Just a Matter of Time

Three

Gerald Hammett sat in his shabby room at the Franklin Hotel with the door ajar and waited anxiously for Sheila’s return. She had left the hotel at 10.45 and he reckoned she would be back with news by at least 12.30. At 13.00 he went down to the bar and bought a beef sandwich and a glass of beer. From his stool in the bar he could see the entrance of the hotel. He was growing impatient and worried. At 13.30, he returned to his room and again waited. The hands of his watch crept on. What had happened to her? She was the king-pin of this operation and without her, there would be no more money. Had she been knocked down by a car? He was angry and frustrated to realize that although his own pan in the plan was of vital importance, he had such a small active part to play.

Sheila and Bromhead were so goddamn efficient, he thought angrily. It seemed to him that they treated him the way movie stars would treat a bit player and this riled him.

Around 16.00 when almost exasperated with waiting, he saw her come down the corridor, carrying three boxes and several parcels that told him she had been on a shopping spree.

He waited until she had unlocked her door, then he came out into the corridor, looked right and left to assure himself there was no one to see him and then joined her as she entered her room.

“What happened for God’s sake?” he demanded as she closed the door.

“You, shouldn’t be here, Gerry,” she said as she dropped the boxes on the bed. “You’re taking too many risks.”

Gerald said a four letter word.

“What happened?”

“It’s all right. I’m on a three months’ trial.” She crossed to the fly-blown mirror and began to rearrange her hair which she had dressed low, making her look older and severe.

“What’s all this?” Gerald demanded, waving to the boxes on the bed.

“Oh, clothes.” Her voice was indifferent. “Your aunt wants me to dress better.”

“Did she give you the money?”

“Of course.”

He stared at the boxes.

“What’s she paying you?”

“A hundred and forty a week.”

“She is?” Gerald whistled. “That’s not hay, man! The old cow must be rolling in the stuff.”

“We know that.”

Her cold tone made him stare at her.

“And Patterson?”

“I was able to persuade him.”

“Just what the hell does that mean?”

“Never mind. I must pack. She wants me there by six o’clock. I haven’t much time.”

“You mean you are going to live with her right now?”

“Yes... she is without anyone.”

Gerald shifted uneasily.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

She moved by him, took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed and opened it.

He caught hold of her arm and swung her around to face him.

“Did you hear me? What’s going to happen to me?”

She regarded him with her calm, smoky blue eyes and this quiet calmness angered and frightened him.

“You accepted the arrangement,” she said and jerked her arm free. “Be careful... you will bruise me.”

“I’ll do more than that!” Gerald snarled and hooking his foot around her ankle, he upset her, sprawling her on her back across the boxes on the bed.

As he dropped on her, his hand groping for her skirt, she struck him across his face. Water jumped into his eyes and he felt blood starting from his nose. Stunned by the force of the blow, he felt her move out from under him, then a Kleenex tissue was thrust into his hand. He sat up, the tissue held to his nose while he glared at her.

“You bitch!”

“Control yourself,” she said curtly. “Get off the bed... you’re bleeding.”

Trembling and now in despair, he got to his feet.

“I know the signs, you bitch,” he mumbled as he dabbed at his nose. “You’ve got the hots for this banker bastard. I don’t mean anything anymore to you.”

“Stop talking,” she said. This quiet, firm voice made him feel like a performing ape who answers to signals. He sat on the sagging chair and she went into the bathroom, returning with a wet sponge. With expert and completely impersonal hands, she wiped the blood off his nose and mouth. Then she returned to the bathroom, rinsed out the sponge while he sat there like a beaten child.

“Gerry...” She stood in the bathroom doorway, looking at him. “I haven’t much time, but we must talk. This is a big operation. You have to agree to it. Bromhead knows his business. I know my business. We could be rich for life and this is what I want. You must stop behaving like an idiot child. You ask what is going to happen to you. You are important to this plan, but you have a waiting part. If you can’t think what is going to happen to you, then I can make suggestions.”

Gerald dabbed at his nose with the blood-stained tissue.

“So what are your goddamn suggestions?”

