by Sara Craven
But the living room looked just the same as usual. Or did it? She looked around slowly, registering Jack’s overcoat lying across the sofa, a bottle of wine halfdrunk on the coffee table. A pair of high-heeled shoes abandoned carelessly underneath it. Not hers.
There was the sound of a door opening, and she turned to see Jack emerging from the bedroom. Their bedroom. He was wearing his red silk dressing gown, the sash loosely knotted round his waist, and beneath it he was naked. He had a cigarette in one hand, and in the other he was carrying two empty wine glasses by their stems.
When he saw Tara, he checked, his brows lifting sharply.
‘Well, well,’ he said softly. ‘What a charming surprise. And so opportune. At least I don’t have to do your packing for you.’
Her throat felt parched suddenly. It was difficult to articulate the words. ‘Packing? I—I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do, darling.’ He was smiling at her. ‘I’m revoking your temporary tenancy here. Giving you notice to quit. And the sooner the better.’
‘Quit?’ She stared at him. ‘You—want me to—leave?’
Jack sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘And you’re supposed to be such a bright girl,’ he said mockingly.
‘But you can’t—I can’t...’ She swallowed. ‘This is some awful joke. It must be.’
‘No joke.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a game that I’ve become bored with. But I was prepared to go on playing while there was a chance you might push me up the corporate ladder. But I now know that’s not going to happen, so I’ve found a new playmate. And you, my sweet, are surplus to requirements—in bed and out of it.’
She said hoarsely, ‘You don’t mean this. You can’t. Jack, don’t say such things. I love you. We love each other.’
‘Correction,’ he said. ‘I loved the fact that you were the boss’s daughter, and that you could be useful to me. But you blew it.’ He smiled at her, and for the first time she saw the cruelty beneath the facile charm.
‘We were going to be married.’ The words were wrung from her.
‘So we were,’ he agreed. ‘I’d have even made that sacrifice for a seat on the board. But to tell you the truth I’m rather glad your father cancelled my entry. It was going to be a hell of an act to sustain. You’re terribly earnest, you know, darling, and a bit of a drag sexually. Oh, you were a novelty at first, but that soon wore off. And no amount of girlish enthusiasm is ever going to equal natural-born talent.’
The pain had been there from the moment she saw him walk out of the bedroom and realised what was happening, but she’d managed to hold it back. Now, she felt its teeth snap into her, taking hold and tearing at her, flesh and spirit.
Yet somehow she managed to lift her head. ‘In that case, I’d better get my things.’
‘Exactly.’ He poured some more wine into the glasses. ‘You realise, of course, I have a guest.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have intruded.’
‘As a matter of interest, why are you here?’ He drank some wine, watching her. ‘You haven’t got the sack, too, I hope.’ He saw the shock on her face, and laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I was “let go” last week. Some kind of rationalisation programme, I gather, which only involved me. They offered me salary in lieu of notice, plus a sweetener, and I took it. A mate of mine is running some mining company out in Brazil, and I’m going to join him, just in case you were concerned about me,’ he added.
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘My sympathies are with Brazil. The rainforest has enough problems already.’
‘A kitten showing her claws?’ he asked unpleasantly. ‘Don’t try and play rough with me, darling, or you’ll get hurt.’
She was hurt already. She was disintegrating, bleeding to death. How-could he not see that?
‘I’ll ask Julie to wait in the bathroom while you clear out,’ he went on. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d hurry. She’s forgotten more about sex than you’ll ever know, and I’m keen to jog her memory again.’
She tried not to look at the rumpled bed as she emptied drawers into her cases, piling the clothes and possessions on top of each other without regard. The scent of Opium hung heavy in the air, and she knew she would hate its fragrance until her dying day. She left her keys on the coffee table and went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
She hailed a passing taxi, and told it to take her to her parents’ house in Chelsea.
The driver glanced at her in his mirror. ‘You all right, gal?’
‘Yes,’ she said, tears chasing themselves down her white face. ‘Never better.’
Tara sat bolt upright in bed. She was shaking and her cotton shirt was clinging to her damp body, as if she’d been startled into wakefulness from some dreadful nightmare.
She pushed back the covers, and, stumbling slightly, went over to the window, drawing back the curtains. The sky was silver with daylight, and there was a faint mist rising from the river. Riding silently at anchor, Caroline looked like a ghost ship, but she was there, and only too real, Tara thought broodingly.
She sat down, resting her folded arms on the window-sill.
She knew exactly why the past had come back to haunt her. The reason was sleeping in his cabin, a stone’s throw away, out on the water.
Adam Barnard had imposed himself on her life—impinged upon her consciousness in a way that no man had been permitted to do since Jack.
Never again. That was what she’d kept telling herself in the stunned, heartbroken weeks that had followed their break-up. No man is ever getting that close to me again.
Every ugly word he’d spoken had seemed to crawl like acid over her skin. She had hardly been able to bear to look at herself in the mirror. Drab, she’d thought, boring, undesirable. She would carry them, stamped on her, like the brand of Cain her whole life through.
She had not simply fallen for Jack. She had trusted him, believed in him, so his betrayal had been total.
