Masquerade. Part 6

She was crossing to the lift back in the hotel when a voice hailed her. She swung round. It was a man's voice and as far as she knew, she knew no men in England.

A man of medium height and build was coming towards her.

His fair hair was tinged with grey in places and he looked about forty, Samantha thought.

"Yes?" she said curiously. "Can I help you?"

"You are Barbara Harriet's daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's right. But who are you? Why are you speaking to me?"

The man smiled, turning his rather harsh face into a more human countenance. "My name is Martin Pryor. I'm a... friend of your mother's."

"Oh, really. And how did you know I washer daughter?"

"You're rather like her," h replied, and noticed with shrewd eyes the way Samantha looked a little startled at this. "Would you like a drink?"

Samantha looked up at him with surprised eyes. "I'm not eighteen yet," she replied smoothly, not quite liking his manner.

The man half-smiled at this, and Samantha felt un- comfortable.

"Look," he said, "it's nearly twelve, but how about hav ing some coffee in the lounge? I'm sure I could arrange it."

"I'm sure you could," remarked Samantha coldly. "However, I'm not in need of any refreshment at the mo ment, thank you. If you will excuse me ...."

"Hey, wait a minute. I've been waiting here over half an hour to see you."

"Have you?" Samantha frowned. "Did you contact my grandmother to letter know you were here?"

"Actually, no. When I arrived I asked to speak to you and I was told you had already left the hotel. I decided to wait,"

Samantha looked sceptical. "Well, surely anything you have to say to me you can say right here, in the foyer."

"Okay, okay. Let's sit down."

After they were seated he said: "I suppose I ought to tell you I'm a newspaper reporter."

Samantha stiffened. "Indeed you ought!"

"Don't freeze up on me, honey. I only want a story from you.

Like how long have you been living in Italy, and how well do you know your mother..."

Samantha rose to her feet angrily. "I don't intend discussing my private affairs with you or anyone else," she said coldly.

"Now you really must excuse me. I have thing! to do .. ."

She turned and strode away, and Martin Pryor lay back in his seat and watched her with an amused look in his eyes, So that was the seventeen-year-old daughter; or had Bar bara said sixteen? Either way, she was a very self-possessed teenager. He smiled, and rose to his feet, and walked into the bar.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pryor," said the bartended "Your usual?"

Martin nodded. "And have one yourself, Harry."

"Thank you, sir. Did you see Miss Kingsley?"

"Yes, I saw her." Martin sipped his drink. "Barbara has certainly produced a beautiful daughter, hasn't she?"

Harry grinned. "If you say so, sir. I must say I've not seen much of her." "No, you wouldn't have."

Meanwhile, Samantha had reached her grandmother's! suite and when she opened the door she found Lady Davenport seated at a bureau, writing a letter.

"Oh!" exclaimed Samantha, as she entered. "Grandmother, do you know a man called Martin Pryor?"

Lady Davenport swung round. Her face was disturbed.

"Yes, I know him, child. Why do you ask?"

"Because he's just waylaid me in the foyer and started asking questions about me and Barbara."

"Oh, dear." Lady Davenport frowned. "And what did you say?"

"I refused to answer. I didn't like him at all. He seemed too confident for my likings."

Lady Davenport smiled wryly. "Martin Pryor is very confident. He is also one of the most influential men in Fleet Street, He writes a gossip column for the Amba.s.sa dor. The whole paper is slanted at famous people and his 'column is the Mecca for anyone wis.h.i.+ng to make, their name known to the public. Everybody reads it." She turned back to the bureau so that Samantha could not see her face. "It is especially enlightening about any scandal in the film or theatre world."

"I see. I suppose he is one of the people who would make a beano about Barbara having a twenty-one-year-old daughter."

"Precisely." Lady Davenport turned back to her grand- daughter. "You did perfectly right, downstairs. Never say anything unless you have been briefed first. Statements made to the press can be misconstrued and quoted out of context."