“I will give you seventy dollars a week: that is half what I’m being paid,” Sheila said. “You must leave here... it’s too expensive. You must find a cheap room. With seventy dollars a week you should be able to manage. You could even get a job.”

Gerald dropped the tissue on the floor. He sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose and then looked suspiciously to see if his hand was bloody.

“Job? What are you talking about? What the hell could I do?”

She regarded him.

“All right... never mind. You must manage on seventy dollars a week... a lot of people do.”

“And in the meantime this banker bastard will be screwing you?”

“Gerry... will you please leave me? I have to pack. Tomorrow, you leave here. This is the beginning of an operation that could change our lives. Will you please try to act like an adult?”

He glared at her.

“Suppose I don’t want this money?” he said. “Money can bring trouble. Get on that bed, baby, I want you.”

Still the calm expression, but the smoky blue eyes came alive.

“Get out!” There was a sudden snap in her voice that scared Gerald. “I must pack!”

He got reluctantly to his feet.

“How am I to find a room?” There was now a whine in his voice. “It’s fine for you, living in luxury with that old cow and having it off with that banker bastard... how do I find a room?”

“Gerald! Will you get out!” She looked around, caught up her handbag, opened it and tossed money on the bed. “There... seventy dollars! You won’t get any more until this day week!”

He looked at the bills lying on the bed, hesitated, then picked them up and shoved them into his hip-pocket.

“The trouble with you is you only think of money,” he said.

“Is that what you think? You have to have money to live. The trouble with you is you don’t think of money — you rely on me to keep you.”

“We were happy as we were,” he said, moving to the door. “I hate this goddamn thing you’ve got mixed up with.”

“Send me your new address at the Plaza Beach Hotel,” she said not looking at him. “I’ll call you.”

He stood by the door, hesitating, then he said, “Come on, baby, before I go... drop your pants.”

She stared at him, calm and remote.

“Please go, Gerry... I have to pack.”

It was the coldness in her voice and the indifference in her smoky blue eyes that told him he could have lost her and he felt suddenly scared and insecure. Knowing it would be useless to try to persuade her when she was in this mood, he went out, slamming the door.

She listened as he stamped down the corridor. When his door slammed, she sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the boxes of clothes she had bought, and pressed her hands to her eyes.

Around 11.00 the following morning, Patterson parked the Wildcat outside the Plaza Beach Hotel. He walked up the impressive flight of marble steps that led to the hotel lobby.

The doorman saluted him. He was a big, red faced man who had adapted himself to the whims of the rich old freaks — as he regarded them — who lived in the hotel.

“Morning, Mr. Patterson.”

“Hi, Tom.” Patterson paused. He believed in being friendly with underlings. It cost him nothing and it paid dividends. “How’s the wife?”

The doorman grimaced.

“Like me, Mr. Patterson... getting no younger.”

“Oh, nonsense. Talking about getting no younger, did you hear the one about...” and he recounted the raw story he had heard from a client just before leaving the bank. The doorman spluttered with laughter as Patterson entered the lobby.

As he crossed to the elevators, he ran into Herman Lacey, the Director of the hotel. Lacey was tall and thin with a balding head, white sideboards and a hawk-like face that made him look like a successful senator.

The two men shook hands.

“How’s Mrs. Morely-Johnson?” Patterson asked.

Lacey took a personal interest in all his clients. He lifted his elegant shoulders.

“Very blind now. I wish you would talk to her. An operation these days is so simple. Otherwise, I would say she is well. She seems pleased with her new companion. I would have thought a woman a little older... but Mrs. Morely-Johnson seems satisfied.” Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“I wish I could persuade her about the operation,” Patterson said in all sincerity. “But that is a topic that doesn’t go down well. As for Miss Oldhill... I persuaded the old lady to take her. They are both musicians and I think it will give the old lady an extra interest.”

“I didn’t know. Yes... I see... a musician? How interesting.”

The door of the elevator swung open. Patterson shook hands and leaving Lacey, he was whisked to the 20th floor of the hotel and to the penthouse.

