed this morning for a replacement for Michael, I said to Sir Charles that it was just the thing …’ Her voice trailed off as she realised that she had given herself away.
‘You suggested this? Oh, Bishop, I thought you were my friend.’ She took the bottle of tablets. ‘Why does he need a replacement?’
‘He didn’t go into details, it was just a short telex. But the poor young man who went out with him is in the hospital. Now I’ve bought you some sun-block creams and insect repellents. I didn’t think you’d have much time. Is there anything else I can get you?’
George smiled. ‘A new camera. Those beasts smashed mine yesterday.’
Her father’s secretary looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed … your father was most insistent …’
‘It’s covered by insurance. You can handle the claim for me, can’t you? Dear Bishop? Please? I can’t go to Africa without a camera.’
Miss Bishop relented. ‘No, I suppose not. And if it’s insured I’m not giving you cash, am I?’ Having talked herself into helping, she handed George a notepad. ‘Write down what you want. Henry can get it for you and he’ll bring it when he picks you up to take you to the airport tonight.’
‘Bless you. I shall need some film, too.’ She startled the older woman with a hug. ‘Here you are.’ She quickly scribbled down the make and model. ‘And some of these notebooks and pencils?’
Miss Bishop sighed. ‘I’ll send them with Henry. He’s waiting to take you home now.’
‘You’re a brick!’
Once home—the little house in the back streets near Paddington Station she had bought a few months earlier—George let the bright mask slip. The place was a tip. The kitchen was full of her recent cell mates. They had eaten, and the debris littered every surface. George squeezed over to the fridge and as she expected there was nothing. Just an empty milk bottle. She wondered, not for the first time, if any of them had ever washed a plate in their lives, or gave a thought to where the food they ate came from. She sighed. If she had to squat in a condemned house, or live in a cardboard box, she probably wouldn’t put washing-up very high on her list of activities either.
‘Could someone get a pint of milk, please?’ she asked as calmly as she could. She was ignored until she offered a note, then someone slid from a chair, pocketed the proffered cash and disappeared. She hoped he would come back with some milk. Change would be too much to expect.
She was so tired. They had spent the night singing protest songs, high on the adrenalin of arrest. But there was no time to sleep now. She would have to do that on the plane.
George unlocked her bedroom door. She wasn’t quite as gullible as her father seemed to believe, she thought grimly. Her room was her refuge, inviolate, pristine, untouched by whatever disorder took over the rest of the house.
She stared for a moment in horror as she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. It was fierce and reviving and afterwards she wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped into a wrap and went to examine her wardrobe, wondering just what would be appropriate for two weeks working in East Africa.
Her hand fell on the skirt she had worn to the beauty contest demonstration. A group of them had got in with tickets, pretending to be genuine spectators, and they wanted to look as if they belonged. They had decided on the role of models, hoping to attract attention. George had made the effort to look as stunning as possible, had secretly enjoyed it. She had worn a short black suede skirt and matching knee-high boots and she’d bought a cream silk shirt especially for the occasion. Then, because she was a perfectionist, even in the art of protesting, she had paid an unaccustomed visit to a hair salon, leaving after what seemed like hours, with her long hair a sleek gold curve over her shoulder. The final touch had been a professional make-up session. ‘I want to look sexy,’ she had told the girl tentatively, and she had been slightly shocked by the woman who had looked back from her mirror. Her violet eyes had looked sultry and twice their normal size, and her full mouth wider than she remembered.
Quite heady with the attention she had attracted when she arrived at the Albert Hall, she had played the vamp for all she was worth. And then Lukas had taken his seat among the judges and glanced around at the crowd. She had been in the front, her bag of flour concealed in the black suede fringed bag she had carried with her.
His eyes had fastened upon her with open appreciation as he took in every detail of her appearance in a slow and deliberate appraisal that made her blush to the roots of her beautifully coiffured hair. It was that look, the speculative lift of an eyebrow, that had made him her special target for the night. If he hadn’t been so attractive she could have coped. But she found her eyes continually drawn to the magnificent black-clad shoulders, fascinated by the way his hair curled into his neck. Hoping and yet dreading that he would look at her again. And he had looked.
They had had to sit through the early rounds. As the girls had paraded in their national costumes and evening dresses Lukas had given her rather more attention than the contestants. She would have thought he was trying to pick her up if he had so much as smiled, but he hadn’t. He had just stared. Well, she had shown him. That long moment when they were waiting for the result, when the television cameras had nothing special to look at, that was when they had struck with their bags of flour and soot.
But Lukas hadn’t been a passive victim. He had grabbed a handful of her blouse and hung on despite her struggles until the buttons had given way. Instead of leaving it behind, and beating a retreat in her bra, she had tried to wrest it from him. Her efforts to cover herself had given him a second chance, and he had not wasted it. With one swift movement he had his arm around her waist, turned her over his knee and lifted that skirt. She shuddered at the recollection of his hand slapping her backside with considerable enthusiasm. Then, in the general pandemonium as the others had been arrested, Lukas had dodged the law and carried her backstage under his arm.
His black hair had been full of the flour she had dumped on him and as he shook his head a cloud of it rose around him and then descended over them both, coating his beautifully cut dinner-jacket. Her satisfaction had been short-lived.
‘Are you going to scram, or do you want some more?’ he demanded, as he finally handed her the treacherous blouse.
Scarlet, she struggled into it, clutching it around her. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me to be arrested with my friends?’
His eyes were like slate. ‘Because, Miss Feminist, I prefer not to be the butt of the tabloids. I didn’t duck out here to save you. If it was personal publicity you wanted, you should have thrown your flour at someone else. I’m going to clean up. That’s the way out.’ He pointed down the corridor. Trembling with rage and frustration, she raised her hand to slap him.
‘Mr Lukas, sir, is that one of the trouble-makers?’ A security guard had appeared behind her and she whirled round, but Lukas anticipated her intention of giving herself up and was too quick for her. His arm slipped around her waist and before she could protest he had pulled her close, holding her effortlessly.
‘No. A friend, she’s just leaving. Perhaps you would escort her safely to the rear exit? Just in case there are any more hooligans about.’ She struggled angrily