thought she had been quite successful in hiding her reaction to hearing her clothes described in such a fashion until she glanced up and found Melisande’s companion watching her with mocking comprehension.
‘Oh, I haven’t introduced you, have I?’ the actress said. ‘Simon darling, this is India, she really is the cleverest thing. India, meet Simon Herries—you must have read about him in the gossip columns.’
‘I have, and in the financial press.’ India agreed lightly, conscious of the sudden alertness in Simon Herries’ expression.
‘You take a keen interest in the world of big business, then?’
Gritting her teeth at the condescending tone, India replied lightly, ‘Of course—what female doesn’t in one form or another?’
She could tell from his expression that her barb had found its mark. He was far too intelligent to have imagined that Melisande’s interest in him was purely altruistic, but, India thought shrewdly, he was attractive enough for it to wound his vanity to be told that others were aware of the fact too.
She had known Melisande for several years, and while the actress made no secret of the fact that she expected her escorts to be presentable and sexually attractive, she also expected them to be wealthy enough to afford her.
India watched her, aware of the contrast they must present. Melisande, small, barely five foot three, with fair, almost silver hair, and prettily feminine features—the archetype of female beauty, while she…. She wrinkled her nose slightly. She was tall, five eight in her stockinged feet; her hair, as Jenny had remarked, was a deep, intense auburn, saved from being unkindly described as ‘red’ by rich russet undertones; her green eyes set slightly aslant beneath well defined eyebrows, only her vulnerably full mouth betraying the fact that she was less self-possessed than first appeared.
She knew that Simon Herries was watching her, and she strived to fight off the inclination to return his look. She could almost feel his eyes sliding down her body, resting on the unexpectedly full curves of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, and the slender length of her legs.
His eyes rested on her legs for several seconds, a thoughtful, appraising look in them when he finally raised them to India’s faintly flushed face.
‘Quite an enigma,’ he remarked softly. ‘Prissy blouse, schoolgirl skirt and silk stockings.’
‘It isn’t meant to be,’ India assured him with a calmness she was far from feeling—there had been something in the look he had given her which had sent vague frissons of awareness running down her spine. It wasn’t unusual for her clients to bring men along with them—sometimes to pay, sometimes merely to approve, and she was used to the flirtatious, sometimes almost offensive comments some of them made, but this was something different; something alien and almost frightening; an absurd awareness of her own femininity which had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way had looked at her, and how her body had reacted to it.
‘Oh, India is far from prissy, as I have very good reason to know,’ Melisande remarked archly. ‘I happen to know that she has a very charming and extremely wealthy boy-friend. In fact she brought him to my last party, didn’t you, darling? Melford Taylor,’ she added for Simon Herries’ benefit, mentioning the name of a well-known financier.
Although India wasn’t looking at him, she could feel Simon Herries appraising the salon with fresh eyes. It was decorated in white and gold with touches of green, sharp and fresh, and yet with an unmistakable richness. India had designed it herself, and the alterations and decorations had been carried out by a small firm specialising in stage settings. With ingenuity and flair the work had cost very little in terms of actual money, and India had repaid the help she had had from her friends by recommending them whenever she could. Some of the stage settings for Melisande’s latest play had been designed by them, but because she very rarely allowed her private and business lives to mingle she doubted if Melisande was even aware that she knew them. She had only attended the party Melisande had mentioned because the actress had insisted upon it, and yet India could tell that Simon Herries was assessing the cost of the salon; that he could probably gauge the rental on it to the nearest pound, and was quite obviously thinking that Mel had paid for it.
India was no naïve young girl. She was twenty-five and had lived alone since the death of her parents when she was twenty. She was perfectly well aware of the moral code prevailing in the circles in which Melisande and presumably Simon Herries himself moved; and the conclusions he had undoubtedly drawn from Melisande’s reference to Mel, and she longed to refute them. She and she alone was responsible for her success. She had received no financial ‘help’ or reward from other people, and she bitterly resented the implication that she was the sort of woman who chose the men in her life for what she could gain from the relationship.
Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself as she went to unlock the discreetly concealed floor-to-ceiling cupboards in which she kept completed orders. Why should it matter to her if Simon Herries judged her as he himself was no doubt quite happy to be judged? Her relationship with Melford Taylor was her own business and no one else’s. Except of course that Mel happened to be married, she reminded herself wryly, as she removed the pale blue satin dress from its hanger.
‘I love the colour,’ Melisande enthused. ‘Darling, I really must insist that you design my wardrobe for my next role. You know I’ve landed the female lead in The Musgraves?’
India inclined her head in acknowledgment.
‘It was Simon who clinched things for me really,’ Melisande added, scarlet-tipped nails almost stroking the grey-suited arm resting on the chair next to her own. ‘He has extensive interests in commercial TV.’
‘Really?’
India was not aware quite how dampening she had made the word sound until she looked up and caught the grey eyes watching her with curt anger. She had already heard that Melisande had got the main role in the proposed new TV blockbuster series, but stage costume designing was unfamiliar territory to her, and while she appreciated Melisande’s faith in her, she felt that she had more than enough on her hands with the salon. The sudden boom in ‘high living’ had meant that she had had to take on extra staff to cope with the orders as it was, and she was cautious about who she employed.
‘I’m sure he’ll put in a good word for you with the studio bosses,’ Melisande said.
‘I’m sure Miss Lawson doesn’t need me to help her, not with Melford Taylor as her… backer.’
Fighting down the sudden surge of anger which had almost taken her unawares, India turned her back on him, glad of the excuse of suggesting to Melisande that she help her with the dress. It was years since she had felt such an almost immediate antipathy towards someone, even given that she was being quite deliberately needled. And why, she could not imagine! Even if she were Mel’s mistress, to use an outdated word, what possible business was it of Simon Herries?
In the fitting room she helped Melisande on with the blue satin. The bodice was cleverly draped to flatter the actress’s figure, with the pencil-slim skirt which India knew she favoured.
‘It’s gorgeous!’ Melisande pronounced when she had finished studying her reflection.
‘The hem has to be finished and one or two other little things done, but you’ll have it tomorrow,’ India promised.
She could hear her private phone ringing and sighed, knowing that it would be Mel. She had told him last weekend that there was
