Twice I Have Loved

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Etta Hughes has been jilted by her fiancé, Rod. Bewildered and stricken, she decides to take a job as cook to the Trenders. In their beautiful house on the river perhaps her heart will mend. But here, in spite of herself, Etta becomes attracted to Mark Trender. Mark is in love with his exquisite child-like wife, Flair. It seems that once again Etta is doomed to the anguish of hopeless love. And then to complicate matters further, Rod arrives unexpectedly to dinner - with his new wife...

Release date: March 27, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 224

Sample

“What are you going to do now, Etta?”

For a moment Etta did not answer this question and Marian Collis, seated on the sofa, smoking her cigarette, looked at the girl whom she considered her very best friend, a trifle anxiously.

Came the reply: “I don’t know, and I wish I could add those famous words ‘I couldn’t care less’, but I do! I care terribly — about everything — my work, my love and my life and it’s all gone wrong!”

“Oh, darling, don’t be like that,” said Marian sorrowfully.

“But that’s how I feel. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it. It’s how I’m made.”

Etta’s reply was as despairing and passionate as the expression on her face and the misery in her heart.

She turned from Marian’s anxious gaze, thrust her thumbs into the leather belt she wore with her hipsters and stared around the room. She used to like it. It had been enormous fun decorating it with Marian and the third girl they shared the flat with. She used to be really proud of their home at the top of an old-fashioned house in Earl’s Court, but she supposed she ought not to have come back here. It held far too many memories. In this very room, she and Rod used to see each other every evening. It was here she had spent so many glorious memorable hours with him.

Now Rod had gone. It was all over.

What was she going to do? Her emotions were still so confused and her physical energies so low, she really didn’t know the answer.

She and Marian had just finished three months’ hard work — the final term — at the Alice Anderson Domestic College, completing a two-year course.

Etta had got her diploma. She knew she was a good cook — especially talented in that direction. She was now ‘Cordon Bleu’ and liked the work. She had never coveted the usual secretarial job, or life in a boutique, like Christine Johnson, the third girl who lived with them. Anybody who had trained under the famous Alice Anderson could be sure of a first-rate post and be handsomely paid, too, in these days when first-class cooks were hard to get.

Now both girls were ready to start their careers. But unlike Marian, Etta had lost interest. She couldn’t bear to look into a future that didn’t hold Rod. A life that had once been filled with the intense happiness of being loved, and of loving him, had ended.

What had happened? Why had it all gone wrong? She had been so sure of him, but today she no longer had any confidence left — even in herself. Yet she was aware she had every cause to feel pleased in so many ways. She had never lacked friends. She danced well — so she was told — she had a sense of humour — she was popular because she was a good listener, and most people seemed to like her. Apart from the loss of her beloved mother she had been happy and carefree in the days before Rodney Stone came into her life. But something that her stepmother — the good-natured and shrewd Sheila — had told her one day, returned to memory now and made Etta think twice about herself.

“You’re an odd one, Etta. Your father says your mother was the same. You’re sociable all right, yet not easy-going like me. You keep things to yourself. Isn’t that what’s caused the break with your boy-friend? Can’t you relax a bit more?”

It had been said after she lost Rod. She had been spending a night or two down in Devon with her father and his second wife. She hadn’t resented Sheila’s comments, but she had argued, “What do I do that makes you or anyone else feel I’m so tied up in myself?”

“You’re absolutely sweet to everybody, dear, we all adore you, but there’s a kind of red light you show at times. More ‘stop’ than ‘go’ if you know what I mean,” she ended with a laugh.

And Etta did know what she meant and it caused her to think. Yes — her mother had been a woman of deep feeling and deep reserves. She had inherited that characteristic. People could break through so far — but no further. So perhaps it was that side of her which had put Rod off.

Even while she acknowledged the justice of Sheila’s appraisal (and after all Marian said the same), it only served to make Etta feel more than ever shut out and alone. She just couldn’t let herself go to any real extent. Something always seemed to hold her back. And knowing it couldn’t make Rod’s behaviour less heart-breaking for her.

