by Sara Craven
Ros felt the brush of his fingers burn deep in her bones. The ache of unfulfilled sexual need twisted slowly within her, and she knew that if he didn’t take his hand from her shoulder she would reach up and draw him down to her. Take him into her arms, her bed and her body.
And then she was free, and freedom was a desolation.
She heard him say, ‘Goodnight,’ and the small sound in her throat which was all she could manage in response. And then he had gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
She leaned forward slowly, until her forehead was resting against the cool, painted woodwork.
She thought, What am I doing? What’s happening to me?
And Rosamund Craig, the cool, the rational, could find no answer.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROS woke with a start, to find sunlight pouring through her bedroom curtains. She propped herself up on one elbow, pushing her hair back from her face and wondering what had woken her.
A peal on the doorbell, followed by some determined knocking, answered that.
‘Who on earth can it be at this hour?’ she asked herself crossly as she swung out of bed, reaching for her robe. Then she caught sight of the clock on her bedside table and yelped. It was almost mid-morning. And she’d known nothing about it. She’d still be deeply and dreamlessly asleep but for her morning caller.
‘I’m coming,’ she shouted, as she launched herself downstairs, kicking the morning mail out of the way and fumbling to unbolt her door.
She was confronted by a mass of colour. Red roses, she registered, stunned. And at least two dozen of them.
‘Miss Craig?’ The delivery girl wore a pink uniform, to match the small florist’s van waiting at the kerb, and a professional smile. ‘Enjoy your flowers. There’s a message attached.’
Ros, her arms full of roses, shut the door and bent, with difficulty, to retrieve her letters from the mat. She carried the whole shooting match into her sitting room and curled up on the sofa, reaching for the tiny envelope attached to the Cellophane.
Sam’s black handwriting filled the card. ‘Your first rose looked lonely. I thought it needed friends, and we need each other. I’ll pick you up for brunch at eleven on Sunday morning.’
Not so much an invitation as a command, Ros thought with exasperation. And what did he mean about her ‘first rose’ anyway? It had gone from the coffee table, so it must have been thrown away yesterday morning when the room was cleaned—mustn’t it?
But she remembered the way Sam had paused in the doorway last night, and her gaze took the path his had done—straight across the room.
The rose, alive and well, in a narrow crystal vase, now occupied pride of place on her mantelpiece.
‘Oh, God,’ Ros said wearily. ‘Manuela.’
Her Spanish cleaner was round, and smiling, and incurably romantic. To her, a red rose was something to be cherished, particularly if she suspected it came from an admirer.
And now Sam thinks that I kept it, she thought ruefully. Oh, hell.
She put the bouquet down on the coffee table while she opened her other post. As well as the usual junk mail there was a letter from her accountants, reminding her of the paperwork they’d need to complete her tax return, and a postcard from Sydney from Molly and her father, who were clearly having the time of their lives. She was still smiling as she opened the final envelope, which bore the logo of her publishers, and her smile widened into a grin of delight as she unfolded the sheet of headed paper and saw what Vivien had written.
As you know, each year Life Today magazine offers a series of writing awards, and I heard yesterday that The Hired Sword has been named the Popular Novel of the Year. I’m so thrilled for you, Ros, and you richly deserve it. I do hope you’ll break your rule about public appearances, and pick up the award yourself at next month’s ceremony.
‘Try and stop me,’ Ros said exultantly. Then paused, as it occurred to her that the resultant publicity would mean that her cover would be blown for ever, and there could be no more Janie…
But there can’t be anyway, she reminded herself with a touch of grimness. Because the real Janie comes back tomorrow night. And even if she didn’t, all this pretence still has to stop.
Last night had been—exciting, but also dangerous, and she’d taken quite enough risks. Brunch was safe, of course—a popular pastime for Sundays in the city—and there would be no alcohol involved—but when it was over she would tell him she couldn’t see him again. And she would produce some good and cogent reason why this had to be—although she couldn’t think of one off-hand.
I’ve got all day, she thought, and frowned a little. But why have I? Why am I not seeing Sam until tomorrow?
Which was not the kind of thing she should be thinking at all, she reminded herself with emphasis.
She picked up the roses and carried them downstairs to put them in water, then filled the coffee pot and set it to percolate while she arranged them properly, her fingers dealing gently with the long stems. They would look good as a centrepiece for her dining table, she told herself. They would not under any circumstances be going upstairs to her study—or her bedroom.
She put them on one side while she poured her coffee. She’d expected to wake with the hangover she deserved, yet in actuality she felt fine—as fit as a flea. And alive and—oddly expectant. As if something wonderful was going to happen.
But it already had happened, she reminded herself sternly. She’d won a prize for her Renaissance novel—a cheque and a silver rose bowl, if the award followed the pattern of previous years.
She didn’t need anything else. Certainly nothing that might upset the even tenor of her days. She was a writer, and a successful one, and that was quite enough.
She carried her coffee upstairs, intending to shower and dress, but found instead she was continuing up to the top floor. She sat down at her desk and switched on the computer. The rewritten pages she’d been struggling with lay beside it, and she pushed them away, uncaring when they fell to the floor.
