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you can’t, or she wouldn’t talk to you like that,’ said Charles angrily. ‘You’d better change your ways, Jane, before Dallas and I are married, or you may find yourself without a roof over your head!’

      Jane stared at him angrily. ‘All right. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. I’ll keep the flat on. Get someone to share it with me.’

      Dallas inwardly groaned at the worsening situation, breaking up the argument before it came to blows.

      ‘Go on, Charles,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you, I can handle this.’

      Charles turned and marched out of the room, followed rather more slowly by Dallas. She hardly noticed the kiss he gave her, so intent was she upon returning to the lounge to have it out again with Jane.

      But when she returned, Jane was in the bedroom undressing, and she said, before Dallas could speak:

      ‘Oh, don’t start again. I know, I know what you’re going to say. But it’s no good. I won’t give him up.’

      Dallas shrugged. ‘All right.’

      Jane looked strangely at her. ‘What am I supposed to glean from that remark?’

      ‘Exactly what you like.’ Dallas stretched wearily. ‘I’m sick of this whole business. Where did you go this evening, just out of interest?’

      ‘To a club run by a friend of Paris’s—a Greek. We danced a lot, and had a few cokes. It was a good evening.’

      ‘Do you drink alcohol?’ Dallas’s question was soft and undemanding, despite its pointedness.

      Jane flushed. ‘No, of course not. I’m under age.’

      ‘Would that stop you?’

      ‘Oh, Dallas, stop it! I’m tired.’

      ‘You have a nerve!’ Dallas turned away. ‘Anyway, why don’t you bring him here sometimes? If I met him myself, maybe I wouldn’t feel so concerned.’

      ‘Paris, here?’ Jane laughed. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Well … I mean … his apartment is huge, with gorgeous furniture …’

      ‘You’ve been to his apartment? When? I thought you always went to clubs?’

      Jane grimaced. ‘Heavens, what have I said! Why shouldn’t I go to his apartment?’

      Dallas unloosened her hair from its knot and it fell in a cascade of colour about her shoulders. Caught off guard, Jane said:

      ‘Why don’t you always wear your hair loose? You look so much younger! You make me feel so mean, Dallas, because I know you’re only a little older than I am, and you’re having a hell of a time with me, aren’t you?’ She half smiled. ‘It’s only when you look so schoolmarmish, and Charles is there beside you like a bloodhound, that I forget who you really are. Dallas, please try and understand.’

      ‘It’s no good, Jane,’ said Dallas wearily. ‘We stand at opposite sides of the line. You can’t see what’s under your nose, and I can’t believe he’s sincere!’

      Jane hunched her shoulders. ‘Well, there’s nothing you, or Charles, can do. I love Paris, and I intend to go on seeing him.’ She tugged angrily at her hair with a comb. ‘Whatever you say!’

      * * *

      A week later Dallas had made a decision, brought about mainly by the fact that Jane was no longer telling her the truth. Her breath had smelled strongly of alcohol two evenings when she came home, and Dallas, who had been in bed pretending to be asleep, had lain awake for hours after Jane’s breathing had become smooth and regular. Jane was also beginning to look drawn and tired, for late nights combined with early mornings were making their presence felt. Dallas seemed continually in a state of anxiety, and she wished wholeheartedly that Paris Stavros would find himself another girl-friend soon.

      Unable to expect any useful assistance or advice from Charles, Dallas decided her only course of action was to try and contact Alexander Stavros, the boy’s father. It seemed a vain hope; Alexander Stavros lived in Greece, and she had no earthly idea how she could reach him there.

      Besides, even if she could contact him, why should he care what happened to her sister, so long as Paris was happy? Unless the threat of a scandal might deter him. Maybe he was a man with a heart; maybe she could appeal to his better judgement.

      Dallas felt desperate. She was clutching at straws and she knew it. And then, as though fate was lending her a helping hand, she read one morning, in her newspaper going to work, that Alexander Stavros had arrived in England the previous day to visit his son, and to have trade talks with British businessmen. A casual word about it to Jane that evening brought forth a veritable stream of information about him, gleaned no doubt from Paris himself, and within a short time Dallas knew that he was staying at the Dorchester, and would be there for approximately a fortnight.

      Deciding not to mention her decision to Charles, Dallas telephoned the Dorchester the following morning and asked to speak to Mr. Stavros. A polite receptionist advised her that Mr. Stavros was not in the hotel, but if she wished she might speak to one of his secretaries.

      ‘One of his secretaries!’ exclaimed Dallas, in astonishment, and then, swallowing hard, she said: ‘When will Mr. Stavros be back?’

      ‘I really couldn’t say,’ replied the receptionist smoothly. ‘Excuse me, but who shall I say has called?’

      ‘I … I … he won’t know me,’ began Dallas awkwardly, and would have said more, but the receptionist interrupted her.

      ‘I would suggest you speak to one of the secretaries,’ she said, in a cool tone. ‘Mr. Stavros doesn’t take calls in the normal way. I’m sure Mr. Saravanos would be able to help you.’

      Dallas hesitated for a moment. ‘But this is a personal matter,’ she said, running her tongue over suddenly dry lips. ‘Is there no way I can contact Mr. Stavros direct?’

      ‘Excuse me, but I have other calls to attend to,’ said the receptionist, avoiding a direct answer.

      ‘Very well.’ Dallas was forced to ring off. She came out of the telephone kiosk dejectedly. It was mid-morning break at the school, and she had slipped across the road to make her call. There seemed no alternative but to ring again tomorrow and speak to one of the secretaries.

      The next day she could not concentrate on her work. She put off making the call to the Dorchester all day, hating the way she was having to put herself into such an awkward position. What would Alexander Stavros think of her when she did get to see him, or should she say ‘if’? It was doubtful indeed whether a man in his position would bother about a nobody like herself.

      She went home after work, made the evening meal for Jane and herself, and then waited until Jane had dressed for a date with Paris and gone out before thinking seriously about ringing the hotel again. To humble herself in this way was alien to her nature and the thought of asking him now to stop his son from meeting Jane seemed stupid and childish.

      She felt sure she would never have the nerve to go through with it, no matter what the consequences to Jane might be. It could only look bad. She would seem like the ugly sister trying to keep Cinderella from the ball.

      She smiled at her thoughts, and then hunched her shoulders. It was all very well deciding in the heat of the moment to see Alexander Stavros, but now, in cold blood, it was fast becoming untenable.

      She washed the dishes, wiped down the draining board, and eventually put the dishes back into the cupboard. Then she walked into the lounge.

      The television was playing away to itself, so she switched it off and walked into the bedroom. She sat in front of the dressing-table mirror studying her reflection for a few minutes, trying not to think of the task ahead of her.

      Then she pulled open the dressing-table drawer to take

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