Sue For Mercy Part 3

"What is it?" He had drawn back the curtains and tidied the room. It was nearly ten o'clock of a dark Sunday morning.

"I must find somewhere else. I can't stay now." He put out a hand to touch my cheek. "Don't cry, Sue. You must see I can't stay now."

"I don't see why not."

"Because I want you - all the way."

"Is that all? Well, what do you think I brought you home for?"

He shouted with laughter, and I grinned up at him, almost sure of myself for once.

"No, but... darling Sue! You know I'm in the middle of something..."

"Just for one week, until you have to join your boss?"

"One week." His eyes were hungry. I started to fold back my pyjama tops, knowing that he did at least appreciate some part of me. "Sue, stop it!" His voice was as shaky as his hands as he tried to pull the material back over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You're trying to seduce me!"

"I think I'm succeeding," I said, giggling. In the struggle that followed he ended up lying on the bed with me.

"Let's be sensible," he begged. "Drink your coffee, and we'll talk about it."

"Afterwards," I said, pulling his sweater over his head. "Let's get our priorities in the right order."

So he stayed. He put on weight, and I lost it. He mended everything in the flat that was broken, overhauled the engine on my car and replaced the door handle. He would have redecorated the kitchen if I'd let him. He was autocratic, jealous, and demanding. Towards the end of the week he began to show flashes of hard-driving energy which left me standing.

We talked of our "need" for each other, but never of "love", even though I knew I was hard hit by Sunday night. We watched each other, probing to see what each was made of. We talked about ourselves - mostly about childhood and our families. We talked of books and films and cabbages and kings. We talked, and ate, and slept in each other's arms. He used the room he'd rented only to keep his clothes in, and I sponged him down in the bathroom morning and night because he couldn't have a bath until all his strapping had been removed.

I told him all about my father, who was an electrical contractor with his own small business, and about my mother, who baked her own bread. I even told him, by way of a joke against me, about my first love affair. His only comment about that was to ask me if I were on the pill now. I said I wasn't, and blushed. He looked thoughtful, but didn't start taking precautions, which made me thoughtful in turn.

He talked freely about his life until he'd qualified, but little about his present job. He talked a lot about his brothers. Fair-headed, steady, short-sighted Ronald was only a year older than Charles and had acted as a brake on his younger brother's wilder impulses. Mechanically-minded David, the eldest of the three Ashton boys, was a genius with his hands and lyrically content with his flaxen Inge and three tiny daughters. He talked of his father, a gentle-mannered, kindly man, devoted to his beautiful wife Mary. He had been a b.u.t.ter-fingered, easy-going father, who couldn't teach his sons to play cricket because he dropped the ball all the time, but who knew the names of all the wild flowers and birds in the county. Oliver Ashton had had an operation for cancer of the lung a couple of years ago, and been a part-timer at the office since then.

As for his mother, Mary Collett Ashton sounded the sort of woman you would not want for a mother-in-law; interfering, managing, spending a fortune on clothes, autocratic... I guessed the reason Charles didn't get on with her was because they were so much alike.

"So which of you," I asked, "worked in your father's office? Ronald or you?"

"Me? For Christ's sake! Can you imagine me stuck in that office with...? No, neither Dad nor Ronald would have stood for that. I'd have driven them mad, and I want more out of life than a career in a country..."

"So you're the brilliant son with the Double First and a job in London?"

"I worked for a Merchant Bank in London until just after the trial, yes."

"So why give that up to come back here and work for John Brenner?"

"I fancied a change."

He'd lied there. I charged him with lying, and he shrugged. Later, I asked him what he actually did at Whitestones. He smiled, employing charm. He said he licked stamps, took messages, and pasted cuttings in sc.r.a.pbooks. He drove his boss when the chauffeur was off duty, filed letters and made excuses if J.B. didn't want to do anything he'd promised to do.

I gave him an old-fashioned look. Charles was no office boy.

