finger of his right hand, and a plain gold watch on his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist, too; wrists that were already tanned like the rest of him, and she wondered whether he spent much time out in the hot South American sun.
Looking down into her almost empty glass, she tried to school herself not to think of such things. It was ridiculous really. Here she was, imagining herself in the position of wanting the inaccessible. It wouldn't last. At the moment he was different from the men she knew, that was all. A novelty, in fact, and like all novelties it would wear off. But in the meantime it was agonising …
Breakfast the following morning was a family occasion, and not a bit like the previous day. It was the first day of the working week for Julie's parents, and they each were preoccupied with their individual activities. Marion Stephenson ran various committees in the district and helped with the Meals on Wheels service, while her husband had his estate duties to attend to.
Patrick Hardy did not put in an appearance, and Ruth told herself she was glad. She would be able to leave without meeting him again, and she refused Julie's suggestion that she might wait until after lunch to drive back to town. It was a relief to bid them all good-bye and get behind the wheel of her Mini. Julie was disappointed, of course, but Ruth made a mental note to telephone her as soon as she got home and make some arrangement for her to come and stay.
Her father's house stood in a mews off Eaton Square. Tall, narrow windows flanked a white front door which was guarded by tubbed acacias. Once used as a coaching stable, it had been superbly altered and modernised by an architect friend of her father's, and now it was a very attractive dwelling. The ground floor had been given over to garages and the servants’ quarters, and a whitewood staircase led to the first floor drawing room. It was spacious and elegantly furnished, her father never did anything by halves, but although its contents were rare and expensive there was never any feeling of coldness or impersonality. It had always been a home in every sense of the word.
Her father was not at home at this time of day as Ruth had expected, but Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper, came upstairs to see if she had had lunch.
“No, I haven't,” said Ruth, shedding her cape in the centrally heated atmosphere. “But don't bother with a lot for me, Mrs. Lawson. I'm not particularly hungry.”
Mrs. Lawson folded her hands. “Did you have a nice weekend, miss?”
“Yes, very nice, thank you.” Ruth lounged into a soft leather chair. “Tell me: is Papa dining at home this evening?”
The housekeeper nodded. “As far as I know he is, miss. Why don't you give him a ring? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from you. He misses you, you know.”
Ruth traced the pattern of the grain with her finger. “You think so?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Lawson drew in her lips. “He doesn't work all the time, you know.”
“I know.” Ruth reached for the phone. “All right, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you.”
Joseph Farrell's office building stood in a side street off the Bayswater Road. The receptionist who answered recognised Ruth's voice at once and said: “I think Mr. Farrell's left the building, miss, but I'll just make sure for you.”
A few minutes later, Ruth heard her father's voice, still bearing traces of his Lancashire background. “Is that you, Ruth? You're back then.”
“Yes. Were you going out? Have I stopped you?”
“It can wait. It was nothing important. I was just going for a beer with Andy.”
“Was that to be your lunch?” exclaimed Ruth reprovingly.
“I suppose so. That and a pie, I shouldn't wonder.”
“A pie and a pint,” said Ruth, unable to hide her amusement. “Well, how about taking me to lunch instead?”
Her father hesitated. “I could do, I suppose,” he conceded slowly. “But I have this meeting at two o'clock …”
“Oh, Papa!” Ruth heaved a sigh. “Then you don't have time, do you?”
“Not really, lass.”
“All right, forget it. What time will you be home this evening?”
“Not late. About six, I should think. D'you want me to take you out to dinner instead?”
“No. No, it doesn't matter.” Ruth recalled the way her father liked to relax after a busy day at the office. “I'll see you tonight then.”
“Fine. Fine. Had a good weekend? Did you give my regards to Jim?”
“James, Papa, James! Julie's father doesn't like being called Jim!”
“Huh!” Her father sounded unimpressed. “Jim was good enough for your grandfather, and it's good enough for him.”
“All right, all right. See you later.”
“You will.”
Julie replaced the receiver and sat staring at it with a rueful sense of pride. Joe Farrell cared for nobody's arrogance, and nobody got away with anything like that with him. He had no time for snobbishness and conceit, he said he couldn't afford such luxuries, and that was in part responsible for his tremendous success. He could, and would, talk to anyone, and anyone could talk to him. No one in the Farrell organisation could say they had never met the boss; he made it his business to know everyone.
Leaving the drawing room, Ruth carried her case up a second flight of stairs to the turquoise and white luxury of her bedroom. Dropping the case on the silken bedcoverings, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath would relax her, would perhaps lift the weight of depression from her shoulders that had settled like a shroud since she drove away from Julie's home that morning …
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