Emma shook her head slowly. Ever since she had got out of the car a sense of coldness had been invading her lower limbs, which was not completely attributable to the weather. Today had been a day out of time, but tomorrow, and all her tomorrows, belonged to Victor. She was fooling herself if she imagined that just because Miguel Salvaje was temporarily diverted by her companionship it was going to make any fundamental difference to her life. By bringing Victor into this she was gambling with her future, and when, in a couple of weeks or so, Miguel left for some other European capital to continue his concert tour she would be left to pick up the pieces.

Miguel stared down at her, a frustrated gleam of anger in his eyes.

'Emma! I have to go. Don't be like this.'

'Like what?' Emma managed to infuse a note of surprise into her voice. 'I - thank you for - for the day. I've enjoyed it. Good-bye.'

Miguel flung her hands away from him and muttering an epithet to himself strode away round the Jensen, sliding inside with unconcealed impatience. The engine roared, and seconds later it tore away, an angry whine in the distance.

Emma watched it until it was out of sight and then, turning, walked disconsolately up the drive, tugging at a strand of hair over her shoulder. Feeling her hair made her realize its state of disorder, and with fumbling fingers she endeavoured to secure it in a roll on the nape of her neck. But she knew it was useless, and she thrust open the door with some misgivings. Mrs. Cook would be bound to think the worst, and who could blame her?

As soon as she heard the door, Mrs. Cook came out of the kitchen, and the worried look on her face was there even before she took in Emma's dishevelled appearance. Emma endeavoured to smile, and said, unnecessarily: 'I'm back.'

Mrs. Cook came down the hall. 'Not before time,' she observed dryly.

'Why?'

'Mr. Harrison has been round here looking for you.'

Emma's lips parted. 'Victor?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'But what did he want?'

'You.' Mrs. Cook helped her off with her sheepskin coat and hung it away in the hall closet. 'He apparently went into the agency and-'

'-Fenella told him I was unwell,' Emma finished.

'More or less.'

'So what happened?'

Mrs. Cook gave a resigned sigh. 'I told him you were in bed, asleep.'

Emma stared at her in relief. 'Oh, you darling!' she exclaimed.

'Thank you!'

'I didn't say he believed me,' said Mrs. Cook dourly.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, he said - if you were in bed, why weren't your- bedroom curtains drawn?'

He'd noticed, I suppose.'

'Naturally.'

'So what did you say?'

'I asked him if he was calling me a liar. He said not necessarily, so I asked him if he'd like to go up and see for himself.'

'Mrs. Cook!'Emma was aghast.

'I know. It was a bad moment, believe me! Anyway, it must have done the trick, because he said no, that's not necessary, and left'

'Did - did he say when he'd be back?'

'Yes. He said he'd call this evening as planned.'

Emma heaved a sigh. 'Well, I'd better go upstairs and get washed and changed, hadn't I? And do something about my hair.'

Mrs. Cook folded her arms. 'Well? Was it worth it?'

Emma shrugged. 'Going out, you mean?' She made a deprecatory gesture. 'It was - all right.'

Mrs. Cook gave her a strange look. 'Are you seeing him again?'

'I doubt it.'

'Thank the Lord for that!' Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows derisively, and marched off back into the kitchen. 'By the way,'

she said as she opened the door, 'what time do you want to eat?'

'Whenever you like,' Emma replied, going up the stairs slowly.

'And, Mrs. Cook-'

'Yes?'

'Thanks again.'

Mrs. Cook snorted disapprovingly and went through the door, and Emma continued upstairs.

By the time Victor arrived Emma was dressed in a long black hostess gown and her hair was neatly confined in its pleat. She wore no jewellery, and felt as plain as she was sure she looked.

Victor came into the lounge after Mrs. Cook had admitted him, rubbing his hands together vigorously to warm them. Emma was seated on the couch and he bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead before taking up a position before the fire.

'Now then,' he said briskly, 'how are you feeling? I must say you look rather pale. Fenella was most concerned about ' you.'

Emma smoothed the skirt of her gown. 'I'm perfectly all right,'

she answered. 'Help yourself to a drink, won't you?'

Victor frowned, but walked across to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of Scotch. 'What will you have?'

Emma shook her head, indicating the coffee cups on the table.

'Nothing, thanks.. Actually, Mrs. Cook brought two cups because she expected you a little earlier, but it's cold now, I'm afraid.'

'Yes.' Victor swallowed half his Scotch and came round the couch again. 'Well, I was held up at the office. This Messiter deal is taking longer than I expected.'

Emma forced herself to sound interested. 'You should delegate some of your work,' she said. 'There's no need for you to work the hours you do.'

Victor smiled. 'No, I realize that. And once we're married I intend to take things much easier.'

Emma's nerves tightened. 'I see.'

'We'll have to be thinking seriously of putting a date on our wedding,'

he went on. 'After all, once Christmas is over there's absolutely no need for delay. I thought perhaps February - or March. Your father will be back by then, won't he?'

Emma swallowed with difficulty. 'Oh, oh, yes. He - he expects to be back for Christmas, I think.'

