Masquerade. Part 7

"Drag?"

"You know ... er... Slow-witted. Right?"

Samantha found she was enjoying herself. "And don't they all wear their hair long? Yours is ... well... pretty long, but not as long as some I've seen in the papers since I've been here."

"Yes, well, to be quite honest, my mother doesn't like it much." He said this last rather mournfully.

They talked for a while about different things. Saman tha repeated her story again and watched her mother out of the corner of her eye. She seemed very popular, and she wondered how many of these people liked her for her self, or for the fact that she was a famous actress and consequently influential.

Barbara kept coming over to her daughter, behaving, Samantha thought dryly, like the affectionate guardian she was supposed to be. She was clearly pleased that Sam antha had found someone to entertain her and thus did not need her mother's constant attention.

Samantha felt quite cynical herself, thinking like this. How greatly her world had changed since the flight over from Milan.

She had been virtually a child then, she rea lized that now. After having to accept the unpleasant things she had had to accept since her arrival, she felt differently.

She also knew that as the hours went by the circ.u.m stances of her acceptance in London mattered less to her; She felt that what must be, must be, and she might as well enjoy it as cause herself a lot of unnecessary heart-searching.

The room was now full of people and Samantha won dered whether her mother was going to introduce her to the man who her, grandmother had said was becoming the big thing in her life. She had been introduced to sev eral unattached males, but Barbara had made no particular significance between them, and surely, with her volatile nature, she would if there was someone, special.

The door bell pealed again and Barbara went to answer it.

Samantha looked up idly, expecting to see yet another couple of visitors, who were this time apparently very late. She could hear her mother's vivacious chatter and saw that the visitor was standing with his back to her, removing his coat.

Her mother looked completely unlike herself. She was so animated. Up till now, Samantha had thought nothing could disturb her.

The man turned round and Samantha felt all the colour drain out of her cheeks. Andrew who had been looking at her and talking about the current crazes in dancing, forward.

"Say, is anything wrong?" he asked anxiously. He looked up. "You look awful pale."

Samantha shook her head. "I'm fine."

"Well, that's my uncle who has just, arrived, if you're interested."

"Is it really?" Samantha forced herself to remain calm, "Who... who is he?"

"Gosh, you have been out of touch. He's Patrick Mallory.

He's a playwright, a very famous playwright. He's the one who is writing this new play for your mother."

So that was what he wrote!

"Oh!" Samantha swallowed hard.

"Do you want to meet him? I guess Barbara will be bringing him over. He and Barbara are like that." He crossed two fingers together.

"Oh!" Samantha felt rather stupid, but just for the mo ment she was speechless.

Her eyes were drawn irresistibly towards him. He was smiling his lazy smile and talking easily to her mother and to a few of the guests who had joined them. Samantha thought he looked wonderful. He was dressed in a char coal grey lounge suit, his dark hair was combed immacu lately and his tanned complexion was arresting among so many lighter-skinned men.

She felt her stomach lurch sickeningly. Could this be the man her mother intended to marry? Surely not! And yet she was sure he was. Barbara had certainly never acted so warmly towards anyone else. In fact, Samantha thought dryly, Barbara was acting completely out of the character that her daughter had built up about her. She was flushed and charming, and utterly feminine. Gone was the cold creature of a couple of hours ago. Here; wks a young and alluring woman, doing her best to enslave a man.

Then on the heels of these speculations she remembered her own position. She was supposed to be sixteen years old. She would be introduced to him as Barbara's sixteen-year-old daughter! All her old inhibitions returned. If only Barbara had accepted her as she was!

And yet why should she be so concerned about her age?

Whatever age she might be, no man would give her a sec ond glance while Barbara was around. And Barbara inten ded to be around. Of that she had no doubt. There was possession in every line of her mother's body as she clung shamelessly to Patrick Mallory's arm.

She sipped her drink and tried to readjust herself. An drei had resumed his conversation and she presumed the colour must have returned to her cheeks. She still felt shocked, but the first onslaught had pa.s.sed.

