The Course of True Love Page 11

  ‘Do sit down,’ advised Mr van Borsele. ‘We have time for a drink before Tilly dishes up.’

  Claribel was still getting over her surprise; she hadn’t expected such a lovely home and certainly she had been taken aback by Tilly and her down-to-earth Cockney manner. Mr van Borsele handed her a glass and said thoughtfully, ‘You are surprised…’ He was interrupted by the telephone on the table at his elbow. He lifted the receiver, listened for a moment without speaking and then beckoned Claribel and handed it to her. Mystified, she took it from him silently. It was Irma.

  ‘Who is that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Claribel Brown,’ said Claribel in her sweetest voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I want to speak to Marc.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is in the shower,’ said Claribel. ‘Can I give him a message?’

  ‘I might have known you’d be there,’ said the sharp voice into her ear. ‘Are you really going to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’re deciding the date this evening.’

  ‘It’s so sudden,’ said Irma suspiciously.

  ‘Love at first sight, you know,’ said Claribel in what she hoped was a convincing voice. ‘I must go,’ she finished naughtily, ‘I haven’t finished dressing!’

  She put down the receiver and looked across at Mr van Borsele, who was watching her with a thoughtful expression. ‘I could hardly believe my ears! If I didn’t know you better I would have believed every word you uttered.’

  She had the grace to blush. ‘Well, I had to say something on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘I would be interested to hear what you might tell her if you had the time to consider…’

  She took a heartening sip of sherry. ‘Well, you really are too bad. There was no earthly reason why I should be made to answer the phone.’

  ‘My apologies, Claribel, but you must admit that it was effective.’

  He smiled so disarmingly that she found herself smiling, too.

  Tilly was a splendid cook. They dined in an atmosphere of cordiality, doing justice to her watercress soup, Dover sole and rhubarb pie and cream. Over coffee they decided where they should go next.

  ‘Now, where do you suppose a newly engaged couple, very much in love, would go?’ asked Mr van Borsele.

  She considered. ‘Somewhere to dance.’

  ‘The London Hilton. Not quite my choice, but sooner or later I believe that one meets everyone there.’ He fished in a pocket and gave her the ring. ‘Put that on, there’s a good girl.’ He raised his voice. ‘Tilly, show Miss Brown where she can tidy herself.’

  Claribel was beginning to enjoy herself; she had no idea that Marc could be such fun. It surprised her, on thinking about it, that she had ever disliked him or thought him cold and reserved. Of course, she mused as she did her face in the splendidly equipped cloakroom, once she had fulfilled her role of fiancée and Irma had been dispatched for good, he might possibly revert to his old manner, but in the meantime it was a nice change from her little flat.

  The Hilton was crowded but they were given a good table. Mr van Borsele ordered champagne, but they didn’t drink it at once, taking instead to the dance floor. They danced well, the pair of them, not talking until he said softly to the top of her head, ‘The gods are with us; Irma is here, sitting at a table with half a dozen others. Could you look up at me in an adoring manner when I give you a dig?’

  She gave a little splutter of laughter and then, at a sharp poke in the ribs, smiled up at him. She was quite unprepared for the look on his face; tender and loving and somehow exciting. It was gone almost as soon as she saw it. When she looked again he was looking over her head, his features austere; she must have imagined it, she thought uneasily.

  They went back to their table presently and he said, ‘About tomorrow: I’ve seats for the theatre—Starlight Express. We’ll dine at the Connaught first. And on Friday we’ll drive out of town. I must be at Jerome’s on Thursday evening so I’ll come round to your place. Saturday I’ll get a table at the Ritz; we can dance there.’

  ‘And when do I get the chance to wash my hair?’ added Claribel with a slight edge to her voice. ‘Or for that matter have a few hours to myself?’

  ‘On Sunday, I’ll fetch you about ten o’clock and take you to Tisbury.’

  ‘And supposing I don’t wish to go?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You can sit and drowse in your father’s delightful garden and mull over the week. I’ll pick you up at about seven o’clock.’

  ‘What happens when people don’t want to do what you have planned?’

