coming this way. I think he’s heading for the bar. I must leave immediately, before he sees me.’
Frank put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Emma. Don’t get excited. And please don’t leave,’ he implored softly.
Emma’s eyes blazed. ‘Frank! You knew he was in London, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t – you couldn’t possibly have asked him to join us?’
Frank did not answer. He looked down at his drink.
Emma hissed, ‘My God! You did!’
‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ Frank murmured.
‘Oh, Frank, how could you?’ Emma half rose, and Frank pressed her gently back into the chair.
‘Please, Emma. You have to stay.’
She looked at him furiously. ‘This sudden desire to talk about Arthur and the house was just a ruse, wasn’t it?’ she cried accusingly.
‘No!’ Frank exclaimed. ‘It wasn’t! I did want to discuss your marriage. I have for a long time. I told you, Winston and I are very perturbed. And I do need your advice about the house. However, I did agree to arrange this meeting.’
‘My God! What am I going to do?’ Emma whispered hoarsely.
‘You are going to be your civilized self and have a drink with Paul.’
‘I can’t,’ she wailed. ‘You don’t understand. I must go!’ As she spoke, Emma knew it was already too late to make a graceful exit. Paul was bounding up the steps and then he was standing at the table, his bulk casting a shadow on them. Emma lifted her eyes slowly and looked at him looking down at her. She was relieved she was seated. Her legs had turned to jelly and her heart was palpitating.
‘Hello, Emma,’ Paul said, and stretched out his hand.
Automatically she gave him hers. ‘Hello, Paul,’ she responded in a strangled voice, shaking internally. She felt his strong fingers tighten on hers, felt the bright colour flooding her face. She extracted her hand quickly and gazed blindly at the table.
Paul greeted Frank like an old friend and sat down. He ordered a scotch and soda, leaned back, crossed his legs nonchalantly, and lit a cigarette. He turned his attention to Emma. ‘It’s good to see you, Emma. You look lovely. You haven’t changed a bit. And I must congratulate you. Your store in Knightsbridge bowled me over. It’s magnificent. A monumental accomplishment. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not daring to look at him.
‘I must congratulate you, too, Frank. Your new book is splendid. Thanks for the copy. I was up half the night reading it. Couldn’t put it down, in fact.’
Frank grinned with pleasure. ‘I’m glad you like it. I’m also happy to say it’s doing very well.’
‘And so it should. It’s one of the best novels I’ve read in years.’ Paul’s drink arrived and as he lifted it he said, ‘Here’s to old and dear friends, and your impending marriage, Frank.’
Emma was silent. She had never thought her brother capable of duplicity, but he had certainly been devious in this instance, and was obviously on cordial terms with Paul.
Frank said, ‘I’m delighted you will be here in July. Natalie and I hope you can come to the wedding.’
Emma could not believe her ears. She glared at Frank, who ignored her penetrating look and continued, ‘And thanks for the invitation to dine with you later this week. Natalie suggested Friday, if you are free.’
‘I am. And I wouldn’t miss the wedding for anything.’ Paul’s eyes rested on Emma. ‘Could you join us for dinner on Friday, Emma?’
‘I’m quite sure I can’t,’ she responded, avoiding his eyes.
‘Why don’t you check your appointment book later?’ Frank suggested.
‘I don’t have to. I am positive I have a dinner engagement,’ she enunciated clearly and in a firmer tone, her eyes signalling her displeasure to Frank.
Recognizing the stubborn expression settling on her face, Paul refrained from pressing the point and, turning to Frank, he said, ‘Where are you planning to go on your honeymoon?’
‘We’ve been considering the South of France, although we haven’t definitely decided yet.’
Emma sat back in the chair, no longer listening to them. Their conversation washed over her as she retreated into herself. She had been utterly thrown off balance by Paul’s unexpected arrival and she could, at this moment, have cheerfully killed Frank for his participation in the scheme. She felt dazed, and many mixed emotions, so well controlled over the years, broke free in her. The impact of seeing him was devastating. Paul McGill was sitting here, unconcernedly chatting to Frank, smiling, nodding, and behaving as if nothing had happened between them. She felt the enormous power of him, his sheathed strength and virility, and she remembered every detail of the days they had spent together at the Ritz. And then she recalled, with a stab of sadness, how she had yearned for him. Pined for him. Needed him in the past. Now he was only inches away, and she stifled the impulse to reach out and touch him, to reassure herself he was real. Instead she looked at him surreptitiously. He was as immaculate as always, dressed in a dark grey chalk-striped suit and gleaming white silk shirt. Sapphire-and-gold links glittered in the French cuffs and he wore a deep blue silk tie, and a white handkerchief flared in his breast pocket. She knew he had been forty-two at the beginning of February, but he looked exactly the same as he had in 1919, except that his face was more deeply tanned and there were additional character lines around his eyes. His colouring was as vivid as it had ever been, and his chuckle was deep and throaty. How well she knew that amused, sardonic chuckle. Sudden anger swamped her. How dare he come back here so casually and expect her to treat him with civility after all the pain he had caused her. What audacity. What arrogance. Resentment edged out all other feelings, and she steeled herself against his potent charm.
Dimly, she heard Frank saying goodbye. He was leaving her alone with Paul. The idea terrified her.
‘I must go,’ she said, picking up her gloves and her purse. ‘Please excuse me, Paul. I have to leave with Frank.’
‘Don’t go, Emma. Please. I would like to talk to you,’ Paul said in the softest of voices. It was imperative that he detain her at all costs, yet he dare not exert obvious pressure on her.
Frank threw Paul a conspiratorial glance and addressed Emma. ‘I have to get back to Fleet Street. I’m running late.’ He kissed her on the cheek perfunctorily and departed before she could protest further, and she knew she was trapped.
Paul summoned the waiter and ordered more drinks, and then he leaned forward intently. His eyes were serious, his face grave. ‘Please don’t be angry with Frank. I persuaded him to arrange this meeting.’
‘Why?’ Emma asked, and for the first time she looked at Paul fully and with coldness.
Paul winced. He knew he had a difficult time ahead of him, but he was determined to convince her of his sincerity. ‘As I said, I wanted to see you
