by Anne Mather
Recognising her mother’s voice, Catherine sighed. ‘Who else?’ she responded, pulling a face at Hector, who was curled on her bed, licking his paws. Her mother always began her conversations in that way, and Catherine sometimes wondered what she would do if she got a negative answer.
But now she only nodded, and said, ‘Yes, Mum. It’s me. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, you can stop calling me “Mum” for a start,’ replied Mrs Lambert staunchly. ‘Mother, or Mummy, if you like. But not “Mum”! It’s—well, it’s not me.’
Catherine made no comment, though she had to admit that her mother did not look like anyone’s mum. Mrs Lambert was fifty-two, but she looked years younger, and Catherine occasionally felt like her older sister, instead of her only offspring. In her more cynical moments, Catherine had sometimes wondered whether the fact that Mrs Lambert had been virtually on her own since Catherine was born had anything to do with it. Her father, whose job as technical consultant with the oil industry had taken him all over the world, had been killed in an explosion in the Middle East when Catherine was only sixteen, and, since then, her mother had refused to think of marrying anyone else.
Catherine used to think it was because her parents had been so ideally suited to one another, but now she was not so sure. Her mother was no one’s idea of a grieving widow. On the contrary, with the salary she earned as a sales assistant in a rather exclusive gallery, owned by one of her friends, plus the very generous pension the oil company paid her, she had become quite a socialite. And, although she was not short of male admirers, there was never any question of commitment.
‘So,’ she went on now, ‘how are you? Why haven’t I seen you? Really, Catherine, if it was left to you, we’d practically be strangers.’
‘That’s not true.’ But Catherine felt a twinge of conscience all the same. It was very infrequently that she visited her mother’s home in Surrey. But the trouble was, Mrs Lambert showed none of Catherine’s own reserve when it came to arranging Catherine’s future for her. In her opinion, Catherine ought to marry again, if only because she didn’t approve of her job.
‘It is true,’ Mrs Lambert declared firmly, and Catherine could tell from the tone of her mother’s voice that she was in for another case of computer bashing. ‘And I suppose you’re still hibernating every evening. For heaven’s sake, Catherine, you’re a young woman. You should be out every night, having a good time, not pussy-sitting that precocious tom!’
‘Hector’s not precocious; he’s suspicious of strangers, that’s all,’ responded Catherine, choosing the line of least resistance. ‘And he’s good company. And undemanding.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ exclaimed her mother impatiently. ‘You’re getting exactly like your Aunt Agnes. All she’s interested in are her cats and her knitting. She won’t go anywhere, either, no matter how often I try to be friendly.’
Catherine grimaced. Her father’s unmarried sister had always been a thorn in Mrs Lambert’s side. There was little to choose between them in age, but a veritable world of difference in attitude. And, although Agnes had done nothing to deserve it, Mrs Lambert had come to the conclusion that she disapproved of her.
‘Anyway,’ her mother continued, ‘I thought, if you weren’t doing anything this evening, I might come over. Fliss managed to get a copy of that print you were interested in, so I can bring that with me.’
‘No…’ Catherine had to stop her before she talked herself into ringing off. Even though she had hoped to avoid telling her mother what she was doing that evening, and the inevitable questions it would arouse, there was no help for it. She had to admit she was going out.
‘No?’ Mrs Lambert interrupted her train of thought. ‘Why not?’
Catherine sighed. ‘Well—as a matter of fact, I’m going out to dinner.’
‘You are?’ There was a wealth of expression in her mother’s voice. ‘Who with? Not that nice young man from the office.’
The nice young man from the office her mother was referring to was Simon Lewis, one of Catherine’s fellow analysts. In a weak moment, she had once mentioned that he had asked her out, and since then Mrs Lambert regularly brought his name into the conversation. The fact that Catherine wasn’t interested in him made no significant difference to her mother’s attitude. So far as Mrs Lambert was concerned, he was unmarried, therefore he was eligible. Catherine sometimes wondered what her mother would say if she asked her why she didn’t practise what she preached.
