by Sara Craven
Ros controlled a shiver.
She said, ‘I came for my things.’
She saw a muscle move beside his mouth. ‘Yes, of course.’ He paused. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘No,’ she said. And again, ‘No—thank you. I’ll get a cab.’
‘As you wish.’ His voice chilled her. ‘Then I’ll find one for you.’
They rode the lift down in silence, standing on opposite sides of the metal cage.
The rain had stopped, but the air smelt dank and forbidding as they emerged on to the street.
Sam saw a cruising taxi in the distance and hailed it.
As it approached, he said quietly, ‘Is there any point in my asking you to be patient—to trust me?’
‘None.’ Some miracle kept her voice level. ‘It’s over. Finished.’
She saw sudden colour burn along his cheekbones. He said softly, ‘Like hell it is.’ And reached for her.
His kiss was hard and angry, plundering her mouth ruthlessly. She felt the burn of it deep in her bones, and, through all the rage and hurt, the tiny coil of response and arousal that she was powerless to forbid.
When he let her go, she stepped back with a gasp, putting a hand mutely to her swollen lips.
‘Something to remember me by.’ He was breathing rapidly, and his smile glittered at her. ‘Until we meet again.’
‘All hell,’ she said hoarsely, ‘will freeze over first.’
Voice shaking, she gave her address to the clearly fascinated driver, and almost threw herself into the back of the cab.
As they drove off, something told her that Sam was still standing there, watching her go.
But she did not turn her head to check. Pride, she told herself, would not allow her to do so.
And besides, she realised with sudden devastation, she could be wrong. And that would be the worst thing of all.
CHAPTER TEN
YOU fool, Sam denounced himself savagely as he watched the cab pull away. You stupid, criminal bastard. Why the hell didn’t you tell her the truth—the whole miserable story—from day one?
Because you were scared—that’s why. You were afraid to tell her everything in case you lost her. And now you’ve lost her anyway.
He supposed he’d been hoping wildly that he could emerge from the situation with some kind of honour, but he suspected he’d been praying for the impossible.
He was tempted to sprint after the taxi before it gathered speed, drag Janie out and offer her, on his knees, the complete shambles he’d made of his life.
Anything would be better, he thought wretchedly, then seeing her drive off, hurt and hating him.
And what had possessed him just now—coming on to her like some macho ape? There’d been something about her pale, scornful face that had flicked him on the raw, but that was no excuse. Had he really thought such pitiful ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ tactics would have her melting in his arms?
If so, he knew differently now.
As he watched the taxi round the corner and disappear, he felt the world turn cold. It was as if he’d been suddenly washed up—abandoned on the edge of some wilderness—without food, shelter or hope.
And useless to tell himself that maybe it was for the best, he thought, as he walked slowly back indoors. That it was hardly the optimum time to be cementing a new relationship when he was likely to find himself jobless at any moment.
The fact that he’d done the correct thing for the right motives was no consolation at all in this new hell of loneliness he’d created for himself.
His thoughts were as bleak as his face as he rode up in the lift. The call he’d just taken had been from Cilla Godwin’s secretary, requiring him to present himself in the editor’s office tomorrow.
The head of Features had been enthusiastic over the ‘Lonely in London’ series, but he wasn’t expecting any compliments from Cilla. She’d been badgering him for days to have the Janie Craig piece completed and on her desk, and he didn’t know what to tell her, what further excuse he could possibly formulate for withholding it.
Certainly not the truth, he thought cynically. That anything he wrote about his meetings with Janie would be tantamount to forcing them both to strip naked in public.
So far, he’d managed to finish one piece about her. He’d written far into the night, driven by some inner compulsion he hardly understood. But when he’d looked at what he’d done the next morning, he’d found himself reading a declaration of love.
That was the moment that had brought him to his senses. That had made him realise what he really felt for her.
And that was why watching her drive away had been like dying inside. Her white strained face would haunt him, he thought, until the end of his days.
