to admit it, had made her wary and mistrustful, unconsciously unwilling to commit herself to any deep emotional involvement with a man so that somehow, at twenty-five she had emerged from her teens and early twenties without the sexual and emotional experience most girls of her age took for granted.
When they returned to the salon Simon Herries was studying a seascape hanging on one of the walls. India’s father had painted it before his death, and it depicted the view from their Cornish home on the cliffs high above the Atlantic. It was from her father that she had inherited the ambition which had made her successful, India acknowledged. He had been a civil engineer before his retirement, often working abroad. She herself had been conceived during a brief visit her mother had paid him when he was working on a contract in India—hence her unusual name.
‘Cornwall?’ he commented to India without lifting his eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘Your secretary came to look for you. She asked me to tell you that there’d been a call for you. Said you’d know who it was from.’ This time he did look at her. ‘It can’t be easy, conducting an affair with a married man. You’re to be congratulated. You’ve obviously been very discreet.’
He made it sound on a par with earning a living as a prostitute! Even Melisande caught the contemptuous undertone and frowned slightly.
‘Oh, really, darling,’ she protested, ‘aren’t you being just the tiniest bit old-fashioned? Extra-marital affairs are the norm these days. Be honest now, if you were married could you see yourself being faithful for the rest of your life? No, I think India has the right idea. Far better to be independent; to have a lover rather than a husband. You will make sure the dress is sent round tomorrow, won’t you?’ she asked India as Simon Herries helped her on with her fox jacket. ‘Simon is taking me to the charity do at the Dorchester and I want to look my best.’
India walked with them to the door. Melisande kissed her on the cheek; she half extended her hand expecting Simon Herries to shake it formally, but to her chagrin he ignored her hand, instead glancing curtly down the length of her body, before following Melisande out to the sleek dark green Ferrari parked outside the salon.
‘Umm, I wish I could find myself someone like that,’ Jennifer commented dreamily, unashamedly watching them depart. ‘Fantastic looks, money—and I’ll bet he rates ten out of ten as a lover as well!’
‘You’d probably be very disappointed,’ India said briefly.
‘You reckon?’
Something in her expression made Jennifer frown. ‘He really got to you, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never known you to lose your sense of humour like this before, and God knows we’ve had them all in here. What happened, did he make a pass at you when Melisande wasn’t looking?’
‘Why should he? You said yourself he’d got the lot; I can’t think of a single reason why he should spare me a glance when he’s got Melisande.’
‘I can,’ Jennifer replied. ‘Several. For a start, you’ve got far more sex appeal. Oh, I know Melisande looks all soft and cuddly, but anyone can see she’s as hard as nails underneath, while you… Are you sure he didn’t make a pass?’
‘Positive. Now, can we please change the subject?’
‘Okay,’ Jennifer agreed cheerfully. ‘What do you want to talk about? Oh, help! I’ve just remembered, you-know-who rang. Said he’d pick you up at eight. I didn’t know you had a date with him tonight.’
‘I don’t—at least not officially. He did say something about us having dinner together last week, but I’ve already told him I…’
‘You don’t date married men,’ Jenneifer supplied with another grin. ‘You certainly believe in making things difficult for yourself, don’t you? With his influence…’
‘I don’t want his influence, Jen,’ India cut in with unusual crispness. ‘I like Mel, and I value his friendship. I’ve known him for over three years—ever since I first opened this salon. My accountant introduced him to me—in fact it was Mel who first told me about these premises…’
‘Well, you could do worse, you know,’ Jennifer pointed out judiciously. ‘He’s mad about you—anyone can see that.’
‘He’s married,’ India replied stubbornly. ‘And besides, I don’t love him.’
‘Love? Who needs it?’ Jennifer demanded sourly. ‘You know, for all that I’m three years younger than you, I sometimes feel old enough to be your mother.’
‘If you were, you’d hardly be encouraging me to go out with someone else’s husband,’ India pointed out dryly, but Jennifer merely raised her eyebrows.
‘You’re kidding! With a man as wealthy as Mel, mothers tend to forget an unimportant thing like an existing wife.’
Was she being stupid? India wondered several hours later as she locked the salon and stepped out into the crisp evening air. It wasn’t very far from the salon to where she lived. She had been lucky enough to be able to buy the top floor of one of an old row of Victorian terraced houses, just before they became fashionable, and she loved the privacy and space it gave her.
Mel had hinted on more than one occasion that he wanted to put their relationship on a more serious footing, but she had always reminded him of his wife.
Perhaps it was foolish at her age to virtually abandon the idea of a home, husband and children of her own simply because she had yet to meet the man who would be her ideal. It might have helped if she had known what she was looking for. All she did know was that as yet she had not met him; the man who would touch her emotions deeply enough for her to be able to break through the barriers of distrust erected during her vulnerable teens.
The phone rang just as she was unlocking her front door. She reached for it, dropping her coat and bag on the attractively re-covered Victorian chair which was the only piece of furniture in the tiny hall.
She had several good friends who often rang her, but she knew before she heard his voice who it would be on this occasion.
‘You got my message?’
‘Yes, I did, Mel, but I’m afraid…’
‘Please come, I want to talk to you—seriously. Please, India, I need to talk to you. I’d suggest that you come round here to my place, but I know you’d refuse, and as I’m hardly likely to get an invitation to your retreat, dinner seemed to be the only alternative.’
Recognising the strain in his voice, India gave way.
‘I’ll pick you up—about eight. We’re dining at Jardine’s.’
It was one of the more exclusive new restaurants which had recently opened and tables were not easily come by, but then to a man of Mel Taylor’s influence nothing would be impossible.
He had done very well for himself, India recognised, having built up an enviable business empire from one small company, and India suspected he was drawn to her because she too had had to struggle, and knew the value of what one earned by one’s own achievements. About his home background she knew very little apart from the fact that he had a wife and two small children, both boys, who attended an exclusive prep school. Although it was never said India guessed that there was a tremendous gulf between father and sons in the way that there often was between a parent who had been forced to work hard, building up a fortune from very small beginnings, and the children who enjoyed the style of life that fortune could purchase. She had once heard it mentioned that Mel had married ‘above himself’—an expression which she detested, and which she considered in Mel’s case was grossly unmerited, as he was a man of extremely refined taste, gentle and kind, and she wondered if it was perhaps this which had given rise to his marital problems. They were not something she cared to discuss with him, and she had never pried into his private life, despite the length of time she had known him. In fact it was only quite recently that she had seen him on a regular basis, certainly within the