by Sara Craven
But she could not silence the clamour of her flesh, or the black, empty loneliness which had invaded her soul.
She thought, He’s gone. And now I have nothing left. Nothing.
And she began to cry like a child raging against a world it does not understand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘BUT of course you’re going to the award ceremony,’ Vivien said severely. ‘I accepted on your behalf.’
Ros sighed. ‘I know. But that was then. This is now. And I don’t feel like dressing up and going out. Especially if people are going to look at me and I have to make a speech.’
‘Then that’s exactly the time you should dress up and go out,’ said Vivien. ‘It will do you good. You’ve been looking washed out for weeks.’ She paused, giving Ros a shrewd look. ‘You are all right? I mean, there’s nothing the matter—nothing that you should see a doctor about?’
‘No.’ A small, sad pain twisted inside her. ‘There’s—nothing wrong.’ Not even that. Not even Sam’s baby.
‘Then treat yourself to some blusher,’ said Vivien briskly. ‘And you don’t have to make a speech. You just thank them nicely for the rose bowl. It’s not the Oscars,’ she added. ‘You don’t have to mention everyone you’ve ever known. Oh, and thank them for the cheque as well. Although heaven knows you don’t need the money after what you’ve been offered for your house.’ She paused. ‘Have you decided where you’re going to live yet?’
‘No. I might wander around for a while. See all the parts of Britain I’ve never visited before I decide.’
‘But after you’ve finished your book, I hope?’ There was a touch of anxiety in her editor’s voice.
‘Yes.’ Ros tried a reassuring smile. ‘The Cuthberts don’t want to move in immediately, so I’ll have plenty of time to do that. And then I’ll probably rent somewhere while I write the next book.’
‘Any idea what it’s going to be about?’
Ros shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
She usually had several ideas jockeying for position, but not this time. She couldn’t think that far ahead. She was managing—just—to live one day at a time.
She could write the current book because it seemed to bring her closer to Sam. Because she could fabricate the happy ending for her heroine that she’d been denied. And that, she found, was strangely comforting.
There wasn’t a great deal else to be happy about.
Janie had eventually returned, but had been unusually reticent, volunteering no information about where she’d been or what she’d been doing.
But then, Ros thought unhappily, maybe she would rather not know at that…
On the first evening she’d said, ‘Janie—you must be wondering…’
‘I did at first.’ Janie shrugged. ‘But not any more. And you don’t need to explain. It happened, and it’s all finished, anyway, so you don’t have to beat yourself with it.’
Ros bit her lip. ‘Perhaps I need to.’
‘No.’ Janie shook her head. ‘Everyone makes a complete idiot of themselves somewhere along the line. It just took you longer than most people, but you got there in the end. And that’s all there is to it. Finito.’
It seemed that her relationship with Martin was equally finito. When Ros ventured to ask if they were still seeing each other, she got a flat, ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ros said quietly.
‘Don’t be. I realise now I was never really in love with him. I was just hung up on the marriage and babies scene. But none of that has to be a priority. There are other things in life.’
And she relapsed into silence, leaving Ros to draw her own unhappy conclusions.
It was the nearest to a confidence that they approached, because things were not the same between them. Every time Janie left the house, Ros found herself wondering if she was going to see Sam, but dared not ask. And, which was worse, Janie seemed to be silently challenging her to do so. When the phone rang Ros avoided answering it, using the machine as a shield.
Therefore it was almost a relief when Janie abruptly announced that she and Pam had booked a last-minute holiday in Minorca and were flying out the following week.
By the time she returned their parents would be back from their trip, and that would ease the pressure too, or so Ros hoped.
What she couldn’t avoid was seeing Sam’s picture plastered over hoardings and bus shelters, with banner headlines promising lurid revelations about the singles scene.
She could not, she knew, hope to escape unscathed. But wondering how much he was going to reveal about their relationship was driving her slowly mad.
At last, despising herself, she took a taxi round to his flat. But although she rang the bell and knocked until her knuckles felt bruised, there was no answer.
‘Did you want Mr Hunter?’ An elderly woman emerged from the opposite flat. ‘I’m afraid you won’t find him. He’s gone away and the flat’s to let.’
‘Oh,’ Ros said numbly. ‘I—I didn’t know.’
The other nodded. ‘It was a shock for me too. He was always so kind. An ideal neighbour.’ She sighed. ‘Ah, well. Nothing lasts for ever.’ She smiled at Ros, and turned away.
No, Ros thought. Nothing lasts.
On her way back to Chelsea she called in at an estate agents and put her house on the market. And forty-eight hours later it was sold.
She bought a new dress for the awards ceremony, simple and stylish in black silk, cut on the bias, with a skirt that fluttered around her knees as she walked. The sleeveless bodice was held up by thin straps and the neckline dipped deeply towards her breasts. The matching cape was lined in silver.
As she walked into the Palais Royal on Park Lane, she wondered vaguely who her fellow winners were. Vivien, she thought, had mentioned that the journalism award had gone to someone who’d covered the Mzruban civil war and just escaped with his life. But that was as much as she knew.
The first thing she saw in the foyer were two giant blown-up photographs of herself and Sam side by side. The shock of it stopped her in her tracks.