Yet now, somehow, he had to drag his thoughts away from her to the problem of Cilla.
He swore softly under his breath. He’d maintained a deliberately low profile since the night she’d come to the flat, but he knew his failure to respond to her overtures would never be forgiven or forgotten. She was, he was convinced, simply awaiting an opportunity to destroy him. And, if it was inevitable, perhaps he should just lie back and let it happen, he thought wearily.
But the fighting spirit which had carried him safely through wars, riots and revolutions was reluctant to concede her so easy a victory.
He went into the bedroom and stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled bed. He sank down on its edge and picked up the pillow Ros had used, holding it to his face, inhaling the faint fragrance of her skin which still clung there evocatively.
Waking with her in his arms had made so much clear to him. Had made him see exactly what he wanted from life. What he still had to figure was how to achieve it.
‘The engagement’s off,’ Janie announced, marching into the kitchen. ‘Ros—did you hear me?’ she added sharply to the motionless figure, sitting staring into space at the kitchen table. ‘What’s the matter with you? Have you gone into a trance?’
Ros looked at her, startled eyes dazed as she struggled for comprehension. ‘You’ve finished with Martin? I—I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He’s being such a pain.’ Janie filled the kettle and set it down on the work surface with a thump. ‘He won’t budge over the wedding.’ She snorted. ‘I’m glad I realised how completely he’s under his parents’ control before it was too late.’ She paused. ‘Do you want some coffee? That stuff in front of you looks stone-cold.’
‘It is.’ Ros surrendered the mug, and watched her stepsister rinse it out.
‘What’s wrong?’ Janie asked. ‘Problems with the book? Publishers giving you the thumbs-down?’
‘No,’ Ros said. ‘It’s nothing to do with that.’
‘Then what?’
Ros bit her lip. ‘Just a few—personal things I need to think through.’
‘Oh, God.’ Jane turned an apprehensive look on her. ‘You’re not missing Colin?’
Colin, Ros thought. Colin belonged to another life, another age, another universe. To her shame, she hadn’t even given him a thought.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m rather ducking the thought of telling him it’s over.’
‘Let me,’ Janie offered callously. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’
In spite of her unhappiness, Ros felt her lips curve in a reluctant smile. ‘I thought you’d have had more sympathy—having just been through the same thing yourself.’
‘Well, in my case it may not be permanent,’ Janie admitted. ‘I’m going to let Martin stew for a day or two. He’ll come round.’
Ros stared at her, distress closing her throat. ‘How can you treat him like that, if you love him?’ she protested. ‘Can’t you imagine what it’s like to watch the person you love—your one hope of happiness—just—walk out of your life? What it’s like to think that you’re not wanted any more? Don’t you care that you’re making him suffer?’
‘Whatever’s come over you?’ Janie spooned coffee granules into the mugs. ‘Why are you so concerned about
Martin? You hardly know him.’
Ros bit her lip. ‘I suppose I was thinking of all lovers, and how cruel we can be to each other,’ she said, after a pause.
‘My word,’ Janie said acidly. ‘Ditching Colin has had a profound effect. Do you want your coffee black or white?’
There was no point in delaying things any longer, Ros decided. She would go and see Colin and break the news to him that evening. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but nothing could make her feel more wretched than she already did.
Besides, Janie was going out to a club with two of the girls she was working with, and Ros wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening with only her thoughts for company.
Once it’s over with, I can draw a line under everything that’s happened, she thought, steeling herself against the inevitable shaft of pain. Consign it all to the past and—go on. Somehow.
But go on where? And do what? She had a new life to build—maybe not only her own—and the thought made her feel restless.
Perhaps it was time she made a completely fresh start. She could write anywhere, after all. So she didn’t have to stay in London, have to fight her memories every day…
She looked around her in a kind of remote wonder.
My God, she thought. I’m actually contemplating leaving this house. My prized possession. My sanctuary. This cannot be real.