When he had gone, the truth slowly began to emerge. People who had kept silent in view of her obvious happiness had come shamefacedly forward, Anna among them.
‘Babe, I did warn you—at my father’s birthday party. Dad said he was a bad lot from the first. All flash and no substance.’
Tara hadn’t argued with her. After all, she’d thought wearily, even if Anna had completed her warning, would she have believed her?
Julie had not been Jack’s first act of infidelity by any means, and he’d jeered openly at Tara’s gullibility for believing him when he’d said he was working late, or attending weekend seminars.
‘You know I hate to leave you, sweet, but it’s for our future,’ he’d used to whisper to her ardently, and the memory left her shaking and nauseated.
Her parents had been wonderful, her mother openly distressed when Tara had insisted on going back to work the day after she’d arrived at the Chelsea house in a state near collapse.
‘I need to work,’ Tara had told her bluntly. ‘That way I don’t have to think.’
Coldly, single-mindedly, she’d thrown herself into her career. Within a year she’d gained promotion, and an appropriate pay rise. She’d found her flat, decorated it, and furnished it slowly and with care. Finally she’d acquired Melusine.
A career—a life—a companion. Who could ask for anything more?
She’d believed she was totally self-sufficient—‘fireproof’ even—and now here she was, dizzy with lust over the first attractive man to cross her path, she derided herself.
Except, of course, that wasn’t strictly true. Not by any means. She’d met men every day of her life over the past years, who were more charming, more glamorous than Adam Barnard would ever be.
And, quite apart from Becky’s well-meaning efforts, she’d had plenty of opportunities to embark on new relationships. But she’d always steered clear, retreating behind her barrier of cool reserve when someone threatened to come close.
It wasn’t difficult. She only had to recall the devastation that Jack had lef
t behind him.
She was afraid of being hurt again. Of being used. Of being savaged and abandoned.
And, most of all, of being found out. Of being exposed all over again as dull—unlovable—undesirable.
Because love—or what passed for it-hurt. That was what she needed to remember. All she needed to remember. She could never again allow herself to become the broken thing of three years ago.
She’d worked hard to gain control of her life—of herself—and she wasn’t going to jeopardise that for a passing attraction, however potent.
She’d created her own safety net—a private hedge of thorns around herself. And if Adam Barnard knew what was good for him he’d stay on his own side of it.
Not that she’d given him a chance to do otherwise. Now that she’d recognised the potential danger he could pose, she would deal with it.
And eventually he would grow tired of the cool, unchanging civility. The lack of response, unsmiling, even uncomprehending, to his advances.
And, like the others, he would move on. Find some other warmer, more willing lady. Leave her in peace.
Only this time peace might not be so easy to come by, a sly voice whispered in her head.
Sighing, she got to her feet and went downstairs, with Melusine weaving round her legs. She poured the cat some milk, then filled the kettle and set it to boil. She took a carton of orange juice from the fridge and drank a glassful, gasping at its cold tartness against her throat.
While she was waiting for the kettle she went back up to the bathroom and began running water into the tub, adding a capful of fragrant oil, filling the room with the dusky scent of geraniums. Her disturbed night had left her with vague aches and pains, and a strange restlessness which she wanted to soak away.
She made herself a strong mug of coffee and sipped it while she lay submerged, letting the hot, scented water work its magic on her.
Everything’s going to be all right, she assured herself, stretching luxuriously. There may have been a few underground tremors, but the citadel still stands. And that’s how it will stay.
She finished her coffee and lifted herself from the tub, swathing herself in a towel.
She was humming to herself as she re-entered her bedroom, chose underwear and a T-shirt and cotton trousers for the day ahead. The early overcast sky was clearing and the sun was coming through. It was going to be a hot day if she was any judge.
She paused, her attention caught by a movement outside. She went to the window and stood for a moment, watching the river. A moorhen had emerged from the reeds and was swimming sedately, her brood a brown ripple in her wake, but that wasn’t what she had seen. Or she didn’t think so.
And then she saw him, across the river, walking on the opposite bank among the clustering silver birches which sparkled in the early sunlight.
A dark figure, tall and purposeful, the dog frisking round him.
Another early riser, she thought. Or perhaps he couldn’t sleep either. She felt a tingle of something like pleasure curl along her nerve-endings. Felt her throat tighten.
As she watched, he stopped suddenly and turned towards the house, as if aware of her scrutiny. As if across the gleaming water their eyes had met and locked, holding them in thrall to each other.
But that’s nonsense, Tara thought, feeling her breathing quicken. He can’t see me. The sun will be in his eyes. It’s impossible. I know...
Common sense told her to get away from the window anyway, but she remained where she was, her eyes fixed on the dark, motionless figure. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition, without any conscious impulse on her part, loosening the damp towel and tossing it away from her on to the bed. Leaving her naked in the sun’s dazzle.
She lifted her arms, stroking the heavy fall of her hair back from her face with a sigh, then let her hands slip down, touching herself slowly, exploringly. Cupping her breasts, measuring the span of her slender waist, outlining the curves of hips and flanks as if she was displaying herself. Making an invisible offering of her entire being to the silent watcher in the trees.
