An Image Of You. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
for two weeks on location, photographing in Kenya, she would put up with a lot. And her father was right. He could teach her a great deal. So, while neither of them might like it, they were stuck with each other.
As she rifled through her bag, looking for something suitable to wear, she was almost sorry she had spent so much valuable time pressing her clothes. It would have been fun to change into something just as crumpled as her suit. She smiled wryly as she recalled that she had spent most of yesterday evening wishing she had taken more trouble with her wardrobe in recent months. Now her charity-shop bargains seemed to offer endless amusement. She slipped into a loose white T-shirt with a neck that had suffered somewhat in the wash. She had packed it to wear with her jeans, but they would be staying firmly at the bottom of her bag for the moment. Instead she pulled on a pair of well-worn green trousers that bagged at the knees, and she finished the look with an ancient pair of leather clogs that had once been expensive, but now were merely comfortable.
George surveyed herself in the mirror. Her deep gold hair was disguised in a neat if unbecoming bun. She teased a strand loose so that it would fall untidily with very little encouragement. Perfect. Her disguise seemed to take on a life of its own. Not quite grotesque. Just awful enough not to want to be seen with. Not, that was, if you were Mr Lukas.
Lukas was sitting facing the doorway of the dining-room. He stared distractedly into space, his long fingers playing with a spoon and totally unaware of her presence. George paused in the opening and made a point of looking short-sightedly about her until she was sure she had attracted the attention of at least half of those present. As if suddenly aware that something demanded his attention, he looked up and saw her. It was a moot point whether he actually flinched, but George was not prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. She waved enthusiastically and sailed towards him, firmly repressing the urge to try a theatrical ‘trip’. There was a limit to what she might be expected to get away with.
‘That’s better.’ She grinned widely from behind her spectacles, keeping her amusement at the tight line of his mouth firmly under control. ‘Have you ordered for me?’
‘An English breakfast. You said you were hungry. You can help yourself to fruit or cereals from the buffet.’ He carelessly waved at the laden tables in the centre of the dining-room.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as if she had only just noticed the lavish spread of tropical fruit. ‘But I don’t … That is …’ she stammered. ‘It’s all … rather strange to me,’ she ended, peering anxiously at him from behind the spectacles, wondering how she had ever managed without such a wonderful prop before. ‘Would you help me to choose?’
Lukas sat very still for a moment, and George could see the battle between his desire to strangle her and natural good manners pass briefly across his face. Good manners won, by a very short head.
‘Of course.’ He dropped his napkin beside his plate and rose to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was, well over six feet, and dwarfing her own feeble five foot six. He certainly attracted a great deal of attention as he led her around the buffet, showing her the different tropical fruits and attempting to explain the taste of papaw, mangoes, guavas and tree melons. She exclaimed loudly at these treats, feigned indecision and revelled in his embarrassment. ‘Why don’t you just try everything?’ he said finally, allowing a hint of sarcasm to harden the edge of his voice.
‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ George exclaimed, and helped herself to the slice of papaw she had always intended to have.
Once he had settled her back in her seat, and served her with hot coffee, Lukas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding, Miss Bainbridge—’
She interrupted. ‘George. All my friends call me George, Mr Lukas, and I am sure we’re going to be very good friends.’
He declined to comment on that possibility and resumed where he had left off. ‘I was expecting a man. When Miss Bishop telexed that I should expect George Bainbridge, I naturally assumed …’
George laughed loudly. ‘You’d be amazed how many people make that mistake, but nobody ever calls me Georgette. Daddy always wanted a son, you see. I’m afraid all he got were daughters. Henry, Max and me.’
Lukas made a brave effort to recover from this revelation. ‘The trouble is—er—George, it’s going to cause some difficulty with the accommodation. Michael Prior was sharing a tent with me. And we don’t have any spare room in with the girls.’
George choked on a piece of fruit and Lukas leapt up to beat on her back. Rather harder than necessary, she thought as she waved him away. ‘I’m all right. Really.’ Removing her glasses, she wiped her eyes, then sipped some coffee. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you say tent?’
For the first time since they had met Lukas looked happy. As he resumed his seat he actually smiled. ‘Yes. Two-man tents. Didn’t Miss Bishop mention that?’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘We’re camped south of Nairobi, on the Athi River. Did you think we were shooting in Nairobi?’
George said nothing. She was speechless. She hadn’t had much time to think about the shoot itself. She had thought her only problem was Lukas. But her father had known nothing of that incident. He did know, however, that she hated camping. That she loathed insects of any description and, worst of all, she was terrified of the dark. Pa was certainly getting his pound of flesh out of her.
Two weeks of Lukas, to ensure a better life for some youngsters who needed her help, had seemed a small price to pay. Too small. She should have known her father better than that. He was challenging her at long distance. How badly did she believe in her refuge? She drew in a deep, steadying breath. Badly enough.
‘We may be able to get another tent from somewhere,’ Lukas went on doubtfully, a speculative look in his eye, at her sudden pallor. ‘Although we had the very devil of a job to get the ones we’re using. But if you won’t mind being on your own …’ Lukas helped himself to some toast, his appetite apparently restored. ‘I suppose as long as you don’t wander about at night you should be safe enough.’ She stared at him as he bit into the toast, exposing a row of even white teeth, then shuddered. ‘Do you normally wear glasses, George?’
‘Glasses?’ In her shock she had forgotten all about them. George ducked, quickly replacing her disguise. ‘Oh, yes. Always. I can’t do without them.’
Lukas shook his head. ‘Just for the moment I thought I had seen you somewhere before. The colour of your eyes is … unusual.’
‘Perhaps we’ve passed in my father’s office,’ she said quickly, making a determined effort to pull herself back into her role. ‘Although I’m sure I would have remembered,’ she gushed.
‘Your father’s office?’ She could almost hear the cogs working as he took in what she had said. ‘Charles is your father?’ He stared in disbelief. ‘Miss Bishop said in her telex to expect a young relative of Sir Charles … but then I knew he only had daughters …’
‘And you were expecting a man!’ She forced herself to laugh out loud at this wonderful joke.
She saw a sudden spark of hope light his dark eyes. ‘Well, Miss Bainbridge … sorry, George,’ he corrected himself, making a belated attempt at friendliness. ‘I realise that you can’t possibly be expected to share a tent with me. It would be most improper. Your father …’
George found herself unexpectedly offered a get-out. Lukas didn’t want her. He would rather have no assistant at all than this badly dressed, unattractive creature. Her skill was of no importance to him, she reflected bitterly.
She could go home and say, quite truthfully, that when Lukas had found out that it was a girl they had sent him he had said no, thank you. But she had the strongest feeling that she wouldn’t be believed. Who would believe such a ridiculous story?