intervals. Tonight the swimming pool was an aquamarine jewel, showing off dozens of huge floating hibiscus flowers Linda had gathered from her abundant shrubs.
Linda took great care of her home and lovely garden, Camille thought. In fact, looking after her husband and her home seemed to have become Linda’s only interest. She had turned her back on her legal career, sacrificing everything on the altar of marriage.
“This is superb, darling,” Stephen complimented her warmly. “I don’t know anyone who can do better.”
“Certainly not me.” Camille laughed. “I spend precious little time in the kitchen.”
“Your mother, Stephen?” Linda suggested dryly, looking at her husband. Linda’s mother-in-law, while treating Linda with scrupulous courtesy, was given to subtly denigrating Linda’s every achievement. It was a classic case of the possessive mother and her only son.
“Listen, I’m not getting into that,” Stephen answered with a wry shake of his head. “All I know is, you have a rare talent as a homemaker, Lindy. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
“Let’s drink to that!” Camille said, thinking that, for all her smiles, there was something a little lost and sad in Linda’s doe eyes.
T HE EVENING PAPER carried the first photographs of the gala showing; the largest and most prominent was a shot of Camille with Nick Lombard at her side.
“Can you believe this?” Camille flapped the newspaper at Browning.
“It’s a very good photograph, love,” Browning said. “You look absolutely beautiful and he’s a stunning-looking man.”
“It’s shockingly inappropriate, Tommy. Anyone would think we were close friends.”
“It does have a certain romantic focus,” Browning conceded.
“People will think I’ve sold my soul to the devil.” Camille passed the newspaper to him to take a closer look. “I’m furious, Tommy.”
“It’s just publicity, love. We all know the camera can play funny tricks.”
The next day the phone rang all morning. To escape the calls Camille drove into town. She was sitting quietly over coffee at her favorite haunt when a woman stopped at her table.
“Miss Guilford, isn’t it?”
Camille looked up, hiding her dismay. “Why, hello, Mrs. Tennant.”
“I thought it was you tucked away so quietly.” Clare Tennant took a seat uninvited. “One can’t miss the hair. If you want to go incognito, my dear, you really should wear a scarf. That magnificent mane is a dead giveaway.” She settled herself and looked up. “That was quite a night, the showing.”
There was something corrosive about the young widow’s triangular smile. “Indeed it was,” Camille answered, wondering if stress was making her over-react
“You bore up nobly.”
“No problem.”
“Surely it was very upsetting, your ex-fiancȳ and that Masterman woman turning up together. Word is they’re a serious item.”
“I thought they looked good together.”
“Do I detect a note of bitterness?” Clare Tennant asked.
“On the contrary, I hope they’ll be happy as a couple.”
“If you ask me, Robyn has taken all the initiative there. She’s a very determined sort.” Clare Tennant touched a hand to her hair. Today it was drawn back into a coil, a style that accentuated the fineness of her features. She looked stunning, no more than late twenties, when Camille knew she had to be in her late thirties. She had a slim body that looked well in clothes—on this occasion an elegant Chanel suit in navy and white. Camille thought she exuded experience and a taut sexuality. One could be either attracted or repelled.
“I don’t think anyone missed your photograph in the paper.” The blue-gray eyes, large and thickly lashed, looked challengingly into Camille’s. “You and Nick. The man’s famous for the intensity of his gaze.”
“I feel I should mention he’s famous for bringing down GNT.”
Clare Tennant leaned across the small circular table and patted Camille’s hand.
Linda took great care of her home and lovely garden, Camille thought. In fact, looking after her husband and her home seemed to have become Linda’s only interest. She had turned her back on her legal career, sacrificing everything on the altar of marriage.
“This is superb, darling,” Stephen complimented her warmly. “I don’t know anyone who can do better.”
“Certainly not me.” Camille laughed. “I spend precious little time in the kitchen.”
“Your mother, Stephen?” Linda suggested dryly, looking at her husband. Linda’s mother-in-law, while treating Linda with scrupulous courtesy, was given to subtly denigrating Linda’s every achievement. It was a classic case of the possessive mother and her only son.
“Listen, I’m not getting into that,” Stephen answered with a wry shake of his head. “All I know is, you have a rare talent as a homemaker, Lindy. You’ve made me a very happy man.”
“Let’s drink to that!” Camille said, thinking that, for all her smiles, there was something a little lost and sad in Linda’s doe eyes.
T HE EVENING PAPER carried the first photographs of the gala showing; the largest and most prominent was a shot of Camille with Nick Lombard at her side.
“Can you believe this?” Camille flapped the newspaper at Browning.
“It’s a very good photograph, love,” Browning said. “You look absolutely beautiful and he’s a stunning-looking man.”
“It’s shockingly inappropriate, Tommy. Anyone would think we were close friends.”
“It does have a certain romantic focus,” Browning conceded.
“People will think I’ve sold my soul to the devil.” Camille passed the newspaper to him to take a closer look. “I’m furious, Tommy.”
“It’s just publicity, love. We all know the camera can play funny tricks.”
The next day the phone rang all morning. To escape the calls Camille drove into town. She was sitting quietly over coffee at her favorite haunt when a woman stopped at her table.
“Miss Guilford, isn’t it?”
Camille looked up, hiding her dismay. “Why, hello, Mrs. Tennant.”
“I thought it was you tucked away so quietly.” Clare Tennant took a seat uninvited. “One can’t miss the hair. If you want to go incognito, my dear, you really should wear a scarf. That magnificent mane is a dead giveaway.” She settled herself and looked up. “That was quite a night, the showing.”
There was something corrosive about the young widow’s triangular smile. “Indeed it was,” Camille answered, wondering if stress was making her over-react
“You bore up nobly.”
“No problem.”
“Surely it was very upsetting, your ex-fiancȳ and that Masterman woman turning up together. Word is they’re a serious item.”
“I thought they looked good together.”
“Do I detect a note of bitterness?” Clare Tennant asked.
“On the contrary, I hope they’ll be happy as a couple.”
“If you ask me, Robyn has taken all the initiative there. She’s a very determined sort.” Clare Tennant touched a hand to her hair. Today it was drawn back into a coil, a style that accentuated the fineness of her features. She looked stunning, no more than late twenties, when Camille knew she had to be in her late thirties. She had a slim body that looked well in clothes—on this occasion an elegant Chanel suit in navy and white. Camille thought she exuded experience and a taut sexuality. One could be either attracted or repelled.
“I don’t think anyone missed your photograph in the paper.” The blue-gray eyes, large and thickly lashed, looked challengingly into Camille’s. “You and Nick. The man’s famous for the intensity of his gaze.”
“I feel I should mention he’s famous for bringing down GNT.”
Clare Tennant leaned across the small circular table and patted Camille’s hand.
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