A Passionate Affair

Cassandra expelled her breath quickly. ‘Liz, I only asked who the man was. I didn’t say I was going to climb into bed with him!’

Liz bowed her head. ‘All right, all right, I’m sorry!’ Her hand fell to her side. ‘But pick someone else to re-sharpen your claws on. Jay Ravek is not in your league.’

Cassandra wanted to protest that she was not the innocent Liz thought she was, but she doubted her friend would believe her. All Liz knew was that she had had one bad marriage, and the deeper implications of that statement had never been discussed between them. Liz had been too discreet to ask and Cassandra had felt too raw to tell her immediately after Mike’s death, and now, nine months later, the subject was too difficult to broach.

‘So—–’ Liz changed the subject. ‘What do you think of Stafford’s work? I must admit I don’t really understand it, but he’s had such wonderful reviews it must be good.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Cassandra was still brooding over their earlier conversation. ‘Just because it’s received critical acclaim, it doesn’t mean it’s unequivocally good.’ She grimaced. ‘I think it’s ghastly, quite honestly. All those heads appearing from nowhere—it’s positively gruesome!’

‘That’s what I like, an honest opinion.’

The two girls started with equal degrees of disconcertment, but Cassandra’s confusion was compounded of embarrassment and a certain amount of apprehension. Damon Stafford was standing right behind them, his arms folded across his chest, his bearded face alight with amusement, and right beside him stood Jay Ravek.

‘Oh—Damon!’ Liz recovered her composure with immaculate ease, her wide mouth spreading in an apologetic smile. ‘You know what they say about eavesdroppers, don’t you, darling? And Cass was only being bitchy, weren’t you, love?’

Cassandra’s fingers clutched her bag more tightly. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about modern art, Mr Stafford,’ she offered, intensely conscious of Jay Ravek’s dark eyes upon her. ‘You must forgive me if you think I was rude. Naturally my opinion is of no importance.’

‘On the contrary, Miss—er—–’

‘Mrs,’ Cassandra corrected him formally. ‘Roland.’

‘Well, Mrs Roland,’ Damon Stafford smiled, ‘anyone will tell you, I’m always interested in the opinion of a beautiful woman.’

Cassandra blushed, she couldn’t help it, and Liz uttered a relieved laugh. ‘Very nicely put, Damon,’ she complimented him drily. ‘You really shouldn’t put people on the spot like that. It’s not nice.’

‘Oh, I’m sure Mrs Roland will forgive me.’ Damon glanced sideways at the man beside him, as if for confirmation, and then, turning back to Cassandra, he said: ‘Let me offer you some more champagne, Mrs Roland. Your glass appears to be empty.’

‘Thank you, but no.’ Cassandra covered the rim of her glass with her palm as Damon turned to summon one of the white-coated attendants circulating among the guests at the reception. ‘We—er—we were just leaving, weren’t we, Liz? I for one have to get back to work.’

‘What is your work, Mrs Roland?’

It was Jay Ravek who had spoken, and Cassandra’s tongue appeared, to moisten her upper lip as she was obliged to answer his question. ‘I’m an interior designer, Mr Ravek.’

It was not until after she had finished speaking that she realised she had used his name without thinking. The faint quirk of his mouth might have indicated his observance of that fact, but if he had been about to make a comment, Liz forestalled her.

‘And she’s very good at it, too,’ she declared, giving Cassandra a knowing smile that the other girl found quite annoying. ‘She only started the business six months ago, and already she’s gaining quite a reputation.’

‘Really?’ Damon sounded impressed, but Cassandra wanted to die of embarrassment.

‘It’s a very small business really,’ she insisted, giving Liz a quelling look, but her friend just arched her brows at her and was obviously unrepentant.

‘Perhaps I could contact you about my apartment,’ remarked Damon, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. ‘What did you say the name was? Roland? I’ll make a note of that.’

‘It’s Ro-Allen, actually,’ Liz inserted, looking over his shoulder. ‘Ro-Allen Interiors. Chris Allen is Cass’s partner. He has a brilliant eye for colour.’

‘Liz!’

Cassandra was furious, but Liz only shrugged her shoulders. ‘Contacts, darling—that’s what it’s all about. Don’t you agree, Mr Ravek? In your work, you must find I’m right.’

‘If you say so, Miss Lester.’ Jay Ravek’s lean face was sardonic. ‘However, we don’t all have your opportunities for contacting the right people.’

Liz’s rather pointed features seemed to sharpen, but she bit her tongue on what she would obviously have liked to retort, and took Cassandra’s arm. ‘Time to go, darling,’ she declared pleasantly. ‘We mustn’t outstay our welcome.’

‘You couldn’t do that,’ Damon replied gallantly. ‘I’ll look forward to reading your comments. Oh—–’ he glanced at the man beside him again, ‘—and don’t be too hard on Jay, will you? You columnists have given him a pretty raw deal, one way and another.’