"Tell me," she said, unable to leave it alone, "how old is your uncle? I gather he's not married."

"No, he's not married. Patrick's about thirty-seven, I think. Why?" He laughed. "Do you find him attractive? Most women do. You're a little young, perhaps. Maybe you haven't reached that stage yet."

Samantha managed a smile. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. I think he is very attractive."

Andrew grinned, more broadly. "How about me? Do you think you could stand an evening out with me? On your own, of course."

Samantha relaxed a little. "Oh, I should think so. Are you inviting me?"

"Of course. Just name the day."

They were laughing together when something else struck Samantha. Now she knew why her mother had looked so familiar to her. She had been the woman with Patrick Mallory, the day they arrived from Milan!

That hurt. It really did. That Barbara should come to the airport to meet Patrick Mallory, probably knowing they would arrive on the same plane, and yet she had made no attempt to locate her own daughter. How inhuman had she become?

Samantha swallowed hard again. She had got to keep calm, at all costs. To give way to the feeling of hysteria she was feeling would be foolish and futile. Barbara was too sure of herself to care what happened to her daughter. She was cold; completely devoid of any normal feeling.

That Patrick Mallory should be famous was really no surprise. It explained the way he had half-expected her to recognize his name; the reason for the stewardess's fawn ing att.i.tude.

But that Barbara should know him so well! That was the horrible part. He must be the reason why Samantha had seen so little of Barbara since her arrival. They must have spent hours together. Did he love her? Did he make love to her?

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Barbara's voice spoke close to her ear.

"Darling, I want you to meet a very, very dear friend of mine."

Samantha rose to her feet. She felt as though she tow ered over Barbara's trim daintiness, but Patrick Mallory was still so much taller than she was that she did not feel the disadvantage.

She looked up at him defiantly and heard his sharp intake of breath.

For only a moment, his eyes mirrored his disbelief, and then Barbara took over, saying: "Patrick darling, this is Samantha. I would say little Samantha, but as you can see, she is certainly not that."

Samantha was flushed and at her mother's words, her colour deepened.

Patrick Mallory, however, had regained his composure and replied: "She's quite a beauty, Barbara. You've been hiding your light under a bushel, all these years."

Barbara had not expected quite this sort of remark from him, but she quelled her own irritation and contin ued: "It's been so wonderful, having her back again." "I'm sure."

Samantha's fingers clenched round her wine gla.s.s. His sarcasm was so evident she was sure that Barbara must hear it.

But Barbara seemed not at all perturbed and went on: "Is Andrew looking after you, darling?"

Andrew grinned. "Sure thing. Hi, Pat."

Patrick smiled warmly at his nephew and Samantha was sure these two were good friends.

"I'm enjoying it," said Samantha awkwardly, feeling that she should say something. "I hear you're a playwright, Mr. Mallory."

Patrick ran a tongue over his lips. "Yes, that's right. What...

er ... what do you do?"

"Why, nothing," exclaimed Barbara playfully. "Darl ing, you mustn't tease Samantha. She's going to live with Mother at Daven. Won't that be nice for her?"

Patrick shrugged his broad shoulders. "If Samantha is your daughter, Barbara, I should have thought she would have preferred the bright lights to stagnation in the coun try," he said.

Barbara pressed her lips together for a moment, and Samantha could sense her impatience. "Darling, you must remember, Samantha is only a child."

"Teenagers are grown up these days," retaliated An drew.

"I'm only eighteen myself, and if I can vote I'm not just out of kinder-garden."

Barbara's lips thinned. "You all seem determined to de cide Samantha's future for her," she said, with a.s.sumed tolerance.

"Perhaps you should ask her where she wants to live."

Patrick looked at Samantha. "Perhaps we should. How about it, Samantha? Does the quiet life appeal to you?"

Samantha hesitated only momentarily, conscious of Barbara's narrowed, wary gaze upon her. "I... er.. .I've never been to Daven ... at least, not for years," she hur ried on, "My grandmother says there are horses there, and I'll have them to exercise ... and the countryside to explore..."