As the elevator mounted, he again felt a rush of blood run through him at the thought of seeing Sheila again.

He had been disappointed and irritated that she hadn’t contacted him. He had expected her to telephone him — he felt that was the least she could have done — to tell him that she had got the job which, after all, had been entirely due to his influence. He had had the news from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, but Sheila — he was thinking of her now as Sheila — surely could have found time to have told him herself and to have thanked him.

Leaving the elevator, he crossed the small vestibule and pressed the bell push of the penthouse. As he stood waiting, he was aware that his heartbeat had accelerated and his hands had become clammy.

Sheila opened the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Patterson... please come in.”

He stood there, looking at her. He scarcely recognized this tall, severe looking woman with her glasses, her hair dressed in an unbecoming style. She was wearing a white blouse with a high collar and a black skirt. She looked immaculate, efficient, sexless and remote.

As she stood aside, Patterson, a little dazed by this unexpected transformation, walked into the lobby.

“Is that you, Chris?” The raucous squawk came from the living-room: the door stood open.

Without looking at him, Sheila moved to the door.

“It’s Mr. Patterson,” she said and stood aside for Patterson to pass her. Again he tried to catch her eye, but she was already walking into the room that was used as her office and he had no alternative but to walk into the living-room.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson was sitting in a lounging chair in this big, elegant room with its six windows looking out onto the terrace with its mass of flowers and that overlooked the Pacific ocean and the town.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson was a bird-like woman with bright, alive blue eyes and a deeply tanned skin that was creased like old, well-worn leather. She made no attempt to conceal her age. She could have afforded the most expensive facial treatments but these she shunned. She was confident that her personality was so strong that she could ignore wrinkles and a leathery skin and yet still be attractive to young men. It wasn’t her personality that attracted them — it was her money, but this she was vain enough not to believe. She loved diamonds and her beautiful long fingers carried many flashing rings. Her thin, wrinkled wrists carried platinum and diamond bracelets. The jewels she festooned herself with every morning were often worth more than $300,000. The cataract on her eyes had worsened, but she was still able to see, although print and handwriting now floated in an out-of-focus haze. This didn’t worry her. She could still make out people’s faces and with the aid of her powerful spectacles the beauty of the young male wasn’t denied her.

She regarded Patterson, leaning forward and peering at him, as he came into the room. He was really the most attractive man she had known, she thought. His warmth, his handsomeness and his easy manner delighted her.

“Chris!” She extended her beautiful hand, flashing with diamonds. “So you have come to worry me?”

The roguish note in her voice made Patterson’s heart sink. She was in one of those moods.

“Just a few transfers,” he said, seating himself beside her, but not before he had brushed her hand with his lips: a gesture he knew pleased her and something he had cultivated as part of his charm. “But first tell me... how are you?”

“Me?” She waved her hands and the sparkle of the diamonds made flashes of light on the ceiling. “I’m an old woman, Chris, but I can’t complain. I’m very well and thanks to you, I am happy with Miss Oldhill. We are already great friends. She reads beautifully, and she is so quiet and calm. This is something I need — quiet and calm. I must tell you: she bought me a present. I sent her out shopping yesterday — her clothes were... well, never mind. I sent her out shopping and she thought of me. She gave me the Beethoven piano trios — Kempff, Szeryng and Fournier.” She smiled happily at Patterson. “Kempff! What a master! I spent most of the morning in bed listening... I can’t thank you enough, Chris, for finding her for me.”

“I thought she was right for you,” Patterson said, a little stunned that Sheila should have done this.

There was more chit-chat, then he laid the transfers on the table and she signed them. Her signature was a blind scrawl, but he was used to that. Then he handed over $5,000 in $100 bills.

“You asked for this, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

The old lady took the money and stowed it away in her handbag.

“I am always needing cash and Miss Oldhill explained to me that I should have cash in my bag... that’s right, isn’t it, Chris?”

Patterson hesitated.

“A cheque is safer.” So it was Sheila who had sold this idea to the old lady. “Still, you have it now.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson tapped his wrist with her long fingers.