Her fingers moved to the keyboard—hesitated for a moment—then typed in: ‘He had eyes the colour of turquoise’.
She looked at the words on the screen, and heard herself laugh out loud in joy and anticipation. Then she began to write.
It was only when the phone rang that she realised she’d been working for nearly two hours without a break.
Normally she’d have let the answering machine pick up the message, but she was sure she knew the identity of the caller, and she was smiling as she lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Rosamund, is that you?’ The aggrieved tones of Colin’s mother sounded in her ear.
‘Why, yes.’ Ros was shocked at the depth of her own disappointment. ‘How—how are you?’ she went on over-brightly.
‘Well, naturally I’m very upset, and so is my husband, but the physiotherapist has assured us there will be no lasting damage, so we can only hope.’
‘Physiotherapist?’ Ros echoed, bewildered. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘You mean no one’s told you that poor Colin’s had an accident—sprained his ankle really badly? None of his so-called friends?’ Mrs Hayton snorted. ‘That rugby club. He should never have gone on that tour. Why didn’t you use your influence—keep him at home?’
Because if I had done you’d have accused me of curbing his freedom, Ros returned silently.
She said, ‘Did it happen in a match?’
‘No, afterwards, during some stupid horseplay in the bar. The others were drunk, of course, and my poor boy bore the brunt of it. The physio saw he was hurt, and got him to hospital. Nobody else bothered. His ankle’s been plastered to keep it steady, and now he has to rest it. He’ll be on crutches for several weeks, I dare say.’
Ros was ashamed of the sense of relief flooding through her. With Colin laid up like this, it gave her the perfect opportunity to ease herself out of the relationship without any major confrontation.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said guiltily. ‘Ple
ase give him my—best wishes.’
‘But you’ll be coming round to see him, surely?’ Mrs Hayton said sharply. ‘We’ve turned our dining room into a temporary bedsit for him, because he can’t manage the stairs to his own flat.’
‘No, I suppose not. I—I’ll try and get over tomorrow some time.’ After brunch, she thought, piling up more guilt.
‘I think he’s expecting to see you this afternoon, Rosamund. I’m sure if the situation were reversed, nothing would keep him from your side.’
Ros groaned inwardly. ‘This afternoon it is,’ she said, glancing at her watch.
‘But not too early,’ Mrs Hayton cautioned. ‘He’s just had lunch, and I want him to have a good rest after it.’ And she rang off.
On her way to Fulham, Ros decided that she wouldn’t wait. That it would be fairer to tell Colin gently that this would be a good time for them both to stand back and consider their relationship.
She found him very sorry for himself. His thanks for the selection of paperback thrillers she’d brought him were perfunctory, and he was clearly more interested in his own woes.
‘Nobody seemed to give a damn,’ he declared petulantly. ‘The physio looked after me—and brought me back here when I couldn’t travel in the coach. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.’
‘How awful,’ Ros murmured, wondering how to begin.
‘The physio’s been excellent,’ Mrs Hayton said, coming in with a tray of tea. ‘As soon as Colin’s ankle has recovered sufficiently he’ll be put on a proper exercise regime, with heat treatment.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Ros, noting with dismay that Mrs Hayton had settled down behind the tea and cakes.
Half an hour later, she was on her way home. There’d simply been no opportunity for any private conversation. Colin’s mother had stayed for the duration, confining the conversation to topics of her choice.
Did she think I was going to take advantage of him while he was helpless? Ros wondered crossly.
She’d tried to lighten the atmosphere by offering to autograph his plaster, only to be told by mother and son in unison that it was no laughing matter.
‘I’m considering legal action,’ Colin had added, frowning.
Ros had been glad to swallow her cup of weak tea, and the rather dry scone, and go.
Colin hadn’t even asked when her next visit would be. He took it for granted that she would simply slot in on some rota of his mother’s devising.
And a month ago—even ten days ago—she probably would have done so.
But now, suddenly, she wasn’t the same person any longer. All the small dissatisfactions of her life had snowballed into this need for change. A need that had left Colin behind, yet promised nothing for the future.
But I’ll always have my work, she rallied herself. And paused as she faced, for the first time, the possibility that it might no longer be enough.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sam said.
Alex Norton, his former editor, on the road to recovery in a private clinic, peered at him over his glasses. ‘Well, you can’t stay on the Echo, that’s for sure. So far, all Cilla’s done is cut your hair. Next time she might go for complete emasculation.’ And he chuckled.
‘I wish I was dead.’ Sam helped himself to some grapes from the bowl on the bedside trolley.
‘No, you don’t,’ Alex corrected him robustly. ‘Because I’ve been close, and I don’t recommend it. But you won’t rescue your career while Ms Godwin’s in control. You made a bad enemy there, so you may as well cut your losses. Find another job and settle for the best severance deal you can get.’ He paused. ‘How did you like Rowcliffe?’
‘I wish I’d never left it,’ Sam said bleakly.
Alex nodded. ‘I always felt the same. In fact, I had this dream that I’d wind up there, editing that weekly paper of theirs—the Rowcliffe Examiner.’ He shook his head. ‘Some hope, of course. You couldn’t prise my Mary out of London, bless her. But it would have been a good life.’ He shot Sam a look. ‘Does it still exist—the Examiner?’
