Shadows of Yesterday

by Cathy Williams

  ‘Why?’ he taunted softly. ‘Afraid that you might give in?’ His hand shot out and he pulled her forward by her hair. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away from me, Claire. What we have between us isn’t yet finished.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘No. It’s a matter of fact.’

  His green eyes threatened and she backed out of the car hurriedly, preferring to ignore that rather than argue the point. She had hardly climbed out when he pulled away with a screech of tyres and was gone so quickly that she had to convince herself that he had ever been there.

  She let herself into the house quietly. There were no lights on and she thought that perhaps Karen had decided to indulge in an early night, but her bedroom door was wide open, and she realised that her flatmate had gone out.

  She ran a bath and stretched out in it, her eyes closed, furiously thinking back to that little scene that had taken place between James and herself earlier.

  There had been no need for him to accost her at her place of employment. He could always have picked up the telephone and called her about removing her things. That way, he wouldn’t have had to lay eyes on her. But, she now realised, that wouldn’t have suited him at all. Unfinished business, he had called their relationship, and that about summed it up. He might not intend making a commitment to her, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want her in his life. He just didn’t want her demanding anything. And when it came to ending their affair he wanted to be the one to do it.

  She stepped out of the bath and wrapped her hair in a turban, still preoccupied with her thoughts. They went round and round in her head until she began to feel quite dizzy.

  Did he think that he could continue turning up, disrupting her life, whenever he felt like it? There was no way that she would end up a nervous wreck because of him. She had spent too long with downbent head, passively accepting his terms and conditions. He knew how attracted she had been to him and still was, despite all his theorising about her being a gold-digger, and he must think that she would be a pushover.

  And when he was ready to discard her he would do so without a backward glance, because his emotions had never been involved.

  Well, she wasn’t about to give him that chance. If he turned up at the house, she would tell Karen to inform him that she wasn’t home, and if he dared to turn up at the office, well she would be OK there. With people around, there was a limit to the amount of damage he could inflict.

  The following day she left work on time, despite Tony’s heavy frown, and arrived at the cottage in good time. She had booked a taxi to come for her and her meagre possessions at precisely six-thirty, which would give her ample time to make sure that nothing was being left behind.

  It was a jolt returning there, even though she had only been out of the place for a matter of days.

  She had to make herself check each room efficiently, in a businesslike manner, and not mope around, thinking about those halcyon days when her love for him had seemed strong enough to carry her through anything.

  She was halfway through when she heard the key being inserted in the door, and she froze.

  There was only one person it could possibly be. Of all the bad luck and even worse timing in the world! She flew down the stairs, already primed for attack, to be confronted by a woman whom she had never seen in her life before. Tall, well proportioned, with a mass of blonde hair gathered at the back into a neatly arranged chignon. Some silky strands had escaped and wisped around her face, giving the only hint that this woman was sexier than she wanted to portray herself, at least in the working environment.

  Claire didn’t know who was the more surprised, her or the blonde. They stared at each other for a matter of a few seconds, then the woman recovered her composure and said in a clipped American accent that she had come to see the cottage.

  ‘James sent me,’ she said, looking around her. ‘I’ve come straight from London.’ She began browsing through the small sitting-room, eyeing everything meticulously like a prospective house buyer instead of a tenant. ‘I absolutely flew up so that I could make it here while it was still light. By the way, my name’s Gayle King. You must be…’ She looked at Claire for the first time, her lips parted in a polite smile even though her eyes were warm and assessing, not unfriendly. ‘What’s the name? Ah yes, Harper, isn’t it? Something Harper, aren’t I right? James said you might be here collecting your stuff.’ She shifted her glance to the assortment of bags and boxes stacked by the front door. ‘You travel light, don’t you?’ she said, as though that was some sort of eccentricity. ‘I positively crate things around with me—clothes, shoes, you name it. I came over from America with one trunkload of suits alone!’ She began moving upstairs and Claire found herself following.

  She had always wondered what James’s type of woman was. All men had a type, and she knew that she hadn’t been his, because he had informed her on countless occasions, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with a wry grin, that she was nothing like the women he had been out with in the past. Was Gayle King his type? All blonde hair and long legs and easy conversation?

  ‘How long do you intend to be over here?’ Claire asked, and Gayle replied, without turning around, continuing to look over the small bedroom with its flowery quilted bedspread and sunny wallpaper.