“You mustn’t treat me like a child.”

Patterson forced a laugh.

“The last thing in the world I would think of doing.” His mind suddenly uneasy. He knew he had been treating this old lady like a child. He had been in complete control of her money and now this sudden discordant note.

“I mustn’t waste more of your time, Chris,” Mrs. Morely-Johnson was saying. “I am also keeping Bromhead waiting. Life is such a rush, isn’t it? I have a lot of shopping to do.” Again she patted Patterson’s wrist. “Sometime next week you must dine with me. I will ask Sheila to call you.”

“I would like that very much.”

Patterson got to his feet. He felt uneasy and frustrated. He had no excuse to see Sheila. As he went out into the lobby he found Jack Bromhead standing by the front door: immaculate in his uniform, his cockaded hat under his arm. He gave Patterson a slight bow and opened the front door for him.

“Morning, Mr. Patterson,” he said in his beautifully modulated voice. “Did you find madam well?”

Patterson, always conscious that underlings were important, gave Bromhead his warm smile.

“She looks wonderful,” he said, slightly raising his voice in the hope Mrs. Morely-Johnson might hear him. “What a great personality!”

Bromhead inclined his head, seeing through Patterson’s act and going along with it.

“You are right, sir... a remarkable personality.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson listened. What dear men these two were! she thought.

As Patterson left the elevator, feeling frustrated and not a little worried, he saw Sheila at the bookstall, buying a copy of Life. This was no accidental meeting. Bromhead had arranged it and his timing had been perfect. Listening at the door, and when he had heard Mrs. Morely-Johnson telling Patterson she had shopping to do, he had signalled to Sheila who had left the penthouse and had taken the elevator to the lobby. She had gone to the bookstall and had glanced through the magazines, watching the lighted indicator that told her the elevator was returning to the penthouse. Then when she saw the elevator was descending, she selected Life magazine and was paying for it as Patterson came out of the cage.

She turned and walked towards him, leafing through the magazine, apparently unaware that she was approaching him.

“Sheila.”

She paused, then looked up.

“Why... Chris.” She gave him a ghost of a smile. “I was hoping to have a word with you.” She moved closer to him. “I wanted to thank you for...”

“Never mind that,” Patterson said, his breathing uneven. “Let’s take the thanks as written. The old lady will be down in a few minutes. When do I see you, Sheila?”

The smoky blue eyes opened wide.

“See me? Why... you’re seeing me now.”

Was she conning him? Patterson wondered. But I pay my debts. She had said that. What was this? He stared at her, trying to see any sign of promise, but the calm face and now the spectacles and the severe hair-do which he had suggested presented a baffling barrier to him, but he was sure still, if he pressed the right button, she was there to be had.

“I would like to take you out again.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

There was a long pause while he waited hopefully but as he realized she wasn’t adding to this impersonal statement, he said, “Fine. I know a very good restaurant not far from here. When can you fix it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not free now. I’ll call you.”

“You get a day off... the other one had Sundays. Suppose we make it next Sunday?”

“It’s very nice of you, but I may have things to do on my day off. I don’t know.” She gave him the faint smile again. “I’ll call you. I must go. While Mrs. Morely-Johnson is out, I have a lot of things to do for her. I’ll call you.” She moved around him, lifting her hand in a little wave of farewell, then she entered the elevator and the doors closed.

Patterson walked thoughtfully across the lobby, ignoring the doorman who saluted him and went down to his car.

While Mrs. Morely-Johnson was entertaining friends in the hotel grill-room, Sheila was eating a chicken sandwich in the penthouse office. She was occupied with Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s mail which was considerable. There were a number of begging letters to be answered. Mrs. Morely-Johnson was generous but she insisted that every applicant should be investigated before she decided to give or refuse and this meant a lot of work.

As Sheila was reaching for another letter, she heard the front door click open. Only she and Bromhead had keys to the penthouse, so she sat back, putting the letter down and waited.

Bromhead came into the room. He was wearing his uniform and the sight of him gave her confidence. This man was a professional. Not once during the brief time she had talked to him had she seen him out of character in his role as a kindly, efficient servant.

