Not My Thing

Jamison stared across at the golf house, his face expressionless. He wondered how Wilbur would react if he told him he was planning to have Shannon murdered and had already taken a decisive step towards this end. How shocked this fat, kindly man would be! He shook his head.

‘A business mess, Jay. Nothing you can do about it. I’ll fix it. Thanks all the same.’

‘Well, let’s go and have a Scotch.’

‘Sorry, Jay. I’ve got this desk-load. I must get back.’

The two men began walking to the clubhouse.

‘Will you be free tomorrow, Sherry? I’ve only one more week here although I’ll be leaving Meg to stay on.’

‘Sorry. No, I’m right up to my eyes. When will you be back?’

‘Oh, hell! I was hoping we’d play for at least another five days. I don’t know when I’ll be back. How long will you be staying?’

‘To the end of the month.’

‘Will you be back in September?’

‘Could be. I’ll let you know.’

By this time the two men were in the locker-room. Jamison hurriedly changed.

‘I must get moving.’ He shook hands with Wilbur. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

As he hurried away, Wilbur stared after him, a worried frown on his face. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Jamison in such a tense mood.

***

At exactly 13.00, Smyth, carrying a tray, containing shrimp and diced lobster salad, paused outside the door of Shannon’s practice room. He listened to the strains of her cello and nodded sad approval. What a tone! he thought. She makes that instrument sing! He tapped and entered, putting the tray on the small table.

‘Lunch is served, madam. Perhaps a glass of Chablis or champagne.’

Shannon put down the cello and came to the table.

‘No, nothing to drink, Smyth. This looks marvellous. I have a lot of work still to do this afternoon before I feel I can give a good performance.’

As she sat down, Smyth spread a napkin across her knees.

‘I understand, madam. You are a perfectionist.’

She looked at him and smiled.

‘And so are you, Smyth.’

He bowed and moved to the door, then paused.

‘I regret to tell you I will be unable to go with you to the concert.’

Shannon, who was beginning the meal, put down her fork and looked up sharply.

‘But why?’

‘Mr Jamison requires dinner tonight at eight o’clock.’

They looked at each other.

Shannon felt a cold clutch of loneliness. She had looked forward so much to having Smyth with her. To have him greet her after the concert. How good it would have been to have him drive her home and to hear his opinion of her performance.

She felt sick with disappointment: so sick the shrimp and lobster salad became repulsive to her.

‘I am very, very sorry, Smyth.’

‘I am sorry too, madam,’ and, with a bow, Smyth left the room.

Shannon got to her feet and began to move around the large, sunlit room.

This can’t go on, she thought. Sherry and I must separate. I know he hates me. I can feel it. My love for him is draining away. Oh, God! Why can’t I give him a son? We must separate!

While she was pacing up and down, Jamison was in a telephone booth, talking to Tarnia.

As usual, she sounded a little breathless, but the sound of her voice gave Jamison a great lift.

‘How about dinner tonight?’ he asked, after their greetings were over.

‘Why, yes. I’d love it.’

‘Fine! Suppose we meet at the Stone Crab at eight thirty. Would that be all right?’

The Stone Crab restaurant was a small discreet fish restaurant situated some five miles outside Paradise City where neither Jamison nor Tarnia was likely to run into people they knew.

‘I’ll be there, Sherry.’

‘Be seeing you, darling,’ and Jamison hung up. He drew in a deep breath. There was much careful thinking to be done. This would be his one and only chance to convince Tarnia that they would soon be able to get married.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in the almost deserted, comfortable lounge of the Athletic Club. He sat in a deep chair in a far corner and no one approached him. He considered his future, thought of Lucan and made up his mind what he would tell Tarnia when they met that evening. Finally, satisfied that he had his thinking right, he went into the Bridge room and played three rubbers with elderly members, playing badly while he kept thinking of Tarnia.

He returned to his villa soon after 20.00.

Smyth had seen Shannon off in her car to the concert, and had prepared a plate of cold cuts for Jamison.

Knowing how anxious Conklin was to have the evening off, Smyth said as he opened the front door for Jamison, ‘Good-evening, sir. Do you wish Conklin to return the rented car?’

‘No. Tell him to garage the car.’

‘Very good, sir. Will you be needing Conklin tonight?’

‘How the hell do I know?’ Jamison snapped. ‘Hasn’t he anything to do?’ And he started for the stairs.

‘Your supper-tray is ready, sir. Should I serve it in the study?’

‘Supper-tray I’ll be dining out!’ Jamison barked, and went up the stairs and to his bedroom.