by Sara Craven
‘They give me things—to help me relax, they say. To make me sleep, but I dream about him, Tarn. Dream that he’s still mine.’
Her fingers closed fiercely round Tarn’s. ‘I didn’t want to go on living without him. Couldn’t face another day with nothing left to hope for. You understand that, don’t you? You must, because you knew what he meant to me. How I built my future around him.’
Tarn said steadily, ‘I suppose so, but ending it all was never the answer, believe me.’ She paused. ‘Evie, you’re a very beautiful girl, and one day you’ll meet another man—someone good and decent who’ll appreciate you and genuinely want to spend his life with you.’
‘But I wanted Caz.’ Her grip on Tarn’s hand tightened almost unbearably. ‘I gave him everything. So how could he reject me like that? Not want me to love him any more?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tarn freed herself gently. ‘But we mustn’t talk about that now or you’ll get agitated and they’ll know. Which means I won’t be allowed to see you again.’
‘And you’re all I’ve got.’ Evie sank back against her pillows, her face white and pinched. ‘Because Caz is never going to come here, is he? I’ve been hoping and hoping, but it isn’t going to happen. I know that now.’
A slow tear ran down her cheek. ‘How could he do this to me? How can he just—walk away as if I didn’t matter?’
Tarn felt the anger rising inside her again, and curled her nails into the palms of her hands to regain her control.
‘But you do matter,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And one day soon he’s going to find out just how much, and be sorrier than he’s ever imagined.’
She handed Evie a tissue from the box on the bedside table. ‘Now dry your eyes, and try to look as if my visit has done you some good. And next time I come we’ll talk seriously about how to deal with Mr Caz Brandon.’
That night over supper, she said, ‘So what did you think of Evie’s fiancé, Aunt Hazel? Did you ever feel that things weren’t quite right between them?’
Her foster mother put down her knife and fork and stared at her. ‘But I never met him,’ she said. ‘I knew only what Evie told me, and, of course, she absolutely worshipped him.’
‘Never met him?’ Tarn repeated slowly. ‘But how can that be? You mean she never brought him home?’
‘Well, she’d hardly be likely to,’ Mrs Griffiths said with a touch of defensiveness. ‘I mean—he lives in the lap of luxury, and this is such an ordinary little house. But they were planning to give an enormous party when their engagement was announced, and I was going to meet him then.’
‘I see,’ said Tarn, without any truth whatsoever. She hesitated. ‘And you were all right with this?’
‘As long as my girl was happy, I was too,’ said Mrs Griffiths with finality, and the subject was ostensibly dropped.
But it provided Tarn with food for thought during the remainder of the evening.
When Tarn returned to The Refuge a few days later, she was surprised to be accorded a wintry smile by the Professor.
‘I think you will find your sister has improved slightly. She is looking forward to seeing you again.’ He paused. ‘But you will have to remain her only visitor in the immediate future. Have you brought her any messages from anyone else? If so, may I know what they are?’
‘Her mother sends her love.’ Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I hope that’s acceptable.’
There was another slight hesitation before he said, ‘Perfectly,’ and buzzed for Nurse Farlow.
Evie, in a dressing gown, was sitting in the armchair by the window. Her newly washed hair was waving softly round her face, and her face had regained some colour.
‘Wow.’ Tarn bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’ll be out of here in no time at this rate.’
‘I wish,’ Evie said with a sigh. ‘But there’s no chance. That’s been made perfectly clear to me. It’s what happens when you do crazy things. And all because of him.’ She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘That was the real madness—to believe even one word that he said. To trust him. I ought to have realised he was just using me.’
Her voice cracked. ‘Oh, God, he’s the one I should have tried to kill for what he’s done—not myself. You talked about making him sorry. That’s not enough. I want to make him wish he was dead.’
‘Well, maybe we can.’ Tarn took the chair opposite. ‘But stay calm, honey, because there are some things I need to know from you.’