  He gave her a bland look. ‘But, my dear, they do, and if by any chance they don’t, I persuade them.’

  She said slowly, ‘You know, when I first met you…’

  ‘You didn’t like me!’ he finished for her. ‘You’re still not sure, are you?’ He gave her a little mocking smile. ‘Shall we dance again?’

  Presently he took her home, refusing nicely enough to go in and bidding her a cheerful goodnight without any reference to the evening they had spent together.

  Of course she saw him the next morning for she had to go to the intensive care unit to start little Rita on her exercises, but beyond a civil good morning they didn’t speak and when she returned at midday and later again in the afternoon, he was operating. It was Miss Flute who gave her his message.

  ‘You’re to be ready for six-forty-five,’ she told Claribel. She looked as though she wanted to ask questions but she didn’t.

  It was Claribel who said, ‘It’s all right, Miss Flute, I’m helping Mr van Borsele with a small problem, that’s all.’

  Miss Flute eyed the pretty face smiling so nicely at her. She was fond of Claribel, who worked hard and didn’t grumble, and she cherished a secret passion for Mr van Borsele; she had been hoping that she was taking a small part in a romance between them, but neither of them had evinced the least sign of it. She sighed and reminded Claribel that Mrs Snow was waiting.

  Luckily it was a day when the physio department finished its work on time. Claribel, home in good time, spent ten minutes or so deciding what she was going to wear. A short dress, she decided, dark blue crêpe-de-Chine, pleated from a yoke, with long tight sleeves and an important belt which emphasised her slim waist. It was especially good as a background for her golden hair and green eyes and proved to be exactly right for the evening. In bed, hours later, she thought with satisfaction of Mr van Borsele’s quick look of approval. The evening had been a success, too. She had never been to the Connaught before; its quiet elegance had pleased her and, besides, Mr van Borsele had put himself out to be an interesting companion. Best of all, Starlight Express had been better than she had expected. A heavenly few hours, she had to admit, and then fell to wondering if he expected supper on the following evening. He had warned her that he might be late—after seven o’clock. Sandwiches, she decided drowsily, or, if she had time, sausage rolls. Or had she better cook a hot meal? She slept on the problem.

  They saw nothing of each other the next day. Mr van Borsele was in theatre for hours on end and there was no sign of him when she went to put little Rita through her exercises. Back at the flat she made tea for herself, saw to Enoch and Toots, made a batch of sausage rolls and, after a little thought, another batch, this time of apple turnovers.

  By seven o’clock she had the table set with plates and coffee mugs, a bowl of fruit and the apple turnovers; the sausage rolls were keeping hot in the oven. By eight o’clock she was getting restless; she was also getting hungry. About then she ate a sausage roll and sat down to read, only to give that up presently to ponder if he was coming after all. Presumably not, she decided, as the clock struck nine. In ten minutes, she promised herself she would have her own supper, lock the door and get ready for bed.

  She was actually on the way to the kitchen when the door suffered its usual hefty thump. She went to let him in, prudently leaving the chain up and taking her time about undoing it. But she was sorry about that when she saw his face. He was t
ired, weary to his bones, and somehow it was all the more obvious because he was his usual immaculate self. The kind of man, she reflected, who would shave in the middle of the Sahara.

  She answered his terse, ‘I’m late,’ with a soothing murmur.

  ‘Coffee first?’ she asked and drew the armchair nearer the gas fire. She handed him his coffee and sat down quietly opposite him. Only when he had drunk almost all the coffee did she ask, ‘A bad day? Not little Rita, I hope?’

  ‘She’s fine. And nothing went wrong; it was a long list…’

  ‘That girl with the fractured pelvis?’

  He told her about it and she listened quietly. Finally he said, ‘What a good listener you are, Claribel.’

  ‘I’m interested. When did you last eat?’

  ‘I had a sandwich around lunchtime.’

  She fed him the sausage rolls and then the apple turnovers washed down with more coffee, and when he had finished she said, ‘Now you must go home and go to bed. Have you a list in the morning?’

