floor which served two other rooms as well as her own, but she didn’t mind. She invariably took her bath in the evening, while everyone else was in the bar enjoying pre-dinner drinks, and unlike Della she had felt little desire to mix with her fellow guests—until now.
When she and Minstrel entered the suite, Della called peevishly from the bedroom: ‘Rachel, is that you?’ And when the girl showed her face at the bedroom door: ‘You’ve been a long time.’
Della had had one of her headaches when Rachel went out. They were a persistent torment to her, she declared, although they came in very useful on occasion, when she wanted rid of Rachel for the afternoon.
Now, however, she levered herself up on the quilted counterpane, looking suitably wan in her lacy pink negligée. She was forty-three, and spent half her life trying to look younger, with the inevitable result of achieving the opposite. Her fine hair had been tinted so often that it looked like dried straw until it had been combed into its usual style, and her skin was paper-thin and veined from too much food and too little exercise. She treated Rachel with a mixture of envy and irritation, and disliked feeling at a disadvantage with anybody.
Now Rachel held on desperately to Minstrel’s lead, as he viewed the tempting expanse of soft cream carpet spread out before him, and explained: ‘I couldn’t find that particular brand of cream anywhere. I think Mr Holland must make it up for you.’
The frown which had momentarily creased Della’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, dear, perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed complacently, relaxing back against the pillows. ‘He does tend to make a fuss of me, doesn’t he?’
Rachel reserved judgment, and struggling with the poodle asked: ‘Have you had tea?’
‘No.’ Della shook her head. ‘I’ve just been resting here since you went out.’
Belatedly, Rachel asked if she was feeling better, averting her eyes from the lurid jacket of the paperback novel that unexpectedly appeared beneath Della’s flowing skirts.
‘A little,’ her employer conceded reluctantly, quickly tucking the book out of sight, and Rachel turned away to hide her amusement, saying: ‘I’ll just give Minstrel a drink.’
‘Yes, and ring for tea, will you, dear?’ called Della after her. ‘I’ll be out directly.’
The door was closed and Minstrel offered a glum yelp. But since the disastrous occasion a few days ago, when he had cleared his mistress’s dressing table of a large collection of cosmetic jars and bottles, he had not been welcome in her room.
Rachel got Minstrel’s dish and filled it from the hand basin in her room. The dog drank thirstily, and through its noisy gulps she rang room service. Afterwards, she wandered over to the windows, looking out rather absently. She wondered when she would see Mr Allan again, or indeed if! How long was he staying? And where was his wife? A man like him was bound to be married, but why wasn’t she with him if he had been ill?
The arrival of the tea, and Della’s subsequent emergence from her room, left little room for further speculation on the matter, and it was not until she was lying in her bath later that evening that Rachel allowed her mind to drift back to the afternoon’s encounter. What did he really think of her? Did he think of her at all? Or was she just a rather annoying adolescent in his eyes? Perhaps he thought she was oversexed and provocative! Rachel reached for the sponge, and began soaping it liberally. Perhaps she was, she thought irritably. But she had never been troubled with such ideas before.
The usual arrangement was that Della went down to the cocktail bar before dinner and shared in the casual conversation of her fellow guests, while Rachel tidied the suite, fed Minstrel, and had her bath. Then, later, they would meet up again in the restaurant and share a table for dinner. After dinner, a few of the guests made up a four for bridge, and as Della enjoyed cards she was invariably included. That was Rachel’s cue to do as she liked, but this usually comprised a walk with Minstrel, followed by television and bed, in that order. Occasionally she had agreed to a date with a member of the hotel staff; but these were few and far between, preferring as she did the comparative luxury of reading in her own room, briefly free of Della’s fads and fancies.
This evening, however, Rachel felt restless, and after spending longer over her toilette than she normally did, she was late for dinner. She had hesitated a long while over what she should wear. After discarding the chemise dress she had planned to wear in favour of velvet pants and an embroidered smock, she had eventually returned to her original choice, deciding she was being silly in imagining it mattered either way. The chemise was long and made of white sprigged cotton, a ribbon tie beneath her breasts accentuating their fullness; but it was definitely not the sort of dress an older woman would wear, and that was why Rachel had hesitated over wearing it. But she was not an older woman, and there was no use wishing she was.
The lift seemed grindingly slow as it descended to the lower floors, and Rachel was biting her lips impatiently when it stopped at the first landing. Then she stepped back nervously, her cheeks darkening with hot colour when she saw the man waiting to get into the lift. His own expression was less easy to define, but after only a moment’s hesitation he stepped inside, joining her in the suddenly overpoweringly confined atmosphere of the square cubicle. In a navy suede suit and a matching shirt, the heavy duffel coat overall, he reduced the proportions of the lift alarmingly, and she was stiflingly conscious of the masculine odour he emanated. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly in her agitation, the nipples visibly hardening beneath the sprigged cotton.
If he was aware of her excitement, he gave no indication of the fact, and his polite: ‘Good evening!’ was as impersonal as ever. But she had not been this close to him before, and she could see a muscle jerking beneath the shaven beard shadowing his jawline. Perhaps he was not as indifferent to her as he would have her believe, or was it nerves that caused that betraying spasm?
Then, as if impatient with the way she was watching him, he looked at her, and that straight uncompromising stare turned her knees to jelly. It was as well the skirt of her gown covered her legs, or their quivering infirmity would have been visible to his gaze.
‘I—are you going down to dinner?’ she stammered, needing the release of conversation, but he shook his head with wry impatience.
‘I’ve had dinner,’ he told her flatly, and her arms slid round her waist in an instinctively defensive gesture.
‘I’m late,’ she volunteered, and then the lift had reached the ground floor, and the doors were rolling back.
He stood back to allow her to precede him, and she went ahead jerkily, wishing she wasn’t always at a disadvantage with him. If only she had had Minstrel with her, she might have stood a chance of going with him, wherever he was going. But that was purely wishful thinking.
He followed her out of the lift, and then, as if aware of her thoughts, he said: ‘No dog today?’
‘No.’ Her smile was fleeting.
His mouth curled. ‘I like your dress.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened again. ‘Thank you.’
His lips twitched, and then, as if regretting the impulse to compliment her, he turned away. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’
Rachel watched him cross the lobby and disappear through the revolving doors with clenched frustration. Now why had he said that? Did he really like her dress, or was he feeling sorry for her now? Whatever! He had gone, and she had to go and face Della’s undoubted irritation because she was late.
But