Evie stared at her, biting her lip. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Stuff you might have told him. About your mother. About me.’
There was a silence, then Evie said, ‘I didn’t tell him anything. He never wanted to talk about family things.’
‘You didn’t find that—odd?’ Tarn spoke carefully.
‘It was the way he was.’ Evie shrugged. ‘I accepted it. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it helps if he doesn’t know I exist. When I meet him, he won’t be on his guard.’
‘You’re going to meet him?’ Evie was suddenly rigid, her colour fading. ‘No, you can’t. You mustn’t. You—you don’t know what he’s like.’
‘But that’s exactly what I’m going to find out,’ Tarn told her. ‘I need to know everything about him, because, in order to damage him, I have to discover his Achilles’ heel—and he will have one. Everyone does.’
She paused. ‘You’re sure you never mentioned me? Told him my name?’
‘No, never.’ Evie shook her head slowly. ‘Why would I?’ She gave a quick shiver. ‘All the same, keep away from him, Tarn. It—it’s not safe. He has powerful friends.’
‘I won’t take any unnecessary risks. The fact that he has no idea who I am gives me a head start.’ Tarn tried to sound reassuring, even if she was bewildered by Evie’s warning. Surely Caz Brandon was powerful enough on his own. ‘But if I’m to cause him the kind of pain he’s inflicted on you, I have to get close to him in some way. Find where the wound will be deepest.’
‘You imagine you can do that?’ Evie whispered. ‘Then perhaps you’re the crazy one. Not me.’
‘I can at least try,’ Tarn returned. She hesitated. ‘I’m not going to mention any of this to your mother. And you shouldn’t talk about it either, to anyone. It has to be our secret.
‘Also, I shall move out of Wilmont Road,’ she added. ‘Go to stay with a friend.’
‘You mean it, don’t you? You’re really going to do this.’ Evie shifted restively in her chair, her face taut, almost frightened. ‘Oh, I wish I’d never mentioned him.’ She added pettishly, ‘Now, I’m starting to get a headache. Perhaps it would be better if you left.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Tarn got to her feet, eying her with concern. She said gently, ‘Evie—this man has to be taught he can’t go through life trampling on people. What he did to you had almost fatal results, and I cannot forget that. You’re in no position to fight back, but I am.’
She tried a coaxing smile. ‘And you really don’t have to worry.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Evie hunched a shoulder and turned to stare blankly at the window. ‘That’s because you don’t know him.’ And she shivered again.
It was her hair that Caz recognised. Even though it was no longer cascading to her shoulders, but decorously confined in a neat braid, and tied with a navy bow which matched her neat pantsuit, there was no mistaking that glorious rich auburn.
He had never really expected to see her again, yet here she was just the same, entering the lift at the fifth floor, glancing at her Blackberry with a preoccupied frown, and apparently quite oblivious to everything else.
He said, ‘It’s Miss Desmond, isn’t it?’
She looked up with a start. ‘Oh,’ she said, and bit her lip. ‘It’s you.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t realise who you were the other evening, Mr Brandon. I feel seriously embarrassed.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Caz paused, his mouth relaxing into amusement. ‘But while I have no wish t
o add to your discomfort, I should perhaps point out this is the directors’ private lift, and, if spotted, you could get told off for using it.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think that was mentioned, but I forgot and just took the first one to arrive. I apologise again.’
‘Do I take it you’re working here now?’
She nodded. ‘Since Monday.’ Her sidelong glance was part shy, part mischievous. ‘I actually took your advice and applied through the proper channels. Mr Wellington was good enough to hire me—temporarily anyway.’
She paused. ‘Should I get out at the first floor, or travel to ground level and risk a reprimand?’
‘Stay on board,’ he said. ‘If anyone notices, refer them to me, and I’ll tell them we were renewing an old acquaintance.’
‘Ah,’ she said and pressed a button on the display. ‘I think the stairs might be more discreet.’ She added, ‘Sir.’
As the doors opened, she gave him a last brief smile and vanished.