But he could not see, and would never know, therefore she was safe. She felt a smile as old as the earth touch and lift the corners of her mouth. Felt her nipples harden in exquisite excitement, and the core of her turn to sweet, liquid warmth.
In that moment she seemed to know him—the touch of his hands—the drugging warmth of his mouth—the brush of his skin against hers—the silken thrust of his possession. All of him.
She sighed, and, closing her eyes, she stretched, a long languorous movement that arched her whole body. And when she looked again he had gone. There was only the sun, the trees, and the ripple of the water.
Perhaps she’d only imagined him. Had created his presence out of her own need.
And stopped right there, her hand stealing to her mouth in shock and repudiation.
My God, she thought, what am I thinking?
Was she going completely crazy—out of her head? Standing in front of the window with nothing on, having erotic daydreams about—a passing stranger.
It is time, she told herself grimly, that you got on with your life.
Tara put the cans of gloss and emulsion paint in the boot of her car, and tucked the box with the filler, the sandpaper and new brushes in beside them.
‘That’ll keep you out of mischief,’ the shopkeeper had commented as she’d paid the bill.
And that, she’d thought, was exactly the idea. She’d given him a non-committal smile and a word of thanks.
She needed something to occupy her time and engage her attention. Something that would stop her brooding over stupid and dangerous fantasies by day, and send her to bed at night too weary to dream.
She closed the boot, and stood for a moment looking down the street It wasn’t a large place—little more than a village, really—but it had all the amenities, including an estate agency.
While I’m here, she thought, I’ll pop in and see what’s being asked for Dean’s Mooring. I should think the price is rock-bottom by now. And, if so, I could probably afford to buy it myself. Make it my spare time project. Do it up slowly, and just the way I want it.
The estate agency was empty when she went in, except for a middle-aged man busy at a filing cabinet. He turned and gave her a friendly smile.
‘May I help you?’
‘I hope so. There’s a property at Silver Creek I’m interested in—Dean’s Mooring. I think you’re selling it?’
He looked at her with genuine surprise. ‘I’m afraid not. As far as I know that particular property is not on the market with anyone.’
‘Oh.’ Tara digested that, frowning. ‘What’s the holdup, I wonder. Something to do with probate, perhaps?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ He paused. ‘I believe Mr Hanman of Hanman and Brough in Middle Street is handling the estate. You could always ask him—after the holiday, of course.’
Tara sighed. ‘I was hoping to get things moving right away.’
‘We have other houses on our books, if you’re looking for a riverside frontage,’ he said hopefully. ‘I’d be happy to show them to you.’
Tara shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m afraid I’m only interested in Dean’s Mooring. But thanks anyway.’
She would just have to be patient until the Bank Holiday was over.
First thing on Tuesday morning, I’ll come in and see Mr Hanman, she thought. Find out what the delay is.
It was aggravating, but at least she’d taken the first step, she consoled herself as she drove home.
Back at the house, she put on one of her father’s old shirts as an overall, tied her hair up in a scarf, and threw herself determinedly into her preparations. She’d already decided to begin with the dining room, and tugged the furniture into the centre of the room, covering it with dust sheets.
She deliberately kept away from the front of the house, not wanting to catch any untoward glimpses of Caroline or her master, but when it was time to take down the curtai
ns she found she had little choice.
Because Adam was right there, facing the house, sitting at an easel which he’d set up near the jetty, apparently absorbed in painting.
‘Bloody nerve,’ Tara muttered under her breath, jerking the inoffensive curtains free from their rings with more force than the task required.
And yet there was no reason for her to be het up. Plenty of other painters had used Silver Creek House and its environs as their subject before this, and there’d been no objections from her or anyone else in the family. Indeed, her mother was prone to taking them cups of coffee, sandwiches, and homemade lemonade on hot days.
But pigs would fly before she offered Adam Barnard as much as the crumbs from the bread bin, she vowed as she descended from her steps, the curtains draped over her arm.
She worked feverishly, cleaning the paintwork with sugar soap, filling and smoothing, until a plaintive protest from Melusine alerted her to the fact it was already midday.
She fed Melusine, then heated herself a can of chicken soup, pouring it into a mug and sipping it, perched on the shrouded dining-room table while she contemplated the next stage of her labours. She’d chosen a creamy primrose emulsion for the walls, and she was itching to get started, knowing it would take two coats to cover the rather dingy blue presently in place.
When the knock sounded at the front door she stiffened, her mouth tightening. No prizes for guessing who that was, she thought. Sitting where he was, he couldn’t have missed all the activity inside the house. Indeed, when she’d been rubbing down part of the windowframe he’d even waved to her. And now curiosity had brought him over.
She drank the last of her soup, put down the mug, and went reluctantly to answer the door. At the last moment she switched her scowl for a look of haughty enquiry, and was glad when she threw the door open and discovered it wasn’t Adam at all, but a complete stranger. A stocky man with a moustache and a crumpled grey suit.
‘Good afternoon, madam.’ His smile seemed to have too many teeth. ‘We’re visiting homes in the neighbourhood, offering spot cash for antiques and collectables. I’d be happy to give you a free valuation on any item.’
