No Gentle Possession

‘Yes. Sure.’

David nodded, managing a faint smile, but as Alex crossed the restaurant to reach the hall, he could see David’s dejected reflection in the long mirrors that flanked the swing glass doors.

The flight from Salzburg landed in the late afternoon. It had been delayed by bad weather conditions, and it was even snowing slightly at Heathrow as Alexis left the plane.

The formalities over with, he emerged from the reception lounge bent on finding the nearest bar and a stiff drink. He knew he was delaying the moment when he would have to take up his life again, but airports were those transient kind of places where one was in limbo, a condition he presently desired.

But as he climbed the stairs to the bar, a voice he recognized only too well, called: ‘Alex! Alex, where are you going?’

He halted reluctantly and turned, looking down into the well of the hall where a fur-clad feminine figure was waving vigorously at him. He hesitated only a moment, and then with resignation descended the stairs again. He knew perfectly well that had he pretended not to hear her and gone on to the bar, she would have followed him.

Reaching ground level, he turned up the collar of his sheepskin coat against the cold draught of air which swept through the hall, and said, in drawling tones: ‘Hello, Michelle. What are you doing here?’

Michelle Whitney smiled up at him warmly. She was an attractive woman of medium height, but wrapped in the expensive sables she looked particularly elegant. ‘Alex darling,’ she cried reprovingly. ‘Where else would I be? I’ve come to meet you, of course. Your father sent me. I’ve been waiting around for simply hours!’

Alexis considered her avid expression without enthusiasm. ‘That wasn’t necessary, Michelle. I’m quite capable of hiring a cab.’

Michelle raised her delicately plucked eyebrows. ‘What a greeting! It’s just as well I’m used to your boorishness, darling, or I’d feel quite hurt.’

Alexis’s lips were wry. ‘Is that possible?’ he queried mockingly, and was gratified to see her colour deepen.

‘Oh, you are a pig, Alex!’ she exclaimed heatedly. ‘I don’t know why I put up with it.’

‘Don’t you?’ He glanced round irritably. ‘Look, Michelle, I want a drink and as I’m perfectly certain that my father did not send you to meet me, in fact I don’t know how you got the information—’

‘I was there when your father phoned you last night!’

‘Okay, I’ll accept that. But now, I suggest you go home, and I’ll see you both later.’

Michelle wrapped her fur-clad arms closely about herself. ‘Why can’t I have a drink with you?’

‘Because I want to be alone.’

‘Alex, please!’

‘No.’ He half turned away and then looked back at her. ‘Don’t worry. Your little secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell the old man.’

Michelle pursed her lips. ‘There are times when I hate you, Alex!’

‘Good. That’s a healthy emotion.’

‘All my emotions towards you are healthy, Alex.’ She put a tentative hand on his arm.

Alex looked down at that soft-gloved hand, and then into her face, and with a muffled gasp she released him. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t have a drink together. I am your stepmother, after all.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately I’m aware of that,’ retorted Alexis, brutally. ‘G’-bye, Michelle. I’ll see you later, at home.’

Without another word, he swung back up the stairs, and didn’t look back, not even as he walked along the gallery.

Alexis’s apartment was the penthouse of a tall block near Hyde Park, and Blake, his manservant, welcomed him home warmly some two hours later. As Alexis shed his coat in the hall of the apartment Blake said: ‘Your father’s been on the phone for you, sir. Several times. I told him you hadn’t arrived back yet, but I’m not sure he believed me. He said he had telephoned the airport, and he knew your plane had landed some time ago.’

Alexis grimaced, and unfastening his tie, he walked ahead into the wide, attractive lounge. This was a room that always gave him pleasure and he looked about him with enjoyment, appreciating its comfortable elegance. There was a turquoise carpet underfoot, patterned in shades of blue and green, while the long settee and armchairs were natural-coloured, soft, buttoned leather. He was lucky enough to be able to afford all the luxurious accoutrements to modern living, but the massive television was seldom turned on, and in recent years his interest in the hi-fi equipment, which had once fascinated him, had dwindled.

