by Susan Lewis
Table of Contents
Cover Page
About the Author
Acclaim for Susan Lewis
Also by Susan Lewis
A Class Apart
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
About the Author
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-two novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day, a moving memoir of her childhood in Bristol. She lives in France. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Acclaim for Susan Lewis
‘One of the best around’ Independent on Sunday
‘Spellbinding! . . . you just keep turning the pages, with the atmosphere growing more and more intense as the story leads to its dramatic climax’ Daily Mail
‘Mystery and romance par excellence’ Sun
‘Deliciously dramatic and positively oozing with tension, this is another wonderfully absorbing novel from the Sunday Times bestseller Susan Lewis . . .
Expertly written to brew an atmosphere of foreboding, this story is an irresistible blend of intrigue and passion, and the consequences of secrets and betrayal’ Woman
‘A multi-faceted tear jerker’ heat
Also by Susan Lewis
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Last Resort
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Strange Allure
Silent Truths
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Lost Innocence
Just One More Day, A Memoir
A CLASS APART
Susan Lewis
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781407089829
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www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books 2009
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Copyright © Susan Lewis 1988
Susan Lewis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by Fontana Paperbacks
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For my friend, Denise
Acknowledgements
My thanks to all my friends who have helped me in more ways than they will ever know. Especially to Melanie, for the title. My thanks also to the staff of Cliveden House. And a very special thank you to Toby, my agent, and to Laura, my editor, without whom I could never have managed it.
“. . . AND EARLIER TODAY, a police spokesman confirmed that a full scale hunt for the killer is now underway. So far there has been no evidence to suggest a motive for the killing, and police are asking anyone who was in the vicinity who might have seen or heard anything suspicious to come forward . . .” The sound of the newsreader’s voice was coming through an open door in the block.
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in an effort not to listen. She didn’t want to think about the murder. Not now.
Using the bannister as a steadying guide she continued up the stairs, trying to ignore the fear that had crept its way into her heart.
Finally she reached the door at the top. She hesitated a moment not knowing what to do. She looked around the empty hallway – it offered no encouragement. The telephone began to ring inside the flat making her jump. She listened as it continued to ring, but no one answered. The door downstairs slammed and as abruptly the ringing stopped.
Silence.
Slowly, she lifted her hand and knocked. The dull sound echoed along the hallway.
She looked around again. She was quite alone. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out a key. As she slid it into the lock, her heart began to pound. All she wanted to do was run away.
The door clicked open and she stepped through. The flat was in darkness despite the bright sunlight outside. All the curtains were pulled.
She called out, loudly, but there was no reply.
Edging her way down the hall she came to a halt outside the bedroom door. She pushed her hand against it, then realising that her deliberate movements were making her more nervous, she pushed it sharply and stepped inside. The room was empty.
She swallowed hard, and looked around. The curtains were closed in here too.
She turned back into the hall. A few more steps and she was in the kitchen. She called out again, but still there was no reply.
The window was op
en and a cat suddenly leapt from the sill and landed on the floor in front of her.
Catching her breath and trying to ignore the violent beating of her heart, she stooped to stroke it.
Suddenly the phone began to ring again, and putting the cat onto a chair, she walked to the sitting room to answer it. Unafraid now, the telephone giving her the sense of another presence in the flat, she pushed open the door.
And then she screamed – and screamed and screamed. And the phone rang – and rang and rang.
ONE
“Katherine Calloway! Say that again!” Ellamarie shrieked.
“I couldn’t bear to, you heard me the first time,” Kate answered. She was laughing, but the look in her eyes betrayed her lack of certainty.
Ellamarie turned to Jenneen as if she expected her to repeat it, but Jenneen only grinned and shrugged her shoulders.
“You’re not kidding me, Kate, are you?” Ellamarie said, eyeing her suspiciously.
Kate shook her head and poured them more wine.
“Didn’t he . . .? Well . . . I can’t believe it. This is Stephen French we’re talking about. The Stephen French.”
“I know.”
“But Kate, he’s gorgeous.”