If I sell, I’ll be betraying Venetia. Rejecting her legacy.
She wandered out into the garden. It wasn’t raining any longer, and a watery sun had struggled through the clouds.
Ros took a quick breath, absorbing the sharp scent of damp earth, And, as if a switch had clicked in her brain, saw Venetia Blake, her old gardening hat crammed on her head, secateurs in hand, moving along the path in front of her, scanning the raised bed for dead flowers.
‘Of course, I love it here.’ Across the years her voice reached Ros again, bringing a new clarity. ‘But a house is only a place. It’s the people who live in it that matter—who make it a home. Never forget that, darling.’ Her smile was sudden and deeply tender. ‘And this house has never meant the same to me since your grandfather died, bless him. He made it special.’ She sighed. ‘I should have moved, but I’m just too old and too lazy.’
And then, just as suddenly, Ros found herself alone with the chill of the evening breeze. Found, too, she was remembering the wording of her grandmother’s will.
‘My house…and its contents’, she thought, her throat tightening, ‘in the hope that she will use them properly’.
And for the first time she realised that Venetia Blake had only ever meant her to use Gilshaw Street as a staging post. And that, when the time was right, she’d expected her to move on.
In spite of her inner misery, Ros felt as if one weight, at least, had been lifted from her shoulders.
And now it was time to remove another, she thought as she went back indoors.
But she’d better let Colin know she was coming, she conceded, and reached for the phone.
It rang a couple of times and then she heard a woman’s voice answer. For a second she thought it must be Mrs Hayton, and then she realised it sounded much too young.
She said, ‘May I speak to Colin Hayton, please? It’s Ros—Rosamund Craig.’
There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘Just a minute.’
Ros waited, and was eventually assailed by another voice, which this time really did belong to Colin’s mother.
‘Good evening, Rosamund. This is quite a surprise.’ It was an edged remark. ‘Is there something you wanted?’
‘Well—yes.’ Ros swallowed. ‘I was hoping to come over this evening to see Colin—if it’s convenient, of course.’
‘I fear not,’ Mrs Hayton said majestically. ‘We have guests.’
The mystery voice, thought Ros. And an honoured guest if she’s allowed to pick up the phone. She said, ‘Then when could I come?’
‘I think it might be better for Colin to contact you,’ Mrs Hayton decreed. ‘I know he’s been planning to do so.’
‘I see,’ Ros said slowly. ‘How—how is his ankle?’
‘It’s responding very well to treatment.’ Mrs Hayton paused. ‘Fortunately he does have a few supportive people in his life,’ she added with emphasis.
The only silver lining to all these clouds was that Mrs Hayton was not going to be her mother-in-law, Ros thought, teeth gritted.
She said quietly, ‘I need to talk to him urgently, Mrs Hayton. Please give him that message.’
There was a sniff and a clunk as the older woman disconnected.
Her day was not improving, Ros thought grimly, as she replaced her own receiver. And somehow she had to get through the evening.
I’ll apply the usual palliatives, she decided, her mouth twisting as she flicked through her phone index. Some mindless violence from the video service, and a Chinese takeaway.
She had some sleeping pills somewhere. She’d take one to ensure she got a night’s rest, then she’d be ready to face tomorrow, and all the decisions she had to make. All the heartbreak she had, somehow, to heal.
Nobody said it would be easy, she thought. But I’ll survive.
Unbidden, unwanted, the image of Sam forced its way into her mind. She saw the glow in his turquoise eyes, the slant of his smile, and felt her whole body recoil in anguish.
Because she didn’t want merely to survive. She wanted to live every moment of her life to the full. And without Sam that was impossible. Because without him she was only half a person.
She wrapped her arms round her body and began to rock slowly, as the first tears scalded her face.
Sam, she whispered silently, desolately. Sam—what have you done to me? To us?
And why do I still have to love you so much?
