Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink Read online

  "Not with Barnaby. You should have seen her this morning when she was planning his present."

  "What present?"

  "For his birthday. It's next week."

  "What's she buying him?" Nicola asked with heavy casualness.

  "A gallon of paint and ten yards of orange material." Seeing Nicola's disbelief, he explained that several of them were going to refurbish Barnaby's sitting room. "Joanna's supplying the cash and we're doing the strong arm stuff. Gillian's making the curtains and Carole's doing the covering for his settee and armchair. The rest of us are painting."

  Nicola was furious that Joanna had hit upon such a good idea, and fleetingly thought of all she could do for him. Buy him a crocodile wallet to replace his shabby leather one, and a wafer-thin gold watch instead of the chunky one that covered his broad wrist. Savile Row suits, of course, and an Aston Martin. Even as the ideas welled inside her she knew he would accept nothing from her. What was it he had said during one of their group discussions? "There has to be equality between two people before a relationship can develop. If one person gives and the other one takes, the balance is destroyed."

  His remark had provoked considerable argument - his remarks generally did - and though he frequently made an assertion in order to cause a discussion, she was sure he had meant that particular statement.

  "No good asking you to help with the painting," Frank interrupted her thoughts. "You're no bigger than a brush yourself!"

  She rounded on him with a soapy hand and he swung her up into his arms and twirled her round until she squealed to be let down.

  Breathlessly she smoothed her hair away from her face, wondering what Marty would say if he saw her now. With a pang of fear she remembered she had promised to call him again if she didn't, he was more than likely to come down and see what was happening to her.

  How horrified he would be at his first sight of the hostel. It was a far cry from the warmth and opulence of Belgravia, yet she had been happier here than in her own home. Not only because of Barnaby, but because of the camaraderie she had developed with the young men and women staying here. Their unhappy past lives and uncertain future had made her realise how lucky her own life was, and she vowed that when she returned to it she would do something useful with the money that was increasingly amassing to her. No longer would it suffice to sign cheques giving away thousands of pounds to charities designated by Marty or her legal advisers. From now on she wanted to know what those charities did and how they were controlled. She might even set up her own trust.

  The thought grew in her mind like a well-fertilized seed, and burst into bloom even as it settled. How much Barnaby would be able to achieve with her money! He would no longer need to worry about the upkeep of one hostel when he could afford to have ten, twenty, a hundred even. There was no end to what they could achieve together!

  Elated at what the future held, she slipped on a cardigan and hurried out to telephone Marty. It was too dangerous to call from the office in case Barnaby overheard her again.

  Feeling like a prisoner who had just been released, she sped along the street. Most of the houses were large and shabby, but a few had been re-developed into elegant homes for the professional classes. What a curious mixture this part of London was, with rich people living hugger-mugger with poor. The only common denominator was the silver-grey ribbon of the Thames that wound its way majestically along one side of the Borough.

  Its nearness to the river was the nicest part of the hostel, for when she lay in her room at night she could enjoy the mournful hoot of a barge or the chug of a river police boat, its beam flashing across the black water.

  But this afternoon the river was asleep and the boats rocked gently at their moorings. The seats along the Embankment were deserted too, with only an occasional occupant huddled in a corner, coat collar turned up against the wind. It was a different story at night; then the benches were occupied by vagrants trying to catch a few hours' sleep before the policeman on the beat would waken them and set them on their way again. It was incredible to think that thousands of men and women slept rough each night, many of them doing so from choice rather than necessity.

  But these were not the people Barnaby wished to help. His concern was with the young who, because of their inability to cope with their emotional problems, had run away from them and now needed help in order to stop running.

  The thought made her stop running too, and she looked round for a telephone kiosk. A group of three stood like red guards ahead of her and she made for them.

  Moments later she put down the receiver in disappointment. Marty was out and the butler did not know when he would be back. She had left her name with the butler, but she knew Marty would not be satisfied until he had spoken to her himself, and somewhat dejectedly she began to retrace her steps.

  On her right she glimpsed the Kings Road and impulsively she walked towards it. It seemed an age since she had looked into a shop window and she enjoyed staring at pretty dresses and suits which, a few weeks ago, would not even have merited a glance from her. A bookshop caught her eye and she paused to look at the beautifully bound volumes. Several of them were open to show magnificent colour plates, and on an impulse she went in.

  Only as she saw the frigid expression on the face of the young man by the counter did she realise that he thought she had come inside to get out of the cold. With her pale, well- scrubbed face and tiny figure hidden beneath a shapeless mass of wool, she gave no indication of being a potential buyer.

  "Can I help you?" he enquired, conveying the impression that he knew it was a waste of his time to do so.

  "I'd like to see some art books." Her modulated voice merited a keen glance from him, but her shabbiness won, and with obvious disinclination he moved to one of the shelves.

  "Which artist are you interested in? We have an extensive stock."

  Nicola thought of the colourful paintings in Barnaby's bedroom and wished she knew more of his taste. One thing was certain - he liked colour and strong line.

  "Do you have a book on Gauguin?"

  "A folio of his best work has just been printed. A limited edition, I'm afraid, and very expensive."