There should be a law, Caz mused, banning girls with legs as good as hers from wearing trousers in the office. Just as there was almost certainly a law condemning his thoughts as a kind of passive sexual harassment, he thought, his mouth curling in self-derision.
Easy, boy, he told himself. Or you’ll break your own golden rule about non-fraternisation. And we can’t have that.
If you need female distraction, ring Ginny Fraser, and see if she’s free for dinner.
He did, and she was, and that should have been the end of it.
Yet, later over lunch in the executive dining room, he heard himself saying, his tone deliberately casual, ‘I bumped into your newest recruit today, Rob.’
‘I hardly deserve the credit for that,’ his Personnel Chief said drily. ‘You did tell me we might receive an application from her. I simply—took the hint.’
Caz stared at him, appalled. ‘Oh, God, surely not.’
Rob Wellington grinned. ‘No, don’t worry. Absolutely not. Laurie interviewed her first, then sent me a note saying she was frantically over-qualified for any of our vacancies, but we’d be mad to pass her up on that account. I had a chat with the lady and agreed. So at the moment, she’s working as editorial assistant in features and fiction on All Your Own covering Susan Ellis’s maternity leave.’
He poured himself some more coffee. ‘Anyway, judging by the reference we got from Hannah Strauss at Uptown Today in New York, Ms Desmond could easily be running the entire magazine single-handed.’
Caz’s brows lifted. ‘If she was such a success in Manhattan, how come she’s back in London, at the bottom of the ladder again and working for comparative peanuts?’ he asked sceptically. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘I asked her about that,’ said Rob. ‘She said she’d come home because of illness in the family, and decided to stay for a while.’ He paused. ‘I have to say she seemed extremely eager to work for us. Should we suspect her motives for any reason?’
‘Maybe we should simply be flattered.’ Caz thought for a moment. ‘Do you know anything about a Philip Hanson? Have we ever employed anyone of that name in any capacity, however briefly?’
Rob frowned. ‘Off-hand, I’d say no. But I can check our records.’
Caz pushed back his chair and rose. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not that important, and you have enough to do.’
And I, he told himself, will also dismiss the whole business from my mind.
And as a positive move in this direction, when he got back to his office, he asked Robyn, his PA, to send Ginny Fraser some flowers.
Tarn switched off her computer and leaned back in her chair, flexing her shoulders wearily. It had been a fraught few hours, but she knew the task she’d been set was a job well done, and would be recognised as such.
How odd, she thought, that I should care.
Yet, in other circumstances, she knew she might have enjoyed her time on All Your Own. Working on her own as she did now, she’d almost forgotten the buzz of office life. Her colleagues were friendly and professional, and she liked the editor, Lisa Hastings, another recent appointment.
In fact she’d been the first to hear Lisa’s cry of anguish as she scanned the pages of script that had just been handed to her.
‘Oh, God—someone please tell me this is a joke.’
‘What’s happened?’ Tarn had asked Kate who was in charge of the magazine’s layout.
Kate cast her eyes to heaven. ‘You’ve heard of Annetta Carmichael, the soap star? Apparently, when they killed her off as the Christmas Day ratings booster, she decided to take up a new career as a writer, and she’s been offered megabucks for her first novel, a searing exposé of the secret world of television. A woman’s fight to maintain her integrity against a sordid background of tragedy and betrayal.’
She grinned. ‘You can practically hear the axe being ground. However, Brigid, Lisa’s predecessor, thought it would be a great idea to commission a short story from her for an equally generous payment. I think the finished product has finally arrived, well after its deadline, and well short of the required standard.’
‘I’d like to throw it back at her and tell her to start again,’ Lisa was saying savagely. ‘But she’s pushed off to some Caribbean hideaway with someone else’s husband, and is, according to her agent, incommunicado.’
She slammed the pages down on her desk. ‘And we need this. It’s already been announced—”Annetta—Fiction’s Latest Find.”’ She snorted. ‘Fiction’s greatest disaster if this is anything to go by.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Tarn asked.
