Penny Jordan - An Unbroken Marriage

She ran a bath, and luxuriated in it for half an hour, feeling the strain of the day seeping away. With her newly shampooed hair wrapped in a towel she padded into her small kitchen to heat a bowl of soup. When she worked as she was doing at the moment her appetite seemed to desert her. She could have done without Celia’s dress right now; she already had enough orders to keep her going until the autumn.

She was becoming obsessed with the salon, she told herself wryly. Jenny had been saying only that morning that she never went out anywhere any longer. She had pleaded the excuse of there simply being not enough time, but Jenny had scoffed and quoted direfully, ‘All work and no play make’s a spinster dull and grey.’

Something must have happened to her sense of humour lately, India acknowledged, because the comment had jared.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jenny had said later when she apologised. ‘We all suffer from it from time to time.’

When she had unwisely asked, ‘Suffer from what?’ Jenny had eyed her assessingly and said, ‘Frustration, of course.’

Was that the answer? She wasn’t consciously aware of the need for a lover, but then perhaps she had grown so used to ignoring her natural urges that she was no longer attuned to them; and spring was notorious for having an odd effect on the lonely.

But she wasn’t lonely, she told herself. She had plenty of…

The phone rang, cutting across her thoughts. She padded into the hall and lifted the receiver,

‘Miss Lawson?’ a crisp male voice intoned decisively. ‘You may not remember me. Simon Herries.’

Her free hand clutched at the silk robe she had pulled on as though by some means he was able to see how little she was wearing. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart pounding heavily.

‘Yes, Mr Herries,’ she managed. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s not what you can do for me, but what you can do for Melisande,’ she heard him say in response.

‘Melisande?’ India frowned. ‘I thought she was in the States filming.’

‘Yes, she is, but she’s due back this weekend. I’m organising a welcome home party for her at her apartment and she particularly wanted me to invite you.’

‘Me? But…’

‘I hope you can make it. Several colleagues of mine from South-Mid Television will be there, and Melisande tells me that you’re quite keen to break into television designing.’

‘Not particularly.’

What on earth was it about this man that set her teeth on edge; brought the tiny hairs on her skin up in atavistic dislike?

‘Melisande will be very disappointed…’

‘I don’t honestly know if I can make it,’ India temporised. ‘I have rather a lot of work on at the moment… I’ll have to look in my diary.’

‘Very well. I’ll ring you at the salon tomorrow and check if you can make it,’ he told her coolly.

After he had rung off India found it impossible to settle. She wandered about the flat, touching things, fidgeting, full of a nervous energy which eventually drove her into her small study where she worked until at last tiredness began to claim her.

She told Jenny about the invitation over coffee the following morning.

‘You’re going, of course,’ her secretary exclaimed. ‘You lucky thing!’

‘Well…’ India demurred, ‘I don’t know if I can manage it, we’ve so much on at the moment.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Jenny told her briskly. ‘Look, I’ve got all the schedules here. You can’t work all day, half the night and all weekend as well!’

‘There’s Celia’s dress…’

‘Blow Celia! I don’t know why you’re wasting so much time on her anyway. If she wants to dress herself up like a plump shiny Christmas tree let her. Seriously, you ought to go. You’re the boss, I know, but I like my job and I feel I’ve got to do all I can to protect it, which includes making sure my boss doesn’t kill herself through overwork. One party; half a dozen hours out of your life…’

Put like that it did make her reluctance seem a little foolish, India was forced to admit. And why was she so reluctant? She didn’t know; she only knew that it had something to do with Simon Herries. Something; didn’t she mean everything?

‘You know,’ Jenny exclaimed judiciously, when they had finished their coffee, ‘I think you’re scared to go. Are you, India?’

‘No… No, of course not. Why should I be?’ Why indeed?

The phone rang as she finished speaking.

‘It’s Simon Herries,’ Jenny, who had taken the call, announced to her in a whisper. ‘Shall I tell him you’re going?’

‘I’ll tell him myself, thanks very much,’ India replied dryly, taking the proffered receiver.

‘Are you able to make it?’ he asked without preamble, obviously not seeing any need to waste time in unnecessary conversation.

Conscious of Jenny in the room, India forced herself to sound calm and relaxed.

‘Yes… yes, I think so.’

‘Good. Melisande would have been disappointed if you couldn’t. She particularly wanted you to come. So did I.’

Why should her pulses race simply because of those three casually spoken words?

‘Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot. Don’t bother with a taxi, I’ll pick you up. Eight, at your flat—I know the address.’

He had hung up before India could say a word.

‘Well,’ Jenny demanded, ‘are you going?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘Great. Now all you have to do is to decide what to wear.’

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