THE next morning Emma slept late and she was awakened by the sound of raised voices in the hall downstairs. For several minutes she lay there listening, wondering if Mrs. Cook was having an altercation with the butcher, but then she realized it was Victor's voice.
Leaning over, she examined the clock on her bedside table, focusing on it with difficulty. It was after eleven-thirty, and she scrambled hastily out of bed, pulling on a soft brushed nylon housecoat over her nightdress, wondering apprehensively what Victor was doing here at this hour and what, if anything, Mrs. Cook had told him about the night before.
As she opened her bedroom door, she could hear Victor saying impatiently: ‘But what time will she be up? I can't hang about here all day. I have work to do.'
Emma went to the head of the stairs. ‘Victor!’ she exclaimed, beginning to descend slowly. ‘I didn't know you were coming this morning. I'm sorry I wasn't up when you arrived. I'm afraid I've overslept.'
Victor Harrison regarded her with disapproval, and Emma became self-consciously aware of her state of déshabille. Beside his sleek business suit she felt hopelessly out of place, and a feeling of embarrassment swept over her. But Victor always looked immaculate and as he was a tall, broad man, his clothes fitted him with elegance. Although he was in his late forties, and his hair was tinged with grey in places, he had a very distinguished appearance, and Emma had always admired him. His waistline was thickening now with so many business lunches to attend, but his height could stand it without it becoming too noticeable. When they went out together Emma always tried to emulate his elegant example.
But this morning the contrast between them was strongly marked, and Emma wished she had stopped and brushed her hair and put on some clothes before coming downstairs.
‘I came to see whether you'd like to have lunch with me,’ Victor said now, casting a dismissing glance in Mrs. Cook's direction. The housekeeper tactfully murmured something about coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, and sighing, Emma said: ‘Come into the lounge, Victor. We can't talk here.'
She led the way into a high-ceilinged room to the right of the hall where a warm fire burned in the grate. The flames reflected in the rosewood of the baby grand that stood in one corner, and cast shadows on the pale walls. Although the house was centrally heated, Emma's father insisted on keeping a fire in this room. It had been her mother's domain and Emma found the cheerful glow comforting as well as warming.
Victor followed her reluctantly, and she gave him an appealing smile. ‘I'm sorry, darling. I don't normally appear like this at lunchtime.'
‘I should hope not.’ Victor sighed, running a hand over his hair. ‘Did you get to Guildford last evening?'
Emma turned away so that he could not see her face, nodding. ‘Yes. Stafford was delighted to see me. I was glad I took the trouble.'
Victor accepted this without comment. It was obvious he did not connect the fact of her oversleeping with her visit to Guildford.
‘And how long will it take you – to – well – make yourself presentable?’ Victor was asking now, and she swung round frowning.
‘You'll wait?'
‘I shall have to, shan't I?’ Victor looked irritable.
‘Where are we lunching?'
‘The Dorchester.’ Victor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘Sir Malcolm wants to discuss the Messiter deal with me and this is his only opportunity. But as his daughter's in London at the moment, he suggested we make up a foursome for lunch.'
‘Oh, I see. A business lunch.’ Emma was less than enthusiastic. ‘Do I have to attend?'
Victor's square face became stiff. ‘You don't have to do anything, of course. I simply thought that as my fiancée you'd want to take an interest in my affairs.'
‘But, darling, your business affairs have nothing to do with me.'
‘On the contrary, they have everything to do with you. Once Messiter Textiles comes within the sphere of Harrison Interloop, we shall hold a tremendous influence—'
‘All right, all right,’ Emma interrupted him with a sigh. She had no intention of allowing Victor to go into a long monologue about the possibilities of cornering the textile market. ‘I'll come. Mrs. Cook is making some coffee, so you help yourself and I'll go and take a shower.'
‘Very well.’ Victor's face relaxed agreeably, and Emma waited for a few moments to see whether he would now relax sufficiently to kiss her, to show her in some way that he was glad to see her. But Victor merely smiled in a satisfied way and took up a position in front of the fire, obviously prepared to wait for her to go and get ready. With an impatient gesture Emma left the room and encountered Mrs. Cook in the hall, on her way to the lounge with a tray of coffee.
‘Well?’ said the housekeeper, looking knowingly at Emma's exasperated expression. ‘Are you lunching out?'
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ Emma brushed past her and ran up the stairs to her room, but once there she flung off her clothes irritably. Couldn't Victor sometimes let himself go and show a little emotion? Heavens, it wasn't as though he had never seen a woman in a dressing gown before; he had been married for almost fifteen years. Surely in that time he had grown used to seeing a woman about his home. He must have become accustomed to his wife, invalid though she had been; used to entering her bedroom, sleeping in her bed!
Emma went into her bathroom with ill-concealed dissatisfaction. Although she had known him for five years, although they had been engaged for almost six months, they had never got beyond the stage of gentle lovemaking he had first courted her with. And although it was rare that Emma ever felt that their relationship was not developing in the way that it should, today she felt inordinately dissatisfied with her lot. She wished her father would come back. Perhaps it was being alone so much that was unsettling her.
But then she heaved a sigh. Her father was enjoying himself in Canada with her older brother and his wife, and as he had now retired from medical practice, there was nothing to stop him from remaining there another three months. He knew Emma was well looked after by Mrs. Cook, and in any case he considered her a sensible girl.
During the following week, life settled back into its normal pattern. Emma worked part-time for a friend in a secretarial agency off Oxford Street, more for something to do than for the money involved, for although she had been offered a place at university seven years ago her mother had died at that time and she had known that as her brother was already married she could not leave home and her father alone. In consequence, she took a secretarial course at a London technical college and eventually joined Fenella Harding at the agency.
Fenella was older than Emma, a contemporary of Victor's, in fact, and it had been through Fenella that Emma had first met her fiancé. Even so, the idea that the big, powerful industrialist should take anything more than a fleeting interest in her had never occurred to her until he introduced himself to Dr. Seaton and slowly but surely eased himself into her life. Emma had always been rather shy and withdrawn, preferring the company of books to that of the opposite sex, and Victor's worldly manner had aroused a sense of admiration in her. That he was so much older than she was had been unimportant. She had never considered herself a particularly trendy sort of person. Her clothes were square, the other girls in the office said so, and since she had taken to wearing her hair in its pleat, she knew she looked years older.
But Victor approved, and after all, that was all that really mattered.
The afternoon