"Does this sound any better?" he asked. "I act as nursemaid. I see he takes exercise, but doesn't overdo it. I am in charge of the insulin bottles - he's a diabetic but hates to give his own injections. I chivvy him out of the house to social functions. I see he keeps in contact with his old friends, even when he curses me for doing so. I argue with him, to keep his brain keen. I go round the golf course with him, and he fines me 10 if I lose too obviously. I take him to Point to Points and place bets of 50p a time for him; I see that we celebrate if he wins. I buy him Christmas presents."

"You really care about him, then?"

He didn't want to admit it. He tried to excuse his weakness.

"J.B.'s had a raw deal in life. He and my father were at school together; my father had a happy marriage, his three sons are off his hands, and we all speak well of him both behind his back and to his face. J.B. made a disastrous marriage, his only son would spit in his face if he dared, and he was pretty much of an invalid, and a recluse by the time I got to him. He's been a power in the world, has had everything that money can buy, and there's no one but me to care if he gets indigestion or makes a killing on the Stock Market. He fears senility, incontinence; old age in the hands of servants. His son has given him no grandchildren yet. I doubt if he ever will. J.B. was more or less all right while he was able to work full time, dashing around the place - lunch in Rome and dinner in Paris. Then he developed angina and was advised to retire. Inaction showed him the loneliness of his life. He degenerated physically and mentally. Twice he went into a coma because he'd neglected his injections; he's been a diabetic for years but never managed to come to terms with it. He knows perfectly well that if he doesn't take his injections on time, or if he forgets to eat, he'll be ill. But he had nothing to live for. He quarrelled with everyone; with his son, his friends... he couldn't keep a personal a.s.sistant longer than a month, and his servants only stay because of the fabulous salaries he pays them."

I had never seen him so moved before. He stalked around the room, his eyes flickering this way and that, his right hand chaffing that ill-treated left hand. I felt he was on the verge of telling me something important. I kept very quiet until he went on.

"We've always seen a lot of the Brenners. David is J.B.'s G.o.dson. He's always wanted me to work for him. Ever since I was a child..."

He stopped abruptly, looking down at his scarred left hand. His face went blank, indicating that he was about to have a headache. I reached for the aspirins, and risked a prompt.

"Then he asked you to work for him? You were sorry for him. That's why you left your job in London to work for him?"

"No," he said slowly, still looking at his hand. "I could lie to you and say that that was the way it was, but it wasn't so. He didn't ask me to work for him this time. I went to him for a job. I said I wanted to study his methods so that I could learn how to make money quickly. I told him I needed a lot of money in a hurry. That was true, too, in a way. And that's as much of the truth as I can tell you, Sue."

He took the aspirins and went to lie down. He didn't refer to the subject again.

Bessie was horrified on Monday, when I told her I'd left the Mini with Charles for the day. She was sure he'd disappear with the car, and that I'd never see it or him again. I defended him, saying he was going to pick me up at half past five from work. She waited with me in the hall, and tried not to crow as the minutes ticked by. Charles was five minutes late - I was to learn that he was always five minutes late for everything. Just as Bessie was urging me to phone the police, he swept in through the front door and claimed me. Wearing dark-rimmed gla.s.ses and in a huge sheepskin-lined leather coat, he looked extremely presentable. I could see Bessie revise her opinion of him as I introduced them to each other. She even winked at me as he took my shopping basket and urged me to the door with one arm round my shoulder. His att.i.tude was quite clear; I was his girl for the week, and I wasn't to waste time on anybody else while he was around.

I wish he could have told me I was beautiful, and ultra desirable, and all that rot, but it never seemed to occur to him to flatter me. He told me I should wear my hair loose always, that it was amazing the amount of muck some girls put on their faces, and that I wasn't to think of plucking my eyebrows. That was all the comment I got on my appearance. When I told him I feared I ought to diet, he didn't seem to understand what I was getting at. He said, shortly, that he liked something to get his hands around, and sparrow-boned females usually had sparrow-boned brains. He very nearly spanked me when I wailed that I hadn't any clothes good enough to be seen out in. He said that if my lack of good clothes bothered me that much, he'd get his mother to select something for me and he'd pay the bill. He added that he personally couldn't stand women who wore skirts so short that they showed everything they had, and necklines so low that nothing was left to the imagination. From which I gathered that he was extremely conservative as far as a woman's appearance was concerned.