'Does he?'

'Well, he wouldn't want me to be alone here over the festive season, I suppose-'

'Alone? You're not alone, Emma. You have me.'

T know, I know.' Emma bit her lip. 'It's just that - well/ Christmas is a time-for families, isn't it?'

Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. 'I .wouldn't know,' he replied.

'I've never had one.'

Emma was contrite. 'I'm sorry. I -1 didn't mean-'

'I know you didn't.' Victor swallowed his drink, and then looked reflectively at her. 'Truth to tell, I've never cared for Christmas much.

All that artificiality! Not for me.'

'But it needn't be, surely,' exclaimed-Emma, in surprise. 'Why, when my mother was alive and my brother lived at home, we used to have marvellous Christmases.'

Victor looked bored by this turn of the conversation and regarding his empty gla.s.s, said: 'Can I get another?'

Emma nodded quickly. 'Of course.. .Just help yourself.'

'Thank you.'

Victor did so, and when he came back to his position by the fire he changed the conversation round to his present conflict with the board of Messiter Textiles. Emma listened while he gave a detailed explanation of their shortcomings and then went on to describe his plans for their future. Emma had heard it all before, but she tried to evince an interest she did not feel. Recollections of the day she had spent kept coming to cloud her awareness, and with them came visions of the years ahead and evenings like this when Victor would expect her to listen -while he recounted the details of his day. There had to be more to marriage than this, she found herself thinking desperately. Perhaps if two people loved one another, if they shared a mutual understanding of one another, they became naturally involved with, one another's lives.

But she and Victor had a different kind of relationship. Emotion played a very small part, and while she admitted that a marriage based solely on s.e.xual compatibility might not succeed, surely the physical side of their a.s.sociation should be a source of enjoyment to them. , But she couldn't imagine Victor enjoying anything where the subjugation of self was one of the prime factors. To picture Victor without his immaculate city clothes, without his armour of respectability, was like committing some sacrilegious act. She simply could not see him in that way.

Mrs. Cook brought in some sandwiches and coffee soon after ten o'clock, and Victor came to sit beside Emma on the couch so that he could reach the tray.

'By the way,' he said, munching on a ham roll, 'we're invited out to dinner on Friday evening.'

'Oh, yes?'Emma looked up. 'Who by?'

'The Hansons. You know - Miles and Delia. It's a kind of celebration really - their wedding anniversary. They've been married twenty-three years.' He shook his head. 'Imagine that!

Soon be their silver wedding, won't it?'

Emma nodded, sipping her coffee without really tasting it. These people were Victor's friends, his contemporaries, and they were soon to be celebrating their silver wedding! Were they never to have any young friends, any friends of her age?

But no. She couldn't see Victor making conversation with any young man who had yet to make his way in the world. Such people bored him. His a.s.sociates were all successful business men like himself, men who knew how to handle money, and people; though not always very considerately. Victor smiled in a satisfied way as he drank his coffee.

'This is very nice, you know,' he said. 'I enjoy these evenings, just staying at home like this. Entertaining's all right, up to a point, but it's nice to relax, isn't it?'

Emma forced a faint smile to her lips. She hoped he would not stay late. The headache she had pretended earlier in the day was fast becoming a reality, and she longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness.

And then the doorbell rang, and her inertia fled, taking with it her peace of mind. She could think of no one who would call at this hour of the evening. No one, except...

Victor raised his eyebrows. 'Who's this?' h? demanded gruffly.

Emma shook her head. 'I - I don't know,' she murmured, getting to her feet. 'I'll go and see.'

'Leave it to Mrs. Cook,' advised Victor, standing up too.

'Probably someone's got the wrong house.'

'Probably,' agreed Emma faintly, straining her ears to hear the housekeeper's steps along the hall, and presently the sound of the outer door being opened.

There was a moment's pregnant silence when she thought that Victor had been right, that someone had indeed got the wrong house, and then after a brief altercation in the hall the lounge door was summarily opened and Miguel stood in the aperture, Mrs. Cook hovering with nervous impotence behind him. Tall, lean, dark, dressed in a maroon velvet jacket over his evening shirt and trousers, he surveyed them both with mocking insolence.

'Buenos noches, senor, senorita!' he greeted them, bowing slightly. 'I trust I am not interrupting anything.'

CHAPTER FIVE.

EMMA refused to look at Miguel after that first devastating recognition. She looked instead at Victor whose face was purpling in his confused efforts to find some reasonable explanation for this unexpected and unwanted intrusion. And in those few seconds she realized that her initial suspicions of Miguel's ruthlessness, of his, complete lack of compunction about hurting people when it came to getting what he wanted, had been only too accurate. Watching Victor struggling to find words to break the ominous silence which had fallen was like watching the desperate antics of a fly who suddenly finds himself caught in a spider's web.

Then, as though realizing that she had said nothing, Victor turned to her and said: 'What's all this about, Emma? Do you know this man?

Are you going to allow him to walk in here like this, uninvited and unannounced?'

Emma knew the onus was on her now. Picking her words carefully, she replied: 'I'm afraid there's been a mistake, Victor.