She brooded over this thing called love. Human beings just seemed to get suddenly hypnotised. Rod had definitely put her under a spell. Then he had broken it and she could no longer bear to face reality. But it was time she did. His betrayal of her and the way he had rushed straight out of her arms to Claudia had been almost unbearable.

She remembered one particular night when they were alone up here and he had wanted her to go to bed with him. She, too, had wanted it but she just couldn’t. It would mean so much — and she wanted it to be only after marriage. At the time he had just laughed it all off and called her his ‘old-fashioned darling with a passion for virginity’. All had seemed well again the next day. That was the day he had met Claudia and she had won. She had been the sort to say ‘yes’, and the ‘red’ for Rod had turned to ‘green’.

I must snap out of it, Etta thought. I must even try to change myself if I can.

“Rod isn’t the only man in the world,” Marian reminded her. But at the time he had seemed the only one for Etta. She winced, remembering him vividly — his good looks, his blue eyes, his big amusing mouth, his infectious laugh.

He was on the staff at the B.B.C., doing well in light entertainment production, and a ‘Pop’ enthusiast. Owner of a large library of fascinating discs which he used to play to her. That sort of music didn’t really appeal to Etta, but she accepted it because she was in love. Claudia, the girl he had married, was Rod’s type of course. She ran a boutique in the King’s Road and she was as smart and trendy as the clothes she sold. No doubt they made a terrific pair, Etta thought bitterly.

“At least,” Marian said now — suddenly — “Rod could have let you know before he ever did, that he was cooling off, and told you about that popsie of his. Don’t you see how rottenly he behaved to you?”

“Not altogether,” was Etta’s reply. “He just dreaded telling me, so he put it off until the last moment. Claudia suited him — I didn’t. Leave it at that, Marian. I might have met a man I preferred, then I’d have had to tell Rod and hurt him.”

“You couldn’t hurt Rod,” snapped Marian, “he’s not the sensitive type. He’s too vain and self-centred.”

“But you saw for yourself how terribly upset he was when he finally told me about Claudia. You came in that evening just as he was saying goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marian, “I hate him and I can’t abide Claudia. But let’s talk about your future job. I’ve had Rodney Stone! I wish him all the bad luck he can get with his fascinating wife. He’ll soon find out that he pushed the wrong girl out of his life.”

The ghost of a smile lifted Etta’s mouth.

“You’re a darling to me, Marian, but you’re a bit spiteful about poor Rod.”

“Poor Rod indeed!”

Etta gave a sad half-smile at her friend while she lit a cigarette. She was such a good friend, dear little plump Marian, who lacked glamour but was so essentially nice and kind. She never lacked friends — and was that rare type, somebody one could absolutely rely upon.

At this moment Marian was sitting back in her chair smoking her own cigarette and taking stock of Etta. Her appreciation of this her greatest friend was always wholehearted. Sometimes Marian wondered why Etta — christened Henrietta which she didn’t like — hadn’t turned to a more glamorous line of work than cooking and housekeeping. She was so beautiful. Of course she looked ill and too thin at the moment and had lost her usual sparkle, but she was slim and graceful, and her high cheek-bones and sweet delicate mouth would have got her a job as a photographic model easily. But it was not her line. She had no vanity. She was lucky enough to have one of those enviable camellia-like skins. Her dark silky hair curved softly down to her shoulders. She was a little short-sighted and wore glasses for reading, but she was saving up for contact lenses, which Marian approved of because her eyes were her best feature — more green than gold, very expressive, under naturally long lashes.

She had attractive hands. Marian looked at them now and said suddenly, “When you start work, ducky, do wear gloves. I’d hate to see you spoil those filbert nails. Mine don’t matter.” She spread out her plump fingers with their square nails, and grimaced at them.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you,” said Etta. “And please stop talking about me. Are you definitely fixed up? What’s Alice offered you?”

Marian grinned and swung a foot.

