by Hannah Howe
Chapter Thirty-One
Once again, I thanked the hospital staff for their diligent care and lifesaving ministrations, and concluded that, despite certain politicians and their unremitting efforts to undermine it, the National Health Service remained as one of the greatest institutions in British society.
Alan drove me to his house where, he insisted, I would complete my recuperation. He parked his Jaguar XJ6 in the drive and was about to enter the house when I said, “I’m tired of being cooped up; let’s go for a walk.”
Alan shrugged, but decided to humour me. Since the incident with Felicity, he’d been quiet and I sensed that he needed to talk. So we strolled through the fields at the rear of Alan’s house, down an incline towards a river.
“Brrr,” I shivered at one point, “it’s colder than I thought; put your arm around me.” And, with a smile on his face, he complied.
“Mac outsmarted us all,” I added while walking beside the river.
“Yes. He sensed that no one would make a move while he was around, so he drifted into the shadows then pounced, in the nick of time.”
Anonymously, Mac must have called the ambulance, which miraculously found its way through the snow to rescue me. He’d also called Alan and alerted him to drive to the hospital. Then, like the snow that was fast fading from the roads and the fields, from everywhere but the uplands and the pockets of deepest shadow, he’d melted into the background.
I stood under an oak tree, a gnarled old tree that had witnessed countless seasons, and observed as Alan stood beside the river-bank. He’d thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets while his shoulders were knotted with tension and uncharacteristically hunched.
“Why so sad?” I asked as I approached the river. “Did you love her?”
“No. I liked her, as a friend. I saw her as someone to meet up with occasionally, have dinner with, attend a concert...”
I nodded; my instincts told me that he was telling the truth. “She created a fantasy life, centred on you.”
“I know,” he sighed. “Sweets told me about her diary.”
“She loved you.”
“No, she was obsessed.” Alan picked up a stone. With considerable force, he hurled it into the river, its splash startling an unseen forest creature, which scurried into the undergrowth. “In the end, she was possessed by her fantasy. She believed all the rubbish she wrote and said about me. She was a very sick woman.”
“And that’s what’s upset you,” I surmised, donning his psychologist’s mantle, “you failed to identify her obsession.” I shook my head then gave him a hug. “You can’t go around psychoanalysing all your friends, Alan.”
He accepted my hug and placed an arm around my shoulders. Physically, he was with me, as close as we could get, yet emotionally I sensed a distance between us.
“I should have picked up on her behaviour and put two and two together. After all, I knew that she’d been troubled in her past. But I missed it completely. I trusted her implicitly. It never crossed my mind that she would want to harm you.”
“So you’re human,” I smiled. “You made a mistake. Like me, like Alis, like everyone, you’re not perfect.” He glared at the river, his gaze lost in the fast flowing water, his expression grim. I chided him with a playful elbow into the ribs, “Hard to accept, eh?”
“I should have read her behaviour patterns. I should have done something to avert all this.” He turned and gazed beyond me, his chin resting on the crown of my head, his thoughts now lost somewhere deep in the forest. “I misjudged her from a personal and professional point of view, and that hurts...”
“The hurt will fade; after all, despite everything she did, we’re still together.”
“...and it hurts that she saw herself as Alis’ mother, denying Elin her rightful place in Alis’ life. And it hurts that she nearly killed you.”
Alan pulled me close. He wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug and within the intensity of that hug, I felt his pain.
“But I survived,” I murmured into the lapel of his overcoat. “We survived. Alis knows that Elin is her mother and she will always cherish the time she spent with her. You will put the experience to good use in your psychology practice and the events of the past few weeks have only made us stronger. Felicity couldn’t keep us apart, bullets couldn’t keep us apart, nothing can keep us apart.” I felt like shaking him, literally to shake some sense into him, or like dipping his head into the cold water –anything to drag him out of his stupor. Good job I’m not a professional psychologist, eh? “Do you hear what I’m saying, Dr Alan Storey; it proves that we’re meant to be together.”
