Living Together

‘So you do know who I am.’

‘I recognised you a few minutes ago,’ Helen admitted coldly. ‘I’ve seen magazine articles about you.’

‘Oh, that trash,’ the actress dismissed. ‘I only have to look at a man and they have me having an affair with him or on the brink of marrying him. They like to wrap good old-fashioned sex up in a romantic parcel. Leon is the best, though, believe me, he just hasn’t heard of the word marriage. A shame, because he really is the best lover I’ve ever had.’

‘And I’m sure you’ve had plenty,’ Helen snapped insultingly.

Sharon Melcliffe’s humour deepened. ‘Hundreds,’ she confirmed. ‘My future husband comes way down the ratings, but as he’s a millionaire a few times over I’m willing to forgive that little fault in him. After all, I can’t stay at the top of my profession for ever, and this marriage will give me the security I want, whether it lasts or not. A divorce settlement from Harvey would keep me in luxury for the rest of my life. Oh dear,’ she mocked, ‘I’ve shocked you now. Don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘Harvey knows exactly why I’m marrying him, he just wants me at any price.’

‘Then you should be happy together!’

Blue eyes flashed anger, although the smile remained pleasant enough. ‘Here,’ Sharon held out the key. ‘Tell Leon I won’t be needing it any more.’

Helen took it, and the metal seemed to burn her hand. ‘I’ll tell him,’ she murmured.

‘Leon certainly chose himself a little mouse this time,’ the actress mused. ‘Oh well, give him my love.’

Helen sat down once Sharon Melcliffe had left, sat down before she fell down. Leon had been lying to her—and she had trusted him, trusted him with everything she had to give. How could he have done this to her? That woman had probably shared his bed, bathed with him in that bath he said no one had ever shared with him. She felt as if someone had given her a mortal blow, as if all feeling had been knocked out of her.

When she heard Leon’s key in the door nearly two hours later she didn’t move, a hunched-up figure in one of the armchairs, the room chill and in darkness.

‘What the—!’ Leon switched on the light, his mouth tautening as he saw her. He bent to kiss her as usual, and at the last moment Helen turned her head and his lips landed on her cheek. He shrugged, stepping back and going to pour himself a glass of whisky. ‘Do you want one?’

‘No, thank you,’ she replied coldly.

‘I’ll just get some ice.’ He disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Damn!’ she heard him swear. He came back into the lounge, coming down on his haunches beside her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had dinner ready?’ he asked gently.

She had forgotten about the half-prepared meal. ‘It wasn’t important,’ she dismissed huskily, her chin resting on her bent knees.

‘Of course it was.’ He smoothed back her hair with caressing fingers. ‘I could have tried to get away if you had told me.’

‘It was only a meal, Leon.’ She looked at him coldly.

‘But a meal you had prepared. Have you eaten?’

Helen shook her head. ‘I wasn’t hungry. Did you have a nice time?’

He grimaced. ‘Working?’ he derided. ‘Hardly. I’ve shot the same scene so many times this evening I’m sick of it. And the director still isn’t satisfied with it. I guess my mind was elsewhere.’

‘Really?’ she said distantly, her emotions numb.

‘My conversation with you wasn’t exactly conducive to my concentration,’ Leon said ruefully. ‘I’m really sorry about the meal,’ he frowned. ‘If you’d told me I would have come home anyway.’

‘Because you weren’t working.’

Leon gave her a sharp look. ‘You don’t still think I went to that party?’ he asked impatiently, running a hand through the thick blondness of his hair. ‘For God’s sake, Helen, I was working—working! And I’m bloody tired.’ He moved to switch on the electric fire, and the room soon filled with a warm glow.

‘In that case, I’ll give you this and leave you to rest.’ Helen held out the key Sharon Melcliffe had given her.

He made no attempt to take it out of her hand. ‘Does this mean you’re leaving?’ he asked harshly, a white edge to his mouth.

‘It isn’t my key, Leon,’ she told him tautly.

His eyes narrowed to tawny slits. ‘Then whose is it?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Of course I don’t know! I wouldn’t be asking if I did.’ He picked up his glass of whisky and sat down, draping one of his long legs over the side of the chair.