Infatuation

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Nicola Boyd had everything a young woman could possibly ask for. She had beauty, charm - and she was a capable business woman in charge of a thriving beauty salon. But best of all, she was loved by Denis Avon, the dashing young actor who was the heart-throb of every girl in the neighbourhood. In the heady whirl of a tempestuous courtship, who could blame her for being swept off her feet - for planning to marry a man she'd known for only a few weeks...?

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

ON most mornings, Nicola was the first person to get to the shop.

The shop! Her shop!

On this mild April morning after the brisk walk from home through the quiet streets of Welbridge, Nicola’s cheeks were pink and her eyes were glowing. The pink glow and the colour were not only because of the ten minutes’ walk from her home, which was in the residential part of Welbridge. It was due to the thrill—still so new—of seeing that little newly painted shop with the freshly painted name:

NICOLETTE.

Her business name. … This was her own little business. … The Beauty Parlour which she had dreamed about for the last three years, and which was now an established fact.

As she unlocked the door and stooped to pick up the morning’s mail her heart beat with the warm strong satisfaction of a person who sees an ambition fulfilled and knows that she has worked and saved for it.

Of course she had been lucky. And the family had been so wonderful. Mummy and Daddy paying for her training at a well-known beauty salon in London. Brother Ron, who had been in the R.A.F. during the war, helping with his generous cheques. They had all encouraged her when she had shown signs, even as a youngster, of being clever and soothing with her hands, and interested in ‘beauty’. They were all darlings, including her young sister Frances (more commonly known as Flip), who used to suffer in silence while Nicola experimented upon her with creams and lotions and make-up until she was qualified to give Mummy a really good ‘facial’ in professional style.

And last but not least, dear kind Aunt Winnie’s legacy which had come just at the right moment. A week after Nicola finished her training. That small but important sum of money, together with Nicola’s savings, had enabled Nicola to take the lease of this little shop and gamble on it being a success.

NICOLETTE had opened two months ago on February first. Since then business had been brisk. Nicola could not expect to make a profit yet. There were many overhead expenses in any business, no matter how small, and there had been all the equipment to buy … furnishing and decoration, and a margin for the salary of Ann, the young assistant whom Nicola was training; and wages for people like Mrs. Deakes, who cleaned the shop every evening after they closed down.

But it was a success. Everybody said so. The Welbridge ladies were beginning to come to Nicolette for treatment and seemed satisfied with the result. All the pinching and scraping before she had started, the risks and the worries and the hard work, now seemed worth while.

March had really been a most exciting month. Starting with the arrival of Denis … Denis Avon, actor, who played lead in the Welbridge Repertory Company.

Nicola’s mind and thoughts had recently swerved rather significantly from work to play because of Denis. But no, play was the wrong word. It was too serious to be called that. The thought of Denis was deep and thrilling and real… not only the Denis who appeared on the stage … a most handsome and attractive young man with a golden voice which would wring a tear out of the most hardened playgoer, but the Denis whom one met away from the stage and his work. The friendly, irresistible, gay yet sympathetic companion who had in an unbelievably short time disturbed Nicola’s peace of mind and threatened to change the whole world for her.

To be a success at your job is one thing. To be a success in your love-affairs is another and much more emotionally disturbing.

Before Denis Avon came to Welbridge to storm the citadel of the feminine hearts in the town (and hers in particular!) Nicola had prided herself on being a level-headed business girl. It was her business capacity which had enabled her to ‘get going’ in this beauty parlour all on her own. But she was beginning to wonder what had happened to that Nicola. The cool calm practical Miss Boyd threatened to become a romantic schoolgirl—lovesick for the hero of her dreams. Why, she could remember teasing seventeen-year-old Ann who helped in the shop, because she had hung about the stage door waiting for Denis to come out and sign her autograph album. And laughing at young Flip who cut Denis’s photograph out of a programme, framed it and hung it over her bed. Smiling too, in rather a superior way, when dear sentimental Mummy sniffed into her handkerchief while Denis played that last poignant scene of the erring husband reconciled to the young wife he had wronged and deserted.