What was this? she asked herself frantically. Was someone playing some monstrous joke?
Vivien came through the groups of chattering people. ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘That’s how I feel.’ Ros pointed at Sam’s photograph. ‘What’s that doing here?’
‘He’s the journalist I told you about,’ Vivien said patiently. ‘The extremely un-civil war. Remember?’
Ros swallowed. ‘He’s not actually here tonight, is he?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Vivien retorted. ‘He’s not my responsibility, thank God. Getting you up to the mark was problem enough.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with Sam Hunter? Very sexy guy, they tell me, and unattached, although there have been rumours recently that he’s seeing someone.’
Ros bit her lip. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve mistaken him for someone else.’
Before the awards dinner there were drinks for the winners in a private room, hosted by Life Today magazine.
Ros was handed a glass of champagne, and chatted to the magazine’s editor, Henry Garland, a genial, bearded man with a booming laugh. Ros tried to smile appreciatively at his jokes, and respond to his remarks, but her concentration was shot to pieces. She’d scanned the room as she entered, but, to her relief, there was no sign of Sam. Now she was sneaking constant glances at the door, expecting it to open and admit him at any moment.
She was thankful when Henry Garland moved on to greet someone else.
‘That’s Cilla Godwin over there,’ Vivien hissed in her ear. ‘She’s the new editor of the Echo. I wonder what she’s done with her golden boy.’
Ros gave a casual glance in the direction indicated and encountered a look of such dislike that she almost took a step backwards.
‘I wonder what she’s done with common civility,’ she muttered back. ‘And isn’t she a little old for that dress?’
Vivien pa
tted her approvingly. ‘Well done. You’re coming back to life. Funnily enough, she was asking about you earlier.’
Ros stiffened. ‘She was?’
‘Yes, she cornered me in the powder room and said wasn’t your real name Janie, and hadn’t you once worked as a make-up girl? I said she was confusing you with your stepsister, and I thought she was going to have a heart attack. I’ve never seen anyone so angry.’
‘How—very odd,’ Ros said faintly. ‘I hope she doesn’t—corner me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vivien. ‘Our table’s at the opposite end of the room from the Echo. Oh, good, they’re calling us in to dinner. And mind you eat properly and put back some of the weight you’ve lost,’ she added.
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Ros, her mouth curving reluctantly in her first real smile of the evening.
She dutifully swallowed her portion of the vegetable terrine, and the chicken in wine sauce that followed. She even managed some of the chocolate roulade, but was thankful when coffee was served.
The Echo’s table might be at the other end of the room, but the empty chair next to Cilla Godwin’s was clearly visible, even when she didn’t crane her neck.
She glanced restively at her watch, calculating how long it would take to receive her award, make polite noises, and escape.
She waited while the non-fiction award was made to a travel writer, and the prize for children’s writing was also handed over. Then it was her turn.
She stood, holding the rose bowl and the cheque, while Henry Garland congratulated her on the popularity of her novels and their worldwide sales success. As he finished, she moved to the microphone and began her few planned words of appreciation. She was aware of a stir in the audience, and glanced up instinctively.
Sam had appeared in the doorway at the back of the room. He was lounging against a doorpost, seemingly relaxed, but as their eyes met Ros felt as if she’d encountered an electrical urge.
The words died on her lips. She tried to recapture her thread, failed, and said, ‘Thank you all so much,’ in a small, nervous voice, and dashed off the stage.
‘Now you know why I don’t do public appearances,’ she told Vivien as she slid into her chair.
‘They’re applauding, not throwing things. You did fine.’ Vivien was warmly consoling. ‘Shy is this year’s flavour. Unlike the “in your face—I’ll break your legs” attitude of Ms Godwin.’ She nudged Ros. ‘I see her foreign ace has finally arrived.’
‘Yes,’ Ros said, dry-mouthed. She paused. ‘Would anyone notice if I slipped away?’
‘The whole room, I should think.’ Vivien was firm. ‘It won’t take much longer. There’s television writing next, and then it’s Sam Hunter—who, may I say, is much dishier than his photograph.’
She had a point, Ros admitted. Sam was wearing dinner jacket and black tie, like all the other men present, but on his tall figure the formal dress had an added distinction. His dark hair had grown back to its normal length, too, and looked attractively tousled.
As if, she thought, he’d just got out of bed…
She sat staring at her cooling coffee as he mounted the platform to receive his award, amid enthusiastic applause.
When the room quietened, he began to speak, his voice cool and slightly sardonic.
‘I’m grateful to Life Today for giving me this award,’ he said. ‘Because it will always remind me that I was once a half-decent writer. Something I almost lost sight of.
‘I was proud of my civil war coverage. But I’m certainly not proud of my most recent assignment, which many of you will have seen advertised.
‘I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to all the decent women who were fooled into giving me their time and attention. I found the whole episode shameful, but there has been an up-side. It helped clarify once and for all what I want from life, and how I want to live it. And I know this isn’t the Echo, in spite of all the financial advantages. They mattered once, but not any more. They can chain someone else to their treadmill. I prefer my freedom.
