Come Back Yesterday

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Half Russian, with all the deep seated passion of that people, Tamara Whitfield thinks herself very much in love with Paul Pryce. Paul with his attractive mocking smile, has captured her heart and for her, it has been no casual affair. But Paul, a struggling young composer, does not want to be pinned down, and he leaves Tam for another girl... Tam marries Quentin, a young stockbroker who is handsome and reliable. But try as she might, Tam cannot forget Paul. When a tragedy alters her whole life, she finds herself drawn once more to her old flame...

Release date: September 11, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 224

Sample

“IT ISN’T TOO late to change your mind, Tam, and if you’re really not sure you’re doing the right thing by marrying Quentin …”

Virginia Robinson, the maid-of-honour — there were to be no bridesmaids at this wedding — broke off. She felt a little embarrassed. She was usually most diplomatic and she didn’t want to upset her best friend on this Great Day.

Tamara Whitfeld turned from her reflection in the long mirror and interrupted. “It’s all right, Virginia, I am sure I’m doing the right thing. I am terribly in love with Q. so don’t worry any more and —” she added, “even if I did have a single doubt, it’s too late to do anything about it.”

Virginia put her tongue in her cheek. She said no more but she was not altogether satisfied. She hadn’t been from the start. She knew her Tamara (Tam to most of her friends and family), quick to act, over-impulsive, but so sweet, so utterly charming. Most people adored Tamara. Virginia reflected that the bridegroom must be already at the church with the best man, waiting for the bridal entourage to arrive. He was crazy about Tamara — perhaps a little too crazy for Virginia’s liking. Would it last? With either of them!

Virginia was second cousin as well as trusted friend to Tamara. She really did know her well. They had played together as children and had only gone their separate ways once Virginia, who was of studious mind, went to University. She wanted to read history. Tamara settled at that time with her parents in the large country house down in Haslemere where the Whitfeld family lived before Mrs. Whitfeld died.

Virginia also knew that there was just that quirk in Tamara’s nature that made her want the thing she couldn’t get. Once she had got it, she didn’t seem to want it any more. Virginia could only pray Tam wouldn’t go that same way once she was married. She’d certainly got Quentin, body and soul, Virginia knew that. He had used all his particular charm — and he had so much of it — in order to get through to her heart. That in itself was an achievement. At the time of their meeting, when Q. — most people called him this — first joined Whitfeld & Hansford, the firm of stockbrokers in which Tamara’s father was senior partner, Tam had been hopelessly infatuated with another man.

Virginia felt a little ashamed because she was allowing the memory of that other man in Tamara’s life — Paul Pryce — to disturb her on Tam’s wedding day. But after all, Tam had, only a short while ago, been frantically in love with Paul. She was a bit frightened, too.

Virginia, herself, was a stable, reliable sort of girl, Three years older than Tamara, she had been married to an attractive doctor, much older than herself. He had died tragically, not long after their marriage, from septicaemia due to an infection following an operation. It had borken Virgina’s heart. Although it happened two years ago, she still mourned for him under the cheerful façade she showed the world. Much as she loved Tamara — and they saw eye to eye in so many ways — she could never quite understand Tamara’s overemotional side. Tam had already had so many love-affairs in her lift. But Paul had been the one she seemed truly to have loved, and grieved over for a long time. It was an affair Virginia had never understood — and Paul had ended it — not Tamara that time.

“It’s my Russian blood,” she would say with that urchin-like grin which was one of her many attractions. “I’m like Mummy and, as you know, she was a Slav through and through. I know I’ve also inherited some of Daddy’s practical side — but he’s always assuring me I’m poor darling Mum all over again. She was an extremist — mercurial, the novelists call it! Either up in the heights, or down in the depths. A bit dangerous, although let’s face it, Mum finally settled down with Daddy and never loved anybody else.”

Virginia hoped and prayed this morning that Tamara would settle down with Q. She was so much more Slav than English, and looked it, with those high cheek-bones and marvellous eyes, deep, brown and haunting. The long straight blonde hair made a fascinating contrast. She had inherited that fairness from her father. All the Whitfelds were blonde. As for the wide teasing smile, and that beautiful mouth, they had a stunning effect on men. They fell in love with her. Tamara loved love. She equally liked to be cherished. Q. was an unselfish man and he usually let her have her own way.