  "I'd like to see it."

  Reluctantly he retired to the back of the shop and returned with a large, hand-tooled leather book. Some two dozen reproductions of Gauguin's most colourful paintings were magnificently reproduced, and she stared at his portrayal of Christ, the brilliant simplicity of the figure on the cross outlined so poignantly by a limpid sky.

  "Beautiful," she murmured. "How much is it?"

  "A hundred and fifty pounds."

  "I haven't any money with me, but I definitely want to buy it. Can you keep it for me?"

  "Not without a deposit."

  She racked her brains for a solution. Her only hope was to call Marty again. Giving the young man her warmest smile - which made him revise his earlier opinion that she was a plain little thing - she begged him to hold the folio till tomorrow, when she promised to send someone along with the money.

  "Very well, madame, I'll keep it till noon. But not any later."

  Flashing him another smile, she went out. It was already late afternoon and street lamps cast yellow pools of light on pavements damp with rain. The headlamps of cars sparkled in the drizzle and she hurried across the road. A loud hooter made her jump, and glancing at the saloon car from where it came, she saw a man gesticulating furiously.

  "Nicola," he called. "Don't you know me?"

  "Marty!" With a cry she wrenched open the door and slipped into the front seat beside him. "I never expected to see you here."

  "I was on my way to the hostel."

  "You weren't!"

  "I certainly was."

  The lights changed and he turned off the main street and parked in a side turning. Skewing round in his seat he looked at her, a man of sixty with the upright bearing of a soldier and the keen glance of an astute business man, both of which he had been in his time.

 
"Do you know it's more than two weeks since you called me?"

  "Actually it's only an hour. I telephoned just before, but you were out."

  "On my way to see you," he said testily. "I've been worried out of my wits." He peered at her. "You're very pale."

  "No make-up."

  "What's happened to your eyes?"

  "No mascara!"

  He barked a laugh. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

  "Nor did I," she confessed, and smiled at him.

  He softened visibly. "Actually you look remarkably well. Though your - er - clothes don't do much for you."

  "You've never noticed my clothes before," she said.

  "Dior doesn't need commenting on!" he said ironically, and patted her cheek. "Now that we're finally face to face, perhaps you'll tell me how long you intend going on with this masquerade?"

  "As long as it takes me to make Barnaby realise he loves me as much as I love him."

  The silence that met this remark could have been cut with a knife. "I would be obliged if you would explain yourself," said Mr. George Martin in his most Mr. Martin voice.

  "Don't be stuffy, Marty. You know exactly what I mean." Seeing the explosion about to erupt, she said quickly: "I'm in love with Barnaby Grayson."

  "And who is he? Some vagrant you've picked up?"

  "He's the doctor who started the hostel," she explained, and went on to tell him all she knew of Barnaby. When one was with him his background did not matter, yet she knew her godfather - not knowing him - would need something concrete on which to base his judgment. Carefully she recounted all she had ever gleaned about Barnaby Grayson's life; only son of a heart specialist who had died when Barnaby had been at medical school, and a politically conscious mother who devoted herself to social work and from whom he had obviously absorbed a great deal of his thinking.

  "Good yeoman stock," she concluded jauntily. "No coronets in the cupboard, but no skeletons either!"

  "He's an improvement on Jeffrey," George Martin said. "But not the man for you."

  "How can you say that when you don't know him?"

  "I know you."

  Tears filled her eyes and she dashed them away, surprised she should be so emotional that a few discouraging words from Marty could make her cry.

  "It seems I didn't come in search of you any too soon," he said crisply. "Be sensible, my dear. I'm sure Doctor Grayson is an admirable man, but his life is quite different from yours."

  "That's why I love him. He's made something of his life and he's helping other people to make something of theirs. What have I ever done for anyone?"

  "You give jobs to - thousands of people."

  "Rosten Foods," she said bitterly. "That'll go on whether I'm dead or alive!"

  "It will go on much longer if you produce an heir," George Martin said drily. "How do you think Doctor Grayson would fit into the Rosten background?"

  "I'm more concerned with how I'd fit into his! Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Marty? I've changed. I'm not the girl I was. I can't go back to my old life. It's empty and dull."

  "You used to keep telling me it was wonderful."

  "I was pretending."

  "And now you're not? How can you be sure, Nicola?"

  She sought for the right words, but failed to find them. "I am sure," she said at last. "I can't explain, but I am sure."

  Several seconds passed while George Martin looked at her.

  "It's the first time I've known you at a loss for words," he said finally. "Perhaps you've found your Mecca after all."

  He went to switch on the engine, but she put out her hand. "You can't drive me back to the hostel. They'd wonder who you were."

  "You don't intend keeping on with this masquerade?"

  "I've got to find the right time to tell Barnaby. He isn't going to like it when he finds out who I am. He thinks rich people are worthless."

  "Don't tell me he'll be annoyed because you're Nicola Rosten?"

  "He'll be furious to begin with," she replied. "But mainly because I tricked him. Once he sees the funny side of it, he won't mind about my money. Just think what I can do to help him!"

  "I'd leave him to think of that," Marty said drily.