He still had the occasional nightmare, but nowhere near as badly as on that first night. I would half wake him when he started to moan and shiver in his sleep, and turn him till his head rested on me, when he would quieten down and sleep through till morning. He told me he'd had nightmares once before, when he'd fallen backwards out of a tree in childhood. He still had a crescent-shaped scar on his left b.u.t.tock to prove it.

After the first couple of days, he spent most of his time at Whitestones, dealing with correspondence. Once J.B. learned that Charles had not gone away, there had been a stream of cables to deal with, and Charles said he'd sooner be doing something than nothing. I found out that that was an understatement; Charles never sat down unless he'd finished doing everything he could do on his feet, and even when he did sit down, he had to have his hands occupied - with a newspaper, letters, a book. He read rapidly, extensively and comprehensively, and remembered what he'd read.

Once I came across him puzzling over a hand-drawn diagram, and was stupid enough to ask what it was all about. He said it was something his brother David had thought up, which he wanted Charles to attend to for him. He also said he'd introduce me to David when he came over on leave. He had a genius for prevarication, had Charles, but strangely enough, I always knew when he wasn't telling me the whole truth. He hadn't told me the whole truth about that diagram, for instance.

His car was ready at the end of the week, and he took me out for a meal in it into the country. The new radio was a beauty. I admired it, and was invited to try it out. I nearly blew us out of the car by turning the volume up too high. Charles said he'd really rather have had another overcoat than a radio for the car, by way of compensation, but his "friends" had been set on the idea of a radio.

I said he ought to have more than one overcoat, anyway, and he replied that he'd sold most of his clothes and all his superfluous belongings when he left London. I didn't ask why, but I filed the reply for future reference.

Was he being blackmailed? If so, then he must have been involved in the fraud case, and was as guilty as his father. And if that was so... I couldn't help remembering that John Brenner was a very rich man.

I watched to see if he'd bring whisky into the flat, but he didn't. One night his friend Mr. Bessiter came round and we all went out for a drink together. Charles drank beer, and not much of that, either. I enjoyed that evening. I didn't enjoy the speed with which the end of the week approached, though. I woke crying one night, and this time it was his turn to comfort me.

"Trust me, Sue. It's not so long now, and when it's over..."

"No promises," I said, blowing my nose. "I'm sorry I cried. I didn't mean to wake you. I told myself I was going to behave perfectly and not worry you with questions, but you know I've as much willpower as a piece of damp cotton-wool where you're concerned."

"Define self-confidence," he suggested.

"Something I haven't got much of?" I asked, dubiously. I felt, rather than heard him laugh against me.

"Not long now. One piece of bad luck, one piece of good. They didn't mean to give me time to think, but that's what they've done, and the Financial Times makes good reading nowadays. We'll soon be able to act."

Was he considering something criminal? I didn't have any illusions about Charles. He was quite ruthless enough to think that the end justified the means.

"Whose side are you on?" I asked. "The Baddies, or the Goodies?"

"My side," he said, in a fierce whisper. "I'll beat them yet."

He pulled me to him. I couldn't struggle, without hurting him, and anyway, I didn't really want to get away. He'd been to the hospital that day to have most of his strapping removed, but he would bear the scars on his left hand until the day he died.

Three.

It had been arranged that Charles should drive down to London and then fly out to join his boss first thing on Sat.u.r.day morning, so Friday was to be our last night together. He'd asked if I'd like to be taken out for the evening, but I said I'd prefer to cook him one last meal. He didn't argue; he liked my cooking so much that he said he'd recommend me for a position as a chef any time I felt like giving up my present job. I planned an extravagant, never-to-be-forgotten meal.

