Night Over Water - Ken Follett [82]
She wondered how much she would miss the comfortable, predictable world she had left behind, the world of charity balls and Masonic dinners at Manchester hotels, where she knew all the people and all the drinks and all the menus, too. It was dull, but it was safe.
She shook her head, making her hair fluff out prettily. She was not going to think that way. I was bored to distraction in that world, she thought; I longed for adventure and excitement; and now that I’ve got it, I’m going to enjoy it.
She decided to make a determined effort to win back Mark’s attention. What could she do? She did not want to confront him directly and tell him she resented his behavior. That seemed weak. Maybe a taste of his own medicine would do the trick. She could talk to someone else the way he was talking to Lulu. That might make him sit up and take notice. Who would it be? The handsome boy across the aisle would do just fine. He was younger than Mark, and bigger. That ought to make Mark jealous as hell.
She dabbed perfume behind her ears and between her breasts, then left the powder room. She swung her hips a little more than was necessary as she walked along the plane, and she took pleasure in the lustful stares of the men and the admiring or envious looks of the women. I’m the most beautiful woman on the plane, and Lulu Bell knows it, she thought.
When she reached her compartment she did not take her seat, but turned to the left-hand side and looked out of the window over the shoulder of the young man in the striped suit. He gave her a good-to-see-you smile.
She smiled back and said: “Isn’t this wonderful?”
“Ain’t it just?” he said; but she noticed he threw a wary glance at the man opposite, as if he expected a reprimand. It was almost as if the other man were his chaperon.
Diana said: “Are you two together?”
The bald man answered curtly. “You could say we’re associates.” Then he seemed to remember his manners, and held out his hand, saying: “Ollis Field.”
“Diana Lovesey.” She shook his hand reluctantly. He had dirty fingernails. She turned back to the younger man.
“Frank Gordon,” he said.
Both men were American, but all resemblance ended there. Frank Gordon was smartly dressed, with a pin through his collar and a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He smelled of cologne and his curly hair was lightly oiled. He said: “What part is this, that we’re flying over—is this still England?”
Diana leaned over him and looked out of the window, letting him smell her perfume. “I think that must be Devon,” she said, although she really did not know.
“What part are you from?” he said.
She sat down beside him. “Manchester,” she said. She glanced over at Mark, caught his startled look and returned her attention to Frank. “That’s in the northwest.”
Opposite, Ollis Field lit a cigarette with a disapproving air. Diana crossed her legs.
Frank said: “My family come from Italy.”
The Italian government was Fascist. Diana said candidly: “Do you think Italy will enter the war?”
Frank shook his head. “Italian people don’t want war.”
“I don’t suppose anybody wants war.”
“So why does it happen?”
She found him difficult to make out. He obviously had money, but he seemed uneducated. Most men were eager to explain things to her, to show off their knowledge, whether or not she wanted it. This one had no such impulse. She looked over at his companion and said: “What do you think, Mr. Field?”
“No opinion,” he said grumpily.
She turned back to the younger man. “Perhaps war is the only way Fascist leaders can keep their people under control.”
She looked at Mark again, and was disappointed to see that he was once again deep in conversation with Lulu, and they were giggling together like schoolgirls. She felt let down. What was the matter with him? Mervyn would have been ready to punch Frank’s nose by now.
She looked back at Frank. The words on her lips were “Tell me all about yourself,” but suddenly she could not face the boredom of listening to his reply, and she said nothing. At that point Davy the steward brought her champagne and a plate of