Smiling, Kate sat back in her chair and studied her fingernails. “Mmm, yes, he thought so too.”
Ellamarie looked at Jenneen again. “This woman has not had sex for over a year, and now she turns down no less a person than Stephen French. Don’t just sit there, speak to her. Say something.”
“Like what?” said Jenneen.
“I don’t know. Anything. Look, what I don’t get,” Ellamarie continued, turning back to Kate, “is why? I mean all this time. Apart from anything else, you’ve just got to be dying for it. I dread to think how many batteries you must have been through by now.”
Kate gave a shriek of laughter and Ellamarie shuddered. “How can you laugh about it?”
“I don’t. At least I do, but I’m not exactly putting the flags out.”
“Myself.” said Jenneen, leaning forward and helping herself to a stuffed olive, “I think it’s something to be proud of. Do you think there’s any chance you might, well, you know, heal over after a certain time? You could be a virgin on your wedding night you know, Kate. A virgin who’s had all the fun. Now wouldn’t that be an achievement?”
“Jenneen! Will you try and take this seriously? We’ve got to find her a man. And quick. Shit, if she carries on like this much longer she might start fancying the dog.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Ellamarie,” Kate laughed. “Besides, I haven’t got a dog.”
“They’re easier to get hold of than men though,” Jenneen looked thoughtful. “And easier to train.”
“Stop it! All I said was that I didn’t have sex with Stephen French, and now you’re trying to pair me off with a poodle or something.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a Great Dane,” said Jenneen, grinning.
“Oh shut up. I wish I’d never told you now.”
“How does it feel?” said Ellamarie. “I mean, you know, to turn someone like him down? Shit! What I wouldn’t give to have seen his face.”
“What do you mean, how does it feel? There’s nothing to feel.”
“No, I suppose not. But come on, Kate, don’t you just yearn for an erection sometimes?”
Kate threw a cushion at her. “I said stop it.”
“Hey!” Jenneen suddenly yelled. “I’ve got it.”
“It doesn’t show.” Ellamarie looked in the general area of Jenneen’s crotch.
“No, someone with an erection.”
“Permanently?” said Kate.
“I don’t know about that, but he sure had one at lunch today. I was going to save him for myself. But, now that I know your need is greater than mine, well . . . Never let it be said I’m not generous when it comes to my friends.”
“Who is it?” said Ellamarie. “Or should I say, how big is it?”
They collapsed into laughter again, until Jenneen finally managed to tell them about Joel Martin who was, by the happiest of coincidences, as Kate was writing a novel, one of London’s top literary agents. Jenneen had interviewed him on her weekly television show, together with the author Diana Kelsey, as part of the running series of interviews she was doing with agents and their clients.
“So I see my adoring public missed my show again this afternoon,” she finished.
“It’s the time,” Kate complained. “I’m nearly always out during the . . . hey, hang on! What am I talking about? I recorded it. Now, how’s that for loyalty? Satisfied?” She ran across to the video. “Now we’ll just have to hope I got the right channel. It’ll be a first if I have.”
She pushed the button to rewind the tape, then sat back on the floor. “I want you to know that I am only watching this to see the erection. Nothing else. Forget blind dates.”
“But it won’t be blind, will it?” said Jenneen. “I mean, you will have seen him.”
There was a knock on the door and Kate looked at her watch. “That’ll either be Mrs Adams from upstairs wanting to borrow something else, or it’ll be Ashley.”
“I don’t know how you put up with that old lady,” Jenneen said, as Ellamarie got up to answer the door. “Does she ever do anything for herself?”
“Not much,” Kate admitted, “but she’s not a bad old stick really.”
Opening the door, Ellamarie was relieved to see it was Ashley standing outside, her dark hair plastered to her head and her collar pulled high round her face. “Is it raining?” Ellamarie enquired.
Ashley pulled a face, then shook out her umbrella and handed it to her.
“How did it go?”
“Don’t ask me,” Ashley peeled off her wet coat. “I couldn’t keep my mind on anything long enough.”
