CATHY WILLIAMS - The Baby Verdict

‘Robert,’ Jessica informed him stoutly, ‘is a sweetie.’ And I’m not normally prone to biting sarcasm, she thought to herself, but then again the rest of the human race don’t provoke me quite like you do.

‘Oh, good grief.’ He closed his knife and fork and signalled for another bottle of wine.

Had they consumed one already? She had barely noticed what she had been drinking, and, looking down, she realised that she had done justice to her plate of food, also without noticing.

‘And just to clear the air,’ he informed her, ‘I don’t walk around treating women like second-rate citizens.’

‘I’m sure you don’t.’

‘That’s right, so you can wipe that supercilious expression off your face.’

‘Look, there’s really no need...’

‘Rachel, just for the record, started off as a bit of fun, but I discovered that she wasn’t as content as I thought just to have a good time. Pretty soon, she...she...’

‘Wanted more?’ Jessica said helpfully.

‘Oh, you’re aware of the phenomenon, are you?’

‘Not personally.’

‘Well...’ he shrugged and adopted a hangdog expression ‘...what can a man do?’

The blue eyes scoured her face with boyish bewilderment.

‘Oh, please!’ Jessica told him awkwardly, recognising that this was the essence of true charm. Bruno Carr, arrogant and self-confident that he was, would never veer into the arena of cruelty, because he genuinely liked women. His natural instincts were to persuade, even when seduction played no part in a hidden agenda. The ability to flirt was as inherent with him as the ability to breathe. He did it without thinking, which was why he was so adept at it

‘Women.’ He raised both shoulders expressively. ‘Sometimes I don’t think I understand them at all.’

‘Really. Now I wonder why I find that so hard to believe.’

‘Rachel started talking about the importance of families, of having children, the benefits of settling down.’

‘Poor, misguided girl,’ Jessica said without a trace of sympathy in her voice for him. ‘And what a dreadful predicament for you, I’m sure. One minute, you have a willing, vivacious partner, the next minute she’s gazing into jeweller shops and dropping hints about permanence.’

‘I’m not the marrying sort,’ he said. ‘Some men are and some men aren’t.’

‘You mean it’s all in the genes?’

‘Whereas all women are. Eventually.’

‘Ah. I see.’ She nodded slowly. In a strange, masochistic way, and even though she still resented his high-handed behaviour and was appalled by his train of thought, she found that she was enjoying this conversation. She must be mad.

‘I mean,’ he said, ‘you come across as being the archetypal career woman, but, if you were to be brutally honest with yourself, wouldn’t you agree that when you see the odd pram being pushed you get a certain pang?’

‘What kind of pang?’

‘A pang of longing. Something to do with a biological clock, I gather.’ He poured another glass of wine for them both.

‘Well, not that I’ve ever recognised, but I suppose if your theory’s true then I must subconsciously have that pang lurking in there somewhere.’ How come the conversation was suddenly featuring her in the starring role? Her mind was feeling a little unreliable from the wine.

‘And you don’t?’

Jessica shook her head and frowned. ‘I thought we were talking about you,’ she said, thinking furiously.

‘We were, but then somehow we’ve ended up talking about you. I think it’s important to have some insight into the people who work with me.’

‘You mean you enjoy prying into their lives?’

He grinned, and then laughed, and she gave him a wry smile in return.

This was beginning to feel just a little too dangerous for her liking, although she had no idea why. They were simply, at least for the moment, getting along. She got along with lots of people. Most of the human race, in fact. So why did this make her feel uneasy? When he raised the bottle to her glass, she shook her head and covered it with the palm of her hand.

‘I’ve drunk enough already,’ she told him honestly. ‘Any more and I’ll be fit for nothing in the morning. I don’t have much of a head for alcohol.’

‘Lack of practice?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You mean you don’t spend the occasional night seeing the dawn rise with a glass of champagne in your hand?’

‘Not routinely, no,’ she said. Her hand slipped from round the rim of the glass to the stern, and she curled her fingers lightly around it, not meeting his eye.

Did he do that sort of thing on a regular basis? The blonde bombshell looked like the sort of woman who appreciated overblown gestures along those lines, and presumably she was merely an indication of the type of female he went out with.

‘Actually,’ she said, looking at him, ‘I thought people only did that sort of thing in third-rate movies.’

His mouth twitched, but at least he didn’t burst into laughter. She had a sneaking suspicion that if he had her remark would somehow have backfired in her face, making her appear dull and unadventurous.

‘I take it you don’t approve...?’

‘Does it matter what I think or not? Oh, I forgot, you like to have insight into your employees. Well, as a matter of fact, I neither approve nor disapprove. I just think that it’s not my style.’

‘And what is your style?’

His voice was a low murmur and his eyes on her were suddenly intense. She felt her skin break out in a faint film of perspiration. It was the wine, of course. Between them, they had managed to drink the better part of two bottles, and that simply was not something she was accustomed to doing. One glass, yes. But virtually a bottle? She was surprised that all she saw on his face was a look of curious interest. She should rightfully be seeing three faces, all blurry, and all with different expressions.

‘Work!’ she told him, plucking the word from out of the blue.

‘Work,’ he repeated obligingly. ‘I take it that my limited time on getting insight has been exhausted?’

Jessica looked at her watch and realised that they had been at the restaurant far longer than she had imagined.

‘I must be getting back!’ she exclaimed.

‘Before the carriage turns into a pumpkin?’ he asked with dry amusement.

‘I don’t have a carriage,’ she answered, choosing to ignore any possible innuendo. ‘In fact, I shall have to take a taxi back to my place. I only hope I can find one.’

‘Why don’t you walk back with me to the office, and I can give you a lift home?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ A lift home? She thought not. Whether it was the drink or not, the night seemed to have taken her onto unfamiliar ground. She had no desire to prolong the experience. Unfamiliar ground was territory she felt should be better left unexplored. She bad never been able to control her background. She had watched in helpless silence as her parents had waged their unremitting cold war and as soon as she had been able to she had left, first to university, then to London. She had learned to exercise control over her life and that had always suited her.

Bruno Carr, however, was not a man who slotted easily into any sort of category she could handle.

As she reached for her briefcase and her bag she realised that the conversation between them had had all the elements of a free fall. How had that happened?

She could feel his eyes on her, and she refused to look at him, at least until she had managed to get some of her thoughts in order.

‘It’ll be a damned sight more convenient if I give you a lift home,’ he said.

‘No, thank you. Honestly.’ Why was she in such a panic at the suggestion? It made sense. ‘Perhaps I ought to telephone for a taxi.’ She looked around her, searching for inspiration.