“A rather good job cooking for wealthy City gentlemen — conference lunches and so on — in that new skyscraper opposite Mansion House, and a nice fat salary, too. It ought to be amusing.”

“Good for you. I must ring Alice Anderson and see what she’s got for me,” said Etta, and she stubbed out her cigarette and went out into the hall there and then to ring the college.

She returned to Marian pleased and with more sparkle.

“What do you know? Alice wants me to go tomorrow for an interview as cook-housekeeper at a gorgeous place on the river, near Bourne End — a Mr. and Mrs. Trender. He’s a stockbroker and very well off apparently, runs a Mercedes-Benz. They keep a full-time daily, and a gardener. No house-work for me, only cooking and shopping. They’re willing to pay twenty pounds a week and ‘all found’, as they say.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Marian, wide-eyed, “that’s twenty pounds in the pocket. But, darling, Bourne End — you couldn’t work there and get back home every night. Commuting’s out of the question.”

“I agree, but if they like me they want me to live in. Nice big bed-sitter looking over the garden and the river, Alice says — my own T.V. and bathroom. Two days off during the week, so long as I work madly in the weekend when they usually entertain. And Sundays after lunch if I want.”

“If you go, it means I shall lose you!” said Marian dismayed.

“I shall only be temporary, for a couple of months. They’ve got some sort of couple from the Philippines lined up for permanence. They really need a butler as well as a cook, so Alice said, but Mrs. Trender has just had an accident and wants immediate help. A few days ago she was thrown from her horse and fractured an arm. Can’t do a thing for herself. Alice says she never did much in the kitchen, anyhow. Alice thinks I’m the only one on her books who can cook well enough for the trendy Trenders. They asked for a nice type — do you think I’m a ‘nice type’?”

Now Marian grinned — delighted because Etta herself was smiling for the first time since Rod went away. Thank goodness there was a spark of humour left in her, and taking everything into consideration it might be the best possible thing to get her right away from London and the old haunts. Marian asked:

“How long do you think it will be for?”

“May and June at least.”

“Should be super on the river.”

“If it doesn’t rain. I know the river. It’s gorgeous when the sun shines but it can be damp and a bit sad.”

“You’ll be in a nice hot kitchen where no doubt they have everything that opens and shuts,” Marian said cheerfully.

“I wonder,” said Etta, “what Mrs. Trender is like. Alice wants me to go down first thing tomorrow morning for an interview.”

“Well, good luck to you, darling. It might be fun.”

“It’ll certainly be an experience,” said Etta thoughtfully, and was suddenly amused to think of herself as a ‘living-in cook-housekeeper’. It was a challenge and one needed to work for people who would appreciate good food — then one could really show off Cordon Bleu talent.

Feeling better, Etta walked into her bedroom. The first thing she saw drove a fresh dagger through her heart. Rod’s photograph! She hadn’t yet moved it from her bedside table. She picked it up, put on her horn-rims, and studied the pictured face. It was an enlarged colour snapshot. Rodney was terribly handsome, Etta thought, and the old sense of loss and despair crept over her. He looked young for his twenty-five years. Sometimes she used even to think he was immature in his outlook, spoiled, a little greedy — but such fun; such a wonderful lover. He had marvellous, wicked blue eyes.

“Oh, damn, damn!” muttered Etta. “Why did you have to spoil everything, Rod?”

As she stared desolately at the photograph she could almost feel his kiss on her mouth. The sort of kiss that used to give her the sensation that her very bones were melting and that she was floating on air. Damn him, and damn Claudia who had stolen him from her.

Etta flung the framed snapshot into a drawer so violently that the glass shattered. She didn’t bother just then to collect the pieces.

Etta’s first encounter with the girl who was to be her future employer was nothing if not dramatic.

