Let other people play their dangerous games of love: she would settle for placidity and contentment. And Martin.
She spent the morning half concentrating on her work, half berating herself for being distracted when she found herself unable to concentrate, but it was helpful not having Ross around. It gave her time to collect herself together, and when he strode back into the office at two-thirty she could quite calmly look at him, hand him his messages, ask him how the meeting went, without revealing the slightest flicker of emotion.
After two days, she began to think that she had imagined everything. Had he really looked at her with that dark, mocking charm or had it been some kind of temporary illusion brought on by who knew what? She had been in a fragile state of mind after their conversation about Martin and she could understand how she might have over-reacted to some perfectly innocent compliment, some perfectly innocent gesture. She wasn’t his type any more than he was hers, and they both knew that. That was one of the reasons why they had managed to work in such harmony from the start: because there had never been any sexual innuendo between them. Flirting was second nature to him. He had an abundance of masculine charm and he used it almost without thinking, but the minute he had seen that she wasn’t interested he had backed off, because what he really wanted was a secretary who gave everything to her job, and, since that had been precisely what she had been looking for, they had found that strong common ground.
On the Tuesday afternoon, Martin phoned to tell her that he would collect her at her office next day instead of meeting her at her flat, because a meeting with one of his customers had cropped up at the last minute and couldn’t be avoided.
‘I shall have to work until at least six,’ he grumbled down the line. ‘Why can’t people arrange meetings for sensible times, like ten in the morning?’
‘We can always postpone it,’ Abigail said, absentmindedly re-reading what she had just typed on the screen in front of her. ‘The film won’t vanish for at least another month or so.’
‘No,’ Martin said a little aggressively. ‘Why should I ruin my evening because of some damned meeting? I shall make sure it’s wound up by six latest and I’ll see you at your office around six-thirty. That should give us time to have a bite before we go to the cinema.’
‘That sounds fine,’ she said hurriedly as Ross pushed open the door and walked into the room. He looked at the telephone, then at her and paused to stand by her desk, perching on the edge while she abruptly told Martin that she had to go.
‘I hope I haven’t interrupted an important personal call,’ he said in a barbed voice, and she sighed.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Boyfriend?’
This was the first mention of Martin for days and she looked at him warily.
‘Yes.’ She began printing the letter on the word processor, hoping that the irritating noise would encourage him to leave, but it didn’t. He stayed right where he was, eyeing her while she busied herself collating the letter, and she eventually met his stare with reluctance.
His black hair was combed back, making the lines of his face appear harsher, more arrogant, and his eyes were lazy but watchful.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asked, and she thought she heard amusement in his tone.
‘To the movies. Tomorrow evening. We usually go once a fortnight.’
‘Creatures of habit,’ he mused, and she clamped her teeth firmly together, determined not to let him get under her skin this time. ‘I’ll be out all day tomorrow,’ he said briskly, standing up, taking the letter which she handed him and glancing quickly through it.
‘Where?’ She frowned, not recalling any all-day meetings in her diary, and he slid a sidelong look at her.
‘Do I have to report all my actions to you?’
‘I like to know where you are in case someone wants to get in touch with you.’
‘How efficient. In that case, I’ll be at home until around lunchtime, then at a private viewing at the Tate
Gallery from three onwards. In other words——’ he
leaned towards her with his hands on her desk ‘—I shall be taking the day off for reasons of pleasure and not business.’ He grinned and added, ‘Do think twice about interrupting me at home. There’s nothing worse for lovemaking than the sound of a telephone.’
He strode into his office, whistling, and Abigail glared at his vanishing back. Creatures of habit. The description rankled at the back of her mind for the remainder of the day and the following morning she woke up with a feeling bf relief that Ross wasn’t going to be around. She was tired of defending Martin to him and to herself. The worst thing was that she couldn’t jump right in and wage a heated war in his defence, because that would have been precisely what he wanted, so she had to content herself with being as cool as she could, while inside she felt hopelessly impotent.
At six-thirty precisely next day, Martin arrived for her. She had carried a change of clothes to work and had slipped out of her neat suit into a comfortable pair of jeans, a clinging long-sleeved polo-necked top in pale gold and a loose-fitting tan-coloured jumper with a motto of cream angel fish shot through in a line around it. Martin looked at her appreciatively, while chatting about the outcome of the meeting which, he informed her, he had hurried along so that he could get to her in time.
‘You really shouldn’t have,’ she said, moving to unhook her coat. She turned to smile at him just as the door opened and Ross walked in. She was so taken aback that she paused in mid-air to stare at him.
He was dressed formally, in a white shirt and a black dinner-jacket, with a black bow tie, and an ivory-coloured silk scarf carelessly around his neck. She could see Martin’s features freeze with unspoken resentment and she hurried into speech, asking him what he was doing here.
‘Have those faxes arrived?’ he asked, and she nodded, immediately knowing what he was referring to. He nodded and gave her an insolent, stripping glance, then smiled lazily.
‘Have a good time at the movies,’ he said, nodding in Martin’s direction, the first indication that he had even noticed him, and Martin returned with a tight smile.
‘I don’t think I like that boss of yours one bit,’ he said to Abigail, as they took the elevator down to the ground floor. ‘Acts as though he owns the damn world! And I don’t care for the way he treats you either.’
‘What do you mean?’
They walked out of the building and the cold night air felt like a slap on her face. Martin had his hand at her elbow and she could feel the tension in his body. She could understand it. Ross Anderson could have that effect on people, make them tense and defensive. Seeing them together had been a bit like watching a rabbit next to a jungle predator, and it was no wonder that Martin’s reactions were ones of angry discomfort.
‘I mean,’ he said with exaggerated patience which she found slightly irritating, ‘he acts as though he owns you.’
Abigail flushed deeply and did a double-take. ‘You’re being over-imaginative!’ she protested, and he threw her a grim look.
‘He acts as though your whole existence is to be at his beck and call. Do you think I didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he walked in?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, remembering the cursory flick of those dark eyes on her, making her skin burn.
‘He doesn’t like me,’ Martin said in a tone that bordered on the petulant. ‘I could tell at that engagement party. He was polite enough, but underneath it was like talking to a wall of cold, calculating ice. Still, I gave him my opinion on arrogant snobs like him.’
‘That’s just the way he is,’ she murmured soothingly, not caring for this unexpected side to him, and he burst out,
‘Don’t make excuses for him! The sooner you clear out of there the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and felt a sharp twinge of anger.
‘There’s no point in discussing this,’ she muttered.
‘I want us to set a date for our wedding,’ he persisted stubbornly, ‘and I want it to be soon. Within the next six months, then we can start a family and you can tell that boss of yours what he can do with his job.’
He caught her arm and her eyes evaded his.
‘Sooner or later, he’s going to start trying to turn you against me,’ Martin said, with a depth of insight that took her by surprise. ‘He strikes me as the sort who would like to run other people’s lives for them and that includes yours!’
‘You’re imagining things. And we’re getting in everyone’s way.’ She began walking and he continued his diatribe. Why, she thought, had Ross Anderson ever gone to that engagement party? Why couldn’t he have left well alone?
‘I am not imagining things!’ Martin erupted. ‘He doesn’t approve of me for whatever reason and he’s going to poison your mind against me.’
He saw the flicker of a shadow cross her face, and said in a so-I’m-right voice, ‘Has he said anything at all?’
‘No,’ she lied feebly, ‘not much, anyway. He just thinks that we’re creatures of habit. I think he finds that amusing, if anything.’