Sandra Marton - Yesterday And Forever

‘I wish I could,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but Miranda was just leaving.’

‘Nonsense.’ Sophie Prescott drew out a chair and settled herself into it, despite her nephew’s glower. ‘Surely she can stay long enough to keep me company while I have my tea? Isn’t that right, Miss Stuart?’

‘—I—’ Miranda swallowed drily. ‘I wish I could. But—’

‘Good. Now tell me, where did you two meet?’

‘Aunt Sophie, for God’s sake—’

‘Are you an artist, Miss Stuart?’

Miranda’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s right. I am. How did you—?’

Sophie laughed. ‘My dear, I spent my youth in la belle Paris. I used to haunt the streets of Montmartre—Hemingway lived there then, and Gertrude Stein, and, of course, there were all the artists—Picasso and Chagall…’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘You take me right back to those days,’ she said dreamily. ‘The way you look, you could have stepped out of a Parisian atelier.’

‘Or an Amsterdam studio,’ Daniel said drily.

His aunt nodded happily. ‘Exactly. Is that why you’re in Amsterdam, dear? To paint?’

Miranda looked at the man opposite her. ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his, ‘that’s right. I’m here on a Harrington scholarship.’

‘A Harrington fellow? Is that what you are?’

Miranda smiled. ‘Why, yes. But how—?’

‘I knew a Harrington fellow once. It was in 1934—or was it ’24?’ The old woman paused, and her face took on a sudden look of fragility. ‘I can’t remember which.’

‘It’s all right, Aunt Sophie.’ Daniel’s voice was soft. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I just wish I could recall…’ His aunt shook herself. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘tell me, Miss Stuart, are the fund’s trustees still notorious for keeping their recipients mired in poverty?’

Miranda began to laugh. ‘You mean it’s always been like that?’

‘Oh, my, yes. The chap I knew never was certain where his next meal was coming from. He was forever afraid he’d end up sleeping on the street. He was lucky he had a good physique.’

‘Aunt Sophie. I don’t think Miss Stuart wants to hear—’

‘But it’s true, Daniel, he was lucky. He was much in demand as a model for the more established artists.’ The old woman smiled at Miranda. ‘I’ll just bet that’s how you supplement your income, dear, with that pretty face of yours. You model, don’t you?’

A rush of triumph swept through Miranda’s veins. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes met Daniel’s. ‘I do, indeed. I paint, and when I get the chance I pose. It’s the only way I have of making any extra money.’

The conversation took a different turn after that. Sophie Prescott began talking about something else entirely, and Miranda managed to keep up her end of the conversation, talking and laughing with the old woman while Daniel sat silent, but all the time one thought kept hammering inside her head.

There you are, Mr Thorpe, she kept thinking. You owe me an apology. Why don’t you turn towards me so I can see your face? You must be as embarrassed as—

The breath caught in her throat. Daniel’s head swung towards her, as if he’d heard her silent imprecations, but what she saw in his face was not what she’d expected. He wasn’t embarrassed; he was taut with barely contained rage.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said, his voice slicing across his aunt’s. He shoved back his chair. ‘Miss Stuart has to be leaving.’

‘Such formality.’ Sophie smiled. ‘Surely we may call you Miranda, mayn’t we, dear?’

Miranda’s mouth had gone dry while she’d been watching Daniel. ‘Yes. I—’

‘Can’t she stay for dinner?’ The old woman’s smile faltered. ‘I was hoping that—’

‘She has to leave,’ Daniel said. ‘Isn’t that right, Miranda?’ His voice twisted her name a little until it bore a touch of menace.

‘Yes,’ she said, scraping back her chair, ‘I—I do. Goodbye, Mrs Prescott. It’s been lovely meeting you. Don’t get up, Mr Thorpe,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Daniel’s mouth thinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that,’ he said coldly. He rose from his chair and touched his aunt’s shoulder lightly. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Do stop by again,’ Sophie Prescott called, but Miranda was already hurrying from the dining-room. She had seen enough of Daniel’s temper to last her a lifetime. Whatever it was that had angered him now, it had nothing to do with her. She wanted no part of it, no part of him.

He caught up to her in the lobby. His hand clasped her elbow, and she rose on her toes as he rushed her out of the front door and into a narrow alley that ran the length of the hotel.

‘Let go of me,’ she spat. ‘I’m tired of being manhandled by you.’

Daniel spun her around. ‘What the hell was that supposed to be?’ he demanded furiously.

Miranda stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Playing on the memories of an old woman—how could you do that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That performance in there.’ His face twisted. ‘“A Harrington fellow,”’ he said, his voice rising in cruel mimicry of hers. He caught her by the shoulders. ‘That poor old woman tossed you a line and you grabbed it so fast that it made my head spin.’

Miranda’s face reddened. ‘For your information,’ she said coldly, ‘I am a Harrington fellow. I’m an artist. I tried to tell you that.’

‘An artist.’ He laughed coldly. ‘Yeah, you’re an artist, all right. Performance art, that’s the kind of art you do.’

‘Let go of me,’ she said, struggling to free herself.

Daniel’s hands clasped her more tightly. ‘Your art work takes place in beds, darling, and I’ve no doubt you’re very good at what you do.’

‘You bastard!’ Miranda’s voice shook with emotion. ‘And to think I decided you had a heart under that—that stuffed shirt…’

‘Hell, you’ve been selling yourself short,’ he said, thrusting his jaw forward. ‘Why should you ply your trade in smelly rooms like Mueller’s? Whoring is legal in Amsterdam, remember? Why don’t you get yourself a card and go to work? With your talent, you could probably pull in a thousand guilders a night.’

She stared at him, as stunned by his enraged words as she was by the pain they’d sent knifing through her heart. It was her shocked awareness of that pain that gave her the strength to wrench free of his grasp and slap him across the face with all the power she possessed.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl so that she could observe his reaction to what she’d done almost as if she were a bystander. His face registered a stunned look of disbelief, his head jolted back slowly, and the mark of her hand began to bloom in livid relief upon his cheek.

‘You bitch,’ he said thickly.

She turned, stumbling, trying to get away, terrified of what she saw reflected in his eyes, but he was too quick and powerful. He caught her easily and spun her to him, his arms sweeping around her, one hand twisting into the midnight tumble of her hair, holding her still, despite her frantic efforts to get loose.

‘You play a dangerous game, Miranda,’ he whispered.

‘Let go of me!’

He pushed her back against the rough brick wall. ‘I like to play games, too.’ His voice was low and threatening. ‘And I always play to win.’

His mouth slanted down over hers, smothering her outraged protest. She twisted against him and he retaliated by leaning into her, pinning her against the unyielding wall with his weight. She felt engulfed by his body. His lips moved against hers, demanding response but getting none, and he drew back.