  ‘No, only rounds and Out-patients at two o’clock.’ He smiled a little. ‘You sound like my old nanny. Shall we go somewhere quiet tomorrow evening? Shutter will be taking over for twenty-hour hours so I should be free by six o’clock. I’ll come straight here from Jerome’s and you can come back to the flat with me; we’ll go from there.’

  It was remarkable what food and drink had done for him; he looked quite his old self again. She agreed willingly enough. ‘No dressing up?’ she wanted to know.

  He shook his head. ‘We’ll find a restaurant somewhere and eat whatever they’ve got.’ He stood up and stretched hugely. ‘Thank you, Claribel, you’re a good girl.’ He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Goodnight.’

  When he had gone she tidied away the plates and mugs, ate another sausage roll and went finally to bed, with the cats lying comfortably on her feet. They weren’t supposed to do that but somehow she was glad of their company.

  She was in the physio department all the next day except for her short spells with Rita. Mrs Green went to Out-patients in the afternoon and Claribel was kept busy until it was time to go home. Once there, she saw to the cats, put everything ready for the morning, showered and changed into a jacket and a skirt with a plain silk blouse, did her face with care, patted her golden hair to pristine tidiness and sat down to wait.

  Not for long; it was barely six o’clock as she got into the car. Traffic was heavy and it took longer than usual to reach Mr van Borsele’s flat. As he drew up before the door Claribel said sharply, ‘That’s Irma—coming down the steps.’

  He thrust his hand into a pocket and gave her the ring, opened her door and got out himself to come round and take her arm as she got out, too.

  ‘Remember that you love me to distraction,’ he said softly as they crossed the pavement.

  Irma stood watching them. Mr van Borsele greeted her without any sign of embarrassment and after a moment Claribel said, ‘Hello, Irma. Did you want to see us?’

  Irma said nothing but flung away to where an MG sports car stood. She got in and drove off without a word.

  ‘Do you suppose she is tiring?’ asked Claribel with interest.

  ‘Let us hope so. Come in; you can have a drink while I change.’

  Tilly welcomed her with a beaming smile as he settled her in an easy chair in the sitting-room, poured her a drink and disappeared, to reappear very shortly with a brisk, ‘Well, are you ready?’

  For all the world as though I had been the one who had kept him waiting, thought Claribel with a touch of peevishness.

  The peevishness disappeared, though, as they drove out of London. He took her to the Waterside at Bray, elegant and charming and overlooking the river, and even on a rather chilly summer evening, it was a delight to have drinks and watch the countryside. They dined presently: a pâté of fish followed by duck with stuffed vegetables and, to finish, lemon tart for her while Mr van Borsele contented himself with the cheeseboard. They lingered over coffee and Claribel allowed a feeling of well-being to sweep over her; life, after all, was really rather nice and her companion was rather nice, too. She rose reluctantly when he suggested that they had better return. ‘I’ve a list as long as an arm tomorrow,’ he observed. ‘I want to get as much done before I go back.’

  ‘Go back?’ She was startled. ‘Are you going back to Holland?’

  ‘Well, yes. I only come here from time to time, you know…’

  She did know; he specialised in several techniques which meant that he was in demand in countries other than his own. All the same, she said, ‘So you don’t need to bother about Irma once you’ve gone back home.’

  They were in the car now, already on the motorway on the way to London.

  ‘I’m not sure about that. She’s bored and spoilt and has nothing better to do than follow her own inclinations. If she feels like it she could follow me wherever I choose to go. And I’m sorry if that sounds conceited. My hope is that she will set eyes on some other man and develop a fancy for him.’

  He threw her a sideways look. ‘Claribel, when I go back to Holland I should like you to come with me.’

  She gaped at him. ‘Me? Go with you? Whatever for?’

  ‘It would, I think, clinch the matter. You can stay with my grandmother.’

  ‘I don’t know your grandmother,’ snapped Claribel, much put out, ‘and I refuse, so please don’t mention it again.’

  He said silkily, ‘I imagined that would be your reaction, but just let the idea simmer, will you?’

  ‘It’s impossible. I’ve no holiday due, and what about Enoch and Toots?’