I never did forget that night, but not because of the meal, which we hardly touched. The "slight risk" which Charles had taken when he moved in with me turned out to be unjustifiable; or that was how Charles put it afterwards. He certainly hadn't bargained for Mr. and Mrs. Julian Brenner's descent on me when I was alone and unprepared for them.

I was mixing mayonnaise when the door-bell rang. There was a telephone-operated lock on the front door downstairs, and I thought Charles must have mislaid his keys for once. Sparing a glance at the chicken joints cooking in the oven, I sped to the phone.

"It's me!" said a man's voice plaintively. I thought Charles must have caught a cold, because his voice sounded higher than usual, but it didn't occur to me that it wasn't Charles at all. I released the door catch, and returned to the kitchen.

"Did you remember the wine?" I asked, as I heard the door of my flat open. Usually Charles came to give me a hug even before he took off his coat, but this time he didn't. I turned to see a tall, thin, flaxen-haired man usher an equally strange woman into my flat. He was wearing an expensive black overcoat, tinted gla.s.ses and a malicious smile. I didn't like the look of her, either. She was like Rita, only more so. She was slim and dark, her trouser suit would have cost me a month's salary, she had had her hair coiffured by a master, and her make-up had been copied straight from the cover of Vogue. A red scarf would have suited her well. I stood there with a wooden spoon in one hand, my hair hanging down my back, wearing a two-piece jersey suit which had seen better days, and with next to no make-up on. I knew that this woman and I had nothing in common, even before she opened her mouth.

"Miss Stephens?" asked the man. "Miss Sue Stephens?"

I nodded. These must be the people who had visited Charles in hospital, and who had been responsible for his injuries; the ones Charles had not wanted me to meet.

"You don't know us, I'm afraid, but I've been hearing a fair amount about you, from a mutual acquaintance."

I didn't like to think that Charles had talked to them about me.

"Yes?" I asked, and was proud to see how steady my hand was as I put down my spoon, washed and dried my hands, and went to join them.

"Mr. Bessiter," said the fair man. "A charming lad - so helpful - don't you agree, Bianca? Oh, this is my wife, Bianca. I'm Julian Brenner, a friend of Charles."

And with that he adjusted his trousers at the knee and sat down in my best chair. Bianca Brenner tested the mantelpiece for dust - there wasn't any - and perched on the edge of the table.

"Not quite what our Charles is used to," she said. I suppose she thought that speaking in throaty tones made her sound seductive. She looked round my home, not missing the chip off the jug on the sideboard, or the stain on the carpet where I'd spilt some ink. Her eyes dissected the couch and identified it as a bed under its coverlet and cushions. Her raised eyebrows dismissed my home, and me, as ludicrously inadequate.

"I'm afraid Charles isn't here," I said. "Perhaps you'd care to leave a message for him..."

"We'll wait," said Julian.

"We were just as anxious to make your acquaintance as to see Charles," said Bianca, whom I was beginning to dislike intensely. An enormous diamond solitaire glinted on her left hand, and on her right wrist she had an exclusively designed bracelet which screamed "Cartier" at me. The pair of them moved in a smooth aura of money. At the back of my mind I had always known that Charles did, too, but when he was with me the difference in our life styles had not worried me. Now it began to do so.

"Perhaps you can settle a little argument for us," said Bianca. "Did Charles tell you about his fiancee or not? I thought he wouldn't have done so, but my husband is quite sure he would have done."

"I'm sorry," I said, which was quite idiotic of me. If I could have just dropped down in a faint, it would have been the perfect way to end a horrible conversation, but I wasn't the fainting type, and no matter how much I wished the Brenners elsewhere, they weren't going to budge on my say so.

"He didn't?" Bianca laughed. She should have practised laughing in front of a mirror. She had prominent eye teeth, and they became exposed when she laughed. "Oh, my poor Sue! That is what he calls you, isn't it? Sue? Delightful name. He is a naughty boy, our Charles. But surely you must have guessed that he was a bit of a rogue where the girls are concerned? Why, he even had a go at me one night when Julian was out... but that's all to be forgiven now he's working with us."