Now, however, though it was tempting to allow Mrs Lambert to think she was having dinner with Simon, Catherine had to be honest. Besides, it would probably be simpler in the long run. The last thing she wanted was to give her mother any grounds for thinking she was starting a relationship.
‘Actually, I’m having dinner with Kay and Denzil,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Kay and Denzil Sawyer?’ The enthusiasm had died out of her mother’s voice. ‘Whatever for? I thought you didn’t like Kay’s husband.’
‘I don’t.’ Catherine cast her eyes towards the ceiling. Then, dragging her négligé about her, she flopped down on to the bed, causing Hector to utter a wounded miaow before beating a less than dignified retreat. ‘Mum—my, they’re not taking me anywhere. We’re having dinner at home.’
‘Just the three of you?’
Mrs Lambert was horribly tenacious, and Catherine wondered how she would like it if she put her mother through this kind of catechism before she spent the evening with friends—well, one friend, at least.
Deciding there was nothing for it but to be completely frank, she said flatly, ‘No, not just the three of us. A friend of Denzil’s will be there as well.’
‘A friend? You mean another man.’
‘An old army buddy, apparently,’ agreed Catherine, gradually losing patience. ‘And I’m not even ready yet, so unless you’ve something important to tell me, can we wind this up?’
‘Well, who is he?’
The interest was back, and Catherine wanted to scream. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied, not prepared to go any further with this. ‘And don’t start imagining there’s anything more to it than that. End of story.’
Her mother snorted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were any friend of Denzil Sawyer’s type,’ she remarked tartly, unconsciously echoing Catherine’s own suspicions. ‘Oh well…’ She made a sound of resignation. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m only going out for dinner.’ Catherine knew she sounded defensive now, and it was infuriating. ‘I’ll speak to you later, right? Um—thanks for getting the print. I’ll come down and get it this weekend, if that’s all right with you.’
‘I suppose so.’
There was a trace of coolness in Mrs Lambert’s voice now, and Catherine uttered a rude word as she put down the phone. Honestly, she thought, giving her reflection a baleful look, it was just her luck that her mother had to choose tonight, of all nights, to ring. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, what with not knowing what to wear, and anticipating the evening ahead with about as much enthusiasm as she would have had for her own execution. Her mother’s disapproval was all she needed to make her wish she had stuck to her original intentions.
Still, half an hour later, she was ready—as she would ever be, she appended, viewing her reflection in the long mirrors of the wardrobe. The black silk jersey was not new, but at least its lines were simple and unpretentious. And the cowl neckline did flatter the slender column of her neck, she thought, pulling the silky straight hair out of her collar. It was just a pity her hair was so dark. She would have to add a brooch, or, with her sallow skin, she would look as if she were going to a funeral.
The short skirt was probably an advantage, she decided. Her legs were undoubtedly her best feature. Unlike the rather too generous breasts concealed by the loosely draped bodice. She really would have to consider a diet. But, living alone, it never seemed to have any purpose.
Behind their tortoiseshell frames, however, her gre
y eyes took in her appearance with undisguised cynicism. Did it really matter what she looked like? she wondered. So far as Denzil Sawyer was concerned, she would always be a source of aggravation, and the butt of his unkind humour. He had never forgiven her for turning him down, and in spite of this invitation she had no reason to believe he felt any differently now.
Hector voiced his protest that she was leaving him alone for the evening as she put on her cream cashmere overcoat. Twining himself around her legs, he did his best to prevent her from walking towards the door, and she bent to scratch his ears before picking up her gloves.
‘Sorry,’ she said sympathetically, pulling a face. ‘Believe me, this wasn’t my idea.’
CHAPTER TWO
CATHERINE’S SMALL PEUGEOT was housed at the end of the street. A row of garages had been built to accommodate the needs of the townhouse owners, and, while it wasn’t as convenient as having a garage next to the house, it was better than nothing. Besides, Catherine only used her car if she went out in the evening, or at weekends. During the day, it was easier to use public transport to get to work.