"All right, Grandmother, I understand. Have you had lunch yet?"

"No. We'll have it up here. Ask Emily to see about it, will you, dear?"

Samantha nodded and Lady Davenport smiled. "Are you looking forward to the party this evening?"

"Not particularly. It's quite frightening."

"Nonsense. Remember, however you may feel, people will want to meet you simply because you are Barbara Har riet's daughter."

"I know. That's what bothers me." Samantha managed a smile. "Anyway, it will soon be over."

"It will only be the start," replied her grandmother, sighing.

"You are in for quite a lot of publicity, one way and another."

It had been arranged that Barnes should take Samantha to her mother's apartment that evening at about five-thirty. The party was due to begin at six, but Barbara wanted Samantha there in good time to show her the apartment and to give her her instructions. Samantha felt rather like I maid who had been hired for the evening to act as Barbara's daughter and who had to learn her lines beforehand.

She was dressed this evening in a tunic of apricot Courtelle, which hung straight to her hips, only to fall into a thousand tiny pleats from there to the short hem, which seemed indecently short to Samantha.

She wore a brown corded velvet coat over her dress and dark brown shoes. Her hair was left loose and she looked young and lovely.

Barnes had become more relaxed with her now and they chatted quite amiably on the way over to Barbara's apart ment in Belgravia, thus relieving Samantha of her tension. Barnes left her in the entrance hall of the flats. He told her to take the lift up to the third floor and walk along the corridor until she reached number thirty-three.

"Miss Harriet will be waiting for you," he said. "Good luck!"

"Thank you." Samantha smiled. "I'm going to need it!"

The lift was a contraption which Samantha had never used alone and it was rather terrifying to press the b.u.t.ton and then leave herself solely in the hands of the mechan ism. However, the lift was well adjusted and in no time at all it had stopped at the third floor and the gates slid back to allow her to get out.

The corridor was carpeted and she walked slowly along it, looking at the numbers on the doors. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. She was there!

She tapped lightly and then discovered that there was a bell.

She pressed the bell just as the door was opened by a uniformed maid.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said confusedly, feeling that this was a very poor beginning. "This is Miss ... Harriet's apartment, is it not ? "

"That's right," said the maid uncompromisingly. "You must be Miss Kingsley."

"That's right. My mother is expecting me."

"I know. Come in!"

Samantha stepped inside on to a black pile carpet. It was so stark that she stared in amazement and had to force her eyes away as the maid urged her into the room.

The room itself was like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for modern living.

The astonis.h.i.+ng black carpet was relieved by pure white velvet curtains hanging across the ma.s.sive window which ran the length of one wall. The furniture was futur istic and uncomfortable-looking; white leather armchairs and an ebony c.o.c.ktail bar, basket-weave loungers in black and white stripes and low coffee tables designed in a kind of stonework into the shape of huge hands.

Samantha felt as though she had accidentally stepped into a shop window, so bare of human habitation was the room, its white walls only relieved by carved plaques in a variety of colours. It was a long, high-ceilinged room and several doors opened from it, although all were closed at the moment. At the opposite end of the room to the window were French doors which apparently led out on to a bal cony and after the maid had departed to advise her mother of her arrival, Samantha gravitated in this direction and tentatively tried the handle.

The French door opened and she emerged on to a wide balcony which overlooked Belgrave Square. She was breathing in the refres.h.i.+ng air, when a voice behind her made her jump.

"Admiring my view?"

Samantha swung round. Barbara was standing in the doorway, dressed this evening in a black c.o.c.ktail dress of heavy silk which clung to every lissom curve of her small body.

Samantha stared at her. She looked so lovely. Howl could she be all bad?

"Yes," she said at last. "I gather I'm the first to arrive!!

"Yes. Come along to my bedroom and take, off your coat Clyde can brush your hair, too. It's a little windswept."