Now Blake came behind him, carrying his suitcase. ‘Have you had dinner, sir?’ he asked.

Alexis turned from switching on a tall standard lamp, that had an exquisitely hand-painted shade, and frowned. ‘No, I’ve not eaten. I had a couple of drinks at the airport, that’s all.’ He took off the jacket of his suit and slung it carelessly over the back of a chair. ‘But don’t bother with anything for me. I’ll eat at Falcons.’ Falcons was the name of his father’s house at Maidenhead.

‘Are you sure, sir? It’s no trouble.’

Alexis smiled. ‘No, I know. Thanks all the same. But I need a shower, and quite honestly hunger is not one of the things that’s troubling me at the moment.’

Blake nodded politely. ‘Did you have a good holiday, sir?’

Alexis considered before replying. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that,’ he conceded grudingly. ‘By the way, make me some coffee, will you, and I’ll have it after I’m dressed again. It won’t do to arrive smelling too strongly of alcohol.’

Blake allowed himself a smile at that. He was rather a solemn-faced individual, and as he was inclined to stockiness and was going bald, he did not at first strike one as being particularly amiable. But in fact, he had been with Alexis for six years now, and Alexis was well aware of the sharp sense of humour he possessed. Now, he collected Alexis’s casually strewn jacket before disappearing through a door into the kitchen, and Alexis walked across to his bedroom.

In the shower, Alexis contemplated the evening ahead without pleasure. How much more enjoyable it would have been to arrive home and have nothing more pressing to do than lounge on the couch in front of the television all evening. Such a prospect attracted him. It was strange that someone who should become so easily bored with the so-called fleshpots, should find the idea of simply behaving like any one of another hundred million people so desirable.

He examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he dried himself and was relieved to see that the past couple of weeks of exertion had successfully dispersed the faint thickening of his waistline that had been present before he left. Now there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his lean body, and the outline of his rib cage was coated only with muscle.

He dressed soberly in a charcoal grey lounge suit, to fit the occasion, he thought without humour, and drove down to Maidenhead, reaching his father’s house just before eight o’clock. Falcons faced the river, and in summer it was very pleasant to sit in the garden, watching the pageant of craft on the water. But in the middle of January, it had no such connotations, and although Alexis had spent part of his childhood here, he found the sight of the bare trees and the frozen, snow-covered gardens rather depressing.

Searle, his father’s manservant, admitted him. Once Searle had had the title of butler, but in these days of shortages of staff, his duties encompassed so many other things, that such an appellation would have sounded pretentious. However, the old man seemed not to mind, and he welcomed Alexis warmly.

‘It’s good to see you again, sir,’ he exclaimed, taking his overcoat.

‘How are you, Searle?’ Alexis bestowed one of his rare warm smiles upon him.

‘Can’t grumble, sir. Mr. Howard’s waiting for you in the library.’

‘Has my father had dinner?’

‘Not yet, sir. He’s been waiting for you.’

‘Good.’ Alexis found that the drive had awakened his appetite. ‘Thank you, Searle.’

He crossed the hall to double panelled doors, and taking a handle in each hand, he swung them open and stepped into the book-lined room which his father used as his study.

Howard Whitney was seated behind his desk, and he looked up dourly as Alexis closed the doors behind him and leaned back against them, surveying the room thoroughly.

‘So you’ve finally decided to appear!’ he remarked grimly. ‘Not before time!’

Howard Whitney’s voice still had traces of his northern ancestry that no amount of southern intonation could entirely dispel. He rose from his desk to face his son, and in his dark evening clothes he was quite impressive, big and broad and physically dominating.

But Alexis was never dominated. He was as tall as his father and although he was leaner, it was a leanness of muscle and sinew that was far tougher than his father’s loose flesh.

‘I got held up,’ he said now. ‘Besides, I don’t see why I should account to you for my movements. I’m not a boy.’