mind. She must remember he was Miguel Salvaje, rich, clever, aware of his own potentialities, prepared to use her as no doubt he had used other women in other cities, and not merely a lonely man seeking companionship.
She sighed, but he did not look back and a few moments later she heard the sound of the outer door closing. He had gone. She hesitated only a moment, and then she rushed across to the window, drawing aside the curtain and peering out. He was walking down the short drive, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't have an overcoat and she thought he must be frozen, used as he was to a warmer climate in any case. Where was his car? She frowned. She didn't remember seeing it as she came in. Surely she would have noticed such a conspicuous automobile if it had been parked anywhere near the house.
She bit her lip hard, but he had disappeared into the street and the hedges of the house next door hid him from sight. She allowed the curtain to fall back into place and as she did so Mrs. Cook came into the room.
‘Oh, you're home, Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn't hear you come in. When I heard the door just now—’ She looked round. ‘Has Señor Salvaje left?'
Emma cupped the back of her neck with her hands. ‘It looks like it, doesn't it?’ she asked impatiently. ‘You knew who he was, then?'
‘Of course.'
‘I didn't know you were interested in music, Mrs. Cook.'
‘Interested in music?’ Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘What do you mean?'
Emma stared at her. ‘I thought you said you knew who he was.'
‘Yes. He introduced himself to me. I understood he was the gentleman who brought you home the other evening.'
‘He was – he is!’ Emma heaved a deep breath. ‘He's also a concert pianist.'
‘Is he?’ Mrs. Cook made a suitably respectful grimace. ‘I didn't know that. Anyway, what did he want?'
Emma shrugged. ‘I don't really know. He – well, he invited me to have dinner with him.'
Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? And what would Mr. Harrison say to that, I wonder?'
‘Well, you've no need to, Mrs. Cook. Because I'm not going.'
Mrs. Cook nodded slowly. ‘Well, I just came to see what time you wanted your meal. Are you ready now?'
Emma looked down at the severe lines of her suit irritably. Then she shook her head. ‘No, not yet. I want to change first.'
‘Change?’ Mrs. Cook couldn't hide her curiosity. ‘Are you going out again then?'
Emma shook her head. ‘No – no, I'm not going out again, Mrs. Cook. I merely want to change, that's all.’ Her tone was eloquent of her resentment at Mrs. Cook's probing.
‘Yes, miss!’ Mrs. Cook was offended, her back stiff and unyielding as she went out again. Emma kicked off her shoes ill-temperedly. What was the matter with her? Speaking to Mrs. Cook like that! There was no cause for it.
Clenching her teeth, she marched out of the room and up the stairs. It was as though contact with that man, Miguel Salvaje, disrupted her. The last time she had felt like this was when he had brought her home in the fog, and now here she was a mass of conflicting emotions, just because he had taken it upon himself to enter her life again. It was stupid and childish. She wasn't an adolescent, so why was she behaving like one?
All the same, she found herself thinking about him a lot through that long evening, wondering where he was and what he was doing, and whether he had found someone else to keep him company…
DURING the following week, Emma endeavoured to put all thoughts of Miguel Salvaje out of her mind. But that was easier said than done. She had only to open a newspaper it seemed to see his face staring back at her, or some other advertisement of the fact that the Mexican pianist was presently giving a series of recitals with the accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra at the Festival Hall.
For the first time in her life she wished she had a close girl friend, someone of her own age in whom she might confide her fears and anxieties. But the girl she had been closest to had married some years ago and gone to live in the Midlands, and now there was only Victor, and of course she could say nothing to him. So she kept her thoughts to herself and concentrated her energies on her work at the agency.
Nevertheless, she was still taken aback when one afternoon her fiancé walked into the agency and after a casual word with Fenella came over to her desk. Perching himself on the side of the desk, he looked down into her face and said, without warning: ‘Miguel Salvaje is a favourite of yours, isn't he?'
Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh – what did you say?’ she asked weakly.
‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'
Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I – I – yes, I suppose so. Why – why?'
Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'
Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.
‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I – we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'
Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'
Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'
Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'
Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'
‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'
‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'
‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.
‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'
‘Yes.'
Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter.