‘You mean apart from a poor beginning, a boring middle, and a hopeless ending?’ Lisa gave a groan. ‘It needs an instant re-write, but it’s my little boy’s birthday today and I swore to my husband that I would be back in plenty of time for the celebrations. I should have known something would crop up and ruin things.’
Tarn hesitated. ‘Would you like me to take a look at it?’ she asked diffidently. ‘I have done stuff like this in the past, and it would give you a chance to get off as planned.’
Lisa stared at her in open surprise. ‘Are you serious? Because anything you could do—even if it was just sorting out her spelling and grammar—would be a tremendous help.’
Back at her desk, Tarn gave a silent whistle as she looked through the pages. Everything Lisa had said was perfectly justified, she thought grimly. It was a genuine horror.
But she remembered all the endless reams of frightful autobiography, and the rambling taped reminiscences that she’d transformed into readable—and saleable—prose in the recent past.
This at least had the benefit of being short. And, buried inside, were the actual bones of a story.
I’ve never ghosted fiction before, she thought. This will be a challenge. But I’ll have the new draft done when Lisa arrives tomorrow.
The offices were beginning to empty as she began. By the time she’d completed the story to her own satisfaction, boosted by regular visits to the coffee machine, the building was dark and still, with only the occasional security patrols to disturb her concentration.
She printed off the new version, clipped the sheets together and took them to Lisa’s work station.
She returned slowly to her seat, tucking her white blouse neatly back into her grey skirt as she went, then sat down to finish her final cup of coffee.
She was tired and hungry too, having eaten nothing since her mid-day sandwich. But she felt a curious sense of satisfaction all the same.
Just as if I was a bona fide employee, she thought wryly.
But then, she reflected, she’d had little opportunity to be anything else. Since she’d manufactured that meeting in the executive lift two weeks earlier, she hadn’t managed to set eyes on Caz Brandon, even in passing.
She’d been aware, without conceit, that he’d again found her attractive, but there’d been no follow-up on his part, and office gossip said that he and TV presenter Ginny Fraser were a serious item.
Besides, she’d also been told, he never played around at the office. Which just showed, she’d thought angrily, how little they knew. But which also demonstrated that he must have wanted Evie very badly. And if he’d betrayed his own dubious principles once, he could surely be induced to do so again.
However, it was all a bit like the old recipe for Jugged Hare, which began ‘First catch your hare…’
It was also time to visit Evie again, but she would have preferred to wait until she had something positive to report. And heaven only knows how long that will take, she told herself with a sigh.
She slipped on the black jacket hanging on the back of her chair, picked up her bag, and went to the double glass doors, using her security code to activate them.
As she walked down the corridor to the lifts, a man’s familiar voice said, ‘Doing overtime, Miss Desmond?’
Tarn whirled with a gasp, her bag crashing to the floor, as startled as if a ghost had suddenly materialised in front of her.
Only moments before, she’d been asking herself quite seriously if she was wasting her time, and should jettison all thoughts of revenge and simply resume her own life. Now here was Caz Brandon appearing out of nowhere in this otherwise deserted building, as if her thoughts had conjured him up out of thin air.
She said huskily, ‘You frightened me.’
‘I got a hell of a shock too when I came back to pick up my briefcase and saw there were lights on this floor,’ he returned tersely. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘As you said—overtime.’ Tarn dropped to one knee and began to retrieve the objects that had fallen out of her bag. ‘But don’t worry. It’s the voluntary, unpaid kind. I had a project I was keen to finish.’
‘Keen isn’t the word,’ he said drily. He picked up a lipstick that had rolled to his feet and handed it back to her. ‘Aren’t there enough hours in the working day for you? And haven’t you got better things to do with your evenings than hang around here?’
‘Most of the time, yes,’ Tarn told him coolly as she rose and fastened her bag. ‘This was a one-off.’