  He didn’t answer, which was most unsatisfactory. Nor would he come in when they reached her flat. He saw her to the door, reminded her that they were to go dancing on the following evening, held out his hand for the ring and drove away, apparently quite unconcerned at her refusal.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CLARIBEL spent a good deal of the night worrying away at Mr van Borsele’s strange request. Well, it hadn’t really been a request, rather a statement of something which he had taken for granted. And for once he had gone too far. All he was thinking of was his own convenience. And if his grandmother was half as bossy as he was, the visit would be nothing less than sheer misery. She lay picturing herself sitting between the pair of them, two haughty noses and two pairs of dark eyes boring into her, organising her days to suit themselves… And more than likely Granny wouldn’t speak a word of English; she had no intention of letting the ridiculous idea simmer.

  She spent Saturday shopping and cleaning her little home and composing cool, logical speeches to make to Mr van Borsele when he came. It was a great pity that when he did, he gave her no opportunity to say a word about it. His talk was of ordinary things as he whisked her off to the Ritz to dine and dance until the small hours. After a brief period of deciding coolness on her part, he wanted to know if she was sulking about something. ‘And if you are, you are to stop it at once, for Irma has just come in.’

  They were sitting at a table which had a splendid view of the restaurant, and where they could be seen. She had promised to play a part for him and she was an honest girl; she gave him a dazzling smile just in time. Irma was passing their table and stopped.

  She said sulkily, ‘Together again? Have you moved in with him, then?’

  A faint pink covered Claribel’s cheeks. ‘Oh, hello, Irma.’ Her voice was sugary-sweet and Mr van Borsele’s mouth quivered ever so slightly.

  ‘Well, no, I’d love to but I work at a hospital, you know; it would take me too long to get to and fro each day. But that won’t be for much longer…’

  Mr van Borsele’s voice was very smooth. ‘I shall be going back shortly and of course Claribel will go with me.’ The bland expression didn’t alter when Claribel gave him a sharp kick under the table; on the shin and painful. She was still smiling but only for Irma’s benefit.

  ‘Back to Holland?’ asked Irma.

  Mr van Borsele gave her a look of w
ell-bred surprise. ‘Naturally. That is my home.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Claribel chipped in, ‘How long are you staying in London?’ Her smile was wide; there was nothing in her quiet voice to suggest the violence she would like to do to the wretched girl.

  ‘What you mean is,’ said Irma rudely, ‘that there is no point in me trying to get Marc away from you.’

  ‘Something like that,’ agreed Claribel. She turned her green eyes upon him. ‘Darling, could we order? I’m famished.’

  She suspected that behind his impassive politeness he was amused, but his, ‘Of course, dearest. I’m sure Irma will excuse us,’ couldn’t be faulted.

  Irma flounced away to her own table. He sat down again and, just in case she should turn round to look at them, took Claribel’s ringed hand in his. ‘You would be a splendid receptionist for a busy man,’ he observed. ‘Would you consider giving up your job and coming to work for me?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Claribel spoke a shade tartly. ‘And anyway, I’ve not got the slightest idea how to be a receptionist.’

  ‘It’s a gift one is born with: the ability to tell whopping great fibs with the voice of a dove and to smile like an angel at the same time.’ He added blandly, ‘I’d pay you handsomely.’

  She withdrew her hand from his and studied the menu she had been handed. ‘For two pins I’d get up and go back to the flat.’

  ‘By all means, but do eat something first. What about duo de langoustines, and ragout of salmon and scallops to follow, and I think champagne, don’t you? After all, we have something to celebrate.’

  ‘What?’ asked Claribel. Her thoughts were on the delicious dinner suggested to her and she had forgotten to be tart.

  ‘The future,’ said Mr van Borsele at his blandest.

  That sounded harmless enough; she settled down to enjoy her dinner. It was every bit as good as it had sounded, and the iced curacao mousse with strawberries, which followed the scallops and salmon served with watercress sauce, mushrooms and truffles, left her in a pleasant state of repletion which, however, didn’t prevent her getting up to dance at his suggestion with every sign of pleasure.