He sat down in a chair opposite Sheila’s desk.

“You saw Patterson?”

“Yes.” Briefly she described the meeting and Bromhead nodded approvingly.

“Very good... keep him dangling. Don’t call him until Friday evening, then tell him you have found time to go out with him.”

“I was going to do that.”

Bromhead again nodded his approval. She was, like himself, a professional, he thought. All she needed was a little nudge, a touch on the steering wheel, and she reacted immediately in the right way.

“He takes his women to the Star motel,” Bromhead told her. “It is safe and discreet — twenty miles out of town. It’s a place where no questions are asked. Would you go with him to the motel if he asks you on Sunday?”

She shook her head.

“Not yet... it’s too soon.”

“I agree. The thing that is good about this operation is we have time. When you think the time is right, let me know.” He looked suddenly sharply at her. “Don’t let him rush you off your feet. He has a lot of appeal. The stage must be set before he goes into action... I don’t have to tell you that.”

She stared fixedly at him.

“No man rushes me off my feet,” she said.

“All right. I just mentioned it.” He paused, then went on, “And Gerald?”

“I haven’t heard from him yet, but I will. I gave him seventy dollars.” She looked away from Bromhead. “He worries me.”

“He worries me too. He is unreliable. I think he is too stupid to realize what really big money means, but he is essential. I wish he wasn’t, but without him, we put down the shutters.” Bromhead frowned down at his square, clean fingernails. “What we have to be careful about is that he doesn’t get involved with another woman. You mustn’t neglect him.”

Sheila picked up a pen and made an impatient squiggle on a letter, lying on her desk.

“You don’t have to tell me, but with Patterson, it will be difficult. I can only get away on Sundays and Sundays I must keep for Patterson.”

“The old lady is always in bed by eleven. You could see Gerald when she has gone to sleep.”

Sheila considered this, then shook her head.

“It’s too risky. If she woke and called me... it could ruin everything.”

“You are a nurse... there are such things as sleeping pills.”

She looked up.

“Is that what you think I should do?”

“It’s a suggestion.”

Again she thought, then again she shook her head.

“No. I can’t meet Gerald in town. We could be seen.”

Bromhead nodded. Looking ahead, planning, making decisions, taking risks, moving forward, withdrawing were now part of his life.

“Gerald has a car. Do you think it would be too risky to meet him in some car park not far from here and he could take you somewhere?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“Do you?”

Bromhead thought of what was involved. If Sheila and Gerald were seen together and remembered and if there was an inquiry later and someone talked the whole plan could explode, and yet he knew it was essential that she kept control not only of Patterson but also of Gerald.

“We must take some risks, but we must minimize them as far as possible.” He paused to think while Sheila waited, confident he would solve any problem. “First, the hotel staff must get to know you. They must accept you as they accept me — part of the hotel background. To do this you must make several trips a day down to the lobby, to the bookstall, to mail letters, to buy stamps. You must think up some reason to speak to the hall porter and the doorman. That I can leave to you but establish yourself so the staff regard you as one of themselves. There’s a staircase from here, reached through your bedroom. It leads down to the 19th floor. You may not have noticed the exit door. It is behind a curtain. It’s there in case of fire. The door is bolted on the inside so you can get put quickly. You must buy a blonde wig. Get yourself a drab-looking dustcoat. Leave here by the staircase, then take the elevator down from the 19th floor. After eleven o’clock the elevator goes on automatic. The night staff in the lobby won’t know if you are staying at the hotel or visiting someone. The trick with this is to show confidence. Leave the elevator and walk briskly across the lobby and out. You do the same in reverse when you return. Don’t hesitate. You won’t be noticed. Take the elevator to the 19th floor, walk up the stairs and enter your room. You need do this only twice a week. Before leaving, give the old lady a sleeping pill. How you do that is your business. Seeing Gerald twice a week should keep him happy. What do you think?”

She thought about this, then nodded.

“Yes.”

“All right.” He got to his feet. “How do you find the old lady?”

“She’s very easy... I like her.”