She arrived early at the Trender’s house, Green Alders, which was within easy walking distance of Bourne End, on a really beautiful May morning. Chris Johnson had lent Etta her Mini. Etta drove through the tall wrought-iron gates that opened into the back garden, pulled up in the drive and was at once struck by the opulent beauty of the white house — Georgian, Etta thought — so dignified and lovely with its long square-paned windows, handsome portico, and walls covered with a mass of creeper. A pale pink clematis was just breaking into hundreds of blossoms around the two fine carved pillars at the entrance. Etta could imagine how perfect it must also be on the other side of the house which faced the water.

With all her love of beauty uppermost, Etta gave a sigh of satisfaction and gazed long at the green lawn and the banks of golden daffodils waving gently in the breeze. Striped blue-and-white blinds over the windows gave the house a Continental air. If the Trenders were as nice as their home, Etta thought, she would certainly enjoy living here for the next couple of months. She was about to press the bell when the front door suddenly opened and a girl — so small that at first Etta might have mistaken her for a child — rushed out of the house, Long silky yellow hair half hid her face, but Etta saw that it was red, convulsed and streaming with tears. One of her arms was in a sling — in a sling. Heavens! Etta thought, this must be Mrs. Trender, herself. She had had that accident.

She did not seem to notice Etta or the car. She was very attractive — white jeans and striped sleeveless blue and white singlet. She wore white sandals with high cork heels. She screamed suddenly, “Let me go, you brute. Don’t follow me. Don’t! If you do, I’ll throw myself into the river!”

Etta stared, flabbergasted. Now a tall young man rushed after the girl. A swift glance showed Etta that he had a fine-boned face and darkish hair, worn rather on the long side at the back and stylishly cut. Good-looking, Etta decided — nice figure. At the moment his face expressed nothing but alarm and distress. Etta went on staring. What on earth was happening? She had never felt more embarrassed. The young man now caught up with the blonde girl in the middle of the drive and pulled her back.

“Flair — steady on — dearest Flair — let me take you into the house. Darling, for God’s sake don’t be so idiotic!”

Goodness, thought Etta, these are the Trenders. Alice said her name was Flair.

What was it all about? And what a time for her to arrive — in the middle of a matrimonial row — one of no mean proportions, either!

There was a brief struggle between the two, then the blonde girl seemed to collapse. The tall young man lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back towards the house. He seemed to become aware for the first time of Etta standing beside the car. He flung her an embarrassed look.

“Sorry!” he said briefly, “Don’t know who you are but do wait a moment, please. My wife’s not well!”

The girl called Flair stirred, moaned in her husband’s arms and beat her fists against his shoulders.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. Let go of me. I hate you! Put me down Mark!”

Mark Trender carried her into the hall. Etta called after them, “Had I better go away?”

Then to her bewilderment, the hysterical Mrs. Trender lifted her golden head, drew a hand across her tear-smudged face and spoke to Etta quite normally, “No, don’t go away, please. You must be our new cook. But how super.”

Etta didn’t know whether to smile or to be serious. She was thoroughly confused. She said, “My name’s Etta — Henrietta Hughes. I’ve come for an interview. I’ll come back later if you like.”

Mark Trender looked at her apologetically. He certainly did not want her to go away. He, too, now realised who she was. They had expected her. Half Flair’s trouble, in his belief, was that she had been trying to cope with too much, all the cooking and shopping and entertaining, and she was not used to it. She was not well either. Prone to attacks of nerves — at least that was what he liked to call her black moods.

“Do forgive us, Miss Hughes,” he spoke to Etta — forcing a smile, “You’ve caught us at a bad moment. We are not really given to behaving like this.”

“It’s his fault, not mine!” declared Flair and giggled.

The suddenness of this switch from rage, tears and hatred to smiles and giggles, was too much for Etta. But she had to admit that when this strange girl with the broken arm chose to smile, all the charm in the world lay in her face and voice. She had perfect features and wonderful eyes. Crying hadn’t spoilt their jewel-like lustre. They were turquoise-blue, fringed by the longest lashes Etta had ever seen. They must be her own. Etta decided. because the ridiculous girl was rubbing them hard with her one good hand. They couldn’t be. . .