“Julian there?”
“No, he’s in Paris. Giles Creddesley chaired the meeting. And picked his nose. God, he’s revolting!”
“But have you got an answer yet?” Ellamarie asked.
“From Newslink? Tomorrow.”
“What did Giles think of the presentation?”
“I think he liked it, but you know him. Anything that’s not his idea is never quite up to the mark. Anyway, I don’t much care. I’m more worried about what Julian will say if we lose the account.”
“You won’t!” said Ellamarie, confidently. “Now come along inside, we’re about to watch a blue movie.”
“A what!”
“A man with an erection. For Kate.”
“Not for me.” Kate looked up as they came into the room. “Hi, Ash, how did it go?”
“Right now I’m more interested in a glass of wine and a blue movie,” she answered. “But all right, I think.”
“OK, everyone!” Jenneen cried. “Get ready, here comes the future Mr Calloway.”
They watched in silence for a while, until Ashley burst out laughing.
“What’s the matter?” said Jenneen.
“He talks in quotes.”
“A sign of a well-read mind. Well,” Jenneen turned to Kate, “what do you think? As I said, I was going to have him for myself, but under the circumstances I think you might get better use.”
“What circumstances?” said Ashley.
Jenneen filled her in on the details of Kate’s date with the infamous Stephen French.
“But I thought the book you were writing was all about the adventures of an oversexed journalist,” Ashley said, looking at Kate.
“I’ve got an imagination, haven’t I?”
“But what are you feeding it on?” Ellamarie wanted to know.
“It hasn’t been hungry, until now.” Kate swivelled round to face Jenneen. “I think he’s absolutely gorgeous. What’s his name again?”
“Joel. Joel Martin.”
“And is he a good agent?”
“Who cares? Oh, of course, you do. Well, yes, or at least so he tells me. And the writer there with him, she couldn’t sing his praises hig
hly enough.”
“How soon can you get him here?” Kate grinned.
“Oh well, if you’re not that keen, then we’ll just forget it.”
“Jenneen! Sometimes . . .”
“OK. Just leave it to me.”
“Are we going out anywhere?” Ashley was looking at her watch. “I’m starving.”
“Food coming up,” said Kate. “It’s such a ghastly night I thought I’d cook, save us going out.”
She went off to the kitchen and the others fell into the easy and idle chatter that was an integral pan of the evenings they spent together. The Barnes Conference was what they called these evenings, owing to the fact that, in their early twenties, they had shared a house in Barnes. Now, in their early thirties, and nearing the top of their chosen careers, their friendship was every bit as strong. They were, as Jenneen put it whenever she was feeling philosophical, four women pursuing their lives in a London of the 1980s, all of them successful and capable of loving no more nor less than their mothers and grandmothers before them, but who had to contend with the social pressures that promiscuity, equality and the sixties had thrust upon them. And the prejudices too.
Kate opened the door of the microwave and, putting the dish on the work surface, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She shook her head, allowing her new curls to fall around her face. Shame Stephen French had been such a bore, the idea of a good Yuppie stockbroker had rather appealed to her.
Hearing Ellamarie’s burst of laughter, she popped her head through the serving hatch demanding to know what all the noise was about.
“It’s Jenneen,” Ellamarie gasped, wiping the tears from her face. “She’s being disgusting again.”
“Me?” Jenneen cried.
“Perish the thought,” Ashley said.
Leaving the doors open, Kate started to dish up. “Oh hey, I’ve just remembered, any chance of two extra tickets for opening night, Ellamarie?”
“I’ll find out. But I thought you were all coming on the second night?”
“That’s what I meant,” said Kate, bringing the food in on a tray. “Daddy says he’d like to come. Mummy’s coming home for the week and he thought it would be a treat for her. If she’ll agree.” Kate’s mother had been in what they all referred to as a convalescent home ever since Kate’s brother had died in an accident three years before. Mrs Calloway had been unable to accept the death, and in the end it had been necessary to send her somewhere where she could be looked after properly.