‘Perhaps it’s nothing more than he deserves,’ observed Liz with a tight smile. ‘Goodbye, Damon. Thanks for the champagne. It was delightful!’

The Seely Gallery occupied the upper floor of a building in South Molton Street, and the two girls emerged from the shadowy stairwell into the watery sunshine of a November afternoon. It wasn’t particularly cold, but it was damp, and Cassandra thrust her hands into the pockets of her suede coat and hunched her shoulders in a momentary shiver.

‘Bastard!’ said Liz, with unexpected fervour, and Cassandra gazed at her in surprise.

‘Who?’ she exclaimed, although she could guess. ‘Jay Ravek? Why? What did he say to upset you?’

‘It isn’t what he says, it’s what he doesn’t say,’ declared Liz venomously. ‘Arrogant swine! Making insinuations about my friends, about my family—–’

‘Did he do that?’ Cassandra shook her head. ‘You really don’t like him, do you?’ She paused. ‘What does he do anyway?’

Liz stared at her disbelievingly. ‘You must have heard of him!’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘But I assumed you’d recognised his name.’ Liz sighed. ‘He’s quite famous—or notorious, whatever way you look at it. He writes for the Post. He’s one of their correspondents, generally overseas—when he’s not in London, making it with every rich bird in town!’

Cassandra’s wide forehead furrowed. ‘Oh—yes, I seem to remember reading something about him.’

‘You would,’ agreed Liz grimly. ‘I told you, he’s bad news. So don’t go getting any ideas about him, because believe me, you’d regret it.’

Cassandra felt a recurring twinge of resentment. ‘Liz, I am over twenty-one. And I was married for five years. I know how to look after myself.’

‘Mike Roland was a choirboy compared to Jay Ravek,’ Liz retorted, turning up the collar of her fur jacket. ‘Take my word for it, kid. You don’t need another bad experience.’

Walking back to the studio in a mews off Great Portland Street, Cassandra had plenty of time to mull over the things Liz had said. She meant well, Cassandra supposed, but the ten years’ seniority Liz possessed always gave her the edge. They had known one another for more than seven years. They had met at an exhibition just like this one. But Cassandra couldn’t help wishing Liz would not always treat her as if she was incapable of handling her own life. She had made mistakes, of course, and her disastrous marriage to Mike Roland was still uppermost in her mind. But Mike was dead now, after all the heartache it had caused her, that period of her life was over and she badly wanted to forget it. Liz’s frequent references to her marriage prevented her from doing so, continually reminding her of her declared determination not to be fooled again. What Liz didn’t appear to understand was that just because she had had a bad time with Mike, and had no desire to repeat the experience, it did not mean she could not find the opposite sex attractive. She did. Or at least, some members of it. And Jay Ravek was certainly a very attractive member . . .

She found Chris Allen hunched over his drawing board when she entered the offices of Ro-Allen Interiors some fifteen minutes later. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the inevitable cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth. Cassandra breathed a sigh of protest and marched to the windows, flinging them wide despite the chilling afternoon air, and her partner turned to her resignedly, pressing the stub of the cigarette out in the dish already overflowing beside him.

‘You’ll kill yourself with those filthy things!’ exclaimed Cassandra, taking off her coat and hanging it on one of a row of hooks screwed to the wall behind her desk.

‘It’s my life,’ observed Chris laconically, sliding off his stool. ‘We can’t all be invited to champagne receptions, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème! Besides,’ he fumbled in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, placing a fresh one between his lips, ‘they help me to concentrate, and right now, I need some inspiration.’

Cassandra, seated at her desk, looked up at the young man before her with grudging affection. She knew how hard he was working to make the business a success, and Liz had not been joking when she said he had a brilliant eye for colour. If Cassandra’s abilities lay in looking at a room and being able to judge its potentialities, Chris’s talent was for colouring her work, giving it life and beauty. His was the skill that combined furniture with fabric, and substantiated her spartan drawings with light and detail. At twenty-five, he was precisely ten months older than she was, and their association came from way back, when Cassandra, like him, was a student at the London School of Textile Design. Those were the days before Mike Roland came into her life, when she had still been uncertain of what she really wanted to do. At least her marriage to Mike had taught her that that kind of one-to-one relationship was not what she wanted, and although she would not have wished him dead, her freedom seemed particularly precious to her now.

‘So—–’ Chris flicked his lighter and applied it to the end of his cigarette. ‘Was there anybody interesting at the reception? What did you think of Stafford’s work?’

Cassandra chose to answer his second question first. ‘Quite frankly, I thought his paintings were horrible,’ she admitted candidly. ‘I didn’t like them, and I certainly didn’t understand them.’

‘Shades of Hieronymus Bosch,’ remarked Chris drily, putting his lighter away, and at her look of incomprehension, he added: ‘He was a Dutch painter of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, I’m not sure which. But his work was very pessimistic, and I’ve heard it said that Stafford’s is the same.’

Cassandra’s lips twitched. ‘You’re very well informed.’