Never had Virginia seen Tamara look as beautiful as she did this morning. It was of course the day on which a girl should look her best. Tamara might have stepped out of any man’s dream. Instead of the orthodox satin gown and lace veil, she had chosen a delicate spot-muslin dress, frilled, in layers, down to her small satin shoes. The bodice was tightly stretched across her small breasts, and because she had a long neck she was able to wear that high collar with stiff ruche under her pointed chin. The sleeves were wide and edged with ribbon. A few moments ago, Virginia had fixed a cloud of apricot-tinted tulle on the blonde head, floating from a half-circle of orange flowers and seed-pearls. She was to carry a bouquet of creamy roses and stephanotis. The exquisite flowers with their delicate green leaves waited for her downstairs. Q. had sent them. The card that came with the bouquet Tam had shown to her cousin. There were few secrets between them.

My Tamara, with all my adoration,

I loved you yesterday. I love you even more today. I shall love you more and more in the days to come.

Q.

 

“Isn’t that divine?” Tam had exclaimed, a hint of tears on her fabulous lashes.

Virginia agreed. Quentin Marriot was a very delightful man. Men and women both liked him. That in Virginia’s opinion labelled him a winner. Yet she still worried about this marriage. Wasn’t it all a little too perfect — too impossibly romantic? These two starting out with absolutely everything — looks, good health, and money? But Virginia realised that there was no time now to think in this way. The die was cast. A voice called from the front hall. John Whitfeld calling for the bride.

“Hi there — it’s getting late, Tammy, my darling. Aren’t you ready, and where’s Virginia?”

Virginia glanced out of the bedroom window down at the shining blue Arrow — Q.’s adored racing car. Mr Whitfield’s private chauffeur was standing by waiting to drive the couple to Heathrow immediately after the wedding.

It was a summer’s day. The sun was shining. Everything glittered. Tamara was so lucky. Virginia walked up to her, picked up one of the beautiful slender hands and laid it against her cheek.

“All my love and blessings, darling. See you in church. I must run. I ought to be there now.”

“Have the ushers gone?”

“Long ago.”

“I’m awful to be so late.”

“You always are,” Virginia teased, and departed.

Just for a moment Tamara remained standing in front of the mirror, as though posing for a photograph. She was having quite a few doubts. Why did she always think this way after reaching any kind of decision, she asked herself. It was awful. She had felt happy and unhappy in turns ever since she woke up. In no time at all she would be Mrs. Quenton Marriot and have to say goodbye for ever to Tamara Whitfield, daughter of this house. She hated leaving her father. Mrs. York, his sister, was coming to take over from Tamara, so everything would change. Her mind seethed with visions of the future. Of course she knew she ought to feel glad to be handing Daddy over to such a good person as Aunt Elizabeth.

A widow in her late forties, Mrs. York was a cheerful, essentially nice woman who enjoyed being a housewife. She was also a good cook, which was lucky for Daddy in these days when hired cooks seemed to disappear as fast as they appeared. Daddy had put up with a lot from her, his Tamara, although he never complained, and stoutly maintained that he preferred his daughter’s company to that of any other woman.

Would Q. understand her as well as Daddy did? Or as Paul had done? Those were questions that worried Tamara even at this eleventh hour. He was so easy, he seemed to make allowances for her excitability and selfishness. She was ashamed of her own failings but never quite able to overcome them. Would Q. always be so kind and tolerant? This morning, deep down in the recess of a confused young mind, Tamara realised that it was Paul Pryce’s memory that was actually haunting her, rather than doubts about Q. Ever since the date of their wedding was fixed Paul had started to creep insidiously back into her mind. She felt that his ghost was actually here this instant, standing just behind her with the old attractive mocking smile on his lips — and a look of disbelief in his eyes which used at times to upset her. It had so plainly indicated that he had little faith in her. He was much more difficult to deal with than Q. Yet during the good moments they had been so close, and so deliriously happy. Certainly she loved Q. in a fashion. But where was the delirium, the marvellous madness of the passion she had shared with Paul?

For an instant, Tamara’s whole face creased into an expression of absolute anguish. It should have been Paul, not his ghost, standing here, waiting for her to turn and throw herself into his arms. He wouldn’t have been careful of her veil, or her hair, or her exquisite bridal gown. Q. would — he was so considerate. Paul, if he had been in the mood, might have torn the delicate dress and veil from her and covered her bare shoulders and throat and lips with kisses. She could even hear his voice — lazy, mocking like his smile.

“You love me. You want me, don’t you, Tammy, baby? You’ve got me under your skin, haven’t you? Well, you’re under mine. Checkmate, lover!”