"Clyde? Was she the ... person ... who let me in?"

"Yes. Did she antagonize you?"

"A little"

Barbara smiled. "Clyde's all right, when you get to know her. Come along."

Barbara's bedroom was a pleasant oasis after the desert of the lounge. Here the carpet was palest pink while they drapes were rose-coloured brocade. The feminine divan was upholstered in cream and rose-coloured satin and Samantha felt this room was less of a showpiece.

Clyde combed her hair and put a little lacquer on it to keep it in place after she had removed her coat, while Bar bara complimented her on her choice of dress.

"It's the perfect thing for a party of this kind," she approved.

"Naturally, my dear, you won't be able to drink any alcohol in public, so shall we have a small c.o.c.ktail now before the others arrive?"

"Thank you," Samantha nodded.

"Good. Clyde, bring the drinks in here for us, will you? We don't want anyone to arrive unexpectedly and find my teenage daughter indulging in secret drinking."

After Clyde had gone Barbara continued: "And this way, if anyone does arrive we shall both emerge from the bedroom together and everyone will think we have been exchanging girlish confidences."

While Barbara and Samantha were in the bedroom, Clyde set out the c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses, provided trays and on a low table she produced for the purpose were set sand wiches, c.o.c.ktail sausages on sticks, canapes, small slices of toast spread with caviare; everything anyone could wish for at an intimate affair of this kind. The drinks were many and plentiful and by the time the doorbell rang to admit Barbara's first guests, everything was in order.

The first people to arrive were Annabel and Charles Barratt.

Charles was Barbara's agent and his wife was much younger than he was. Annabel chatted away quite charmingly to Samantha, asking about the sheltered life she had led in Italy, and how she was enjoying London.

Samantha had been briefed that she was supposed to have been brought up by an elderly nanny in Italy, edu cated at a convent (which was in fact true) and had been brought into society now at her own suggestion. Barbara was supposed to have been keen on a finis.h.i.+ng school, but she, Samantha, had persuaded heir mother to allow her to come to London.

After the first few explanations, Samantha found her self slipping easily into the part, and presumed it must be her maternal forebears. After all, Barbara must have got her talent from somewhere.

There were several couples at the party who were a.s.so ciated with the theatre, and after the early introductions Samantha lost track of names. Two young men of about eighteen arrived about half an hour after the party had begun, and Barbara brought them straight over to her daughter.

"Samantha," she said, "I want you to meet two friends of mine. Ken Madison and Andrew Frazer."

Samantha smiled and shook hands with the two young men, and then someone else arrived and Barbara excused herself to greet the newcomers.

Andrew Frazer was by far the most attractive of the two and as Ken Madison seemed more interested in speak ing to Barbara's agent than he did to Samantha, Andrew was left alone with her.

"Would you like another?" asked Andrew, indicating the gla.s.s of pineapple juice in her hand. "What it that? Gin?"

"You must be joking," exclaimed Samantha, laughing. "My mother would never allow me to drink spirits ... at my age," she added mischievously.

"Of course." Andrew grinned. "Sorry." He helped himself to a c.o.c.ktail, and then taking her arm drew her over to a low couch and they sat down together. "Now," he said, "tell me all about yourself."

Samantha smiled. "My life hasn't been very interesting. Tell me about you. What do you do?"

"Well" Andrew leaned his head back against the lea ther upholstery. "Ken and I do a double act together, act ually. If it wasn't for the fact that you have lived in Italy all these years, I venture to say you would have heard of us. We call ourselves the Kendrews. Get it?"

"Yes. Very good. Do you sing?"

Andrew chuckled. "Yes. With guitars, the lot. It's, the current craze here, or didn't you know that either?"

"Oh, yes, I know that there are a lot of young men about with ... er ... groups. Isn't that right?" "Yes. Well, we're a group of two. We have a drummer, Ricky Landor, but he's a bit of a drag ..."