He was alone. She had half-expected Craig to be there too, facing her with his accusing eyes. But it seemed she was to be granted a private audience.
"Anne, you're looking well. Will you have a glass of sherry?" He stood up courteously as she walked into the room, digging her hands into the pockets of her faded jeans.
"I'd rather have a martini, if I may." He didn't raise an eyebrow; merely inclined his head. "Of course you may. I hope I remember the right mixture."
She perched on the arm of a wing chair, watching him; tension coiled inside her like a spring. She was determined not to let him notice.
He handed her the glass and waited for her to taste her drink before he said, without inflection, "Are you ready to talk about it now? I understand there's been some misunderstanding with Craig .. ."
She seized on his statement thankfully. "I'm afraid it's more than just a misunderstanding. And I wish you hadn't brought Craig here with you. I wanted to tell you that I can't live with him any longer. I intend to divorce him. And-and I wanted to say that I'm going to travel abroad for a while. I have mother's money from the trust, you know, and I think I'd like to be on my own for a while. That's all. That's why I wanted to talk to you."
"I see." There was only a slight lift of an eyebrow in response, and his lack of reaction infuriated her, making her next words sound flip and almost defiant.
"I hope so ... father. Because I didn't want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I intend starting to live my own life for a change, and Europe seems like a safe enough distance away."
"Anne .. ." His voice sounded exaggeratedly patient, as if she were still a child.
"You're of age, and I've never used coercion on you. Naturally I'm sorry to hear that you can't settle your differences with Craig-or is it 'won't'? All I must ask of you is that you be discreet-a little more discreet than you have been during the past few days.
You've led a sheltered life, and I don't think you realize just how vulnerable you are.
Because"-his voice hardened almost imperceptibly-"like it or not, you are my daughter. And there are people who wouldn't hesitate to try to capitalize on that fact.
I'm sorry if the subject is unpleasant, but you have to face it. I must protect myself too, you see."
With neither recrimination nor accusation he had managed to diminish her in some indefinable way. His words were pinpricks in the balloon of her newfound self-confidence, reducing everything into tawdry perspective.
She had been indiscreet and incautious. He let her know he knew and left the subject alone, leaving her unable to defend herself. Anne couldn't remember afterwards how the meeting ended, except for little details.
She finished her martini and left the olive in the bottom of her glass. He held the door open politely when she left, with nothing more to say. And she was free-if freedom meant calling a travel agency and packing two suitcases. An empty victory, because after all she hadn't had to fight for it.
It seemed, all of a sudden, that she wasn't escaping, but rather running away. And she didn't want to think yet: from what, to what?
ANNE MALLORY spent twelve months traveling around Europe. With enough money to make her independent, moving in the right circles, she was determined to make a new life for herself. "Escaping to find herself" was the way she had thought about it in the beginning. She even decided to use her mother's maiden name, Mallory. Paris first, where she splurged on a designer wardrobe and was offered a modeling job by the father of one of the few friends she had made at finishing school.
And then Spain, enjoying the hotly purging sun, then skiing in Switzerland before she traveled to the Italian Riviera, to Venice, and to Rome. Not too long in Rome. One evening with the American ambassador, his wife, and some English friends, she sat through an Italian Western starring Webb Carnahan. She learned that he had made two movies in Italy and Spain during the previous year and quickly became a box-office name in Europe. The girl who played his romantic interest reminded her of Tanya-what had really happened to Tanya? Had Webb ... but Webb was part of the reason why she had wanted to get away. Webb and Carol, smiling at each other in all the newspapers, with coy headlines: THEY'RE ENGAGED AGAIN! Damn Webb!
There had been one long, nerve-wracking session with Dr. Haldane before she left America-the doctor listening, and nodding his head sometimes, commenting only at the end. "So you had an adventure, eh? Very good. And Europe, I think, is a good idea too. To cut all the old cords. Have fun, Anne. Enjoy yourself and be yourself.
Perhaps your new self?"