The Sawyers lived in St John’s Wood. Their house was a tall, narrow Victorian dwelling, with no garden to speak of, and three shallow steps leading up to the front door. It was in one of those busy roads where there was seldom anywhere to park, but Catherine managed to squeeze the Peugeot between a Volvo and a Rolls-Royce. She climbed out reluctantly, hoping it would still be there when she got back. Her mother was always telling her she should have an alarm fitted, but somehow she never got round to it. Much like everything else, except her work, she mused, locking the car. So what was she doing here?
Kay herself answered the door to her ring, and her attractive features broke into a relieved smile at the sight of her friend. ‘We were beginning to think you must have had an accident,’ she exclaimed, inviting Catherine into the discreetly lit hallway of the house. ‘Here—let me take your coat. Mrs Chivers is busy with the dinner.’
Catherine slipped off the cashmere overcoat, shifting her bag and gloves from one hand to the other as she did so. Since she had last been here, the hall had been decorated, and she tried to divert her mind from the evening ahead by admiring the plaster dado, and the elegantly striped paper above.
‘Oh, a friend of Denzil’s did it,’ said Kay carelessly, when Catherine complimented her on the improvement. And then, evidently more concerned about her friend’s late arrival than their decorations, she added, ‘What happened? Couldn’t you get parked? You should have taken a taxi.’
Catherine checked she was still wearing both of the convex squares of gold she had clipped to her ears, and suppressed a faint sigh. ‘I—my mother rang,’ she explained, letting Kay take her gloves and lay them on the hall table. She checked her watch. ‘Am I so late?’
Kay expelled her breath heavily. ‘Oh—not especially, I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘But we are eating at eight, and it’s a quarter to now.’
Catherine grimaced. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ Kay seemed to realise she was being ungracious, and gave a rueful smile. ‘So—come on. Denzil and Morgan are in the drawing-room.’
Catherine followed her friend up the stairs, wondering how soon after dinner she could make her escape. Not immediately, perhaps, but after coffee…
‘Here she is.’
Kay led the way into the first floor drawing-room, and her announcement made Catherine feel even worse. She felt as if she were attending an interview, and she had kept her would-be employers waiting. Belatedly, she realised that she should have got there before Morgan Lynch. Then she would have had the advantage, and not the other way about.
The drawing-room was high-ceilinged and spacious, a clever amalgamation of two of the house’s previous rooms into an imposing, and elegant, living area. And, in keeping with the period of the house, the Sawyers had bought some of the more attractive items of Victorian furniture, which blended well with a modern desire for comfort.
As Catherine followed Kay into the room, two men rose from the high-backed wing chairs that flanked the marble fireplace. A convincing blaze burned in the grate, and had Catherine not known better she would have sworn the fire was real. But it wasn’t. It was only a gas facsimile, its flickering flames dispersing the shadows, and lighting the dark planes in the face of the man she assumed was Morgan Lynch.
Her balance tipped for a moment as she met his guarded gaze. In spite of what Kay had said, she had not expected to find him at all attractive, and it was a little unnerving to find how wrong she had been. She noticed the way he moved first, the lithe, easy way he pushed him self up out of the chair. Although he was tall—easily six feet two or three—his height was not a problem to him. He was wearing a suit, a three-piece suit of fine dark wool, which fitted the supple contours of his body with a loving attention to detail, casually outlining the width of his shoulders, and more subtly defining his hips. He was lean, possibly too lean when compared to Denzil’s more generous proportions, but it was not a distraction. And his legs were long and powerful, the muscles moving fluidly beneath the tautly draped fabric.
But, although she took in these extraneous details, it was his face her eyes were drawn to: the deeply set eyes, beneath hooded brows, whose colour was indefinable, within their veil of long dark lashes; the high cheekbones, and straight nose; the hollows in his cheeks; and his mouth, with its fuller lower lip—an undoubted trace of sensuality. His hair was dark—not as dark as hers perhaps, but a rich dark brown. It was thick and straight, and lay close to his head. It was just a little too long at the back, and overlapped his collar slightly, but it all added to his appeal. Without doubt, he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen, and she sensed Kay and Denzil watching her, gauging her reaction.