He used often to call her baby or lover — a little pseudo-American perhaps, but she didn’t care. Anything he did for her was right then. Now Tamara tortured herself a dozen times with more memories. He had finally rejected her because he had broken through the little girl façade to the real woman; the real Tamara who became utterly dependent on him. Then he had moved away from her. He had let her down and gone to another girl. Gone right out of her life. Perhaps, Tamara mused unhappily on this her wedding day, she had loved him too much, and she had still got him ‘under her skin.’

“Paul! Paul!” She called his name, then swung round as though she actually believed he was in the room. “Go away! Go away, for God’s sake. Don’t stand there laughing at me in that devilish way. You are a devil. I hate you. I’m just going to church to marry Q. Oh, go away — leave me alone.”

The mocking ghost vanished. The room, so full of June sunshine, seemed to grow suddenly chill. Tamara drew a deep breath. She felt she was struggling up from the swirling waters that threatened to drown her.

She heard her father’s voice, “Tam — Tam come on down!”

She took a deep breath, drew on her long white gloves, and slowly walked downstairs. Her father, tall, imposing in conventional morning dress, grey topper and gloves in hand, was anxiously waiting for her.

Mr. Whitfeld’s eyes were full of pride as the beautiful bride came slowly down step by step, one hand sliding down the polished banisters. He handed her the gorgeous bridal bouquet. She took it, a set smile on her lips.

“You look wonderful, my darling,” he said, “and more than ever like your mother this morning. You know, I’ve often told you, our wedding day was the happiest in all her life. I want you to feel the same.”

Tamara closed and unclosed her eyes. She made a supreme effort to banish the ghost of Paul, and suddenly that sad bad ghost vanished and with it her doubts and indecisions. Why think about him? Why have a single regret? She had chosen Q. He was the man in her life now and he was marvellous and she loved him. She lifted a face to her father. She felt calm again and she went on smiling.

“I know this will be my happiest day too, Daddy, darling. Thank you for being so good to me and for everything. Let’s go.”

She took his arm and walked with him out of the house to the waiting car.

MR. AND MRS. QUENTIN MARRIOT were 30,000 feet up in the sky in the Trident which was flying them to Nice. Q. preferred driving, but he knew Tamara wanted to get to their destination quickly so he was letting the chauffeur take the Arrow down to the South. For the next two days until the car arrived, they would be staying in the fabulous villa which had been lent to them for their honeymoon by Prince Savarati — one of Mr. Whitfeld’s wealthy Italian clients.

Tamara was delighted at the mere thought of the ‘staff’ awaiting them — an Italian man and wife. Q. knew the villa and had described it — gorgeous and luxurious, he said, with access to a little private beach, and a perfect swimming pool. Later in the week he intended to take Tamara for long car drives along the coast and up to the mountains above Cannes.

“I must show you France as I know it,” he told her, “I spent two years at Grenoble and so many holidays with my parents on the Côte d’Azur. It should be a wonderful change for you, my darling. We’ll eat at my favourite restaurants, and we’ll swim and sunbathe and make love and be quite alone in the villa when we feel like it. It will be perfect.”

It sounded perfect to Tamara. She felt relaxed and dreamy as the Trident flew steadily over a bank of snowy cloud under a brilliant sky of blue. Everything in her life seemed at this moment to have become brilliant. The past had faded with the shadows that had darkened her mind before the wedding. The horizon had cleared. She took off her jacket and pushed back her long fair hair. She was glad she had chosen to travel in a cool summery suit, palest yellow. She wore a long gold twisted necklace and carried the big white bag Veronica had given her. It was warm in the plane. Tamara liked warmth and snuggled like a kitten against her newly-made husband. Rid now of her ghost, she was happy, and by the knowledge that she was at last a married woman — and Q. was her husband.

He turned his head. Their gaze met in a long ardent exchange. She liked it when Q.’s gold-flecked eyes had that look in them. She liked his clean, smooth skin, his thick hair as fair as her own. They had a lot more to discover about each other, and of course, Tamara was aware that there were also things they didn’t share. Q. liked all sports — particularly car-racing. He was also enthusiastic about bridge and backgammon. Cards bored Tamara, but he was determined to take her one night to the Palm Beach Casino in Cannes. He wanted to teach her how to gamble. It would be fun. ‘Chemmy’ was the game he liked best. She agreed to try it out. Not only would she be a willing pupil but the Palm Beach Casino was, she felt sure, a good place in which to show off the marvellous dresses she had brought with her. Daddy had not stinted her over the trousseau.