  ‘A few weeks, hence the temporary accommodation. I wouldn’t normally have moved this far out of London but most of my jobs involve companies in the Thames

  Valley, and of course—’ she looked at Claire with a

  wry smile ‘—James can be very persuasive, which is why I’m here at all. I don’t normally go for cottages. I prefer a cleaner, more high-tech look.’

  ‘High-tech, yes,’ Claire said faintly. ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Years. We met, actually, when I worked for a firm of stockbrokers in New York. Then he wooed me over to his company, to take over as the financial consultant

  for one of his subsidiaries in Chicago—’ she gave a

  warm laugh which sent a shudder through Claire ‘—and I haven’t looked back since! I hope I’m not shoving you out of this place?’

  Claire shook her head. Years? He had known her for years? She had to turn away because she was sure that despair would be written all over her face.

  ‘I was…I’ve already moved out, actually.’ She cleared her throat and tried to look cheery. ‘I only came to collect my belongings.’

  Gayle looked relieved. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Incentive or not, I wouldn’t have moved in here if it entailed your moving out. Not, of course, that James would allow that. He’s got a heart of gold.’

  That was news to her, and she tried not to look stunned.

  ‘Has he? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The inspection of the upper floor was over and Gayle carefully went downstairs, watching her feet carefully because she was wearing very high heels and the stairs were hopelessly ungenerous. ‘Not that he likes it much in evidence.’

  ‘No,’ Claire said, more depressed by the minute. ‘You must know him very well.’

  ‘We’ve made an effort to keep in touch,’ she replied airily. ‘We worked very closely together for a while, when I worked at Carter and Co., and it just sort of grew from there.’

  ‘Carter and Co.? My brother-in-law works for them, if it’s the same company! What a coincidence.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Tom. Thomas Barnet.’ But Gayle crinkled her forehead and shook her head. He must have joined the company after she had left, she said, and the conversation was dropped. With relief, Claire didn’t pick up the pieces. She had had enough of chatting about James, anyway. She didn’t want to continue hearing about this marvellous friendship that had apparently transcended all barriers of culture and distance, and besides, the taxi was due any minute. She peered out of the window and right on cue, it pulled up outside the cottage.

  Claire turned to say goodbye and Gayle gave her a rueful look.

&n
bsp; ‘Perhaps you could drop by for coffee some time,’ she said and Claire nodded politely. Drop by for coffee? Be regaled with some more stories about James? Who knew, by then Gayle might well be sleeping with him, and would be full of tales of how their marvellous, wonderful, uplifting damned friendship had mellowed into a marvellous, wonderful, uplifting physical relationship. No, thanks, Claire wanted to say, I’d prefer to have coffee with a local resident at Reading Gaol. Which, she had to admit, was a bit of a shame, because Gayle didn’t seem too bad. On the whole. Was it her fault that she was brainy, beautiful, extrovert and had known James for years?

  It was just something else to contend with on top of her general despondency, though.

  She had settled down well enough in Karen’s house, but it was nothing like the cottage. She kept drawing comparisons all the time. Everything was different, none of it for the better. She realised that she had become attached to the warm faded glow of the beams in the cottage, the old, soft furnishings, the outdated utensils in the kitchen.

  And more, a little voice whispered in her ear. Wasn’t James the real reason that nothing seemed right? His absence was like a hole inside her, a constant reminder that she was drifting aimlessly now that he was no longer around. It was a shock to realise just how much her life had been focused on him. She would find herself staring into space, remembering every single little detail about him, the way he smiled, the way he frowned, the way he used to rake his fingers impatiently through his hair whenever he was irritated. The images tripped her up just when she least expected it, pulled the rug from under her feet, and then she had to rebuild all that hard-won confidence in herself.

  She made sure to put on a bright face, though, whenever someone was looking at her. She especially didn’t want Karen to become too concerned about her, because Karen, by nature, was a caring person, and Claire had a feeling that at the slightest hint of depression she would be taken under her wing and tended to like an ailing bird.

  The only time she felt free to be herself was in bed at night, and ever since that meeting with Gayle at the cottage she had found herself lying in her room, in darkness, wondering what they were getting up to. Were they sleeping together? Had she slept with him in the past? Maybe she was an old flame as well as an old friend. It could be that theirs was one of those convenient arrangements whereby they slept together occasionally, when it suited them, but felt free to do their own thing in each other’s absence. A sort of open relationship. Maybe, Claire thought, depressed, I was just filling a gap until they could renew their love-affair. Who knows? He had never mentioned Gayle to her, not even in passing, but that didn’t say much considering he had also never mentioned his wife.