‘Cat—darling!’ Denzil’s greeting was unusually fulsome, and he came to take her hand between both of his, before bestowing an unwelcome kiss on her cheek. ‘You look—wonderful,’ he added, the slight hesitation before the compliment not lost on its recipient. ‘Come and meet an old friend of mine from the old days, Morgan Lynch. Morgan, this is Catherine—Cat!’ He gave a smug smile. ‘But don’t worry, old buddy, I’ve pulled her claws, haven’t I, Cat?’
Fortunately Catherine was able to ignore Denzil’s sarcasm. Morgan Lynch was shaking her hand, and his polite, ‘Hello, Catherine,’ completely obliterated the other man’s innuendo. His voice was low and deep, with a decided Southern drawl, but, although his words were friendly, his attitude was strangely withdrawn.
He was evidently nothing like Denzil, thought Catherine, as he drew back to allow Kay into their circle. He had none of the brash presumption of his own importance that Denzil exhibited at every turn. Kay had said he was shy, and Catherine had to believe her. What other reason could he have for standing silently by while his host and hostess struggled to include him?
Was that why Kay had been so touchy when she arrived? Catherine wondered. It was not like her friend to pay such strict attention to the time. She couldn’t ever remember Kay being in such a state before. But what made them think she would have any more success?
‘So—what can I get you to drink, Cat?’ Denzil enquired now, indicating the tray of drinks on the bookcase behind him. ‘I think we’ve got everything. Well, I know I have,’ he added suggestively, thumping Morgan on the back. ‘How about you, old buddy?’
Morgan flinched. There was no other way to describe his reaction to Denzil’s back-slapping joviality, and both Kay and Denzil looked uncomfortable now. There was another awkward silence, during which Kay exchanged a killing look with her husband, before Catherine recovered sufficiently to say, ‘Just bitter lemon, please. I—er—I’m driving.’
‘You should have taken a taxi,’ said Kay, obviously so grateful for the diversion that she didn’t realise she was repeating what she had said downstairs. ‘You have to be so careful nowadays, don’t you, Denzil?’
‘What? Oh, yes.’ Denzil turned from pouring Catherine
’s drink and handed her the glass. He looked awkwardly at Morgan. ‘A refill, old man?’
‘No, thanks.’
Morgan covered the glass he was holding in his left hand with his right, and seeing the unbecoming rise of colour in Denzil’s cheeks, Catherine got a notion as to why she had been invited this evening. Morgan’s line in small talk was even less accomplished than her own, and she could understand Denzil not wanting to involve anyone who mattered to him.
‘Oh, well, we’ll be eating soon,’ Kay murmured, giving Catherine a rueful smile. ‘I hope you like asparagus. I found this really unusual recipe for a cream cheese and asparagus mousse.’
‘It sounds delicious,’ said Catherine, cradling her glass between her palms. ‘Did you make it or Mrs Chivers?’
‘Mrs Chivers, I’m afraid.’ Kay grimaced. ‘Cooking’s not my strong point, as you should know. Do you still make that luscious goulash, you used to make when—when…’
Her voice tailed off as she realised where the conversation was taking her, and Catherine, aware of what she had been about to say, made an effort to relieve the situation.
‘Not often,’ she said, taking a sip of her bitter lemon, and allowing her eyes to move to each of them in turn, safe behind the screen of the glass. ‘I’m afraid I’ve become rather lazy. There’s not much fun in cooking for one.’
‘Catherine lives alone,’ put in Denzil, as if that particular observation was necessary. His eyes flickered broodingly over his wife’s friend. ‘I must say, Cat, you don’t look as if you’ve been starving yourself.’
‘Nor do you,’ retorted Catherine tartly, and Denzil automatically sucked in his belly, which protruded over the waistband of his trousers. She turned to Morgan. ‘Do you cook for yourself, er—Morgan?’
‘Occasionally.’ Morgan inclined his head towards her. ‘But, like you, I live alone. Food doesn’t come too high on my list of priorities.’
Catherine noticed that both Kay and Denzil looked vaguely startled at this, and she guessed it was the longest statement Morgan had uttered since he came into the house. But why had Denzil invited him, if he was so excessively uncommunicative?