She turned now to Q. and reminded him that Chris St. John, his old Eton friend who owned a small villa in Beaulieu, had a yacht down there at the moment. She hoped they could contact him so that he could take them for a short cruise around the coast. She would so adore that. She liked Chris. It was sad he hadn’t been able to come to their wedding, she said.

Q. nodded. “He has some girl-friend lined up and she didn’t want him to leave her, but once Chris knows we’re in Cannes, I’m sure he’ll contact us.”

“Super,” murmured Tamara, and nestled her cheek against her husband’s arm. He picked up her left hand and began to play with her wedding ring. He twisted it gently round her finger. Tamara had long slender hands. They always thrilled him. To him she was in some ways very young, yet deep down, he was convinced she was also a passionate woman. The combination was nothing if not exciting. He kissed her finger-tips. The oval nails had been varnished a pale apricot-colour — her latest craze.

Q. pictured her lying in a bikini by the jade-green pool in Savarati’s villa. After a few days in the sun, that small perfect body of hers would turn to gold, like her hair. She would look more seductive than ever.

How lucky he was to have won this entrancing girl for his wife. Q. had not meant to marry until he was over thirty, but now here he was, tied down at the age of twenty-eight, and liking it. Lucky he wasn’t jealous. He was well aware that there had been other men who had found Tamara attractive — one in particular — a serious affair. She had been honest about that. But it had ended, and Q. was sure that now she belonged wholly to him. He was determined their happiness should last. He would try to give her everything within reason that money could buy. He was comfortably off, if not as rich as his father-in-law. But even now, at the back of his mind, he couldn’t entirely erase the memory of that business talk he had had with his father-in-law only yesterday. Inflation was on the way, so John Whitfeld had told him gloomily. Labour was fast taking over from the Tories, and a recession was certain. They’d had a good time on the Stock Exchange so far, but it certainly might not be so good in the future. John Whitfeld was a generous man and he had bought the lease of an attractive penthouse for his daughter, as a wedding present. It was in a large newly-built block of luxury flats overlooking the river. Tamara was quite in love with it. As for cars, Q. had his Arrow and Tamara her own small Fiat. They would start in clover, but Q. couldn’t altogether ignore Mr. Whitfeld’s words of warning. However, “Don’t worry it may never happen” was Q’s favourite quotation. After all, why worry too much about world affairs and a probable financial crisis, while he was on his honeymoon? Sufficient unto the day, he reflected happily.

The flight to Nice was easy. A few hours later Mr. and Mrs. Marriot walked into the big arrival lounge at Nice airport. Blue skies — sunshine — palm trees and flowers — and the whole world seemed to be at their feet.

Tamara watched her husband as he walked off to find a porter. She was so proud of him. He always looked super, she thought. Today he was, as usual, so well-dressed. She liked him in those brown and cream check linen pants, with the cream and brown striped shirt. He carried a casual sports-jacket over his arm.

They drove to Prince Savarati’s villa in a hired car and were there received by his excellent middle-aged Italian couple, Luigi and Maria. The Italians welcomed the young English honeymoon couple with all the warmth and charm of their race. They had been in the employ of the Savarati family for many years. Marvellous, Tamara thought, after the domestic difficulties at home.

Villa Loretta was one of the most beautiful places she had ever seen. White and turreted, it resembled a small marble castle, built on the rocks with a terrace running along the edge of the cliff. The villa windows and sheltered patio overlooked the blue sea, and secluded beach. The garden was vivid with scarlet flowers and shaded by cypress trees.

Tamara was enchanted with the whole place. The interior was elegant, typically French. Huge bowls of roses and carnations welcomed the bride and bridegroom in every room. Champagne in a silver bucket of ice with a special card of welcome from the Prince himself was waiting for them in the salon. Savarati wrote that he hoped to catch a glimpse of Q. and his wife before they finally left the villa. He was for the moment hung up with urgent business in the Middle East.

Once in their splendid bedroom which had a balcony with a superb view of the curving coast, Tamara took off her jacket and skirt and slipped into a short cotton dressing gown. She was thankful the journey was over, and all that had gone before. It was late afternoon now. She had had an exciting and tiring day so far and she was still thankful that she and Q. had skipped the usual long-drawn-out wedding reception. After changing, they had been driven straight to Heathrow.

She threw herself on the big wide bed — arms outstretched and eyes shut. Q. was standing at the open french windows, looking down at the sea.

“Q,” she called his name drowsily. “Oh, darlin. . .