‘I think I’ll start with the seafood platter, and then perhaps chicken in white wine.’
Mel gave her order to the hovering waiter, adding his own. He was a very traditional male, India reflected; not a male chauvinist, but a man who genuinely believed that women were the frailer sex and needed protecting. He reminded her in many ways of her father; she felt comfortable and safe with him, or at least she had done until recently.
He waited until their food arrived and the wine had been poured before mentioning the reason for his invitation, for once his normal businesslike self-control deserting him.
‘India, you know how I feel about you,’ he blurted out without preamble. ‘Oh, I know you refuse to take me seriously, but you aren’t either a fool or insensitive, I know that. I also know how you feel about my marriage, and it’s to your credit, although there have been times when I’ve wished that you were less… old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned?’ India queried lightly.
‘Moral,’ Mel submitted, ‘even though in my heart of hearts I wouldn’t have you any other way. I only wish I’d met you ten years ago, before I married Alison. Even if you were willing to have an affair with me, I don’t think I could. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to destroy that shining look of self-respect you always seem to have about you. India… If I divorced Alison would you marry me?’
She had known it was coming, but nevertheless it was a shock. Her face went white, her hand trembling as she reached for her glass. Her fingers reached for the stem, her emotion making her clumsy, and as the glass overturned she stared helplessly at the wine flowing across the table and on to the floor.
Unfortunately she had barely touched it, and while a waiter discreetly mopped up, Mel tried to reassure her that it didn’t matter.
‘It happens all the time—and you didn’t even break the glass,’ he joked. ‘Even if you had it isn’t the end of the world!’
India herself didn’t really know why she should be so distraught, unless it was because she was so rarely clumsy. Fortunately the wine had not gone on her dress, but her fingers were a little sticky, and it was as she bent down to open her handbag and find her handkerchief that she became aware of being watched. She raised her head slowly, disbelief mirrored in her eyes as she glanced across the restaurant and encountered the hard, inimical grey eyes of Simon Herries. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably, her mouth dry with a tension which owed nothing to the contretemps with the wine glass.
Melisande was with him, but as yet the actress seemed to be unaware of India’s presence, and it was as though the two of them, India and Simon Herries, were locked in some primaeval conflict, which excluded the other diners as though they simply did not exist.
‘India…’
‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ she muttered.
‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I wish he was. Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised, seeing Mel’s worried frown. ‘It’s just Melisande’s latest man. She brought him to the salon this afternoon, and for some reason he rubbed me up the wrong way, I don’t know why.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Simon Herries—you must have heard of him. He’s always appearing in the gossip columns… Are you all right?’ she asked, noticing the sudden jerky movement he made, his face oddly pale. ‘Mel…’
‘I’m fine… It’s nothing, India,’ he began with a kind of desperation, ‘Would you… would you marry me if I divorced Alison?’
She reached across the table, touching his hand with hers, her expression compassionate.
‘I admire you, Mel; I value your friendship, and there’s no one I would rather turn to in a crisis, but…’
‘But you don’t love me,’ he supplied heavily. ‘Well, I guess I knew what the answer was going to be, but a man can’t help hoping.’
‘I wish I could love you,’ India surprised herself by saying. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of love—the kind of love which burns so fiercely that nothing else matters.’
There was understanding and pain in Mel’s eyes as he looked at her.
‘You are, my darling,’ he told her huskily. ‘It’s just that as yet you haven’t met the right man, but never doubt yourself in that way, and never demean yourself by giving yourself to someone without it.’
It was an oblique reference to the fact that she had never had a lover, and India was a little surprised by his astuteness. It was not a subject she had ever discussed with him—or indeed anyone, and she could only hope that no one else found her equally transparent. Knowing in what light the majority of her acquaintances would view a twenty-five-year-old virgin, she took immense pains at least outwardly to preserve a modern, almost cool attitude towards sex.
Darling, you never told me you were dining here tonight.’ Melisande’s sharp eyes appraised Mel. ‘You’re looking tired, Mel,’ she told him, adding to India, ‘What have you been doing to him, darling?’
Simon Herries was at her side. It was apparent that they had finished their meal and were on the point of departure. Mel looked even paler than he had done before. He had stood up when Melisande approached the table, and although he was a tall man, Simon Herries topped him by several inches. Even she had to tilt her head to look up at him, India acknowledged; something that was quite rare when she wore, as she was doing tonight, in defiance of smaller girl friends’ advice, high-heeled shoes.
‘We’re going on to Tokyo Joe’s,’ Melisande told them, mentioning one of the newer clubs. ‘Why don’t you come with us? I’ve read this divine new play; the lead part could have been written for me… but it costs a fortune to put on a production nowadays…’
She was looking at Mel as she spoke, but he didn’t respond, and the actress pouted a little.
‘Persuade them to come with us, darling,’ she demanded of Simon Herries. ‘It will be fun.’
‘I suspect the sort of “fun” Melford and Miss Lawson have in mind requires only two participants,’ he drawled in response, ‘despite the almost puritanical appearance of Miss Lawson.’
‘Darling!’ Melisande protested in half shocked, half fascinated breathy tones, her eyes rounding with surprise. Mel was already on his feet, and India saw the way his fingers bunched into his palm, the giveaway muscle beating sporadically in his clenched jaw.
She reached towards him instinctively, her voice low as she begged him to let matters alone.
‘Such modesty; such quiet, well-bred manners!’ Simon Herries mocked savagely. ‘No one looking at you would guess that what you’re really doing is stealing someone else’s husband, or is it simply that you’ve discovered that it turns some men—especially older men—on to project that quakerish, “touch-me not” image?’
He turned on his heel before India could respond, his hand under Melisande’s elbow as he escorted her out of the restaurant. None of the other diners seemed to have noticed the small piece of byplay. India looked at Mel. He was as white as a ghost, the skin stretched ageingly over his bones, his eyes pained and defeated.
‘He had no right to speak to you like that,’ he said thickly. ‘No right at all. God, I could have killed him!’
‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter,’ India lied lightly.
‘I hadn’t realised what I was doing to you, what interpretation others would put upon our friendship.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And all for nothing! India, there’s something I have to tell you. Oh, if I thought there was the slightest chance that you might marry me… Alison, my wife, is pregnant…’ He grimaced when he saw India’s expression. ‘Yes, I know, but then, my darling, men are like that. Despite what I feel for you