  "He isn't a fortune-hunter."

  "He can't be, if he's fallen in love with you the way you are." Marty peered at her. "I assume he does reciprocate your feelings?"

  "He hasn't - he hasn't admitted it yet But that's because he thinks he's too old for me."

  "I'm sure you'll be able to make him change his mind!"

  "I'm sure too," she said confidently.

  "How much longer do you intend staying here?"

  "It's Barnaby's birthday next week. I'll tell him then." She gave a little gasp. "That reminds me, could you let me have some money?"

  She explained why she wanted it and Marty shook his head. "I doubt if they'll accept a cheque from you - not with you looking like a homeless stray. I'd better give it to the shop myself."

  Gratefully she directed him there, and tried to hide her amusement at the young man's discomfiture when he received George Martin's cheque.

  About to take the book with her, she changed her mind. It was too large to hide in her room and there was no other place to keep it. Besides, she did not want anyone asking where she had obtained the money to buy such an expensive gift. When she gave it to Barnaby she would tell him who she was, but for the moment she dared not risk taking it to the hostel.

  "Please keep it for a couple of days," she asked the assistant. "I'll call back for it."

  Outside the shop again it was raining heavily, and Marty caught her arm.

  "I'm not letting you walk back in weather like this. At least let me drive you to the bottom of the road."

  Reluctantly she agreed, her fear increasing as they neared the hostel, and her godfather had barely turned the car into the road before she made him stop.

  "When will I be seeing you?" he asked, drawing the car into the curb.

  "Some time next week."

  He frowned. "There are some papers I need you to sign."

  "Can't they wait?"

  "No. It's a contract from America and it must be returned at once. It's being flown over on Sunday."

  "Can you meet me with it on Monday when I collect the book? Then I won't have to leave the hostel twice."

  "You talk as if you're a prisoner."

  "It's a prison of my own making!" She held out her hands. "Look - from dishwashing!"

  It was a long while since she had her godfather so surprised. "You're more than in love with this Grayson," he said gruffly. 'You must be besotted with the fellow!"

  "I am." She hugged him and then scrambled from the car. "Goodbye, Marty, I'll be seeing you soon."

  As usual the door of the hostel was unlatched and she entered the hall and stood for a moment looking at its beige walls. Voices came from the sitting room and she knew Barnaby was coming near to the end of one of his discussions. Not wishing to see him until she had made herself tidy, she ran to her room and combed her hair, deciding not to put it back into its usual ponytail. She had already got Barnaby to admit he found her beautiful and if she could get him alone again this evening she might be able to encourage him further, might even make him admit he loved her. Humming softly under her breath, she went downstairs.

  The sitting room was already emptying, and several people were going down to the kitchen, but Nicola remained where she was, waiting for Barnaby.

  He came into the hall, but before she could reach him the front door opened and Joanna came in. The wind had whipped her cheeks, but the gleam in her eyes came from spite.

  "So you've come back to the hostel, Nicky. Or have you only returned to collect your things?"

  "Why should I collect my things?" Nicola asked.

  "Aren't you going back to your boy-friend - or should I say your elderly friend ? He can hardly be called a boy!"

  "What are you trying to say, Joanna?" Barnaby interrupted sharply.


  "Just that you're wasting your time with Nicky. She's playing you for a fool. She's just come from a rendezvous with Marty!"

  Barnaby looked directly at Nicola. "Is this true?"

  "I-I -"she began.

  "Of course it's true," Joanna interrupted. "I saw her getting out of his car and I heard what she said to him." The bright brown eyes brimmed with malicious pleasure. "'Goodbye, Marty, I'll be seeing you soon!'" Joanna swung back to Barnaby. "There's no need for you to ask if I'm telling the truth. Just look at your little Nicky's face and see for yourself!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  It seemed an eternity, though it was barely a few seconds while Barnaby came slowly to the centre of the hall to look directly into Nicola's face.

  "Is it true?" he repeated. "Are you going back to Marty?"

  "No. I met him by accident. I went out for a walk and - and —he found me."

  "It was hardly an accident on his part."

  "Maybe not," she said slowly. "He was probably driving round here hoping to - hoping to catch a glimpse of me."

  "I suppose he wants you back?"

  "He'd like me to leave the hostel," she admitted, "but not to - not to go back to him. He knows that's over."

  "Pull the other leg, Nicky," Joanna said rudely. "I saw the way you threw your arms around him before you left the car."

  Nicola lowered her eyes, wishing she could have the pleasure of wringing Joanna's slim white neck. What bad luck that it had been her - of all people - who had seen her leave Marty's car. She had been so careful to make sure the way was clear before she had opened the door to get out, but then Marty had stopped her to discuss the contract, and when she had finally left him she forgotten to re-check that no one was around.

  "It's obvious she planned the meeting," Joanna spoke directly to Barnaby. "It's ridiculous to let her go on staying here. She's just taking the place of someone who's in real need of help."

  "How do you know I don't need help?" Nicky blurted out, her fury with Joanna letting her imagination run away with her. "It isn't easy to cut somebody out of your life and never see them again. You're not dealing with characters in a book - you're dealing with people!"