it!’
‘No, really.’ Jarret had finished the contents of the bottle and now he took mock-aim at the old man. ‘She’s suggested I buy some place out in the country.’
Patrick Horton absorbed this in silence for several minutes while he examined the contents of his small pantry. Then, realising his stepson expected an opinion from him, he turned and glanced at him over his shoulder.
‘What kind of a place?’
Jarret shrugged. ‘A house—and some land. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’
‘And who’s going to live there? You and Lady Margot?’
‘Of course not.’ Jarret was impatient now. ‘Me! Just me!’ He pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘I’m getting stale, Dad. The words just aren’t coming any more. I need to get away—I’m stifling in London.’
‘What you mean is you’re bored, don’t you?’ his stepfather remarked shrewdly. ‘Too many late nights and too much alcohol. And too many women!’
‘All right!’ Jarret heaved a deep breath. ‘What you say is true. I’m too easily diverted. Maybe out at Thrushfold I’ll be able to breathe again.’
‘Thrushfold?’ His stepfather frowned. ‘Where’s that?’
‘I’m not precisely sure. Somewhere in Wiltshire. The house is called King’s Green. A genuine old property!’ he added, with mock transatlantic reverence.
‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’
‘No.’ Jarret put the bottle on the table behind him and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘No, I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t even seen it. That’s one of the reasonswhy I wanted to see you—to ask you what you thought. To find out whether you think it’s a good idea or not.’
‘Hmm.’ The old man grimaced. ‘You had anything to eat?’
‘Some toast, at breakfast time,’ replied Jarret patiently. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I think I’ll open a tin of soup,’ declared Mr Horton consideringly. ‘Which would you prefer? Chicken or oxtail? It’s all the same to me.’
‘I’ll take you out for lunch, Dad,’ protested Jarret, shaking his head, but his stepfather declined.
‘If my soup’s not good enough for you——’ he began, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jarret shed his coat and reached goodhumouredly for the can-opener.
Later, seated at the kitchen table ladling spoonfuls of oxtail soup into his mouth, Jarret returned to the object of his visit. ‘About this house, Dad,’ he began uncertainly, ‘what do you think? Ought I to go out of town for a while?’
Mr Horton considered for a few moments, and then he nodded his balding head. ‘I’d say it was the best idea you’d had in a long time,’ he asserted, frowning. ‘But not if you take anyone along with you.’
‘If you mean Margot, I’ve no intention of doing so.’
‘I didn’t mean her, actually. I meant that other one I read you’d been seeing. Some model girl, isn’t she? Comes from America. They gave you quite a write-up in the Gazette.’
‘Vivien Sinclair,’ remarked Jarret flatly. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her name. Yes, she’s a model. And I’ve been seeing her for over six months. But there’s no likelihood of her joining me in my country retreat. She likes the bright lights far too much for that.’
He didn’t sound heartbroken, and his stepfather gave him a disapproving stare. ‘You don’t care, do you?’ he exclaimed, permitting a brief word of criticism. ‘Jarret, when are you going to give up this artificial existence and settle down? You know your mother would have wanted you to.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ The younger man lay back in his chair and surveyed his stepfather humorously. ‘Don’t give me thatold line. What Ma would or would not have wanted is immaterial, isn’t it? I mean—well, she’s dead, and my idiosyncrasies aren’t going to hurt her, are they?’
Patrick Horton sighed. ‘You’ll find your own way to the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered.
Jarret shook his head and sat up again. ‘So how about you coming with me instead? Then you could keep an eye on me, ensure that I ate the right food and got to bed at a reasonable time, and didn’t sleep with any strange women!’
His stepfather’s lips twitched in spite of himself. ‘Oh, no!’ he denied at once. ‘I’m not your keeper, nor would I want to be. And as for removing myself to the wilds of Wiltshire at my time of life—no, thanks!’ He paused. ‘But you go, Jarret, son, you go. I’m all in favour of that. I’m in favour of anything that will make you happy.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Jarret leant across to squeeze the old man’s arm, and they finished the meal in a companionable silence.
It was after four when Jarret arrived back at his apartment. Despite the unsatisfactory beginning to his day he felt reasonably content, and half inclined to anticipate the journey to Thrushfold with some enthusiasm. If the house was any good, the sale might be completed before the end of May, with the long lazy days of summer to look forward to. In previous years he had gone to Bermuda and to Cannes, and last year he had spent some time on the west coast of the United States, but the prospect of spending the summer in a home of his own was appealing, and he wondered how he would react to so much isolation.
Vivien Sinclair’s reactions were characteristically opposed to his leaving London.
‘Jarret, you can’t!’ she wailed, when he casually mentioned the idea at dinner that evening. ‘Honey, you’d die in a place like that! Come to Barbados with me next week. You know I’ve got that modelling assignment, and you could work at the hotel while I was at the studios.’
Jarret grimaced. ‘No, thanks,’ he declined gently. ‘I need to work, not to play baby-sitter while you take off your clothes for someone else.’
‘But Jarret,’ she protested, clasping one of his hands in both of hers, regardless of the interested eyes of theirwaiter, ‘when will I see you, stuck out in this Godforsaken hole——’
‘Hardly a hole,’ he corrected her dryly, removing her fingers. ‘Now, do you want yoghurt or ice-cream to finish, or shall I just order coffee for two?’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ she protested sulkily, pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag and sniffing miserably into it. ‘You can get me a brandy with my coffee instead. I need something to sustain me after what you’ve just told me.’
Jarret shrugged and summoned the waiter, and ordered the drinks with the minimum amount of fuss. Then he relaxed in his seat while Vivien recovered her humour, apparently immune to her tearful performance.
‘And when do you leave?’ she ventured at last, when it occurred to her that she was doing herself no favours by causing a scene, and Jarret looked up from lighting a cheroot through the narrowed fringe of his lashes.
‘It’s not even definite yet, Vivien,’ he told her flatly, putting his lighter away.