Bromhead paused in the open doorway.

“Don’t get to like her too much... no one lasts forever.”

When he had gone, Sheila got up and went to the big window and looked down at the luxury yachts in the harbour. The sun turned the water into an oily rainbow.

Perhaps the air conditioner was making her feel cold. She shivered. Opening the terrace door she went out into the hot sunshine. Looking down at the town, the sea and the busy traffic, she still felt cold.

Gerald rolled off her with a moan of satisfaction. She knew there would be no after-play and she was thankful. Gerald was so selfish and adolescent, once satisfied, he wanted only to sleep. She waited until his breathing became heavy, then she reached for the towel and wiped his sweat off her body. She longed to take a shower, but she didn’t want to wake him so she lay still, feeling the heat of his body as they nearly touched on the narrow, sordid bed and she stared up at the dirty white ceiling, lit by the flashing neon sign from the night-club across the way.

The room was small and insufferably hot. Through the open window came the sounds of the waterfront: drunken voices, squeals from excited girls, the blare of transistor radios and the shuffling of feet.

This, she reminded herself, she would have to endure twice a week. Even then, she couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t look for another woman. She had known when they had teamed up that he would present problems. He just didn’t understand nor ever would appreciate what it meant to have unlimited money — as she did and Bromhead did. His mind was too small. The only thing that bothered him was boredom. Give him enough money with which to eat, drink, run a car, go every night to some nightclub, dance with some attractive girl, have sex with her, yak with kids of his own age and he would be happy. But she was determined to make him understand; determined to mould him; determined to teach him the power of money. But there were moments like this, as she lay by his side, listening to his snoring as he slept that she wondered uneasily how long she could keep him in her control. Bromhead kept saying: Time is on our side. This is a long-term operation. But it wasn’t for her. Clever as he was, Bromhead didn’t seem to realize her difficulties. There were times when she felt uneasy about Bromhead because he had more confidence in her than she had in herself. She knew she had this magic that attracted men, but to have to endure the lust of a boy like Gerald now made her skin crawl, but Gerald was the focal point of this operation. Without him, it seemed to her now that there would be no future for her and no money. Money? Bromhead had said in his quiet unemotional voice there could be a million and a half dollars, split between the three of them.

In the flashing light of the neon sign, she looked at the blonde wig lying on the dressing-table.

Bromhead was clever, she thought. His idea about the wig and the dustcoat had worked. She had had no trouble meeting Gerald in the parking lot behind the hotel and she was confident she would have no trouble returning to her room in the penthouse. Nor was she worried that Mrs. Morely-Johnson wouldn’t sleep through the night. The pill she had dropped into the glass of hot milk as the old lady settled in bed would keep her asleep until the morning.

But there was still this problem of Gerald. He had gaped at her through the Volkswagen window, not recognizing her in the blonde wig, then when she spoke, he had suddenly grinned.

“I like you blonde, baby. You give me hot ideas.”

She was shocked with the room he had found for himself, but she was careful not to tell him so. It was on the top floor of a rooming house in a back street off the waterfront. It was cheap and he explained that with only seventy dollars a week coming in, who cares about a room? This worried her. He had such a low standard of living and he thought small. He seemed content to live like an animal: even some animals would be more fussy than he.

He had complained as he drove her to the rooming house that he was so goddamn bored.

“This is a hell of a town. It’s okay if you have money. Everything costs! There’s nothing to do! How long is this thing going on?”

This she didn’t know. If only she had enough money to give him so he could go to Los Angeles where he could amuse himself, find a girl and come back when it was time. But there was no money. He had to make do with seventy dollars a week.

Lying on the bed, listening to his moaning and snoring as he slept, she wondered if she could control him if this thing went on for weeks, and if she was to believe Bromhead, it could.

