Rachel Lindsay - An Affair To Forget Read online

  Rachel Lindsay - An Affair To Forget

  Suddenly Valerie's world was changed!

  Fate crossed Valerie's path with that of singing-star idol, Nicky Barratt, and for some strange reason he was reluctant to let her go out of his life.

  What set her apart from his other admiring fans, she wondered. And why should he suddenly want to marry her?

  She knew she could not fit into show-business life or compete with the glamorous girls who surrounded him. Yet when she learned that Nicky was using her to maintain his carefully created image, she was shattered. By then, she had fallen in love with him!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The strings of a guitar rippled and the liquid notes of a beautiful male voice filled the room. A slim, dark- haired girl paused in her work of laying the table and let the sound invade her. She shivered. It was almost as if the singer himself was entering the innermost reaches of her body. She leaned against the table, one hand resting on the surface, her head slightly bent. Glossy brown hair, worn unfashionably long, fell forward around her face, but she was unaware of it, intent only on the voice filling the room. If only she could go to Nicky Barratt's concert. All the good seats had long since been sold, but if she was prepared to line up all night she was sure she could get one up in the gods.

  The song died away on a caress and the announcer's voice—phony American and full of pretended gaiety—broke the spell.

  "Great, isn't he? No wonder he's already had three golden discs this year. And he's British too, so that makes it even better news. If you—"

  Valerie abruptly switched off the radio and returned to finish laying the table for dinner. No matter how simple the meal, she always liked to serve it elegantly, knowing it pleased her father if she did so, reminding him of the well-maintained home that his wife had run until her sudden death a year ago. Moving a bowl of yellow roses from the sideboard on to the center of the table, she stepped back to look at her handiwork with satisfaction. The beef casserole might be the leftovers from the Sunday roast, but it was being served in a Cordon Bleu manner! Smiling at the thought, she went across to the corner cabinet and the drinks tray.

  The smile left her face and she gave a mutter of exasperation. They were clean out of sherry, her father's standard predinner drink. They had opened the last bottle a couple of weeks ago and she had forgotten to buy another one. She glanced at her watch. It was far too late to go into town but she could always persuade the barman at the Taverners to sell her a bottle. Putting on her coat, she snatched up her purse and ran out of the house.

  The small, Tudor-style hotel was in the center of the village, only five minutes away, and Valerie raced up the steps and across the lounge to the cocktail bar. Mrs. Mathers, the proprietress and Valerie's erstwhile employer, straightened from talking to the barman.

  "Why hello, Valerie. You look as if you've just finished running the marathon!"

  "I feel it." Valerie took several deep breaths before explaining why she had come.

  "No problem," Mrs. Mathers said, signaling Tim the barman to get the requested bottle. "Just remember to tell your father that I came to the rescue. There's nothing I like more than having my bank manager feel under an obligation to me!"

  Together the two women walked into the foyer, stepping back as a tall, ash-blond girl sauntered past, her face half-hidden by huge dark glasses. At the entrance she paused and waited for a stout middle-aged man to catch up with her.

  Mrs. Mathers gave Valerie an ironic look. "What do you think of my latest regulars—been coming every other weekend for the past six weeks."

  "Are they house-hunting round here?"

  Many couples stayed at the Taverners while trying to find a rural retreat in this still unspoiled and lovely part of the countryside, and though the blonde did not look the country type, one could not always judge by appearances.

  "Bed-hunting, more like it." Mrs. Mathers snorted, handing over the bottle of sherry. "You're too naive, my dear. That's what comes of being a stop-at-home. When are you going to come back and work for me?" she added. "Tina does her best but she's a rotten receptionist compared with you."

  "I'll never be able to work for you full time," Valerie replied, "but I might manage a couple of days a week, if that's any good."

  "It wouldn't be enough during the summer season, I'm afraid. I'd need you full time then. Are you sure you're doing the right thing in staying at home? If you had a housekeeper or someone to live in and help out-"

  "No. It wouldn't be the same."

  "The same as what? As when your mother was alive? You're trying to put back the clock, Valerie, and you're doing yourself out of a normal life in the process. I'm sure your father doesn't want you to sacrifice yourself for—"

  "It's no sacrifice," Valerie cut in again. "That's what you don't seem to realize. I enjoy keeping house. I love cooking and shopping and taking care of the garden. It may be horribly old-fashioned in this day and age, but I'm a homebody, Mrs. Mathers, and I don't believe that domestic chores will turn me into a dogsbody!"

  "Then look after your own home," the older woman retorted with kindly asperity. "If you go on like this, you'll end up an old maid."

  "At twenty-three, I don't think I'm exactly on the shelf. I've another three months at least before I start thinking of buying a cat and a canary!"

  Reluctantly Mrs. Mathers smiled, but since she still looked ready to continue this line of conversation, Valerie quickly made her departure. There was something friendly and reassuring in having people take an interest in her life but it could also be irritating, especially if they persisted in seeing her behavior toward her father as some kind of sacrifice. And it wasn't, she thought as she walked across the foyer. She did enjoy keeping house, and if she occasionally dreamed dreams of doing so for a younger man whom she could love in a different way, well that was to be expected too. But she had no intention of marrying for the sake of status or out of fear. It would be for love or not at all.