Well, no one could say she wasn't trying. Along with her new clothes and makeup, she acquired a surface polish and sophistication. And discovered that because it really wasn't too important to her, everything came her way. Like the modeling stint, which proved fun after all, and quite an experience. A four-page layout for Elle, only she didn't stay in Paris long enough to find out how the pictures turned out. The months passed quickly while Anne traveled. Watching Webb on the screen in Rome gave her a jolt (dammit, why did she have to remember so much about him?) . But she went on from there to London with the Honorable Violet Somers and her parents, the decision already made that she and Violet would share a flat, and Violet would introduce her to "everybody who's exciting, love!"
Violet had found her the "play-at-work" job with Majco Oil, an American company with a luxurious suite of offices in a West End high-rise. Duncan Frazier, head of the London branch, and Violet's boss, was American in spite of his Scottish name; he had, it turned out, attended Harvard with Craig. It just happened that he needed a personal assistant-a young woman who was both intelligent and attractive, to accompany him to the invariable diplomatic cocktail parties and act as hostess for the ones he gave. Duncan swore that Anne's arrival in London was a godsend. She wasn't to know that Duncan was not the only person to feel relieved she had put down some tentative roots at last.
After eight months in London Anne had begun to feel Iike a Londoner, like she belonged there, the inevitable feeling that seemed to overtake every foreigner who lived in London for any length of time. In spite of the weather, in spite of the traffic snarls each morning, the inadequate heating, the strikes, London, with its ancient and modern rubbing comfortably along together, cast its spell on her as Paris never had.
Feeling free ... was it a remembered song title, or just an emotion that continued to grow inside her until it became almost a conviction? Anne didn't want to stop to define it, especially after the pictures in Elle made her suddenly well-known and sought after as a model. She couldn't believe it at first, until the telephone calls and offers became almost a nuisance.
Duncan Frazier, upset and worried, begged her not to desert him completely.
"Christ's sake, Anne! You quit and they'll probably send me some horseface from the head office! Listen-you know there's not that much to do. If you want to go ahead with the damned modeling, can't you at least work for me part time? You don't need the money, do you? And it's good psychology, to make them chase you harder. Damn it-you don't really want to be a bloody model, do you?"
"I don't know ..." She was honestly confused. Here was the chance to do something on her own-to be someone special. Did she want to turn it down?
Violet, much more excited than Anne was, told her frankly that she'd be worse than a fool if she did. "Are you crazy? Anne-you could be famous! Have your picture in all the magazines ... oh, what wouldn't I give to be as slim as you are, and as tall!" She added shrewdly, "Are you worried about what your father might think? Modeling's quite respectable now, you know! Look at Marisa Berenson-and a half-dozen others I could name! The kind of modeling they want you to do is respectable, anyhow!"
Violet chuckled wickedly, and Anne couldn't help smiling back at her. Violet's short, curly hair and big brown eyes made her look like an amoral child, an impression that her full breasts and perfectly formed figure belied. And Violet, much to the horror of Mummy and Daddy, had once actually modeled in the nude for Penthouse, making it very obvious that she was perfectly formed everywhere. She had more men chasing her than she knew what to do with, and she was always complaining that she was bored, bored, bored!
"But, love, do it! Think of all the exciting people you'll meet!" Anne found herself wavering. "Think!" Violet went on urgently. "What a chance! And if you're feeling guilty about Dune, he won't mind if you only model part time. You could pick your assignments-be choosy. All the better, because it'll make you a bigger star. Come on, Anne! And leave it to me-I'll talk Dune into being reasonable."
Why not? Hadn't Harris Phelps said it to her once? "You have good bone structure, Anne." High cheekbones, very dark blue eyes, a naturally cool and reserved expression that, along with her cloud of fine, silky blonde hair, became her trademark.
Anne Mallory, overnight sensation and the face of the year, appeared on covers and in center spreads, making the Edwardian look popular all over again. No nudes or semi-nudes. Flowery pastel chiffons, clinging and flowing. Parasols and misty photography set against the green English countryside-usually with a lake or the river in the background. And before the camera, Anne followed directions easily and calmly, as though she had been posing all her life. Even Duncan stopped being sulky and actually seemed proud to be seen with her at dinner and cocktail parties.