But now Nicola could not afford to laugh at anybody. She herself was crazy about Denis. It seemed that she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Like the beauty salon, her love-affair was prospering. The great, the much-sought-after, the heart-shaking Denis appeared to be just as much in love with her.

Nicola pulled up the blinds, filled the little shop with spring sunshine and sat down at her desk in the tiny office which adjoined the room in which she gave her beauty treatments. She gazed around her with an ecstatic expression.

It all looked lovely … the pale peach-coloured distemper and paint; the soft fleecy blankets to match, folded on the couch whereon her clients relaxed while she massaged, patted and smoothed away the wrinkles, then added the glamorous make-up which helped the old to recapture the impression of youth and made the young even more beautiful.

Aunt Winnie’s legacy had only just bought the lease of the shop and paid for the expense of doing it up. But Nicola had had to save and plan and forgo quite a lot of personal luxuries in order, for instance, to buy those gleaming satin curtains, the cream Wilton carpet, and the beautiful gilt-framed mirrors which reflected rows of exciting-looking jars and bottles on glass shelves. As for her clothes … oh, what a time she had had, trying to make old things look more fashionable, working late at night … anything rather than spend money which she needed for all her beauty preparations, and the fabulous cost of getting all those lids and labels printed with the name—NICOLETTE. But it had been worth it. Women in Welbridge were beginning to say, “Have you tried Nicolette’s massage cream” … or “skin lotion” … or “muscle oil”. And of course when the Rep. Theatre opened and Verona Dale, the leading lady, discovered Nicky’s salon and came in for a ‘facial’ and approved of it, Nicola’s success was assured. All the girls at the theatre came to her at least once a week, besides which Miss Dale had ordered heaps of creams and lotions on which there was a goodly profit.

Verona was a darling; one of the warm hearted generous kind of her profession, and Verona had introduced Nicola to Denis.

This morning as Nicola sorted her letters and prepared for the morning’s work, her mind would keep reverting to the memory of that first wonderful meeting.

Miss Dale had given a small party in her flat, which was in that new big block facing the river. It had been to celebrate the opening night of a new play that had just been well received.

Nicola had at first felt shy and out of things in that theatrical crowd; people whose talk seemed a little exaggerated and artificial; they all appeared to be sophisticated, widely travelled and experienced. Whereas Nicola, beyond the fact that she had had her training in London, had spent all her life in this sleepy little Berkshire town which was of no importance before the war. It was now rapidly growing, because a large aircraft factory had been built on the outskirts.

Population and trade had increased quite a bit since the days when Nicola’s family first settled there. Mr. Boyd was then a junior clerk in the Civil Service. He had worked in the Town Hall; joined the Army Pay Corps during the war, returned to the Town Hall in 1944, and since retired with his pension.

Nicola had led the life one might expect the daughter of a man in such a position to lead. Hard working, quiet, uneventful, with few excitements except the annual family holiday (usually spent in Wales where Aunt Winnie had lived) or in Scarborough with Granny, Mrs. Boyd’s mother, who had died a year ago.

Nicola had never been abroad.

But all Miss Dale’s friends—members of the Rep. Company—talked eloquently of the South of France, of tours in the Swiss mountains, of visits to Rome and Paris. Exciting and rather dazzling for Nicola. And the most exciting and dazzling thing of all was the personality of Denis Avon.

Nicola had a swift vision of him as she had seen him that day, threading his way through the crowd in Miss Dale’s sitting-room, cocktail glass in one hand; greeting this friend and that in the boyish gay manner which was one of his chief charms. She had seen him often on the stage before but never at such close quarters. Without the actor’s make-up, she had decided, he looked even more attractive. His profile was classic and had been much photographed. A fine head with waving chestnut hair, chiselled features, dark blue eyes with very black lashes. He had a beautifully shaped mouth (a little spoiled, perhaps … even weak … but charming) and a cleft chin and graceful figure. He was to Nicola as handsome as a young Greek god, and as he drew near her she had the exquisite thrill of receiving two quick interested glances from him. Then he came up to her and said: “Hell … why aren’t you drinking?”