"Is he?" I asked. I wanted to sit down, but knew that I wouldn't make it to the nearest chair.

"Of course, my dear. Oh, you're thinking of his little naughtiness over the fraud case? Well, of course that was very bad, but when you remember that Charles' one ambition in life was to be a millionaire before he was forty..."

"Don't you know any other adjective but 'naughty'?" I asked, and was ignored.

"I expect he'll give you a nice present for helping him out this week," said Bianca soothingly. "I'll say that for Charles, he always pays his way."

"I do?" said Charles, speaking from the doorway. He was holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and his keys in the other. I hardly recognised him; his features might have been carved from soapstone, they looked so hard. This was a Charles I'd never met; the Double First who moved in moneyed circles, had a job in a Merchant Bank, and held his own with a millionaire reputed to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d in his personal life. I ought to have guessed at his existence, but I hadn't, for up till now Charles had only shown me his warm-hearted side.

He turned to me, his eyes checking to see what damage had been inflicted in his absence. I don't suppose my face rea.s.sured him. He set down the bottle of wine, and shrugged off his coat. Neither of the Brenners moved. Both continued to smile.

"To what do we owe the honour of this visit?" asked Charles, his voice as cold as his manner.

"Visiting the sick," replied Julian. "How are you getting on, dear boy?"

"I told you on the phone. I'm flying out to join him tomorrow, and I don't know exactly when we'll be back. Maybe a week, maybe two. But I'll keep in touch, as I said I would."

"But the money. You've missed a payment..."

"That was your fault, wasn't it? You shouldn't have put me in hospital."

"You shouldn't have been so obstinate," said Julian, but he didn't sound annoyed. He sounded quite pleased with himself. I didn't like the way his eyes continued to a.s.sess me while he spoke to Charles.

"I think we've seen enough," said Bianca, rising to her feet in one supple movement. Her hips couldn't have been more than 34 inches; I didn't like to remember what mine measured. "Don't you think so, Julian? She's not at all what I expected, but she'll do very well."

"Agreed." Julian got up, and held the door open for his wife. As she pa.s.sed by, she picked up one of Charles' sweaters, which had been lying on the table, and thrust it at me. I recoiled, and the sweater fell to the floor between us. She laughed.

"Has he hurt her feelings, then?" she said. I couldn't look at Charles, or at her. I just stood there, waiting for her to hit me again. That was what it felt like; a series of punches to the solar plexus.

"There are limits to my patience," said Charles, in that well-modulated c.o.c.ktail-time voice of his. "As you very well know."

"Did we spoil something between you and Sue?" enquired Bianca. "So sorry, darling!"

The door shut behind them. I heard Charles speak, but couldn't make sense of what he was saying. I thought I'd better see what had happened to my mayonnaise. It had probably curdled.

Charles whirled me round and shook me. This time I did hear what he was saying, he was asking how long the Brenners had been there, and what they'd said. I stared at him. I'd forgotten in this past week to think of him as a handsome man; I'd only thought of him as "my" man, to be petted and fattened up and confided in, and loved. I'd forgotten - perhaps deliberately - my original suspicion that he must have a permanent girlfriend somewhere, and I'd managed to quiet my notion that he was being blackmailed. Now when I looked at him I saw a handsome stranger who was also a remarkably good liar.

"Supper won't be long," I said. "Why don't you go and pack? I think I'll sc.r.a.p the Russian eggs, though. The mayonnaise won't come right."

He reached for me. I stepped back, away into the kitchen, and closed the door. He didn't follow.

The rest of the supper seemed to be cooking to perfection. I jettisoned the curdled mayonnaise, and started to dish up. When I went back to lay the table, he'd gone. When supper was ready, I went through to tell him. He had just finished packing. By that time my pride had instructed me how to act. I would show him I didn't care about his other women, and that he meant as little to me as I did to him.