people noticed him all right when she realised that this would imply a compliment that she wasn’t prepared to pay.
‘No need to be coy about it,’ he continued. ‘You must know how lovely you are.’
‘You sound like one of those stupid novels by men where the heroine looks in the glass and admires her beauty. It simply isn’t like that. When a woman - any woman - looks at herself, all she sees are the things that need putting right. Now, can we please talk about something else?’
‘Anything you like, Mrs Calthrop.’ He glanced down at her (now gloved) left hand.
Feeling that it would be unbearable to go on like this for the rest of the evening, she said, ‘Diana.’
After a slight pause, during which she prepared herself for something silly about goddesses or huntresses, Ventriss said, simply, ‘Claude.’
‘Are you French?’
‘My mother. My father was English. Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?’
She didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t. Such a direct question was better than a lunge, she supposed, but not much. She looked at his handsome face and experienced, despite her best efforts to quell it, a sharp and disturbingly localised pang of excitement. For a split second she contemplated telling him that she was widowed, but refrained. However disappointing her marriage had turned out, to say that Guy was dead would be too much like wishing it, and she didn’t. The other reason, much to her disgust, was a practical one: if he wished, Ventriss would easily be able to find out that Guy was still alive. She chose another lie. ‘I’m afraid it was lost.’
‘Oh?’ Really, she thought, he might at least try to sound as if he believes me. Remembering Forbes-James’s dictum about lying (tell a good one and above all stick to it), she looked Ventriss squarely in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it went down a drain. I think my hands must have got thinner, because it just slipped off while I was washing them.’
‘What a shame,’ he murmured. ‘Still, I daresay Mr Calthrop will buy a new one.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘When he returns.’
‘Returns?’
‘I understand he’s abroad, with his regiment.’
Diana laughed. ‘You have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. As I told you.’
‘My turn to check up on you, then. Is there a Mrs Ventriss?’
‘Not yet, no.’
They made desultory conversation for the rest of the journey. While they were talking, Diana mentally returned to the fact that he was unmarried several times, and felt - self-disgust rearing its head again, but more feebly each time - relieved. It had never been her habit to lie, or no more than anybody else did, anyway, but really, it was becoming surprisingly easy. Added to which, the knowledge that Ventriss didn’t believe her story about the wedding ring was alarmingly enjoyable. She couldn’t be tipsy, could she? She’d only had two drinks, although they had, admittedly, been pretty strong ones with a good deal of gin . . . all the same, she decided, she was quite sober enough to fend him off if he pounced. He’d already done the verbal equivalent, so a spot of mental preparation was definitely called for. Not that it wouldn’t be nice, although, of course, quite inappropriate. And there would be the satisfaction of knocking him back when he thought she’d be his for the taking.
Having got this straight (or straight-ish) in her mind, Diana started to enjoy herself in earnest. The staff at Sovrani’s clearly knew Ventriss well and made a great fuss of them both, and the dinner was as good as he’d promised. They talked about the war, but in a reassuringly off-hand way, and about Forbes-James. Diana knew she couldn’t question Ventriss directly about what he did, any more than he could question her, but the fact that they both did it and knew they couldn’t talk about it made it rather thrilling - to her, at least; she supposed it was nothing
‘No need to be coy about it,’ he continued. ‘You must know how lovely you are.’
‘You sound like one of those stupid novels by men where the heroine looks in the glass and admires her beauty. It simply isn’t like that. When a woman - any woman - looks at herself, all she sees are the things that need putting right. Now, can we please talk about something else?’
‘Anything you like, Mrs Calthrop.’ He glanced down at her (now gloved) left hand.
Feeling that it would be unbearable to go on like this for the rest of the evening, she said, ‘Diana.’
After a slight pause, during which she prepared herself for something silly about goddesses or huntresses, Ventriss said, simply, ‘Claude.’
‘Are you French?’
‘My mother. My father was English. Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?’
She didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t. Such a direct question was better than a lunge, she supposed, but not much. She looked at his handsome face and experienced, despite her best efforts to quell it, a sharp and disturbingly localised pang of excitement. For a split second she contemplated telling him that she was widowed, but refrained. However disappointing her marriage had turned out, to say that Guy was dead would be too much like wishing it, and she didn’t. The other reason, much to her disgust, was a practical one: if he wished, Ventriss would easily be able to find out that Guy was still alive. She chose another lie. ‘I’m afraid it was lost.’
‘Oh?’ Really, she thought, he might at least try to sound as if he believes me. Remembering Forbes-James’s dictum about lying (tell a good one and above all stick to it), she looked Ventriss squarely in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it went down a drain. I think my hands must have got thinner, because it just slipped off while I was washing them.’
‘What a shame,’ he murmured. ‘Still, I daresay Mr Calthrop will buy a new one.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘When he returns.’
‘Returns?’
‘I understand he’s abroad, with his regiment.’
Diana laughed. ‘You have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. As I told you.’
‘My turn to check up on you, then. Is there a Mrs Ventriss?’
‘Not yet, no.’
They made desultory conversation for the rest of the journey. While they were talking, Diana mentally returned to the fact that he was unmarried several times, and felt - self-disgust rearing its head again, but more feebly each time - relieved. It had never been her habit to lie, or no more than anybody else did, anyway, but really, it was becoming surprisingly easy. Added to which, the knowledge that Ventriss didn’t believe her story about the wedding ring was alarmingly enjoyable. She couldn’t be tipsy, could she? She’d only had two drinks, although they had, admittedly, been pretty strong ones with a good deal of gin . . . all the same, she decided, she was quite sober enough to fend him off if he pounced. He’d already done the verbal equivalent, so a spot of mental preparation was definitely called for. Not that it wouldn’t be nice, although, of course, quite inappropriate. And there would be the satisfaction of knocking him back when he thought she’d be his for the taking.
Having got this straight (or straight-ish) in her mind, Diana started to enjoy herself in earnest. The staff at Sovrani’s clearly knew Ventriss well and made a great fuss of them both, and the dinner was as good as he’d promised. They talked about the war, but in a reassuringly off-hand way, and about Forbes-James. Diana knew she couldn’t question Ventriss directly about what he did, any more than he could question her, but the fact that they both did it and knew they couldn’t talk about it made it rather thrilling - to her, at least; she supposed it was nothing
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