When she had answered, shyly, that she never ‘drank’, he laughed and said: “How very unusual!” … then brought her an orange squash, asked her name and afterwards stayed talking to her for quite a long time.

She could hardly remember anything he had said at the time. Mostly about the new play and his part in it. He was obviously self-centred but one could forgive Denis for being an egoist, Nicola thought. He was so delightfully, honestly pleased with himself and his reception in Welbridge. She had wanted to go on listening to him. But Miss Dale had taken him away to introduce him to somebody else. Only when the party ended, Verona had teased Nicola about him:

“You were quite a success with our Denis. That’s because you are so fresh—really radiant compared with us,” she had said in her generous fashion. “We actresses suffer from late nights and too much grease-paint and limelight. But you look about seventeen—definitely not twenty-four. In fact, Denis thought you were in your teens. But watch your step, Nicky, my sweet. Don’t believe a word he ever says. He’s a terror.”

Nicola had tried to profit by that advice, but when she got home she found that she wanted to believe all the nice things Denis had said to her. She had even felt anxious lest he should have thought her too young and awkward, compared with his glamorous theatrical friends. She had feverishly experimented on herself with a new beauty treatment, and wondered if she could indulge in a really expensive new dress this spring. For she was bound to meet Denis Avon again. In fact he himself was giving a party that next week and had asked her to it.

She had gone to the party. Once again Denis attached himself to her side, and after that quite an intense friendship had sprung up between them. Her parents invited him to their home. He had supper with them … made himself most charming to her mother, and talked so intelligently about politics to her father that he had afterwards admitted “that actor chap knew a thing or two”; then conceded to Nicola that, although he did not approve of the stage as a career for a young fellow, Denis Avon seemed a normal healthy-minded chap outside his profession. He forgave him for not having seen war service, because he had been getting over a bad attack of rheumatic fever which had ruled him out for any of the Services. But he had travelled through the Middle East and Germany with E.N.S.A. and nearly been blown up once or twice, entertaining troops in serious zones of war.

As a rule, Nicola was delighted to look at the engagement pad on her desk and note that she was booked up for beauty treatments from ten o’clock onwards. But she was a little irked today to find bookings for the whole afternoon.

Denis’s new craze was rowing on the beautiful river, which ran through Welbridge. Yesterday he had begged her to get away early and go out with him. Exercise, fresh air and sunlight were what he needed, he said, before the show opened. And tomorrow, Saturday, there was a matinée and he would be working all day. So would she.

Nicola gave a brief impatient sigh as she slipped into the pale pink overall which she wore when giving treatments. She would never be able to meet Denis at half past four if she was to do that last ‘facial’ properly. And she loved her work. It was most important that it should be done well. But Denis Avon had become important, too.

Last night for the first time he had kissed her.

Bill Venning, the theatre manager, had given a supper party after the show and Nicola—now firm friends with the whole Rep. Company—had attended. Denis saw her home. It was a cold but perfect spring night, with a clear moon shining on the river. They had walked along the towpath to Regent Square where Nicola lived. And Denis had suddenly stopped and swung her into his arms and said in that thrilling, golden voice of his:

“Nicky, I am crazy about you. I don’t know what it is, but I find you more attractive than any girl I have met in my life.”

Utterly in love with him, she had felt herself melting into his embrace. It was more than she had dared hope for: that the great Denis Avon should love her! She had hung back a moment in his arms and whispered: “Why should you find me attractive, Denis?”

His answer was ready; his voice vibrant with sincerity:

“Because you are genuine … so absolutely honest and to be relied upon. I can’t imagine you ever lying or deceiving a fellow. And you’ve got courage. I admire the way you’ve built up that business and how you run it all on your own. I admire the practical streak in you as well as your adorable touch of glamour. I adore your cool slenderness, the sensitive way you blush when I say nice things to you. The way those fascinating pupils of your big grey eyes grow large and dark when you are excited. Your funny little laugh, your trick of wrinkling your small nose when you are amused. And your hair … that fair smooth head of yours with its shining coil in the nape of your neck. There is something very chaste, almost Madonna-like, about you which sets you apart from other women in my eyes. I don’t wonder you have been a success as a beauty expert. You are a beauty. Beauty its very self!”

