James Chase: Not My Thing

‘Miss Lawrence only comes to these cocktails to do business,’ the President whispered. ‘It would be a bad time to interrupt her. This ghastly man is one of the important design cutters.’

‘I can wait,’ Jamison said, regarding this woman.

He thought she would be no more than thirty of age. He studied her slim figure and her breasts. Again he felt a quickening of his blood. Yes! This was a woman!

The President began waffling again about the coming recession, but Jamison didn’t listen. He waited, wondering when there was a time when he had waited for anyone.

Finally the woman patted the queer’s arm and turned.

‘Miss Lawrence,’ the President said quickly, ‘may I introduce Sherman Jamison?’

The name of Sherman Jamison, one of the richest and most successful tycoons, was well known.

For a moment, an impatient frown clouded Tarnia’s face, then she smiled.

God! Jamison thought, what a beautiful smile! What a woman!

She looked at him.

As they exchanged looks, Jamison knew he had not only fallen in love with her, but, by the way her eyes suddenly lit up, she had fallen in love with him.

On very rare occasions when a man and a woman meet, it happens that they immediately know that they have met true partners. This strange chemistry happened to Tarnia and Jamison.

There was a long pause, as they regarded each other, then Tarnia said quietly, ‘Nice meeting you, Mr Jamison. I’m sorry I have to leave. I have so much to do.’

Jamison shouldered the gaping President aside.

‘I am also leaving,’ he said. ‘Allow me to drive you anywhere.’

That happened a year ago.

Tarnia commuted from Paradise City to NYC twice a week. In spite of his business commitments, Jamison managed to see her and to dine with her at some discreet restaurant. When in Paradise City, they were even more careful.

Jamison had explained to Tarnia that his wife was a strict RC and, although he had discussed the possibility of divorce, his wife had flatly refused. She was prepared to have a legal separation, but she would not go against the rules of her church and give him a divorce.

Tarnia understood the problem. She knew that by staying with Jamison there could only be disaster, but she was hooked by him. He had a magnetic pull that was too much for her.

Jamison yearned for her. He wanted her to be his constant companion. What a marvellous mother she would make for his future son!

Tarnia refused gently, but firmly, to sleep with him, and this Jamison respected. He knew, unless he married her, this exciting, clandestine partnership must come, eventually, to an end.

Often they sat together in her luxurious five-room apartment in Paradise City: the big picture window looking down on the sea, the palms and the beach. They talked frankly to each other about themselves. To Jamison, it was a joy to relax in her company and to talk about himself and about her.

He had asked her why she hadn’t married before now. She was thirty years of age. She told him that marriage and a career didn’t mix in her thinking, and Jamison agreed.

‘I’m doing well,’ she had told him. ‘It has been a hard, tough struggle, but I’ve succeeded. I’ve had an occasional affair when I was young… teenage stuff. Now, most of my work is with the gay boys.’ She smiled her brilliant smile. ‘No temptation, until you came along.’

Then two weeks ago, he had a shock. They had finished an excellent dinner at a sea-food restaurant, when Tarnia said, looking lovely in the moonlight, ‘Sherry dear, we must now face facts. This can’t go on. You can’t get a divorce. Every time I see you, I suffer.’ As he began to protest, she raised her hand. ‘Please, listen. This morning I had a telephone call from Guiseppi, the best couturier in Rome. The fashion trend in Rome has enormously increased. Smart, rich women now shop exclusively in Rome. He wants me to be his chief designer. This is a fabulous opportunity. He is offering me an enormous salary and a rent-free apartment if I will go to Rome. He has given me a month to decide.’

Jamison listened, aware that his heart was fluttering uncomfortably.

‘Sherry dear, I can’t go on like this with you,’ Tarnia went on. ‘It is tearing me to pieces. I can’t even concentrate on my work for I keep thinking of you. So, Sherry, please be understanding. We can’t marry, and I must look to my future. I want us to part now. We will have lovely memories, but we must part.’

Jamison had faced many crises in the past, but this one was so unexpected and terrible, for a long moment, he was unable to say anything. Then his hard, ruthless mind moved into action.

‘Of course, I understand,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘You have a brilliant career before you. Before we make final decisions, there’s one question I would like to ask.’ He leaned forward, looking directly at her and taking her hand. ‘If I were free to marry you, would you be prepared to give up your career, to be the mother of my children, run my homes, go with me on business trips and still remain happy?’

She looked down at their clasped hands for a long moment, then she looked directly at him and smiled.

‘Yes, Sherry. I would give it all up, and be happy with you, and I would love to have your children.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘There it is. It can’t happen, so please, please forget me as I must forget you.’

Jamison nodded.

‘Give me a month,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that Shannon is becoming more understanding. I think I could still persuade her. Please give me a month.’

‘Sherry, you know you are trying to live in a pipe-dream,’ Tarnia said gently. ‘Pipe-dreams don’t exist. You will not be able to marry me, and I must look after myself. Let’s call it a day.’

‘Will you give me a month?’ Jamison asked, getting to his feet.

She hesitated, then nodded.

‘Yes, a month from today, I leave for Rome.’

‘Agreed.’ He gently touched her face, then left.

As he got into his Rolls, he knew now he had no alternative. He had to arrange to have Shannon murdered.

Lucky Lucan pulled up outside the offices of the Paradise City Herald. Although it was past 23.30, lights showed. This was the time when the newspaper was put to bed.

On familiar ground, he made his way up to the fifth floor where Sydney Drysdale could be found in a small office at the far end of a long corridor.

Drysdale was the Herald’s gossip columnist. He was a man with his nose and ear to the ground. What he didn’t know about the residents and visitors to the City was not worth knowing about. He had five leg-men feeding him continuous information and his scandal column was eagerly read.

With a brisk rap, Lucan opened the door and entered the office where Drysdale was at his desk, contemplating and using a tooth-pick, satisfied yet another column had been filed, and his thoughts were bent on having dinner, then home.

Many times in the past, Lucan had provided tit-bits of scandal, and the two men had a working arrangement. Drysdale always paid well for any scurrilous information Lucan had to give him.

Drysdale was about sixty years of age, immensely fat, balding, and he reminded Lucan of a big fat slug who had got among the cabbages. Untidily dressed with an open neck shirt, his eyes hidden behind pebble glasses, a dark-veined nose, Drysdale’s appearance belied his importance to the Herald.

‘Hi, Syd,’ Lucan said, closing the door.

With exaggerated care, Drysdale focused on Lucan.

‘Well, for God’s sake! Lucky!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were in jail.’

Lucan forced a smile. He found Drysdale’s sense of humour irritating.