Alex Marcos was just about to get into the car. As she watched, he turned and looked up at the window, lifting a hand in mocking acknowledgment of her presence. Furious with herself, Harriet let the curtain fall hurriedly into place, and moved away, wishing that she’d been strong-minded enough to ignore his departure—and wondering why she had failed….
Friday was a miserable day. Harriet had phoned the personnel officer at work first thing and received a sympathetic response when she gave family troubles as the reason for her hasty departure the previous day, and for her continued absence. Then she phoned Manda and told her what had happened, or at least an edited version.
She still found it hard to believe that she had behaved as she did. She had let a man who was almost a stranger, and certainly her enemy, kiss her and arouse feelings within her which had kept her awake and restless most of the night. The warm, airless atmosphere of the room hadn’t helped either, and more than once Harriet had found herself wishing wryly for the cliché comfort of a cold shower. But it was only people with money and private bathrooms who could afford such luxuries, she thought regretfully. The bathroom she shared had nothing so sophisticated as a shower in any temperature, and the old-fashioned plumbing made such an infernal din that except in cases of emergency the residents tried to use it as little as possible at night.
Manda heard her explanation of why Nicky would not be spending the day with her without much comment. When Harriet had finished she merely asked, ‘And what’s he like—Alex Marcos?’
Even in her own ears, Harriet’s laugh sounded artificial and she hoped fervently that Manda would assume it was some distortion on the line. ‘Oh—just as you’d imagine, I suppose. The answer to the maiden’s prayer.’
‘Depending, of course,’ Manda said gravely, ‘on what the maiden happened to be praying for. See you, love. Take care now.’
As she replaced the receiver, Harriet pondered on the real note of warning in Manda’s voice, and reflected rather despondently that it was no use trying to fool her, even at a distance.
She tidied and cleaned the flat again almost compulsively, then tucked Nicky into the buggy and took him to the nearby shops which he loved. The sun was shining, and the Italian greengrocer gave him an orange, and Harriet, in a moment of weakness, bought him some sweets. While she was in the newsagents’ she treated herself to a daily paper, and some magazines, because she had a whole weekend to fill for once.
Of course she didn’t have to stay in the flat, she told herself robustly. She had always promised herself that one day she would do the whole tourist bit—go to the British Museum, or the Zoo, or take a boat down to Greenwich—but she had always put the idea to the back of her mind, telling herself it could wait till Nicky was older and could enjoy it with her. Well, there seemed little point in delaying any longer, she thought, with a kind of unhappy resolution.
She cooked Nicky’s favourite food for lunch—fish fingers, baked beans and oven chips. Manda, who believed in wholefoods and a balanced diet, would have frowned a little, but Nicky was jubilant and ate every scrap, including the ice cream which followed.
Harriet tried to explain to him that he was going to have a little holiday with his uncle, but wasn’t sure how much she’d got through to him, because he seemed far more interested in his toy cars than in the fact that she was packing his night things and the best of his clothes in a small case.
He’s only a baby, she thought as she watched him play, quite oblivious to her own mental and emotional turmoil. He’s too little to be taken from all the security he knows, and be made to speak Greek, and all the other things he’ll have to learn.
Yet on the other hand there was the very real danger that out of love and inexperience she might keep him a baby too long, might try too hard to protect him from the world which he was as much a part of as she was herself. A man’s influence in his life was probably essential, Harriet thought—but what would be the effect of someone like Alex Marcos, wealthy, cynical and amoral, on the mind of an impressionable child?
It was inevitable that when she sat down with the newspaper and a cup of coffee while Nicky played on the carpet at her feet, Alex’s picture should be the first to leap out at her. And, again, inevitably, it was the gossip column, and he wasn’t alone. He was sitting at a table in a restaurant or a night club—Harriet didn’t recognise the name anyway—and the girl beside him, smiling radiantly at the camera had her arm through his and her head on his shoulder.
Her red head on his shoulder, Harriet discovered as she read through the piece that accompanied the photograph. Alex, it said, was in London on business and lovely model Vicky Hanlon was just the girl to help him unwind from his busy schedule.
After an unctuous dwelling on Vicky Hanlon’s physical attributes which would have had even the mildest Women’s Libber spitting carpet tacks and reaching for the telephone, the columnist quoted her as saying, ‘Poor Alex leads such a hectic life. I just want to help him relax as much as possible.’
‘Yuck!’ said Harriet violently, dropping the paper as if it had bitten her. She marched down the passage to the bathroom and washed her face and cleaned her teeth thoroughly which, while a relatively futile gesture, nevertheless made her feel better.
She was increasingly on edge as three o’clock approached. Nicky had grown tired of his toys and demanded a story, and she was just following The Little Gingerbread Man with the Three Billy Goats Gruff when she heard the sound of a car door slam in the street below.
Her voice hesitated and died away right in the middle of the troll’s threat, and her whole body tensed. Nicky bounced plaintively and said, ‘Troll.’
She hugged him fiercely. ‘Another time, darling. Your—your uncle’s come to fetch you, and you’re going to have a wonderful time.’
She remembered what Alex had said the previous day about her sheltering arms and was careful to let Nicky walk beside her to the door as the buzzer sounded imperatively.
Her palms were damp, and her mouth was dry. She had brushed her hair until it shone, and the dress she was wearing, although simple and sleeveless, was the most becoming in her wardrobe, its cool blues and greens accentuating her fairness, and the very fact that she had chosen to wear it was evidence enough that she was on the verge of making a complete and utter fool of herself.
She made herself reach out and release the Yale knob and turn the handle.
There was a man outside, stockily built and swarthy in a chauffeur’s uniform, his cap under one arm, and accompanied by a middle-aged woman with greying black hair who looked nervous.
It was the woman who spoke. ‘Thespinis Masters—I am Yannina. I have come from Kyrios Marcos to fetch his nephew, the little Nicos.’ Her anxious expression splintered into a broad smile as she spied Nicky, who had relapsed into instant shyness at the sight of strangers and who was peering at them from behind Harriet’s skirt.
She crouched down, holding out her arms and murmuring encouragingly in Greek, and slowly Nicky edged towards her.
Harriet picked up his case and handed it to the chauffeur, who nodded respectfully to her.
‘Kyrios Marcos wishes to assure you that the boy will be returned to you on Sunday evening, not later than six o’clock,’ he said in careful heavily accented English.
‘Thank you.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘I—I thought he would be coming to fetch Nicky himself.’
The chauffeur looked surprised. ‘He is waiting below in the car, thespinis. If you have a message for him, I would be glad to convey it.’
Not, Harriet thought, the sort of message I have in mind. She forced a smile and shook her head, and stepped backward as Yannina took Nicky’s hand and began to lead him away. He looked back once and grinned and waved, and Harriet felt a lump rise in her throat as she shut the door between them.
This time, wild horses weren’t going to drag her to the window to watch them go.
So