An Unbroken Marriage. PENNY JORDAN

as ‘red’ by rich russet undertones; her green eyes set slightly aslant beneath well defined eyebrows, only her vulnerably full mouth betraying the fact that she was less self-possessed than first appeared.

      She knew that Simon Herries was watching her, and she strived to fight off the inclination to return his look. She could almost feel his eyes sliding down her body, resting on the unexpectedly full curves of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, and the slender length of her legs.

      His eyes rested on her legs for several seconds, a thoughtful, appraising look in them when he finally raised them to India’s faintly flushed face.

      ‘Quite an enigma,’ he remarked softly. ‘Prissy blouse, schoolgirl skirt and silk stockings.’

      ‘It isn’t meant to be,’ India assured him with a calmness she was far from feeling—there had been something in the look he had given her which had sent vague frissons of awareness running down her spine. It wasn’t unusual for her clients to bring men along with them—sometimes to pay, sometimes merely to approve, and she was used to the flirtatious, sometimes almost offensive comments some of them made, but this was something different; something alien and almost frightening; an absurd awareness of her own femininity which had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way had looked at her, and how her body had reacted to it.

      ‘Oh, India is far from prissy, as I have very good reason to know,’ Melisande remarked archly. ‘I happen to know that she has a very charming and extremely wealthy boy-friend. In fact she brought him to my last party, didn’t you, darling? Melford Taylor,’ she added for Simon Herries’ benefit, mentioning the name of a well-known financier.

      Although India wasn’t looking at him, she could feel Simon Herries appraising the salon with fresh eyes. It was decorated in white and gold with touches of green, sharp and fresh, and yet with an unmistakable richness. India had designed it herself, and the alterations and decorations had been carried out by a small firm specialising in stage settings. With ingenuity and flair the work had cost very little in terms of actual money, and India had repaid the help she had had from her friends by recommending them whenever she could. Some of the stage settings for Melisande’s latest play had been designed by them, but because she very rarely allowed her private and business lives to mingle she doubted if Melisande was even aware that she knew them. She had only attended the party Melisande had mentioned because the actress had insisted upon it, and yet India could tell that Simon Herries was assessing the cost of the salon; that he could probably gauge the rental on it to the nearest pound, and was quite obviously thinking that Mel had paid for it.

      India was no naïve young girl. She was twenty-five and had lived alone since the death of her parents when she was twenty. She was perfectly well aware of the moral code prevailing in the circles in which Melisande and presumably Simon Herries himself moved; and the conclusions he had undoubtedly drawn from Melisande’s reference to Mel, and she longed to refute them. She and she alone was responsible for her success. She had received no financial ‘help’ or reward from other people, and she bitterly resented the implication that she was the sort of woman who chose the men in her life for what she could gain from the relationship.

      Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself as she went to unlock the discreetly concealed floor-to-ceiling cupboards in which she kept completed orders. Why should it matter to her if Simon Herries judged her as he himself was no doubt quite happy to be judged? Her relationship with Melford Taylor was her own business and no one else’s. Except of course that Mel happened to be married, she reminded herself wryly, as she removed the pale blue satin dress from its hanger.

      ‘I love the colour,’ Melisande enthused. ‘Darling, I really must insist that you design my wardrobe for my next role. You know I’ve landed the female lead in The Musgraves?’

      India inclined her head in acknowledgment.

      ‘It was Simon who clinched things for me really,’ Melisande added, scarlet-tipped nails almost stroking the grey-suited arm resting on the chair next to her own. ‘He has extensive interests in commercial TV.’

      ‘Really?’

      India was not aware quite how dampening she had made the word sound until she looked up and caught the grey eyes watching her with curt anger. She had already heard that Melisande had got the main role in the proposed new TV blockbuster series, but stage costume designing was unfamiliar territory to her, and while she appreciated Melisande’s faith in her, she felt that she had more than enough on her hands with the salon. The sudden boom in ‘high living’ had meant that she had had to take on extra staff to cope with the orders as it was, and she was cautious about who she employed.

      ‘I’m sure he’ll put in a good word for you with the studio bosses,’ Melisande said.

      ‘I’m sure Miss Lawson doesn’t need me to help her, not with Melford Taylor as her… backer.’

      Fighting down the sudden surge of anger which had almost taken her unawares, India turned her back on him, glad of the excuse of suggesting to Melisande that she help her with the dress. It was years since she had felt such an almost immediate antipathy towards someone, even given that she was being quite deliberately needled. And why, she could not imagine! Even if she were Mel’s mistress, to use an outdated word, what possible business was it of Simon Herries?

      In the fitting room she helped Melisande on with the blue satin. The bodice was cleverly draped to flatter the actress’s figure, with the pencil-slim skirt which India knew she favoured.

      ‘It’s gorgeous!’ Melisande pronounced when she had finished studying her reflection.

      ‘The hem has to be finished and one or two other little things done, but you’ll have it tomorrow,’ India promised.

      She could hear her private phone ringing and sighed, knowing that it would be Mel. She had told him last weekend that there was no future in their relationship. She liked him; he had a good sense of humour and was a pleasant, undemanding companion, but as she had pointed out to him, he was a married man.

      Hadn’t she heard of divorce? Mel had asked her quizzically, but India had cut him short. He had, as she knew, two small children, and even if she had been in love with him, which she wasn’t, she doubted if she could have brought herself to be the one responsible for depriving them of their father. The reason was quite simple; during her own childhood her father had had an affair with another woman. It had lasted about a year. India had been twelve at the time, a very impressionable age. She had known that something was wrong. Her mother and father never seemed to laugh any more, and she had caught her mother crying. It hadn’t been long before an older, more knowing child at school had enlightened her. She could remember quite vividly the sickness which had overwhelmed her; the need to be alone, to be assured that what she had heard wasn’t true. She had gone home and poured out the whole thing to her mother. It was true, her mother had explained, but that didn’t mean Daddy no longer loved her. He did, very much.

      Her mother had been extremely courageous, India reflected, thinking about that time now. It couldn’t have been easy, trying not to let her own doubts and bitterness affect India’s relationship with her father, but somehow she had succeeded, and been rewarded, when eventually the affair had fizzled out. Afterwards neither of her parents made any reference to what had happened, and to all intents and purposes lived quite amicably together, but the experience had changed India, made her question life and love far more deeply than most girls of her age, and although she was reluctant to admit it, had made her wary and mistrustful, unconsciously unwilling to commit herself to any deep emotional involvement with a man so that somehow, at twenty-five she had emerged from her teens and early twenties without the sexual and emotional experience most girls of her age took for granted.

      When they returned to the salon Simon Herries was studying a seascape hanging on one of the walls. India’s father had painted it before his death, and it depicted the view from their Cornish home on the cliffs high above the Atlantic. It was from her father that she had inherited the ambition which had made her successful, India acknowledged. He had been a civil engineer before his retirement, often working abroad. She herself had been conceived during a brief