Moving slowly, she edged off the bed and stood up. Gerald muttered something, then began to snort again. She went into the shower room, turned on the cold water and filled the basin. She dipped the towel into the water and then wiped her body. The cold feel of the towel was a relief but the moisture immediately dried in the suffocating heat of the tiny room. She dressed. Moving to the window, she looked at her watch in the flashing light of the neon sign. It was 01.15. She had a long walk along the waterfront to the Plaza Beach Hotel. She wouldn’t be back until after 02.00, but she felt it was useless to wake Gerald. He would only complain if she asked him to drive her back. The thought that she would have to face this chore twice a week made her flinch, but the pay-off would be worth it, she told herself.

She put on the blonde wig, then the dustcoat. She had to be sure the wig covered her dark hair so she turned on the light to look in the small mirror above the dressing-table. She had to make quick adjustments, then she snapped off the light, but the light had woken Gerald.

He sat up.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded querulously.

“Go to sleep, Gerry. It’s all right. I’m leaving.”

“What’s the time?”

“After one.”

He fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp and turned the light on. Sitting up, naked, he looked young and defenceless as he blinked at her.

“Man! That blonde wig! I really dig for it!” He threw off the sheet and struggled off the bed. “I’ll drive you back.”

“No... you sleep. I’ll walk.”

He pulled on his hipsters.

“Is that what you think of me?” He paused to stare at her. “You think I’m such a goddamn creep I’d let you walk all that way?”

“No.” She felt a sudden weakness surge through her. “I think you should sleep.”

“What else have I got to do in this goddamn town except sleep?” He dragged a grubby sweater over his head. “You do think I’m a creep, don’t you?”

“No, Gerry.”

He came to her and put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. Forcing herself, she put her arms around him and her face against his. They stood for some moments holding on to each other, then she felt a pang of desire run through her and she tightened her grip.

“I know I’m a creep,” he said, his hands sliding down her back and cupping her buttocks. “I know it, but you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. You want money. Okay, so you want money... money to me means nothing but trouble. I don’t want trouble... I want you.”

She ran her fingers through his thick, unwashed hair.

“I must go, Gerry.”

He released her and opened the door.

“Okay... then let’s go.”

Although she was aching for sleep, knowing she would have to cope with Patterson the following day, she felt she had to show her gratitude for the nicest thing he had ever said to her. I want you. No other man had said this to her. I love you. Many, many times... but what did that mean? Love? Nothing! But I want you, that was something.

She took off the dustcoat and let it drop to the floor.

“You have me in the mood, Gerry,” she said, pushed the door shut and held out her arms to him, smiling.

A little numbed and sick with tiredness and as he drove her back to the Plaza Beach Hotel, she remembered her father saying so often: What you put in, you take out.

Read one way, it was a dirty snigger: read another way, it was a philosophy of life.

The Coq d’Or restaurant was situated some ten miles from town and was considered one of the better class restaurants on this strip of the Pacific coast.

On Sundays it was crowded, but the people who dined there weren’t the type Patterson knew. His people would shun such a place. He was confident he ran no risk coming here and he was always careful where he took his girlfriends. He was acutely aware that any gossip reaching the bank’s ears could be detrimental to his career.

Sheila had telephoned him on an outside line just before he was leaving the bank on Friday evening. She told him she would be free to see him at 18.00 Sunday evening.

The sound of her quiet voice sent a stab of desire through him. He said he would pick her up in the lobby of the Splendid Hotel. Although he didn’t spell it out, he was nervous that the Plaza Beach Hotel’s doorman might gossip.

He found her waiting in the lobby. She was wearing the white dress again, but she now had a touch of lipstick and her hair was dressed becomingly and yet, Patterson felt she was still remote and the barrier was still there.

He had to concentrate on his driving as the Sunday evening traffic was heavy and they only exchanged pleasantries about how hot it was, did she like the hotel and how was Mrs. Morely-Johnson?... that kind of talk.

He had reserved a corner table at the Coq d’Or restaurant and he suggested because of the crowd in the bar they should have drinks at their table. Although it was only just after 19.00, people were already dancing. The four piece band played softly but with a good, sharp rhythm.

The maître d’hôtel fussed over them. Champagne cocktails arrived. Patterson told the maître d’hôtel he would order later.

When they were settled with their drinks, Sheila looked around.

“It’s nice here... the band is marvellous.”

