Sara Craven - Dark Summer Dawn

Not that she had ever seriously planned to become a model. She had never regarded her own looks as startling in any way, yet it was Jos who had first suggested the idea while she was still at school. He had come to the school to visit his cousin Dinah, who was Lisa’s greatest friend, and taken them both out to lunch. He was already a name in the photographic world, and Lisa wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been flattered by his interest, but at the same time she had seen her life running along very different lines.

It had been thanks to Jos that she had earned her first big break when she had been featured as the Amber Girl, advertising a new and exclusive cosmetic range. With her long golden brown hair, and wide hazel eyes which could take on green or golden tones depending on what colour she was wearing, Lisa had been a natural choice on which to centre the campaign. It had been an amazing experience for her. Special exotic costumes in shades of gold and amber had been designed for her, and the effect against the faint honey tan of her skin had been stunning. They had ranged from sinuous and semi-transparent caftans in silks and chiffons to the briefest concessions to decency in gold mesh and beading. Her face had stared from the pages of every glossy magazine, her eyes seeming to widen endlessly, while the delicate mouth curled a little, giving an effect which was at the same time innocent and sensual. The French fashion house which was launching the Amber range had been ecstatic, and sales had boomed.

But Jos had seriously advised her against taking part in any follow-up.

‘You’ll be typed if you do. Everyone will associate you with Amber and nothing else,’ he’d warned. ‘That’s fine for a while, but what happens when you get tired of it—or they do?’

She had taken his advice and never regretted it, because offers of work had come flooding in. But she liked working with Jos best. He had been the first to recognise her potential, and she would always be grateful for that. She’d been lucky. From stories she had heard from other girls, the fringes of the modelling profession were grubby in the extreme.

Finding the flat had been another piece of luck, she thought, stepping under the shower and letting the warm water cascade through her hair and down her body. It wasn’t cheap, but with Dinah, who shared it with her, landing a part in a long-running West End comedy almost as soon as she had left drama school, they had few financial problems.

Lisa reached for the shampoo and began to lather her hair. Her long sleep had done her good, and now she was hungry. Presently she would make herself a meal, and open her letters while she ate and dried her hair. Not that there would be anything very exciting in her mail, she reminded herself. Most homecomings were attended by bills and circulars. But she had other friends, besides Dinah, with whom she maintained an infrequent but faithful correspondence. Clare might have had her baby by now, she reflected, and Frances could have made up her mind whether or not she wanted that job in the States.

She rinsed her hair and turned off the shower. She dried herself and put on an elderly white towelling bathrobe. It wasn’t a glamorous piece of nightwear, but it was reasonably cosy for the sort of evening she had in mind, relaxing by the fire and maybe later listening to a radio play.

Mrs Hargreaves had stocked the fridge and the vegetable rack on her last visit, so Lisa, a towel swathed round her wet hair, grilled herself a steak and made a salad to go with it.

She hadn’t an enormous appetite—it had been something which had alarmed her stepfather when she had first gone to live at Stoniscliffe. ‘Doesn’t eat enough to keep a fly alive,’ he’d grumbled at each mealtime. But she liked simple food, well cooked, and was thankful she didn’t have to fight a weight problem.

When she had eaten and cleared away, she carried her coffee over to the sofa and curled up with her letters. As she had suspected, most of them were in buff envelopes, and she grimaced slightly as she turned them over. And then she saw there was a letter from Julie.

Lisa stared down at the square white envelope, and the familiar sprawling handwriting, her brows drawing together in a swift frown. Instinct told her that Julie would only be writing to her because of some kind of crisis, and reminded her that it would probably be something she would rather not know about. Such knowledge in the past had always worked to her disadvantage.

Unless it was about Chas, she thought, a sudden feeling of panic seizing her. He hadn’t been well, she knew from his own rare letters, and it had been a while since she’d heard from him, apart from the usual formal exchange of cards at Christmas.

She went on looking at the unopened envelope, concern for Chas battling with a desire to tear Julie’s letter into small pieces unread. She owed her young stepsister nothing, she thought vehemently. In fact, the boot was very much on the other foot.

But Chas was different. She had never met with anything but kindness and consideration from him, and she owed him something in return. Oh, not the money he had paid into her bank account each quarter, she thought fiercely, although she could have repaid it easily because she never touched it. When she had left Stoniscliffe, she had sworn she would never accept another penny of Riderwood money. She would be independent of them all, especially ….

She stopped abruptly, closing her mind, wiping it clean like an unwanted tape. She tried not to think of Stoniscliffe ever, because it was forbidden territory to her now. She had promised herself she would never go back, although her conscience would not allow her to lose all contact with Chas who had been deeply wounded by her decision to leave. And the awful truth was it had been impossible to tell him why she had to go.

Slowly and reluctantly she opened the envelope and extracted the sheet of notepaper inside.

‘Darling Lisa.’ Julie’s exuberant writing straggled halfway across the page. ‘Guess what? I’m going to be married! I’m actually going to amaze everyone and do the right thing for once. It’s Tony Bainbridge, of course, and Father is over the moon. The wedding is next month, and I want you to be my bridesmaid—maid of honour—what the hell! Please, please say you will, darling. The arrangements are driving me up the wall already, and Mama Bainbridge is threatening to take over. Please come home, Lisa. I need you. Surely you can have some time off. I’ll expect to hear from you. Love, Julie.’

The crunch came at the end, obviously scribbled as an afterthought. ‘Dane, of course, is going to give me away.’

Lisa sat very still, staring down at the sheet of paper, then her hand closed convulsively on it, reducing it to a crumpled ball.

She said aloud, ‘No,’ and then raising her voice slightly, ‘God, no!’

She was shivering suddenly and she pulled the dressing gown further around her, and turned the gas fire full on, just as if the chill which had enveloped her was a purely physical one and could be dispelled by such homely means.

Running her tongue round dry lips, she made herself think of Julie. Of Julie going to be married to the young man Chas had always hoped would be her husband. Julie’s decision might not amaze everyone as she had jokingly predicted, but Lisa found it hard to accept, just the same. It had been two years since she’d seen Julie, and she supposed her stepsister could have matured considerably in that time. But remembering the young, wild Julie she had always known, it seemed almost incredible.

She tried to remember Tony Bainbridge. He had always been there when they were growing up, because his father owned the neighbouring estate, but he had never made a very lasting impression on Lisa. He was fair, she thought, pleasant and undeniably wealthy. Quite a catch for most girls. But for Julie, daughter of a wealthy industrialist herself—spoiled, wilful Julie?