Could she ever possibly forget a single one of those lovely poetic things which he had whispered against her mouth … or the burning kiss which had followed, and revealed to her, suddenly, the whole essence of loving and being passionately loved? She went home deeply and irretrievably in love with Denis Avon. He left her with the words:

“It’s quite obvious that you and I were meant for each other, little Nicola. I didn’t think I would get married for years. But I want to marry you … soon … as soon as you’ll have me.”

He wanted to take her out this afternoon and talk it all over. She had not slept, because she had lain awake hour after hour, remembering his kisses and everything that he had said.

It was all so wonderful, she could not speak of it—did not breathe a word about it to the family. But here, in her little shop this morning, some of the rapture faded and gave place to more prosaic, sensible reflection.

This Beauty Salon was her own shop … the business which had been her dearest ambition and to which she had meant to devote the next few years of her life. Denis had said that marriage had not entered his head until he had met her. Well, it was the same with her. Perhaps she had thought about marriage at times. But only casually. With that strong streak of ambition and her love of work, she had never seriously contemplated getting tied up to any man and forsaking her job for a domestic life.

The more she thought about it all now, the more uneasy she became. But surely, if she did decide to marry Denis, he would not want an immediate marriage? They could be engaged and she would be able to carry on with her work, while he carried on with his. She was only twenty-four; he was twenty-six. There was plenty of time for them both.

When Ann Williams came into the shop, Nicola bade her good morning, tried to drive the thought of Denis from her mind and concentrate on her job.

She said:

“We want some ice for Miss Dale’s pack this morning, Ann. Run along to the MacFisheries and make sure they are sending our block early.”

Ann, a nice-looking girl, still rather in the plump stage and trying anxiously to ‘slim’, went off to carry out orders.

Alone again, Nicola opened a cupboard and began to take out towels, bottles and bowls and prepare for the first treatment which was to be for Miss Deborah Greene—one of the girls in the Rep. Company. But try as she would, Nicola could not stop thinking about Denis and last night. That wonderful moment in his arms … that breath-taking, undreamed-of proposal of marriage. She could hardly wait to see him again.

Somebody opened the door of the shop. Nicola parted the curtains of the cubicle in which she had been standing, and saw a broad-shouldered young man wearing grey flannels and a tweed jacket. He had a pipe in one hand and was holding an enormous Boxer puppy on a lead with the other. The Boxer was panting and straining at his leash and lunged playfully towards Nicola.

“Hi, Kimbo,” exclaimed the young man, “down you get! Behave yourself. You’re in a Beauty Parlour now, and if you are not good Miss Boyd will cut off your whiskers and remove all your wrinkles.”

Nicola burst out laughing and immediately went down on her knees and embraced the Boxer.

“Oh, what a darling!”

“My latest love,” said the young man with a grin and added: “I say, Kimbo, you’re in luck. Our beauty expert is allowing you to kiss her. She has never been so nice to me.”

Nicola, still laughing, stood up and smoothed her crumpled overall.

“Ah, you’ve not got nearly such a winning way as Kimbo.”

He bowed from the waist and stuck his pipe between his teeth.

“That does it. I will say good morning, Miss Boyd.”

She smiled up at him.

“Idiot! How are you, March? I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“No, I have been away on business. Not finding it easy to get used to this business racket. It doesn’t suit me. I’m taking a long week-end off and that is why Kimbo and I dropped in, to ask if you would like to come on the river and have a sort of picnic with us on Sunday. I’m getting up a party.”

“Oh, thanks awfully, but I—I’ve already got a date,” she said.

She hadn’t. But nothing would have induced her to get booked up before seeing Denis again. He would be sure to want her to spend Sunday with him.

March Foster (he had been christened thus by a fanciful mother because he had been born in the month of March) forced the Boxer down into a recumbent position, . . .