A Paper Marriage. Jessica Steele

by her mother, and secondly by Jonah Marriott himself.

      ‘Well?’ Her father interrupted her thoughts.

      ‘It seemed the best way to do it,’ she answered lamely. ‘If there had been any sort of a traffic snarl-up I could have been too late for the bank here. And I knew—’ thank you, Mother ‘—that the bank wanted their money by today.’

      ‘And they’ve got it—and it’s for certain they’ll hang on to it!’ he stated agitatedly. ‘There’s absolutely no chance they’ll let me have it back again.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’d better go and see Jonah.’

      ‘I’ll go!’ Lydie said straight away, as she knew she must.

      ‘You,’ her father erupted, ‘have done enough! You can stay here with your mother and dream up your next scheme.’

      That comment was extremely unfair, in Lydie’s opinion, but she understood his pride must be hurting like the very devil. ‘Please let me go?’ she pleaded. He hesitated for the merest moment, and Lydie rushed on quickly, ‘You’re not the only one with any pride,’ she added—and all at once her father seemed to fold.

      He looked at her, his normally quite reserved daughter who, up until then, had caused him very little grief. ‘None of this has been very easy for you either, has it?’ he queried, more in the calm tone she was familiar with. And, relenting, if reluctantly, ‘We’ll go and see him together,’ he conceded.

      That wasn’t what Lydie wanted either. ‘I’ll go and ring him,’ she offered.

      ‘Not go and see him?’

      ‘I’ll probably have to make an appointment first.’ In this instance of eating extra-large portions of humble pie, it seemed more diplomatic to try and get an appointment first rather than to go barging straight into his office.

      ‘We’ll make the call from my study,’ Wilmot Pearson declared, and, giving his wife a frosty look in passing, for which, since her home was for the moment secure, she cared not a jot, he and Lydie went from the drawing room and to his study.

      She was glad that her father allowed her to make the call and did not insist on doing that himself, but her insides were on the churn again as she dialled the Marriott Electronics number.

      Again when she asked to speak with Mr Jonah Marriott she was put through to his PA. ‘Hello, it’s Lydie Pearson…’

      ‘Oh, good afternoon,’ the PA answered pleasantly, before Lydie could continue. ‘I missed seeing you this morning.’ And Lydie realised that plainly Jonah must have made some comment to his PA about her visit—probably something along the lines of Don’t ever let that woman come in here again—she’s too expensive. Lydie hoped he hadn’t revealed the full content of her visit to his confidential assistant. ‘I’m afraid Mr Marrriott’s at a meeting. If you would like to leave a message?’

      Blocked. ‘I should like to see him some time. Later this afternoon if that’s possible.’

      ‘He’s flying to Paris tonight, but…’

      Something akin to jealousy gave Lydie a small thump at the thought that he would be dallying the weekend in Paris. Ridiculous, she scoffed. But she began to realise she had inherited a little of her mother’s arrogance in that she would beg for nothing. ‘I’ll give him a call next week. It’s not important,’ Lydie butted in pleasantly, wished the PA an affable goodbye, and turned to relay the conversation to her waiting father. ‘Try not to worry, Dad,’ she added quietly. Having been set up by her mother, she was not feeling all that friendly towards her, but attempted anyway to make things better between her parents. ‘And try not to be too cross with Mother; she only did what she did to help.’

      Wilmot Pearson looked as if he might have a lot to say about that, but settled for a mild, ‘I know.’

      The atmosphere in the house was not good for the rest of the day, however, and Lydie took herself off for a walk with a very great deal on her mind. She still felt crimson around the ears when she thought of the way she had gone to Jonah Marriott’s office and demanded fifty thousand pounds!

      Oh, heavens! But—why on earth had he given it to her? Not only that, but he had made sure his cheque was banked and not returned to him with a polite note from her father. ‘There’s money in this account to meet this amount?’ she had asked him. ‘There will be…by the time you get to your father’s bank,’ he had said, as in Make haste and get there—and she had fallen for it!

      Lydie carried on walking, not knowing where she was emotionally. With that money in the bank her father had some respite from his worries—and he sorely needed that respite. Against that, though, since it was she who had asked for, and taken, that money, regardless of where she had deposited it, she was beginning to realise that the debt was not her father’s but hers; solely hers.

      Feeling quite sick as she accepted that realisation, all she could do was to wonder where in creation she was going to find fifty-five thousand pounds with which to repay him? That question haunted her for the remainder of her walk.

      She returned home knowing that adding together the second-hand value of her car, the pearls her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday and her small inheritance—if she could get into it—she would be lucky if she was able to raise as much as ten thousand pounds!

      She went to bed that night knowing that Jonah Marriott’s hope that it would not be another seven years before they met again must have been said tongue in cheek. He must have known she would be on the phone wanting to see him the moment she discovered his loan from her father had been repaid long since. Jonah Marriott, without a doubt, had told his PA to inform her when she rang that he could not see her.

      Why he would do that, Lydie wasn’t very sure, and conceded that very probably he’d given his PA no such instruction. It was just one Lydie Pearson feeling very much out of sorts where he was concerned. Him and his ‘Obviously your father doesn’t know you’ve come here.’ It was obvious to her, now, that Jonah knew her father would have soon stopped her visit had he the merest inkling of what she was doing.

      Lydie spent a wakeful night with J. Marriott Esquire occupying too much space in her head for comfort. Oversexed swine! She hoped he was enjoying himself in Paris—whoever she was.

      The atmosphere in her home was no better when she went down to breakfast on Saturday morning. Lydie saw a whole day of monosyllabic conversation and of watching frosty glances go back and forth.

      ‘I think I’ll go and see Aunt Alice. Truthfully,’ she added at her father’s sharp look.

      ‘While you’re there for goodness’ sake check what she intends to wear to the wedding next Saturday,’ her mother instructed peevishly. ‘She’s just as likely to turn up in that disgraceful old gardening hat and wellingtons!’

      Lydie was glad to escape the house, and drove to Penleigh Corbett and the small semi-detached house which her mother’s aunt, to her mother’s embarrassment, rented from the local council.

      To Lydie’s dismay, though, the sprightly eighty-four-year-old was looking much less sprightly than when she had last seen her, for all she beamed a welcome. ‘Come in, come in!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t expect to see you before next week.’

      They were drinking coffee fifteen minutes later when, feeling quite perturbed by her great-aunt’s pallor, Lydie enquired casually, ‘Do you see your doctor at all?’

      ‘Dr Stokes? She’s always popping in.’

      ‘What for?’ Lydie asked in alarm.

      ‘Nothing in particular. She just likes my chocolate cake.’

      Lydie had to stamp down hard on her need to know more than that. Great-Aunt Alice was anti people discussing their ailments. ‘Are you taking any medication?’ Lydie asked tentatively.

      ‘Do you know anybody over eighty who isn’t?’ Alice Gough bounced back. ‘How’s your mother? Has she come to terms