  Pushing her way through the glass door, she went down the shallow steps to the small gravel courtyard fronting the entrance. The flashy blonde and her companion were watching their cases being stowed into the capacious trunk of a Rolls-Royce. Seen at closer range the girl was pretty and, Valerie judged, about her own age. Her skin was flawless and seemed not to need its heavy layer of makeup. She was expensively dressed in a city dweller's idea of country clothes: cashmere sweater over elegant tweed skirt; and her hair, so silver blonde that it could only have come from a bottle, was drawn smoothly away from her face and on to the nape of her neck, kept there by a wide gold and tortoiseshell clip.

  She must have something to do with the stage or the fashion world, Valerie thought, and cast a brief look at the man. He was turned away from her and only his beefy red neck was visible. Not a romantic-looking companion for a weekend, she decided, and wondered what kind of expediency joined the couple together. Not that one needed much imagination to know why the man fancied his young companion. It was the blonde's reason for being with him that would be more interesting to know. Was it for the sake of her career or for money or for both?

  Reaching her own front door, Valerie unlocked it and went in, sniffing as the odor of her father's tobacco wafted out from the dining room. As she paused on the threshold, he turned round from the sideboard, the empty bottle in his hand.

  "It's all right, I've got it," she said and held the new bottle out. "I think I'll have one too, Dad."

  He raised an eyebrow as he handed her a glass. "Unusual for you. Not depressed or anything, are you?"

  "Just a bit tired." She sipped the sherry and made a face. "It's a bit too dry for me."

  "My dear girl, anything
sweeter isn't worth drinking. But then women have no palate as far as wine's concerned." He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "Are you sure everything's all right? You've been a bit restless lately. Maybe you should get out a bit more."

  She nodded. "As a matter of fact I thought of going to London on Saturday. There's a show I want to see and I could stay the night with Aunt Alice."

  "By all means—it'll do you good. Which show is it?"

  "The one at the Palaceum."

  He grunted. "The Barrow fellow, I suppose?"

  "Barratt," she corrected. "Nicky Barratt. He's there for a month."

  Mr. Browne looked incredulous. "I can't understand what you young people see in him. None of these singers even know how to stay in tune—let alone sing!"

  "Nicky Barratt's got a marvelous voice. And his songs are fabulous. Why I even heard you humming one the other day."

  "Me? Never!"

  "Yes you were. 'September Moon.' You were singing it while you were painting the spare room."

  Mr. Browne thought for an instant, then nodded. "Didn't know that was one of his. Well, maybe he's got some talent as a composer—I'll grant that—but I won't change my mind about his voice. In my young day he'd have been booed off the stage."

  "But this isn't your day, darling." Valerie dropped a kiss on his head and disappeared into the kitchen.

  As she busied herself setting out the dishes, she wondered whether she should go to London on Saturday—which would mean leaving her father alone for the weekend—or delay it till midweek and only go in the evening. But that wouldn't be the change of atmosphere she needed. Her father was right. She had been restless these last few weeks, and a couple of days away might be the fillip she needed to restore her normal easygoing spirits.

  The prospect of seeing Nicky Barratt was already beginning to work its magic on her. For the last four years he had been Britain's most popular singer- composer, and in the last year had achieved a stunning success in America. Each month the papers featured different stories about his various girl friends who, according to one of the more sober critics, frequently left their husbands and children in order to follow the young singing star on his many worldwide tours. One such critic had only latterly suggested that Nicky preferred married women to single ones, and had headlined his weekly show business page with the statement: Nicky Barratt, the little boy who prefers to play with other boys' toys.

  The article that followed had been a cruel one, though Valerie, remembering many previous stories about the singer, could not entirely disbelieve it. Yet she had reminded herself it was the voice she enthused about, not the man, and had tried not to admit that frequently the two had become indivisible. Would she be such a devout fan of Nicky Barratt if he was forty instead of thirty? If he was bald and fat and not dark-headed and slim and preposterously good-looking? Honesty had made her admit that she wouldn't, and it was this fact that she remembered as she served dinner and sat opposite her father to eat it.

  It was not until the meal was nearly over that her father said Mark Deering was coming around for coffee. A local farmer, young, single and wealthy, he was much sought after in the county and had made it increasingly plain he had eyes only for one girl. Me, Valerie acknowledged gloomily, and wished she could reciprocate the love he was eager to shower upon her.

  "Why don't you ask Mark to take you to the Barratt concert?" Mr. Browne suggested. "Then you could go by car and not bother with the train."

  "What a cruel thing to suggest," Valerie teased. "You know Mark dislikes pop singers nearly as much as you do!"

  "He'd still jump at the chance of taking you out. I can't fathom why you don't like him."

  "I do like him! But I don't love him—which is what he wants."

  "You could do a lot worse."

  "As you continually tell me."

  "Because you haven't the sense to see it for yourself."

  "You can't fall in love to order. If—"

  A ring at the door interrupted her and, still slightly exasperated, she went to answer it.