‘Absolutely. It was required reading at the hotel,’ Sam returned. ‘And it still has the local farm prices and auctions on the front page.’
‘Ah,’ Alex leaned back against his pillows. ‘I’m glad some things don’t change. And, who knows? With a bit of luck you might find yourself back there—one of these days.’
‘Not soon enough,’ Sam said bitterly.
He was repeating these words under his breath as he let himself back into his flat that night. He’d had an appointment with one of the final names on his list. She’d provided plenty of good material, but the evening had ended in total disaster. He caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and shuddered. At least he’d never be able to wear this ghastly suit again, so every cloud did have a silver lining.
He went into the bathroom, stripped and showered, letting the water cascade over him until he felt clean again. Then he put on his robe, made some coffee, and went into the living room to work on his laptop.
He’d just started when his door buzzer sounded. Startled, he glanced at his watch, wondering who could be calling so late. It was probably Mrs Ferguson, the elderly widow in the adjoining flat, wanting him to change a lightbulb, or adjust her trip-switch, or some other minor task. She was a sweet soul, and lonely, and it was a pleasure to keep an eye on her. But he wished she’d restrict her requests for help to sociable hours.
However, he was smiling when he opened the door. Until he saw who was standing outside.
‘Good evening.’ Cilla Godwin was smiling too, her eyes calculating as she looked him over. ‘May I come in?’
He said levelly, ‘If you wish,’ and stood aside to give her access, resisting the impulse to tighten the belt of his robe. She walked ahead of him into the lamplit sitting room.
‘Very stylish,’ she said, looking round her. ‘Do you share with anyone?’
‘Not since my last flatmate got married,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Godwin?’
‘Don’t be formal, Sam, you’re not dressed for it.’ She looked at the glass standing beside his laptop. ‘If that’s whiskey, I’ll have one too.’
Sam found the bottle of Jameson’s and splashed a measure into a cut-glass tumbler. ‘Do I take it this is a social call?’
‘Oh, I have various reasons for being here.’ She accepted the glass from him. ‘Cheers.’
‘May I know what they are? As you can see, I am trying to work.’
‘You were out interviewing tonight? Who was she?’
‘A divorcee called Mandy, with a chip on her shoulder and a frank tongue.’
‘Sounds ideal. Did it go well?’
‘Until the last ten minutes, when she made it clear she expected the evening to end in bed,’ Sam said pleasantly. ‘When she found out it wasn’t going to happen, she started throwing things—the remains of a carafe of red wine and half a pot of cold coffee for starters. We were lucky not to be arrested, and we certainly can’t use Albertine’s as a venue again. I’ve written you a memo.
‘Oh, and the office suit is a write-off,’ he added. ‘So unless you want to ask the charity shop for another, I’ll be wearing my own clothes from now on.’
‘What is this strange power you have over women?’ She was smiling again, and Sam’s warning antennae were going into overdrive. ‘Even when you look like a geek, they’re queuing to get laid.’
‘I wouldn’t use Mandy as a criterion,’ Sam said drily. ‘I got the impression anyone would have done.’
‘You’re far too modest.’ She took a seat on the sofa, crossing her legs. She was wearing a brief black skirt, topped by a matching camisole, and a white jacket like a man’s tuxedo. She had swept her hair up into a loose knot, and her nails and mouth were painted a dark, challenging red.
War paint, thought Sam.
He kept his voice even. ‘But then, according to you, I have so much to be modest about.’ He retrieved his glass from the table and went to stand
by the fireplace. Not two swords’ lengths apart, but the best he could manage.
She laughed. ‘Poor Sam—does that still rankle? But I’m having to eat my words. I was notified today that you’ve been voted Journalist of the Year by Life Today magazine for your Mzruba work.’ She paused. ‘I told the proprietor, and he was well pleased. Asked what you were doing at the moment.’ She shrugged. ‘I said—a special assignment.’
‘The perfect description.’ Sam drank some whiskey.
‘I thought so.’ Cilla leaned back against the cushions, the drag of her camisole revealing that she was bra-less.
She was showing a fair amount of thigh as well, Sam realised bleakly. Surely lightning wasn’t going to strike him twice.
‘But if you’re going to win awards, maybe I should be making better use of you.’ Her tone was meditative, her smile cat-like. ‘Sam—we don’t have to be on bad terms—do we?’
He was instantly wary. ‘Of course not.’ He added a polite smile. ‘It was good of you to come and tell me about the award, Cilla, but I mustn’t keep you. It’s Saturday night, after all, and I’m sure you have places to go and people to see.’
Like your husband, he added silently. He knew she had one—somewhere—but the basis for their relationship was anyone’s guess.
‘Mark’s out of his depth on the foreign news desk,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m going to move him, so there’ll be a vacancy again. And this time I need to be sure that the right man gets the job.’ Her voice deepened, became husky. ‘Do you think you’re that man, Sam? As we’ve had our differences in the past, I’d need to assure myself that you’d be—loyal.’
She invested that final word with a whole host of meanings.
