got my message?’
‘Yes, I did, Mel, but I’m afraid…’
‘Please come, I want to talk to you—seriously. Please, India, I need to talk to you. I’d suggest that you come round here to my place, but I know you’d refuse, and as I’m hardly likely to get an invitation to your retreat, dinner seemed to be the only alternative.’
Recognising the strain in his voice, India gave way.
‘I’ll pick you up—about eight. We’re dining at Jardine’s.’
It was one of the more exclusive new restaurants which had recently opened and tables were not easily come by, but then to a man of Mel Taylor’s influence nothing would be impossible.
He had done very well for himself, India recognised, having built up an enviable business empire from one small company, and India suspected he was drawn to her because she too had had to struggle, and knew the value of what one earned by one’s own achievements. About his home background she knew very little apart from the fact that he had a wife and two small children, both boys, who attended an exclusive prep school. Although it was never said India guessed that there was a tremendous gulf between father and sons in the way that there often was between a parent who had been forced to work hard, building up a fortune from very small beginnings, and the children who enjoyed the style of life that fortune could purchase. She had once heard it mentioned that Mel had married ‘above himself’—an expression which she detested, and which she considered in Mel’s case was grossly unmerited, as he was a man of extremely refined taste, gentle and kind, and she wondered if it was perhaps this which had given rise to his marital problems. They were not something she cared to discuss with him, and she had never pried into his private life, despite the length of time she had known him. In fact it was only quite recently that she had seen him on a regular basis, certainly within the last six months, and it had not been until a couple of months ago that she had realised that Mel was subtly trying to steer their relationship into more intimate waters.
As they were dining out she made herself a light snack, and ate it sitting on a stool in the tiny kitchen she had planned and designed herself. Her flat was reasonably spacious; a large lounge with tall classical windows, a small dining room which had looked cold and dark until she had cleverly redecorated it in shades of crimson offset by white; two bedrooms each with their own bathroom, and a small study.
Decorating and furnishing the flat had been a labour of love which India had thoroughly enjoyed. Her parents had had several good pieces of furniture inherited from older members of the family, and India had spent much of her spare time combing antique shops and street markets until she found what she was looking for. The street markets served two purposes. In addition to finding the odd piece of furniture she had been lucky enough to come across several pieces of old lace which she meticulously repaired herself and kept for her own designs.
Usually after her evening meal, when she was relaxed, she found herself gravitating towards her sketch pad, and sometimes the ideas which came to her then proved far better than those she laboured over in her work-room at the salon, but tonight there would not be time for any work.
Jardine’s attracted a sophisticated fashion-conscious crowd of diners, and India chose carefully from her own surprisingly limited wardrobe. When one was constantly making things for other people there never seemed to be enough time to make for oneself, and as India was the first to admit, she was fussy about her clothes.
The outfit both Melisande and to some extent Simon Herries had mocked earlier in the day was one she had had for several years. The plain silk blouse had been bought in Paris and she loved the texture of the fabric and the neatly tailored lines of the garment. It had cost a small fortune, but India considered that she had more than had her money’s worth in terms of wear. The grey flannel skirt was one of her own, beautifully styled and cut, top-stitching emphasising the neat centre pleat, and with it she often wore a slightly darker grey cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. The flamboyant clothes favoured by many of her clients simply were not ‘her’.
Sliding a soft black velvet dress with a high neck edged with cream lace and three-quarter-length sleeves off its hanger, she left it on the bed while she had her bath.
Her bathroom possessed both a bath and a separate shower, and while in the mornings a quick shower was all she had time for, whenever possible she preferred a luxurious soak in scented water.
‘Arpège’ was her favourite perfume; she had read somewhere that women who favoured the aldehydic floral scents, such as Arpège, Chanel No. 5, and Madame Rochas, projected a cool, in-control image, and that they were in fact very much ‘establishment’ fragrances. Perhaps it had something to do with her childhood experiences; this desire to uphold traditions, and encourage permanence, India did not really know. What she did know, however, was that when she had tried to switch to a different type of scent, something more sensual and oriental, she had found it impossible to do so.
She dressed quickly and efficiently, a black silk camisole and matching slip trimmed lavishly with lace; sheer black stockings—one of the pleasures of being successful was that it was possible to indulge in such luxuries without feeling guilty. As she slid the fine silk over her legs she paused, remembering Simon Herries’ comment, and the way he had looked at her. She had found that look disturbing. She shrugged mentally. What did he, or his opinions, matter to her? He was not the type of man she was ever likely to want to impress—too physically dominant; almost too male for her tastes. She, unlike Jennifer, did not think he would be a good lover; he was too much aware of himself, she felt, although she had to admit that the procession of women through his life read like a Beautiful People’s Who’s Who.
The black velvet dress fitted her perfectly, the colour of the lace almost exactly matching the creamy texture of her skin.
Because she knew Mel would like it, she applied more make-up than normal, concentrating on emphasising her eyes, which because of their size and deep clarity of colour tended to look almost impossibly emerald.
It was in Paris that she had learned the importance of proper skin care, and she knew she was fortunate in having the type of bone structure which would never really age.
Again because Mel liked it, she wore her hair in a soft chignon, twisting into it a row of pearls which had been last year’s Christmas present to herself. She was just applying perfume to her throat and wrists when she heard the door, and gathering up the black velvet evening coat designed to be worn over her dress she hurried to open it.
Mel’s eyes widened appreciatively when he saw her. He bent his head towards her, but she moved slightly so that it was her cheek and not her mouth that he kissed.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said simply. ‘I wish we were spending the evening alone.’
His voice and eyes were heavy with pain, and India sensed that something was troubling him.
‘Not now,’ he forestalled her. ‘We’ll talk over dinner.’
He wasn’t driving his own car, but had come in a taxi. It had rained since India had left the salon, and the streets glistened like liquorice, reflecting the brilliantly lit store windows.
Neither of them spoke, although to India the atmosphere felt heavy with sadness.
DOWN a narrow street not far from Hyde Park, Jardine’s was in what had once been a small mews.
