The Waterfall Of The Moon. Anne Mather

today. Are you free?”

      Ruth recalled that she was supposed to be lunching with Lucy Fielding, the wife of one of her father's directors, and immediately dismissed the engagement.

      “Yes. Yes, I think so.” She hesitated. “Where are you phoning from?”

      “My apartment.”

      “Your apartment?” Ruth couldn't help being surprised. “I didn't know you had an apartment.”

      “I didn't – until Monday. I leased it then.”

      “I see.” Ruth swallowed hard. “It's – It's in London?”

      His tone was dry. “Naturally. Queen Anne Gardens.”

      “I know where that is. It's off Marylebone Road, isn't it?”

      “I gather you know London very well.”

      “I've lived here for thirteen years,” she answered defensively, stung by the sarcasm that was faintly evident in his voice.

      “Have you? You don't look old enough.”

      “You wouldn't think that if you could see me now,” she retorted, smiling to herself.

      “I'm not without imagination,” he remarked quietly, and Ruth felt an awful weakness invading her lower limbs. She sank down on to a nearby chair and smoothed the transparent material of her negligée over her knees.

      “Wh – what time do you suggest we have lunch?” she queried, changing the subject completely.

      “Tell me where you live and I'll pick you up – say about twelve.”

      “All right.” Ruth gave him her address, waiting while he made a note of it. “I'll see you later, then.”

      “With luck.” He sounded pleased. “G'bye.”

      Ruth replaced the receiver with fingers that were not quite steady. During the past few days she had succeeded in putting thoughts of him to the back of her mind, and if her dreams were haunted by the sound of his voice and crazy visions of a tropical landscape, she had put it down to nothing more than a fleeting obsession.

      But now he was here, in London, and she was going to have lunch with him, and the knowledge filled her with expectancy.

      First, though, she had to ring Lucy Fielding and make some excuse not to lunch with her, and then she went upstairs again and began examining the contents of her wardrobe. Mrs. Lawson came up after her and stood in the doorway looking concerned.

      “Are you going out, miss?”

      “Later, Mrs. Lawson. I suppose my father's gone already.”

      “Yes, miss. He left just before nine.”

      “Hmm.” Ruth nodded, and continued looking critically through her wardrobe.

      “It's today you're having lunch with Mrs. Fielding, isn't it, miss?” Mrs. Lawson had an excellent memory – unfortunately.

      Ruth swung round. “I was,” she admitted reluctantly. “But I'm not now. I'm lunching with Mr. Hardy instead. If Mrs. Fielding should ring to ask how I am, tell her I'm still in bed.”

      Mrs. Lawson gave her an old-fashioned look. “Why? What's wrong with you?”

      “I've got a migraine.”

      “You don't get migraine.”

      “She doesn't know that.” Ruth gave a mischievous smile. “You won't let me down, will you, Mrs. Lawson?”

      “I suppose not.” Mrs. Lawson gave a reproving smile. “But who's this Mr. Hardy? Does your father know about him?”

      “Actually, no. But don't worry, he's eminently respectable.”

      “Is he?” Mrs. Lawson's tone was dry.

      “Yes. You'll see him anyway, just to put your mind at rest. He's calling for me at twelve. Will you let him in?”

      “All right, miss. It seems I shall have to.” Mrs. Lawson turned to go. “Will you be in to dinner this evening?”

      “As far as I know, I shall.” Ruth didn't want to think about dinner. By dinner time this lunch would be over …

      She was ready and waiting when he arrived. She had chosen to wear an apricot jersey mini-dress, and her ankle-length black fur coat was draped across the back of a chair in readiness. Her hair was loose, as usual, falling against her cheeks from a centre parting.

      Mrs. Lawson showed Patrick upstairs into the drawing room where Ruth was waiting. It was obvious she was curious. Patrick was vastly different from her expectations and no doubt she was wondering how they had met.

      “Will there be anything else, miss?” she asked politely, folding her hands.

      “No, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Ruth shook her head giving Patrick a welcoming smile.

      “Very well, miss.” Mrs. Lawson withdrew and Ruth relaxed.

      “Will you have a drink before we leave?” she asked, realising that her voice sounded breathy, even to her. But in a navy suede suit and cream overcoat, with that slightly detached air about him, he unnerved her. His age had added maturity and it was this as much as anything, she realised, which made her feel at a disadvantage.

      “No, thanks,” he replied now, looking round the room with interest.

      “All right.” Ruth lifted the fur and began to put it on. “I am ready. I just thought you might prefer a drink here …”

      He turned his attention to her. “Do you want a drink?”

      In truth, Ruth felt badly in need of one, but she shook her head lightly. “No. Let's go. I'm hungry.”

      The Mini was waiting outside and he put her into it before striding round to get in beside her. Ruth's lips twitched as she pictured Mrs. Lawson's surprise if she peeped through her curtains and saw their mode of transport. No doubt she imagined he drove an Aston Martin at least.

      They managed to park quite near the restaurant in Soho he had selected. Small, and rather exclusive, Ruth was surprised he had known of its existence, until he went on to explain that its owner was a friend of his.

      He was immediately recognised, of course, and clearly well liked. The owner appeared, and in the dimly lit bar, seated on tall stools, Ruth was introduced to him and to the bartender, who happened to be the owner's son. Then she had to listen while Patrick explained what he had been doing these past few years, and was roundly chided for being away so long without coming back to see them. Sipping her Martini, Ruth felt that familiar sense of inadequacy that she always seemed to feel in his presence assailing her. She didn't know why. He had no background to speak of, no inherited estates or titles to intimidate her, no money even; and yet he succeeded in making her feel the interloper, the outsider as it were. How could he return after five years in Venezuela and be able to take up exactly where he left off?

      Of course she knew the answer. He was that kind of man. People and places did not intimidate him. He was intelligent, as well as interesting, and he knew that what he was doing was worthwhile, and not simply a way to fill his time. He worked because it was his career, his means of livelihood, and all of a sudden she wished she had some purpose in her life.

      But then, had she been a working girl, he would probably not have invited her out to lunch in the first place. There might have been some problem of her getting the wrong idea …

      Finishing her drink, she pushed her glass forward. “May I have another?”

      Patrick interrupted what he was saying to look at her. “What? Oh, yes. Sorry. Same again, Frank.”

      “Thank you.” Ruth accepted the second Martini moodily and as though aware of her increasing resentment, Patrick finished his Scotch and slid off his stool.

      “Shall we