Patterson wasn’t interested in the band. He looked hungrily at her.

“How are things?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

She nodded.

“Yes, thank you. Mrs. Morely-Johnson is so nice. She seems to like me.”

“Yes... she’s a funny old thing. She has moods. You must watch out... sometimes she can be tricky.”

Sheila sipped her drink, not looking at him.

“But most people are like that.” She abruptly looked up, staring at him. “Of course, I realize it is early days yet.”

“Yes.” Patterson gave her his warm smile. “Let me alert you. I know all the signs. When she is in a bad mood, she fidgets with her bracelets and hums under her breath. These are warning signs. When she starts this performance, watch out. You must go along with anything she says. You understand? Never try to persuade her to do anything... just go along with her. I tell you this because it could be useful.”

She nodded, turning the cocktail glass in her fingers.

“Thank you.”

He leaned back, pleased and very sure of himself.

“I’ve known her for something like four years and I’ve always been able to handle her... even in her worst moments.”

She sipped her drink before saying, “But then she is in love with you.”

Startled, Patterson stared at her. Then he realized she was stating a fact and he smiled, passing his hand over his immaculately groomed hair.

“Not quite, but perhaps something like that,” he conceded. “If she was twenty years younger I would have to be careful,” and he laughed.

There was a pause, then Sheila said, “You have, of course, an irresistible appeal to women.”

Patterson leaned back in his chair. Coming from her, this meant something to him. He knew he did have an appeal to women, but she was the first woman to have told him so. He finished his drink, then gave her a wry grimace.

“Perhaps to most women... but not to you.”

She looked beyond him at the dancers, jammed together on the tiny dance floor.

“What makes you think that?”

He fidgeted with a fork: picking it up, staring at it and putting it down.

Trying to keep his voice casual, he said, “I feel there’s a barrier between us... you’re so impersonal.”

She regarded him for a long moment, then she pushed back her chair and stood up.

“Shall we dance?”

Although there was little space for dancing, she moved beautifully and her body, pressed against his, gave him a sensual pleasure he hadn’t before experienced. As they danced, she touched his neck very lightly with cool fingertips to send hot blood surging through him.

When they returned to their table, the maître d’hôtel arrived.

Without consulting her, Patterson ordered king-sized prawns to be followed by creamed chicken breasts in rice and truffles.

“The Pouilly-Fumé, I think, Jean... unless you have better ideas?”

“That would be perfect, Mr. Patterson.” The maître d’hôtel bowed and went away.

“You are very experienced,” Sheila said.

Patterson looked pleased. Praise to him was like water to a plant.

“Well, you know...” He waved a deprecating hand. “You dance beautifully... I really mean that.”

“So do you.”

There was a long pause, then he said, “But you must admit there’s a barrier between us.”

She shook her head.

“Chris... please don’t expect too much from me so quickly.” She put her cool hand on his. “We are not going to die tomorrow. I get the feeling you can’t wait for anything. I happen to be the waiting type. I have to think, probe and move carefully. Will you try to understand?”

His blood on fire, Patterson gripped her hand.

“But we could die tomorrow. It’s the pattern of things. For me, life is urgent as it should be for you. Driving back tonight, we could be hit by a truck. How can you say we won’t die tomorrow? We could die tonight! Don’t you feel we are all living on borrowed time? I believe I should do everything I want to do now... grab at every opportunity for it may be too late to wait.”

She drew her hand away.

“Don’t you believe in destiny? What is to be... will be?”

Patterson moved impatiently.

“I don’t believe in waiting. Yes... I believe in destiny, but I also believe I can cheat destiny by not waiting.”

The prawns arrived and they waited while the wine was poured, tasted and approved and the waiter had moved away.

“I understand,” Sheila said as they began to shell the prawns, “but please be patient, Chris. I move slowly — I’m made like that. For us to be as intimate as we will be — for me, I need time.” Then she smiled at him.

For the first time he had known her and desired her, the smoky blue eyes were no longer remote. There was that sexual thing coming from her that made his heartbeat quicken and that turned his mouth dry.