‘Sam. Good of you to spare me the time.’ Cilla Godwin’s smile held an unpromising glitter as she waved him to a chair.
‘I wasn’t aware I had a choice,’ Sam returned coldly. ‘And I won’t sit, thanks. I prefer to receive bad news standing.’
‘Oh, but all the news is good. As I’m sure he’s told you, Phil’s delighted with your work on the series—so far, that is. There is still one piece missing, but I’m sure you’re dealing with that.’
There was something badly wrong here, Sam realised, all his hackles rising. But what?
‘I feel we have to make optimum use of your investigative talents,’ she went on. ‘And I have a few ideas which I’ll discuss with you in due time.
‘But first we have to decide how to promote this lonely hearts series—particularly as you’ve just won this award. A big publicity campaign, I think. National advertising. Billboards and television. “Award-winning Sam Hunter goes undercover—and how”. Something on those lines. Splashes in the Echo, with photographs, naturally.’
Her laugh was like ice cubes falling into an empty tumbler—only not as pleasant.
‘I’m going to make you famous, Sam. Or, from another viewpoint, infamous,’ she added musingly.
‘No,’ Sam said, his voice ominously even. ‘You can’t do that. Phil guaranteed to print the stuff under another name, to protect the interviewees. I’ve been careful not to identify them too closely, so the chances are they won’t recognise themselves even if they read the Echo.
‘But if you do this, it blows the whole thing out of the water.’ He leaned forward across the wide desk, his eyes boring into hers. ‘God, Cilla, they’re fragile people. If they realise they’ve been set up, it could do real damage.’
‘You’re all heart. But the decision’s mine. Not Phil’s. And certainly not yours.’ She picked up a pen from her desk and began to play with it, her fingers moving suggestively over the barrel. ‘And you don’t have any power to influence things.’ Her voice was soft, almost sweet. ‘Which was your decision. If you remember.’
‘Oh, I remember,’ Sam said between his teeth. ‘Women aren’t immune from accusations of sexual harassment. Maybe you should remember that.’
She
shrugged. ‘It would be your word against mine. A pathetic attempt at revenge by a disappointed man. Or that’s how the tribunal would see it. I’d make quite sure of that.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m certain that’s not the image you want. Besides, your own behaviour doesn’t bear close scrutiny,’ she added, almost casually. ‘We could be looking at breach of contract here, instant dismissal with no comeback.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sam felt a sudden chill.
She opened a drawer, produced a folder, and pushed it towards him.
‘You’ve been taking far too long over this Janie Craig interview, and I started wondering why. So I designated someone to keep an eye on you, and yesterday it paid off.’
The photograph spilled out towards him. They were good, some part of him acknowledged. A man and a girl locked together in passion and pain on a London street, their mouths devouring each other. The girl walking away, her eyes like black holes in her strained, tense face. The man watching her go with hunger and regret.
His heart was suddenly like a stone in his chest. He thought, Oh, darling…
‘And don’t tell me that’s not Janie Craig, Sam.’ Her glance stabbed him malevolently. ‘Because we know that it is. And you had orders not to get personally involved. To look, and talk, but not to touch. I’d say this went much further than touching—wouldn’t you? A serious breach of professional conduct,’ she added jeeringly. ‘Meriting sacking without notice and loss of all financial benefits.’
She paused. ‘I’d also make sure you never worked on another national paper. So, if you want to keep your job, and the lifestyle that comes with it, stay in line and do what I tell you. I shall look forward to reading about your exploits with your little beautician. Try not to make them too pornographic.’
She reached for some papers. ‘You can go now,’ she added casually.
‘One more thing.’ Sam stood his ground, his gaze and voice level. ‘When does this advertising campaign begin?’
‘Next week, so that it can peak at the awards ceremony. The highpoint of your career, Sam.’ She flicked him with a malicious glance. ‘Make the most of it, darling. Things will never be this good again.’