"See-I told you!" Violet crowed triumphantly, genuinely, generously happy for Anne.
They got on well together, perhaps because they were such opposites. And they continued to share the same comfortable flat on Cheyne Row, an arrangement that was convenient for both of them. It had two bedrooms, so Violet could invite her boyfriends into hers without disturbing Anne, and Anne could use Violet as an excuse not to invite her escorts in. She was sick of groping hands and hungry, searching mouths followed by the inevitable question most of them asked afterwards.
"What's the matter, love? Don't like men?"
She learned to come back with answers. "I like to choose my own men, thank you!"
Or, depending on the man, "I was raped once, when I was very young. It's turned me off."
It really didn't matter what she told them. They didn't matter, and that was it. Maybe it had something to do with Violet's attitude towards sex. Violet admitted frankly that she liked to screw, and always had. And after all, what was wrong with that? "It'd probably do you good, love. I mean-haven't you had any affairs since you were married?"
"Of course I have!" But since Webb, Webb who had taught her too much in too short a time, leaving her craving more, there had been only one other man. Sophie's father, the elegant Frenchman who had teased and cajoled her into modeling some of his latest creations for Elle, had wined her and dined her and taken her to bed-all with great charm and finesse and without pressure. He'd been a gentle and considerate lover, but ... nothing! What had she expected? Fireworks? The kind of cruel, careless chemistry that Webb had? Antoine had been very understanding, very French.
"So? Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. I am sorry for you that you could not find the same pleasure you have given me, petite Anne. You have such a lovely body, with so much passion locked in!" They had parted friends, and seeing her off on her flight to Spain, he had handed her a flat gold-wrapped box, waving aside her confused thanks as he kissed her on the cheek.
"It's you, petite Anne. I designed it for the woman who lives locked inside you, waiting to be set free." The gown hung in her closet, carefully swathed in tissue paper and thin plastic-flame-colored. chiffon, daringly low-cut, made to cling from the high waist to the hips without seeming to, before the layers that formed the skirt flowed down to her ankles.
She hadn't worn it yet.
Moving into autumn, the weather turned unseasonably chill in the fog-shrouded evenings. The calendar on Duncan's office wall had been turned to a sunlit picture of the ocean, framed by twisted cypress trees. Monterey cypress! Anne thought, staring at the picture. California. She felt the familiar tug of homesickness, mixed with something else. So long ago-she had been a child, spending summers in Carmel and later on in the big stone house her artist great-grandfather had built on the lonely, majestic Big Sur coast. She had loved It, The screeching of gulls, the incessant crashing of waves against the rocks below the cliffs-soughing up the white sands of the small private beach where her mother had loved to lie, reading or sunbathing.
Dark, morbid thoughts she wanted to forget. Why remember now that her mother had drowned in that same ocean, when Anne was only seven? Very long ago ...
Dune wasn't in yet, and the ringing of the telephone on his desk startled Anne. She picked it up, purposefully averting her eyes from the picture that had brought up the almost-buried memories.
"Mr. Frazier's office." Funny how even here at Majco Oil they'd picked up the British formality. Where was Violet? Why hadn't she picked it up in the outer office? A slight crackling on the line, and then Marlene Cranshaw's affectedly English voice.
"It's really for you, Anne. I saw you walk into Mr. Frazier's sanctum, and so I had the call switched over. Hold on a moment."
For me? Anne thought, frowning; hearing the slight click in her ear and then the shock of an unexpectedly familiar voice. "Craig? What on earth are you doing in London?"
"I'm at the airport right now-and this connection is terrible, so I won't talk long. I wanted to ask you if you'd be free for dinner this evening. I'm staying at the Inn on the Park." More crackles, and then, hesitantly for Craig, "I'd like to see you, Anne."
After she hung up, she noticed the hastily scrawled note on Duncan's appointment book, lying open on the desk. "C. H.-Heathrow, 11 A.M." SO Dune had known. Why hadn't he told her? She had almost thought "warned her," which was ridiculous, of course. The divorce was final; Craig and Duncan were old friends, for heaven's sake!