"I'm still not sure that we ought to sell," she said. "Edgar advises it, but honestly I don't know whether it would be such a good thing or not. Especially in such a hurry. I know that my father wouldn't have sold. Not the whole fleet, anyway."
"I dislike to have to remind you that your father is no longer with us," said George Welterman. "You really have very little choice, you know. And since mine is the only realistic offer—"
"It just seems like an indecent rush to me, that's all. Father's barely been buried, and yet everything he ever worked for is already being auctioned off."
"I'm afraid that business does have its indecent moments," said George. "And it is not a world for women. I was genuinely surprised when I learned that your father had left so large a stockholding to you."
"Perhaps he knew that I'd take care of it."
"My dear Catriona," George smiled, and he didn't need to say any more to communicate his contempt for the idea of a twenty-one-year-old girl dabbling in shipping.
Catriona said, "You don't have to patronise me, you know. I'll bet that I can shimmy better than you can."
"Oh, no doubt."
"Supposing I won't agree to sell?" Catriona asked him. She watched his eyes, but they scarcely even flickered.
"You'll probably be outvoted by your fellow stockholders. I know that your mother is keen to sell, she wants the financial security. And the banks appear to recognise the benefits of Keys being taken under the wing of International Mercantile Marine."
"Then you don't need to worry what I think, do you?"
"I prefer unanimity," George smiled. "It's better for the company's public appearance. Keys needs to engender all the confidence it can as a shipping line."
"Well, I don't know," said Catriona. "I just want to wait and see what happens when we get to New York."
"Very little will happen, my dear, believe me, except that you probably won't be able to afford to bring the Arcadia back to England again; and if you don't pay some of the outstanding accounts that Keys has in America, you may very well find that this glorious vessel is impounded until you can make some offers to settle your debts. Now, that would be very dismal, wouldn't it? And what would you a about it, shimmy for pennies in Battery Park?"
"You don't have to be insulting," snapped Catriona.
"The truth is always painful, isn't it?" George smiled. "I'm sorry, my pet, but you asked for it."
"No wonder Myrtle Greensleeves never writes back to you," said Catriona.
George stared at her for a very long moment; and in that moment Catriona realised that she had upset him beyond all reason. "What?" he demanded; and his voice barked like a half-brick thrown against the wall of an empty alley.
"I'm sorry, but you asked for it, too. You can't bully women the same way you bully your business colleagues. And when you're on somebody's ship, as a guest, I would have thought it was pretty rotten manners to behave as if you owned the place. You may do soon; but you don't yet."
"Do you want me to ruin you?" George rumbled. "I could, you know."
"I'd like to see you try."
"You wouldn't be worth it," said George, trying to control his sudden temper. He reached for the silver cigarette box, took out another cigarette, and then laid it back on the table whose top was inlaid with variegated marble portraits of the classic Roman gods.
"Is that what you think?" asked Catriona in a high-pitched voice. "Is that what you really thought of Miss Greensleeves?" She felt more confident now, now that she had been able to tug at his most sensitive nerve. Not too confident; he was a man with a convoluted and difficult personality, and even as he began to curb his anger she could sense him working out another approach, another ploy, another less troublesome way to reel this mermaid in. He made her feel exactly her age—grown-up, pretty, and confident. Sometimes brazen, often clever. But only twenty-one, with all the dangerous inexperience of someone who has only been an adult for two or three years. Old enough to say sharp and witty things. Too young to understand the devastating effect they might have.
In the company of older people, Catriona sometimes felt that she was almost a star—adorable, flirty, and fun. But at other times she felt that she wasn't really a very nice person at all. She hoped, uncertainly, that George, Edgar and Mark Beeney didn't talk about her behind her back as if she were an exhibitionist brat. But how could you be nicer, and still be treated as if you were an adult? And if you were a beautiful-looking girl, the kind of girl whom middle-aged theatrical producers had watched out of unblinking and acquisitive eyes as you were dancing across the stage of the Gaiety at the opening night party for Our Nell, your bare knees flickering on their irises like an erotic French nickelodeon, your breasts bouncing against the thin eau-de-Nil silk of your frock and at the same time hammering on the tautened valves of their hearts, how could you ever afford to be nice?
She hadn't yet discovered the fine balances between teasing and tempting; between wit and cheek. She hadn't even discovered herself: not as a lover, nor an heiress, nor a friend. But she knew a little. Her father had been both free with her, and yet strict. He had allowed her to find how wide and busy the world could be, and yet reminded her of its restrictions and its conventions. And perhaps the fact that Nigel had been her only lover—in that theatrical back-stage tumble where stars might easily take four men to their dressing-rooms at once, and chorus girls had it standing up behind the flats—perhaps that was the truest example of how caring and sympathetic her father's guidance had been.
They had done very little but shout at each other, she and her father. But she was gradually beginning to realise how strongly he had cared for her. It took the devious and manipulative attentions of a man like George Welterman to show her; and she felt like whispering a "thank you" to her father, along with the message "I miss you."
George said, "You mustn't think that I'm a bully."
"I don't," said Catriona. "And it wouldn't make any difference even if you were. I'm not the kind of girl who allows herself to be bullied."
"Well, I said you were a smart girl. And you are. You're smart."
"I think I'm rather callow, if you must know. If I were really smart, I'd be able to work out a way to tell you what you could do with your offer. Stick it up your jumper."
George Welterman threw himself back in his chair, jauntily crossed his legs, and laughed. "I like you," he said. "I really, truly, like you. How's your drink?"
"I won't have another one, thank you."
"Come on. You can manage the other half."
"No. I had too much of a hangover this morning. In any case, they'll be serving dinner soon."
"We ought to celebrate," said George. "The beginning of a marvellous business relationship. Welterman and Keys, I can see it now."
"Don't you think you'd better get down to writing to Myrtle?"
"Aha—" George grinned—"you can get me once but you can't get me twice. You'll learn that, as time goes by. One-Time Welterman, the man you can only trick but once. No, Myrtle can wait. Myrtle won't answer my letter anyway. Whereas you..."
He stood up again, both hands in his pockets, and leaned forward him to stare at her.
"... you remind me so much of the way she used to be. So much. You can really unsettle me sometimes. Do you know that? I look at you and I see Myrtle. Same profile. Same kind of provocative look. Shyness and pertness, all mixed up. Do you know who else you remind me of? Miss Austin, Texas. This year's Miss Austin, Texas. Same figure, just like an angel. I wired Miss Austin for an appointment when I saw the photographs, but, well, it wasn't to be. A previous commitment, she told me."