‘The “Lonely in London” feature also, and most unexpectedly, introduced me to the woman I hope to marry. So who says personal columns don’t work?’
There was a concerted gasp, and then a ripple of applause. At the Echo table, Cilla Godwin appeared to have turned to granite.
‘This award is particularly precious because it’s the last one I’ll ever get,’ he went on. ‘I’m quitting national journalism altogether, to join a weekly paper in the Yorkshire Dales. Nominally, I’m editor, but I suspect I shall also be making the coffee and accepting small ads. It’s that kind of set-up, and I can hardly wait. At the moment there’s no personal column, but that’s my first planned change.’
He held up the rose bowl. ‘Roses are my favourite flower—particularly Rosa Mundi—the Rose of the World. I look forward to seeing this filled with them.
‘And the cheque will pay the deposit on a house I’ve seen—if my bride-to-be approves. So—a heartfelt thank-you to you all.’
The whole room was on its feet applauding as he left the platform, apart from those at the Echo table, who stayed in their seats, transfixed by a look from Godzilla.
Ros said in an undertone, ‘I must go.’ She sped out into the reception area, where staff were doing some desultory clearing up, and pressed the bell for the lift, fretting as she waited for it to descend from the top floor.
A hand closed on her shoulder, and Sam said softly, ‘Nice try, darling. Now we’re going to talk.’
He steered her across to the room where the drinks party had been held.
‘Excuse me, sir, that’s a private room,’ called a voice.
‘Excellent,’ Sam said affably, and closed the door behind them, fastening the small brass bolt as he did so. ‘And that’s real privacy.’
Her heart was beating so hard she felt suffocated. She confronted him, head high. ‘Will you let me go, please?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Eventually. If that’s what you really want. But first you’re going to listen.’
‘Say what you want.’ Ros said curtly. She sat down on a small gilt chair. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘All the difference in the world, I hope.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re both supposed to be professional communicators, but when we’re together it all goes wrong.’
‘Then maybe we should cut our losses.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We should try again. We’ve made a mess of being together in the past, but when we’re apart the world becomes a living hell of loneliness and cold. You’re the other half of me, Ros, and I can’t let you go.
‘I know I’ve nothing much to offer. You’re a high income lady, with a beautiful house, and I can’t match that. The salary’s a fraction of what I was earning on the Echo, and the house is made of grey stone, with a garden and a view. I know you’d be making a terrible sacrifice.’
His voice deepened, became passionate. ‘But it’s a real place to live, with real people, and it’s offering me a life with some quality—some integrity. But even that won’t mean anything if you’re not there to share it with me.’
She said huskily, ‘Why did you say none of this before?’
‘Because I didn’t know about the job then—just that I had to leave the Echo. Get out before I was destroyed. And I couldn’t ask you to marry me if I was going to be out of work.
‘I’m not a New Man, Ros. I want to be able to support my woman—and my children. And I want our baby to be born with my name, and my ring on your finger, however old-fashioned that is.
‘And I needed my pride back—and my sense of humour—before I could come to you.’
He went down on one knee in front of her, his eyes urgently searching her face. ‘Let’s face it, darling. If tonight’s prizes were for admirable behaviour, neither of us would qualify. But we don’t have to let past mistakes poison the future.’
She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘What about Janie?’ she said in a low voice. ‘You we
re—seeing her.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To collect material for my lonely hearts piece. But she was staying with her friend Pam, not me.’
‘Was that her choice?’
‘I don’t think I gave her the option,’ he said carefully. ‘Your stepsister is very pretty, but she’s not irresistible, and I think she found that a shock. She’s clearly been riding roughshod over some poor bastard. Maybe the next man along will find her easier to deal with.’
Ros looked at him open-mouthed. ‘You turned her down.’
‘Of course.’ His tongue was matter-of-fact. ‘I belong to you, and no one else will do for me. And I shall maintain that stance until you prove to me I haven’t a hope—and probably long afterwards.’
‘But you let me think that you wanted her.’
‘I’d just found you next door to naked with another man,’ he retorted. ‘I was jealous and hurting, and I wanted to hit back. I’m not proud of it.’
He took her hands in his, and she let a soft ripple of excitement tremble through her body.
She said hurriedly, ‘How—how did you hear about the job?’
‘From Alec Norton, who used to run the Echo.’ His thumbs were stroking her palms. ‘He’s up there convalescing, and he called to say that the editor was retiring and they were looking for someone to take his place.’ He smiled. ‘Locally, it’s regarded as a job for life. They like stability. So I went up for an interview and they offered me the job.’
‘You left your flat…’ Her voice died into silence as Sam lifted her hands to his lips.
‘A colleague on the Echo is taking over the tenancy. When I’ve not been in Yorkshire, I’ve been staying at my parents’ house.’
He shook his head. ‘And that’s been a total nightmare. Everywhere I looked there were all these memories of you, and it was driving me crazy, especially at night.
‘I told myself you’d probably never want to see me again—but I had to try.’ He put his cheek against her black-stockinged knee. ‘Have mercy on me, Ros. Tell me that “Lonely in London” hasn’t ruined everything for us both. At least it brought us together.’