  On the threshold stood a broad-shouldered, stocky young man with fair, crinkly hair brushed back from a tanned face. Equally fair eyebrows marked a pair of gray eyes, and a full mouth was set above a rather heavy chin.

  "Hello, Val. I wasn't sure you'd be in."

  "Where else would I be at this time of night?"

  "Don't sound so cross," he said mildly, coming in.

  "Sorry, Mark." She squeezed his arm. "Come and have some coffee."

  He followed her into the dining room, where her father's welcome made up for the warmth hers had lacked. While the two men exchanged gossip, Valerie cleared the table and brought in the coffee, then perched on the window seat to stare unseeingly into the village street while her mind raced ahead to her coming evening at the Palaceum. She had seen Nicky Barratt once before, at a concert, and could still remember the magnetic and intimate quality he exuded, making every girl who watched and heard him believe he was singing for her alone. Valerie sighed, then started as Mark's voice broke into her thoughts.

  "How many miles away are you?" he said. "That's the third time I've spoken."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

  "That was obvious!" He came across to join her by the window and she glanced round the room and saw they were alone.

  "Where's Dad?"

  "He went out for a walk."

  "Tactfully leaving us alone!"

  "Why not? He knows it's what I've been waiting for." His voice grew bitter. "I sometimes think you're the only person who doesn't."

  "Of course I know. But it isn't any good."

  "Why not?" Mark said again, and sitting beside her on the window seat, put an arm round Tier shoulders. "Why do you keep me at a distance, Val? You know I love you. If you married me you could have everything you want."

  Except my happiness, Valerie thought, and wished she were more materially inclined. So many girls would be delighted at the prospect of being mistress of Manor Farm, with its whitewashed barns, browsing cattle and acres of land. She thought of Mark: generous, easygoing, dependable, and knew he would do everything in his power to make her happy. Yet she could never find happiness with him, for there was a restlessness in her, a yearning for something more exciting than the narrow life he could offer, that made it impossible for her to accept him as a husband.

  'I'm sorry," she said gently. "But I don't love you and it wouldn't be fair of me to marry you."

  "You haven't given yourself a chance with me. You still treat me like the boy next door and—"

  "I can't help it. I've known you all my life."

  "Maybe this will make you see me differently." Before she could stop him he pulled her close, forcing her face round to his. "I'm mad about you, Val. I want you so much, it's driving me crazy."

  He pressed his mouth on hers, his lips warm and passionate, as though by their very urgency they could force her to respond. It was so unlike the Mark she knew that she tried to push him away. But her resistance only served to increase his passion and he held her more tightly, the warmth of his hands penetrating the thin silk of her dress, the pressure of his lips forcing her head back. Realizing the futility of fighting, she forced herself to go limp and, after a moment, he released her and stood up.

  "I'm not going to apologize for that, Val. I've been too easygoing with you for too long."

  "Acting the caveman won't make me change my mind. You can't make yourself love someone."

  "But you can deliberately stop yourself from falling in love."

  "Why should I do that?" She was puzzled. "If I loved you, I'd be proud to marry you. I wouldn't want to fight against it."

  "I'm not so sure. Personally, I think you're scared of growing up. That's why you hold back on your emotions."

  "I've never heard anything so silly."

  "It may sound silly to you, but it's true. You've used your mother's death as a means to return to the nest and live like a little girl again—keeping house and
looking after daddy!"

  "And you'd rather I looked after you!"

  "It would be more natural than the life you're living now. You're in a dream world, Val. Your only emotional outlet is the T.V. and radio and those damned singers you're so crazy about."

  "Me and a million other girls. Are they crazy too?"

  "I didn't mean it like that."

  "I know what you meant, and I don't care. I feel things differently from the way you do—that's one of the reasons why we'd never be happy together. I can't get enthusiastic about the milk yield and the price of hay."

  "You've never given yourself a chance. All you do is fantasize about pop stars and their dirty little lives!" He strode to the door and, halfway out, turned to look at her. "One day you'll realize you're missing out on reality, and when you do, I'll be there waiting for you, whether you like it or not."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The star dressing room of the Palaceum Theatre was filled with flowers and the gilt-edged mirror and walls plastered with telegrams, all of which were ignored by the slim young man applying the finishing touches to his makeup and trying to turn a deaf ear to the voice of the big built man behind him.

  "I tell you, Nicky, if this story breaks it will affect your record sales. You can't bring out an album called True To You and then get involved in a sordid divorce case."

  "Dawn left her husband long before I came on the scene. He doesn't have a hope of putting the blame on me." Nicky flicked a speck of dust from his shoulders. "Anyway, I'm a singer, not a saint! You worry too much, Bob. Love affairs never harmed Rod Stewart's career or Presley's."

  "You've got a different kind of image. It's taken a hell of a lot of hard work to create it for you and I don't want you lousing it up now."

  "My private life has nothing to do with anyone else."

  "Don't give me that! You know damn well that people in the public eye have to keep a watch on their behavior. As far as I'm concerned, you can have a hundred different women—as long as you're discreet about it. But are you discreet? No sir! You act like a guy who can do no wrong!"