thought about it, was quite normal behaviour for him. He had always been oblivious to the way she looked, had never once paid her a compliment.
Taking a cursory glance at her as they stood in the hall, Victor had bundled her back to bed without delay, waiting until she was comfortably settled before hurrying downstairs. He had left her bedroom door ajar, and faintly, in the distance, she had heard him rattling around in the kitchen. Not long after, he had returned, marching into her room unceremoniously, carrying a large tray laden with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a Thermos flask of hot tea spiced with lemon and honey, and the various medicines. With great firmness, he had ordered her to take the antibiotics three times a day, drink plenty of the orange juice and the hot tea, and, as he had left, he had told her the chicken soup was in a pot on the stove, ready to be reheated that evening.
To Francesca’s surprise, Victor had visited her every day thereafter, and he had never once arrived empty handed, usually bringing something special which had been prepared in the kitchens of Les Ambassadeurs. She knew that John Mills, the owner of the private club, was a friend of Victor’s, and apparently he was most obliging when it came to supplying nourishing dishes for a sick girl. Although Victor was inclined to be somewhat domineering with her, he was also gentle at times, and very kind, concerned about her well being. He had also adopted a rather matter-of-fact manner whilst tending to her needs, and this had enabled Francesca to ignore her unattractive appearance, to forget it really. And anyway, she was feeling so awful those first few days, she no longer cared what he actually thought, since she knew he had no interest in her as a woman.
Katharine had been equally sweet and devoted. She had telephoned every day, but unlike Victor, she had listened to reason and had not insisted on visiting Francesca, for she was worried as always about her health, and fearful of getting sick in view of her career commitments. Katharine’s first call had been early on Monday evening, just before she had gone on stage, and she had been delighted when Francesca had told her about the basket of fruit from Jerry and Bellissima Productions, and the flowers from Nick. The next day Katharine had sent a selection of the latest books from Hatchards, with a charming and amusing note which had made Francesca smile with affection for her friend. That same afternoon, when she had ’phoned to see how Francesca was, Katharine had wanted to bring soup and other food to the Chesterfield Street house.
‘I’ll leave everything on the doorstep and run away, so you don’t have to worry about infecting me with your germs,’ Katharine had said, laughing. ‘Please let me do this for you, darling, I’m so anxious about you.’
‘Thank you, Katharine, but I’m all right, honestly I am,’ Francesca had responded swiftly. ‘And I don’t need anything. Victor was here earlier today, and he brought fresh oranges and chicken soup and medicines.’
There had been a sudden silence before Katharine had exclaimed, ‘That’s the least he could do! After all, you caught that cold when you were working for him. In my opinion, he should have arranged for someone to be there looking after you. He knows you’re all alone.’
Francesca had been startled by this comment, considering it quite extraordinary. ‘But he doesn’t have to do anything at all,’ she had said slowly. ‘I’m not his responsibility. And it really isn’t his fault that I got ill when I was scouting locations in Yorkshire. Gracious, Katharine, I could have caught ’flu before I left London, for all I know.’
Katharine had murmured something about not agreeing, but then they had quickly gone on to talk about Kim, her father’s accident, and a number of other matters.
After they had hung up, Francesca had felt unusually depressed and more miserable than ever, and she could not help dwelling on Katharine’s words. Of course she was right in what she had said. Victor was simply being a considerate employer, and that was all. Francesca’s hopes that his feelings towards her had somehow radically changed were instantly dashed to the ground. For the rest of the week she steeled herself to his presence, curbing her vivid imagination, and exercising as much control over her emotions as she could muster. This had not been an easy task, since Francesca was enormously attracted to him physically, and infatuated with him to such an extent that he totally occupied her thoughts, and in consequence she was vulnerable to him in every way. It was for these reasons that she assiduously avoided mentioning his name to Katharine again, not wishing to hear her friend’s pragmatic reasons for Victor’s attentiveness, which would have been like pouring vinegar into the wound. She preferred instead to believe that, if nothing else, he came to see her out of friendship.
Francesca did have one consolation. Victor had unexpectedly dropped his jolly, fatherly posture, and he was also much less distant with her; and if he treated her rather like a chum, this was infinitely more acceptable than being cast in the role of a child. By Friday she had begun to realize that a new easiness existed between them, that there had been a lifting of certain barriers. It soon occurred to her that it would have been abnormal if it had been otherwise. After all, there was nothing more intimate than taking care of someone who was sick, which, out of necessity, bred a certain kind of familiarity and closeness. Francesca had been extremely touched by his thoughtfulness, his solicitousness, and she had begun to count on his visits, even though he kept these to the point, and relatively short. Until yesterday.
When he arrived on Friday, just after lunch, he had been delighted to see her up and dressed, and looking more like her old self. Mrs Moggs, full of oohs and ahs about meeting a famous film star, had made coffee for them, and they had sat chatting together in the drawing room for almost two hours. He had told her about the progress of the film, recounting his hectic week in the greatest detail, and with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish in its eagerness. A few minutes before he had taken his leave, he had pronounced her fit enough to enjoy a splendid Italian dinner, which, he explained, he intended to make for her on Saturday night, informing her he was not only a terrific cook but an inspired one at that. Francesca had laughed gaily, and graciously acquiesced to his idea, sheathing her excitement at the prospect of spending an evening alone with him. She had thought of nothing else since then, wishing the hours away, filled with a breathless, nervous anticipation.
You’ve been an absolute idiot, living in a fool’s paradise, Francesca unexpectedly thought, and this brought her up sharply in the chair. She gazed wistfully into the fire, her amber eyes bright and beautiful, despite the sadness now flickering in them. Tonight is the beginning of the end of our new relationship, she said to herself with dim resignation, suddenly confronting reality, preparing herself to face the pain this inevitably brought. They would drink the pink champagne, eat the Italian specialities he was so carefully preparing, consume quantities of the Soave he had brought, and he would be charming and kind, as he had been for the entire week. And then he would leave and things would never be the same again. It would be over – their new-found intimacy and easiness with each other. He would undoubtedly assume his remote and avuncular posture, and she would be … what would she be in his eyes? Solely an appendage to Katharine, and the little girl, not to be taken seriously.
But I’m a woman, she sighed. If only he could see that. Francesca stood up and crossed to the mirror hanging on the wall between the two soaring windows. She peered at herself closely, immediately admiring the new sweater she was wearing. At least she looked smart. The sweater was chic and expensive, and it had arrived that morning from Harte’s department store in Knightsbridge, a gift from the ever-generous Katharine. ‘My way of saying thank you for your help with the screen test,’ the note had read. It was made of scarlet cashmere, soft and silky, with loose, three-quarter-length sleeves and a draped cowl neckline that fell prettily around her long neck. Francesca had fastened an antique gold pin on the collar, and she wore gilt hoop earrings that matched the gilt-metal chain belt around the waist of her black felt skirt, bouffant over the stiff buckram petticoat. She tilted her head slightly, regarding her reflection critically. A little makeup, adroitly applied, had done wonders for her, and that afternoon she had washed her hair and towelled it dry in front of the drawing room fire. It fell to her shoulders, smooth and straight and unstyled, and now she wished she had attempted to set it or had piled it up in the more sophisticated pompadour she sometimes favoured. She looked so young with it hanging in simple folds around her face. On the other hand, it was clean and shone golden-bright in the muted light from the lamps. If only I