Patrick's eyes were sardonic. "But will you like it?"

"Of course she will! " Barbara's temper was obviously fraying. "Come along, Patrick, there are several people I want you to meet..."

Patrick allowed himself to be drawn away, but Saman tha was aware of speculation in his baffled, gaze. If only she had not met him on the plane, how much less compli cated things would be. Barbara was not going to be at all pleased if it came out.

How would she explain to Patrick that she had met him from the same plane as her daughter arrived on without bothering to contact her own flesh and Mood?

And then there was the problem of Samantha's fath er 'being killed only recently. How would Patrick reconcile that with the information that Barbara tod given that her husband had died years ago?

Talk about a tangled web, she thought wearily. This was going to be a veritable ravel.

And last but not least there was her age. She might have looked younger on the plane, but what about the sherry he had ordered for her? Thank goodness, she had ordered tomato juice to begin with. At least that was non alcoholic.

Andrew could not understand her agitation. She stared continually at her drink, and deemed to be paying little attention to him.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I was thinking. It was very rude of me. Do go on."

They talked for a while and then wandered out onto the terrace. Although the doors had been opened, no one else had braved the rather cold evening air, but Samantha found it invigorating after the heat of the room. She was still wondering how she was going to tell Barbara that she had spoken to Patrick Mallory before tonight. They had both acted as though they had never seen one another be fore, but that was as much his fault as hers. He could easily have said that they had met on the plane. Why hadn't he?

Andrew leaned on the balcony rail.

"It's not a bad evening," he said. "What are you doing after this affair?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," replied Samantha truthfully. "Why? Have you any suggestions?" Just at the moment the idea of escaping from all these people seemed a pleasant one.

"Yes. Ken and I are free this evening. How about spending the evening with me?"

"Well, I would have to ask my mother," said Samantha slowly. "And there's my grandmother to consider."

Andrew grinned. "Don't I rate as more interesting company than her?"

Samantha smiled. It was nice to relax and forget her troubles. Andrew was so uncomplicated. He accepted her for what she was, without requiring any explanations.

"All right," she said. "I'll ring Grandmother later, after I've asked Barbara."

"Barbara?"

Samantha shrugged. It sounded so cold somehow. Not at all like when she had called her father John.

"I mean Mother, of course. She asked me to call her that.

Everyone does, and it sounds so ancient for her to be called 'Mother'. She looks so young." I Andrew accepted this. He was used to the casual modes of address used among theatre people.

"Good. That's, settled, then. I know a beat club where the music is really way out; Can you dance ? "

Samantha laughed. "No, but I can learn. I'm sure you'll make a marvelous tutor."

"And just what is he going to teach you?" asked a lazy voice.

Samantha swung round. Patrick Mallory was leaning indolently against the frame of the French doors. He held a drink in one hand, and his expression was sardonic.

Samantha glanced at Andrew. "We ... er ... we're go ing out together this evening. Andrew is going to teach me ail the new dances."

"Is he?" Patrick straightened up. "I thought you might like to have dinner with your mother and me. After all, we ought to get to know one another better, don't you think?"

Samantha felt the hot blood surge to her cheeks. She had no desire to spend an evening with them! Heavens, the pifalls that lay ahead were already too close for her liking. She had no desire to expedite confession.

To her relief, Andrew broke in before she could speak.

"What! Spend an evening playing gooseberry? Not likely, Patrick. She's coming out with me. Besides, haven't you anything more exciting in mind, for your own amus.e.m.e.nt, of course?"

Patrick was not disturbed. He smiled his attractive smile, and said: "What do you know about my amuse ments?"

Andrew chuckled. "Not as much as I'd like, believe me."

At that moment Barbara emerged from the french doors.

"Patrick, what are you doing out here? I've been looking for you? Oh!" She saw her daughter and Andrew. "Am I interrupting something? You all look rather con spiratorial!" Her smile was a little fixed.