‘So you’re not afraid of Mrs Henshaw,’ she addressed the vision. ‘Let’s see if Cassie can scare you.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘Perhaps she ought to. She’s beginning to scare me.’
At the beauty salon she described how she wanted to look, aware of the stares of the assistants, incredulous that this plain Jane could indulge such fantasies. But they smiled and got to work, and when they’d finished her curled hair was tumbling over her shoulders, partly—but only partly—hiding her daring décolletage.
Back in her room she inspected the satin trousers, wondering if she was being wise. She had a dress that would do. It was adequate rather than outstanding, but that might just be better than outrageous.
She tried on the dress, then removed it and donned the trousers, fighting temptation as she studied her magnificent appearance in the mirror.
‘Oh, heck!’ she sighed at last. ‘I can’t do it, can I? But one day I will do it. I must. I can’t settle for being “adequate” for ever, but just for tonight maybe I should.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘I’m coming,’ she called without opening it. ‘Just give me a moment.’
‘No, now,’ came Marcel’s voice. ‘I need to talk to you at once.’
She opened the door, pulling it back against her and retreating so that she was mostly concealed behind it. Even so, he could see the cascade of her glorious hair and it stopped him short.
She could have screamed with frustration. The stunned look on his face was the one she’d longed to see, but what maddening fate had made it happen just at this moment?
‘Mrs … I don’t … I wasn’t expecting …’ He was stammering, which would have filled her with delight at any other time.
‘You said I should look less severe,’ she told him loftily. ‘Is this sufficiently “un-severe” for you?’
‘I … that wasn’t … yes … I suppose …’
The last time she’d seen him lost for words was nine years ago when her landlady had walked in when they were lying naked on the floor.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said now, still taking care to conceal as much of herself as possible. ‘Is the Lenoir family here yet?’
‘Part of it. Madame Lenoir won’t be coming, but there’s—’ ‘Marcel, ou êtes vous?’ Brigitte’s voice came floating down the corridor.
‘I’m here, chérie.’
She was speaking French in a low voice, clearly meaning not to be overheard. Even so, Cassie managed to make out enough to learn that the mysterious Henri was reluctant to attend the dinner, not wanting to be saddled with ‘the English woman nobody else wanted’. He’d agreed only on condition that he could leave early. Marcel gave a sharp intake of breath, but could say no more because of sounds from further along the corridor. Two men were approaching, hailing them, receiving Marcel’s greeting in return. Then they were in the room, full of polite bonhomie.
‘We can’t wait to meet the brilliant lady you’ve brought with you,’ Monsieur Lenoir declared. ‘Isn’t that so, Henri?’
‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day,’ came a courteous if unconvincing voice. ‘Where is she?’
‘Here,’ Cassie said, stepping out from behind the door.
With the first glance Cassie understood everything she’d heard about Henri. Good looking in a ‘pretty boy’ style, he had a self-indulgent manner and dark hair worn slightly too long for his age, which she guessed at about forty. Definitely a ‘naughty man’, fighting the years.
His behaviour confirmed it. He was wide-eyed at the vision that confronted him.
‘Madame,’ he murmured, ‘I am more glad to meet you than I can say.’ He advanced with his hands out. ‘What an evening we are going to have!’
He would have thrown his arms around Cassie, but she stopped him by placing her hands in his. Nothing daunted, he kissed the back of each hand. Then he jerked her forward and in this way managed to embrace her. Turning her head against his shoulder, she had a searing vision of Marcel’s face as he gained his first complete sight of her.
What she saw would stay with her for ever. For one blinding second he looked like a man struck over the heart—astonished, bewildered, aghast, shattered. But in the next instant it was all gone, and only a stone mask remained.
No matter. She’d seen all that she needed to see. He’d expected to find Mrs Henshaw, but Cassie’s ghost had walked and nothing would ever be the same.
Now she was glad there hadn’t been time to change into something more respectable. There was a time for restraint and a time for defiance. Mrs Henshaw would have been left floundering, but Cassie was the expert.
Monsieur Lenoir cleared his throat and came forward, sounding embarrassed. ‘Madame Henshaw, allow me to introduce my son.’
‘Well, I think he’s already introduced himself,’ Cassie said with a little giggle.
‘But you haven’t introduced yourself,’ Henri said.
Brigitte intervened. ‘Mrs Henshaw is masterminding Marcel’s purchase of the London hotel.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Cassie said hastily. ‘I’m not exactly masterminding it.’
‘But Marcel says that you are a great brain,’ Brigitte reminded her.
‘I’m no such thing,’ she defended herself.
Henri gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. Brainy women terrify me.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to fear from me,’ she cooed, giving him her best teasing smile.
‘But you must be brainy or Marcel wouldn’t have employed you,’ Brigitte pointed out.
‘That’s true,’ Cassie said as if suddenly realising. ‘I must be brighter than I thought.’
Her eyes met Marcel’s, seeing in them floundering confusion wrestling ineffectively with anger. She was beginning to enjoy herself.
‘It’s time were going,’ Monsieur Lenoir declared, edging his son firmly out of the way and offering Cassie his arm. ‘Madame Henshaw, may I have the pleasure of escorting you?’
‘The pleasure is mine,’ she replied.
But then Henri too stepped forward, offering his other arm so that she walked out of the door with a man on each side, leaving Marcel to follow with Brigitte.
They made a glamorous spectacle as they went along the corridor, the men in dinner jackets and bow ties, Brigitte in flowing evening gown, and Cassie in her luxurious black satin that left nothing to the imagination.
Perhaps that was why Marcel never so much as glanced at her as they went down in the elevator.
But as they stepped out and headed for the restaurant he raised his voice. ‘Mrs Henshaw, there’s a small matter of business we need to clear up before the evening starts. The rest of you go on and we’ll join you.’
His hand on her arm was urgent, holding her back and drawing her around a corner, where there was nobody to see them.
‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ he muttered furiously.
‘Being civil to the people who are important to you.’ ‘You know what I mean—the way you’re dressed—’ ‘But you told me to.’
‘I—?’
‘Be less severe, you said. And only today you brushed my hair forward so that—’