Despite himself, Alan smiled. He kissed me on the lips. “You know your trouble, don’t you?” he sighed. “You’re starting to put psychological theories together. You’ve been spending too much time with a certain psychologist.”
“No such thing as too much time when it comes to you.” I stood on tiptoes, wrapped my arms around his neck and, with the sun warming my shoulders, gave him a passionate kiss. “I love you, Alan.”
He nodded, then returned my passion. “I love you more.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The weeks drifted by. Gradually, the last traces of antimony left my system, my shoulder continued to heal and Alan recaptured his old sparkle, though I sensed that he was still upset by his failure to read Felicity’s mind and so was not fully with me. That being the case, I decided to invite him to a Valentine’s Day dinner, at my place, yours truly taking on the role of chef. Yikes!
Forget dodging bullets, forget sipping from poisoned cups, you haven’t risked life and limb until you’ve eaten at my dinner table. I am the world’s worst chef, official, so what did I place on the menu for Valentine’s Day? Only a homemade vegetable pizza, that’s what.
My cookbook said mix the flour, yeast and salt together, make a well in the centre and work in the water and oil to form a stiff dough. So far, so good, though I had more mixture on my forehead than on the baking board. Knead for five minutes – I enjoyed that bit, it got my shoulder working again – place in a warm bowl, cover and leave to rise in a warm place for thirty minutes, until the mixture has doubled in size. A warm place...the oven...or is that too warm? In the event, I settled for a cupboard near the stove, then spent the next thirty minutes staring at the damn thing, hoping it would rise.
Place a pizza plate on the top shelf of a pre-heated oven. Brush the peppers, courgette, aubergine and onion slices with a little oil, and grill. Should flames be leaping out of the grill like that?
Grill the tomato quarters, skin side up, until blistered. Easy – I’m good at blistering things. Peel and discard the skin, then mash the flesh with the pesto sauce; add salt and pepper. Not forgetting to throw some salt over my shoulder because, surprise, surprise, I’d knocked the salt cellar over.
Roll out the dough into a round. Spread the tomato mixture and arrange the grilled vegetables over the top. Sprinkle the cheese and bake for approximately twenty-five minutes until bubbling and golden.
Ten minutes into the cooking time, Alan arrived with a bottle of his favourite Bulgarian wine. “Smells good,” he said, offering a warm compliment, though the compliment would have been warmer had he removed the hint of surprise from his tone.
While Alan poured the wine, I placed a lace tablecloth over the table. I lit the candles and, somehow, managed to avoid burning myself. Bake until bubbling and golden. Well, one glance through the glass on my oven door told me that the pizza was certainly bubbling; indeed, Vesuvius before the eruption sprang to mind. But golden? Maybe he’d settle for beans on toast...
“I’m famished,” Alan said while sitting at the dining table. So he was hungry, this was his main meal of the day...no pressure then...
After thirty minutes, I decided that we’d reached the moment of truth. With some trepidation, I removed the pizza from the oven and served it to Alan. Then, I took a gulp of wine, to steady my nerves.
Alan stared at the pizza. His
nose twitched. With delicate fingers, he teased the pizza apart and offered a morsel to his mouth. At that point, I was ready to faint. But, as he chewed, a look of surprise came over his face and he announced, “Tastes good.”
“You’re not just saying that?” I asked with apprehension.
“No, this is really good.” He ate with some relish, adding, “You can cook for me again.”
I exhaled. I gulped my wine. We devoured every portion of the pizza.
“That was delicious,” Alan announced while sipping his wine. “Any dessert?”
“Do you fancy dessert?” I asked innocently.
“Depends...”
Did I detect the suggestion of a leer?
“...what’s on the menu?”
“Something sweet, tasty and very attractive...”
After disentangling myself from his octopus-like embrace, I added, “I was talking about the trifle!”
