But to what? Her life seemed to stretch before her, blank, empty. Just as it had done for the last ten years.
The days when she could afford a car were over, and she took a bus to the small block of apartments where she lived in a few rooms one floor up. Here everything was neat, restrained, unrevealing. A nun might have lived in this place.
Tonight was no different from any other night, she assured herself. The name Cassie, suddenly screaming out of the darkness, had thrown the world into chaos, but she’d recovered fast. Cassie was another life, another universe. Cassie’s heart had been broken. Mrs Henshaw had no heart to break.
She stayed up late studying papers, understanding secrets about the firm that were supposed to be hidden. Soon there would have to be decisions but now she was too weary in her soul to think about them.
She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. The dreams she’d dreaded were waiting to pounce. There was Cassie, gloriously naked, madly in love, throwing herself into the arms of the handsome boy who’d worshipped her. There were his eyes, gazing at her with adoration, but then with hate.
‘I loved you—I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’
In sleep she reached out her hands to him, crying, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’ ‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’
She screamed and awoke to find herself thrashing around in bed, throwing her head from side to side.
‘No,’ she cried. ‘It isn’t true. No, no, no!’
Then she was sitting up, staring into the darkness, heaving violently.
‘Leave me alone,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone.’
Wearily she got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. A shambling wreck of a woman looked back at her from the mirror. Now the severe barriers of the day were gone, leaving no trace of the steely ‘prison wardress’. The tense stillness of her face was replaced by violent emotion that threatened to overwhelm and destroy her. Her hair, no longer scraped back, flowed over her shoulders, giving her a cruel resemblance to Cassie, the beautiful girl who had lived long ago. That girl had vanished into the mists, but suddenly her likeness taunted Mrs Henshaw from the mirror. Tears streamed from her eyes and she covered them with her hands, seeking oblivion.
‘No,’ she wept. ‘No!’
But it was too late to say no. Years too late.
‘I JUST hope I don’t regret this,’ Mr Smith said heavily. ‘The Alton Hotel is worth twice what he’s offering, but it’s still the best offer we’ve had.’
Mrs Henshaw was frowning as she studied the figures. ‘Surely you can drive him up a little?’
‘I tried to but he just said “Take it or leave it.” So I took it. We have to sell off properties fast, before we go under.’
‘Is that your way of telling me to find another job?’
‘Yes, but I may be able to help you. I’ve told him you’ll meet him to discuss details. Marcel needs an assistant with local knowledge, so I’m sure you can impress him. Why are you looking like that?’
‘Nothing—nothing—what did you say his name was?’
‘Marcel Falcon. He’s one of Amos Falcon’s sons.’
She relaxed, telling herself to be sensible. The Marcel she had known had been Marcel Degrande, and obviously no connection with this man. It was absurd to be still reacting to the name after so long.
‘Play your cards right and you’ll come out on top,’ Mr Smith advised.
‘When do I go?’
‘Right now. He’s staying at the Gloriana Hotel, and he’s expecting you there in half an hour.’
‘Half a—? What? But that doesn’t give me time to research the background or the man—’
‘You’ll have to play it by ear. And these papers—’ he thrust some at her ‘—will give you the details of his offer. Yes, I know we don’t usually do it like this, but things are moving fast and the sooner we get the money the better.’
She took a taxi and spent the journey memorising facts and figures, wishing she’d had time to do some online research. She’d heard of Amos Falcon, whose financial tentacles seemed to stretch halfway across the world, but it would have been useful to check his son out too.
Never mind, she thought. A heavy evening’s work lay ahead of her, and she would tackle it with the meticulous efficiency that now ruled her whole life.
At last she entered the Gloriana and approached the reception desk. ‘Please tell Mr Falcon that Mrs Jane Henshaw is here.’
‘He’s over there, madam.’
Turning, she saw the entrance door to the bar and just inside, a man sitting at a table. At that moment he turned his head, revealing just enough of his face to leave her stunned.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No … no …’
The world went into chaos, thundering to a halt, yet still whirling mysteriously about her.
Marcel. Older, a little heavier, yet still the man whose love had been the glorious triumph of her life, and whose loss had brought her close to destruction. What malign chance had made their paths cross again?
She took a step back, then another, moving towards the door, desperate to escape before he saw her. She managed to get into the hotel garden where there was a small café, and sat down. She was shaking too violently to leave now. She must stay here for a while.
If only he hadn’t seen her.
If only they had never seen each other in the beginning, never met, never loved, never hated, never shattered each other.
Who were those two youngsters who seemed to stand before her now? Naïve, innocent, ignorant, perhaps a little stupid, but only with the stupidity of children who knew they could conquer the world with their beauty, talent and enthusiasm.
Jane Agnes Cassandra Baines had always known she was destined to be a model.
‘Nobody could be that beautiful and waste it,’ her sister had said. ‘Go for it, girl. And choose a better name. Jane will make people think of plain Jane.’
Rebecca was eight years her senior, and had been almost her mother since their parents died in their childhood. These days Rebecca’s misfortunes meant that she was the one who needed caring for, and much of Jane’s money went in helping her.
‘Cassandra,’ Rebecca had said back then. ‘Mum loved that name because she said it meant “enticer of men”. Dad was outraged. I can still remember them squabbling, him saying, “You can’t
