The Trouble with Trent!. Jessica Steele

      Alethea went home after another exhausting but stimulating day to find that the house, which last night she had considered ‘fairly comfortable’ for the six of them, had undergone something of a change. Maxine’s furniture had arrived.

      ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Maxine asked anxiously as she followed Alethea into her bedroom.

      Alethea stared at her once roomy bedroom, which now housed an extra wardrobe, a couple of easy chairs and a sofa. Sympathy, she recalled thinking less than twenty-four hours ago, would not be of much help.

      ‘Of course I don’t,’ she answered stoutly. ‘I’m—er—just a bit surprised. I had an idea furniture removers took an age to organise.’

      ‘You know Mother. She hired a van, and got the chap who comes to do the garden to bring his pal and do some heavy carrying. Sadie droned on endlessly at breakfast about having to share a bed with Georgia, so Mother said it was common sense to go and fetch their two beds and anything else I might need, before Keith sold the furniture as well as the house.’

      ‘I didn’t see why he should let his other woman have any of the stuff that Maxine’s cared for all these years.’ Eleanor Pemberton joined them in the bedroom.

      Alethea could just see it: no doubt her mother had gone to Maxine’s house, taken a look around—and taken charge!

      A month later, they could barely move for furniture. Because in their own adequately furnished house they now had what Alethea was sure must be the entire contents of Maxine’s home. Barking one’s shins against something or other became an everyday hazard.

      And still Polly’s screaming went on. There was nothing wrong with the child apparently, except temper—she had the lungs of an opera singer in her prime.

      Time to party! Alethea stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Honest violet eyes stared back at her. She skimmed her glance over her blonde hair, which fell straight to her chin and then just turned under.

      Was her dress too short? She had few party clothes and had bought this dress specifically for Mr and Mrs Chapman’s anniversary party. It was a violet-blue that matched her eyes. She had good legs, long legs—but the dress had not seemed so short in the shop. Only now, in the privacy of her room, did it seem a shade on the skimpy side. Perfectly plain, with narrow shoulder straps, it was cut to flare gently from the hips.

      She was just assuring herself that perhaps she had made a good choice after all when her bedroom door opened. Privacy? It was a thing of the past. Her seven-year-old niece came in.

      ‘Sorry,’ Sadie apologised. She was rather a nice child when she wasn’t complaining. ‘I didn’t know you were changing.’

      ‘I’m changed.’ Alethea smiled.

      ‘You’re going to your party in your petticoat?’

      Oh, grief! Alethea was just about to die when her sister came in. ‘Out!’ Maxine instructed her daughter.

      ‘Sadie thinks this dress looks like a petticoat,’ Alethea panicked.

      ‘Rot! You’ll see shorter skirts there,’ Maxine told her bracingly.

      To Alethea’s relief, Maxine was proved right. In fact, given that the hem was inches above her knees, her dress looked positively decorous beside the thigh-length outfits that some were wearing.

      Alethea had called for Carol Robinson on her way, and both Mr and Mrs Chapman had greeted them warmly when they arrived at the hotel. ‘You’re not on duty tonight—you’re here to enjoy yourself,’ Hector Chapman had reminded them.

      It was fun chatting to all and sundry, Alethea discovered. Fun being able to put faces to names on the invitation list Mrs Chapman had given her. Fun to dance without the remotest inclination to be more involved.

      Carol Robinson was fun too. Alethea knew Carol was thirty-three and dedicated to her work but was amazed when, during a medley of dances that went back to before the flood, someone asked Carol to Charleston with him—and she agreed.

      My giddy aunt! Alethea’s lovely violet eyes widened. Never had she suspected Carol of such expertise! She was so superbly efficient in the office, Alethea had never guessed her capable of letting her hair down to this degree.

      Unbeknown to her, Alethea wore a gentle smile as she glanced away from the dancers. She looked up to her right—and her breath caught. There, about ten yards away, was one person, she discovered, who was not watching the dancing. He was tall, dark-haired, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and was staring at her!

      Hurriedly Alethea looked back to where Carol was still showing no sign of flagging. But this time Carol’s flashing feet had less of an impact on Alethea. Who was he? Why was he watching her and not the dancers? And for how long had he been watching her?

      Somehow, for all that she had not exchanged so much as a single word with the man, Alethea felt shaken by having met him. Rot, she admonished herself, not ready to believe it. Yet...

      Just then the music ended and a breathless Carol headed her way. ‘Whew! I’m hot. I’m going for a drink. Can I get you something?’ she offered.

      Alethea declined and, as if by some magnetic pull, felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to look to her right to see if the tall, dark-haired man was still there. It took a very determined effort not to.

      She gave her attention to the MC, who was announcing that the next dance in the selection would be a Viennese waltz. Alethea then discovered that the man who, a few minutes earlier, had been watching her was standing right in front of her.

      She was tall but she still had to look up. Her honest violet eyes met his dark ones, and her heart, for some reason, did a little somersault.

      ‘Are you going to dance with me?’ he asked. He had a warm, rather pleasant kind of voice.

      ‘I don’t...’ she began.

      ‘You don’t know me.’ With a hint of a smile he finished what she had not been going to say! Clearly he was a man who had no time for obstacles in his way, for he straightway rectified that omission. ‘Trent de Havilland,’ he introduced himself.

      De Havilland rang a bell. She’d typed it on one of the invitation envelopes. ‘How do you do?’ she found herself murmuring.

      ‘And you are?’

      Alethea had been brought up to be wary of men, but they were in a crowded room, for goodness’ sake. And while Trent de Havilland was sophisticated to the nth degree, he was hardly likely to carry her off to his evil lair in front of everyone.

      ‘Alethea Pemberton,’ she answered quickly, starting to feel she was no end of a fool for delaying so long.

      That hint of a smile on his well-formed mouth grew. ‘And where do you come from, Alethea Pemberton?’ he wanted to know.

      Alethea was backed up against a brick wall of caution. But she felt it was fairly safe to reveal, ‘I work in Mr Chapman’s office.’

      ‘There, now we know all about each other,’ he commented, when in fact all she knew about him was his name. ‘Let’s dance.’

      ‘I don’t dance.’ She stopped him quickly before he could guide her to the dance area.

      ‘How could you lie to me?’ he reproached teasingly, not moving, just standing there looking down at her.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised at once, realising he might have caught a glimpse of her dancing already. ‘What I meant to say...’ she went on. At work she was unflappable, at home she was unflappable, so why, all of a sudden, standing here with this man, was she getting all confused? ‘What I meant to say was, that I don’t Viennese waltz. I can’t.’

      Trent de Havilland leaned back. ‘Can you count to six?’ he enquired. It seemed her apology was accepted, because, without waiting for her to reply, he caught her elbow in a firm hold and took her to the dance area.