By this point, Alan was sitting in my chair and I was sitting in his lap. As his fingers toyed with the buttons on my blouse, he suggested, “Maybe we should save the trifle for the third course...”
And we did.
Later, in bed, while lying entwined in each other’s arms, Alan brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, kissed me and said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“You’re a psychologist; isn’t that what you’re paid to do?”
He elbowed me, gently, in the ribs and I giggled.
“About us,” he said solemnly.
Suddenly, I was serious, and a little concerned. “What about us?”
“I’ve been thinking,” he repeated. A sickle of moon offered a trickle of light, illuminating Alan’s handsome features, revealing an uncommon bashfulness. “I’ve been thinking,” he said for the third time. “Would you like to be my wife?”
In my excitement, I shrieked and jumped up in the bed. Then, I gathered my thoughts and acted with more decorum. I gazed into his soft brown eyes, kissed him passionately on the lips and said, “Yes, I’d love to be your wife.”
He sighed, heavily, and I realised that he’d been holding his breath. With a smile as wide as the Severn Bridge, he leaned over to my bedside cabinet, opened a drawer and revealed a small jewellery box, which he placed in my hand. I opened the box, gasped at the sight of the gold engagement ring, clustered with rubies and diamonds, then fought back a tear as he placed the ring on my ring finger, swapping the beautiful Christmas ring to my right hand.
Samantha Storey, I thought while offering my hand to the moonlight, to capture the ring and its sparkle, it works; let’s go for it!
Then another thought struck me. I gazed at the ring and asked, “How did you know that I’d say ‘yes’?”
Alan shrugged while slipping under the duvet. “Psychologist’s intuition.”
“And how did you know that we’d end the evening in bed?”
He shrugged again, then grinned. “Behaviour patterns. After a delicious dinner, you tend to drag me towards the bedroom.”
“Wait!” I protested. “It’s the other way round; you drag me.”
He laughed and said, “Let’s settle for hand in hand, as lovers should be.”
“For eternity.”
Alan leaned towards me. Tenderly, he kissed my shoulder, his lips brushing the outline of my scar. “For eternity.”
SAM’S SONG
by Hannah Howe
Love Hurts. For Derwena de Caro, songstress, female icon, teenage dream, success brought drugs, alcohol and a philandering boyfriend. It also brought wealth, fame and a stalker, or so she claimed. And that’s where I came in, to investigate the identity of the stalker, little realising that the trail would lead to murder and a scandal that would make the newspaper headlines for months on end.
Love Hurts. For me, Samantha Smith, Enquiry Agent, love arrived at the end of a fist. First, I had to contend with an alcoholic mother, who took her frustrations out on me throughout my childhood, then my husband, Dan, who regarded domestic violence as an integral part of marriage. But I survived. I obtained a divorce, kept my sense of humour and retained an air of optimism. I established my business and gained the respect of my peers. However, I was not prepared for Dan when he re-entered my life, or for the affection showered on me by Dr Alan Storey, a compassionate and rather handsome psychologist.
Sam’s Song. This is the story of a week that changed my life forever.
LOVE AND BULLETS
by Hannah Howe
It had been a week since the incident at the abandoned quarry, a week since I’d shot and killed someone, a week since my ex-husband had been murdered. It had been an emotional week. But life goes on. I’d been hired to discover who was sending death threats to Dr Ruth Carey, a controversial psychiatrist. The trail led to two high-powered villains and soon the death threats were aimed at me, threats that increased following two murders.
Meanwhile, after years of domestic violence, I was trying to make sense of my private life. Dr Alan Storey, a prominent psychologist, claimed that he loved me, and I was strongly attracted to him. But the years of domestic abuse had scarred me emotionally and I was reluctant to commit to a relationship.
Love and Bullets is the story of a dramatic week in my life, a week of soul-searching, self-discovery and redemption.
Web Links
For details about Hannah Howe and her books, please visit http://hannah-howe.com
For more details about Sam the Private Eye, please visit http://sam-private-eye.com
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