but what makes you think you disgraced yourself last night? All you did was add a bit of spice and mystery to the image. Believe me, to walk out on Simon—even to want to, let alone to do it—is a gesture not many girls make.’
‘Then they should,’ Martha said before she could stop herself. ‘I’m sorry if he’s your nephew but he—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Go on,’ Madame said, her black eyes fairly snapping with curiosity.
Martha bit her lip and thought, Shades of Jane...‘No—uh—well, the least said, the soonest mended, I’m sure. Unless he...’ She stopped and looked directly at the other woman.
‘He has said nothing. Nothing,’ Madame emphasised. ‘Well, beyond that he met you three years ago in Australia. He has left me totally in the dark in other words—which is extremely frustrating for a woman like me,’ she added with complete honesty. ‘Mind you, it’s not hard to guess that you two—er—had something going; the air nearly sizzled around you. What a shot in the eye for Sondra Grant.’ She sighed with obvious pleasure.
‘Who’s she?’
Madame opened her eyes very wide. ‘His fiancée—well, his unofficial fiancée—you didn’t know?’
‘I don’t know anything about him, other than that he can be an absolute——’
‘Then I will tell you.’ Madame sat forward eagerly, and took not the slightest notice of Martha’s protest. ‘He is the son of my late ’usband’s brother—in reality we bear the same name but I chose to use my maiden name for my business. Now you think it’s strange that I should have married a Scot? Not at all; the Macquaries ‘ave married French women often; the family is half French anyway because——’
‘I know about the liqueur,’ Martha said drily. ‘That’s how we met in Australia—at a cocktail party but serving liqueur instead.’
‘Ah!’ Madame looked suddenly enlightened then she became serious again. ‘But do you know that Simon has literally saved the family company from fading into oblivion and turned it into a highly profitable concern again? Because he is a brilliant businessman—dynamic. Why, without his advice even I wouldn’t be where I am today and—–’
‘Madame—’ Martha stood up ‘—I’m really not interested. I’m sorry—–’
‘So he was the one?’
‘The one what?’
‘Who ’urt you, Martha. Look—–’ Madame became angry at last ‘—don’t take me for a fool, Mees Winters!’
‘I’m not!’ Martha denied. ‘But he is your nephew—Oh, this is impossible,’ she whispered suddenly, and was horrified to find she had tears welling. Tears because she could see a new life she’d just begun to believe in shattering before her eyes.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘What’s what got to do with it?’ Martha asked impatiently, dashing at her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘That he’s my nephew?’ Madame said with more of her old arrogance.
‘Everything, I should imagine. I hate him, he...despises me, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how much. We could be tripping over each other all the time, but you obviously admire him tremendously and—–’
‘So you think I automatically take his side, Miss Martha?’
‘Yes!’
Madame stood up and arranged her robe regally around her. ‘Then you do not even begin to understand me, Martha Winters,’ she said chillingly. ‘I do not only design exquisite clothes but I am a very fine judge of character as well as human nature. I’m also a Frenchwoman through to my bones and as such I know a lot about men, so I would never dream of saying, This man is my nephew therefore he must be all honour and virtue. No. Instead I say to myself, This is a man, first and foremost, and we all know what bastards men can be sometimes—this is what I say!’
Martha stared at her then sat down abruptly, dropped her face into her hands and started to laugh a little wildly. ‘But you hardly know me from a bar of soap!’
‘True,’ Madame conceded. ‘But I like you. So, hate Simon if you wish to. It will not affect me. But it also might not deceive me entirely.’
Martha looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Chérie,’ Madame said kindly, ‘you do not deceive me for one moment. However, before you get your ’ackles all in a knot again, I will say not one word more!’ And for once in her life she didn’t.
Neither did Martha. For the simple reason that she rather felt as if she’d had all the stuffing knocked out of her.
But she was back at work the next morning and Madame’s avowed liking for her didn’t prevent Madame from putting her through a gruelling day, or from telling her she looked like a sack of potatoes in a certain outfit.
It was almost a fortnight before she saw Simon Macquarie again, then she saw him twice in two days.
The first time was at a pub in Fulham Road. It was a hot, dry Friday with an uncharacteristically merciless sun beaming out of an English sky. It had been a torrid week work-wise as well and she was only too happy to escape the salon during her lunch-hour and the depths of the pub had looked cool and inviting so she’d ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of iced tea. It had taken a few minutes to notice that Simon was among a group on the other side of the room, mostly men in business suits and with briefcases but one eye-catching girl with them, sitting next to him.
Sondra Grant? Martha wondered. Or a business associate? Because, for all that her bobbed, dark, shining hair, pale olive skin, slightly exotic bone-structure and deeply red painted mouth were rather stunning, she wore a plain black suit and white blouse, a man’s watch on her wrist, and, as Martha’s eyes rested on her, delved into a black leather briefcase and withdrew what looked like a formal document from it that she handed to Simon. Then again, Martha mused, watching the way their shoulders touched as they scanned the document, not altogether business associates probably...
All of which, to her disgust, had the effect of turning the salad she’d been enjoying to sawdust. She got up and left not long afterwards, taking a detour around the room so she wouldn’t come within recognising distance; hopefully.
It was her Saturday off the next day, still hot and bright, and after sleeping in for once in her life, then doing her chores at home, she walked up to South Kensington where she shopped, browsed for an hour in a fascinating bookshop, and finally walked home via Sydney Street and St Luke’s Parish Church. What prompted her to stop as she realised there was about to be a wedding she never knew. But there were a few other people standing at the iron railings and it was undoubtedly going to be a posh wedding, judging from the Rolls and Mercedes coming and going and the morning suits and fancy hats. So she stayed to watch, telling herself she had nothing else to do anyway and it was interesting to see the clothes and try to work which were designer ones and which were not.
Finally the bride arrived and she turned out to be a short, plump, pink-cheeked girl in a plain, beautiful silk dress but a mixture of nerves and stars in her eyes. And Martha saw her take a deep breath then turn to go into the dark, cavernous recesses of the church on the arm of her father with