  The rush of work which had kept her busy at the office and which had initially helped to take her mind off James had abated, and she now found herself at a loose end in the evenings, not tired enough to go to bed but too lethargic to do anything much.

  On the Friday evening, on the spur of the moment, she called her sister and said, without preamble, ‘I’ve decided to come to your party tomorrow after all. I knew you’d be surprised,’ she continued, when there was silence at the other end, and she heard Jackie laugh sheepishly.

  ‘Well, you know I’ve always had to force you into one of these things in the past. Why the sudden change of heart?’

  ‘Why not?’ Claire hedged lightly, hearing her sister’s brain begin whirring away as it digested her reply and her tone of voice.

  ‘So the healing process hasn’t begun, then,’ she said drily, and Claire sighed, grimacing.

  ‘Of course it has. But slowly.’

  ‘I see. Well, a good party will take your mind off things. There’ll be a good supply of eligible males around.’ She carried on before Claire could protest at that, ‘Buy yourself something new. I always find that a spending spree is a very good way of curing depression.’

  ‘You’ve never been depressed in your life, Jackie, and anyway I can’t afford a spending spree. Don’t forget you’ve got Tom indulgently paying your bills.’

  ‘So I have,’ Jackie agreed smugly, ‘in which case, you could always make it a cheap spending spree.’

  Claire had to grin at that one and she rang off a moment later, after they had arranged a meeting point.

  The following morning, she decided to follow her sister’s advice and do some shopping. She had had another restless night. At one mad point, she could remember with a sense of shame actually considering cycling over to Frilton Manor and lurking around just to glimpse James in passing. In the dark, silent bedroom, she had dwelt on this fantasy in such detail that it had seemed quite real in the end. He would be looking the same as ever, tall, lean, vital, but just when she got to the point in the fantasy when he would, on closer inspection, appear a little drawn, obviously pining, she remembered Gayle King’s presence and the fantasy deviated into an agonising picture of the two of them, laughing, exchanging intimate little jokes, making love.

  She threw herself into shopping the following morning with gusto. It was time to start forgetting James Forrester, to start rebuilding her life, and an attractive outfit was as good a place to start as any. Jackie had mentioned that there would be some eligible men at her party. Well, Claire thought, she wasn’t going to throw herself into bed with any of them—oh, no, that would never happen again—but some harmless flirting wouldn’t hurt, and it might just remind her stubborn brain that there was life beyond James Forrester.

  It was easy shopping in Reading. There weren’t that many shops that she found appealing, so her choices were limited. Consequently, there was no dithering. She found what she was looking for virtually in the first shop she went into, and with uncustomary extravagance she paid for the dress without any crises of conscience. It was short, in burnished gold, with a scooped neckline that gave her an air of elegance which her normal garb of jeans certainly did not.

  She was going to arrive early at her sister’s, and dress there. She cycled back to Karen’s house with her bags tucked over the handlebars of her bike, and she couldn’t help smiling as she imagined Jackie’s reaction to her outfit. Not horror, exactly, more stupefaction.

  She was right. She arrived at her sister’s house, a fairsized detached place in North London, with a pleasant, mature garden which was firmly kept in place. Not a weed in sight. Even the tree in the corner was upright, obeying orders, no slouching.

  Jackie, not one to let something like a party throw her out of joint, was in control. She had hired a team of caterers to do the food, a finger buffet, which was now spread over the sideboard, each dish covered in clingfilm. There was a bar at the opposite end of the room, with glasses set out on a makeshift table, and Claire knew from experience that apart from the usual shorts there would be a huge supply of exceedingly good wine. Tom loved his wines. He belonged to a wine club, and each crate of wine was carefully chosen and lovingly vetted.

  In fact, he seemed a lot more bothered by the whole thing than Jackie. He gave her a brief peck on the cheek, in between knotting his tie and checking the drinks, then murmured something about her looking a trifle casual.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tom,’ Claire said affectionately, ‘I’ve brought my change of clothes.’ She waved her holdall at him and he nodded distractedly, moving off as she was appropriated by her sister and led to the guest room which she normally occupied.

  ‘He’s in a dither,’ Jackie said, glancing into the mirror on the dressing table and automatically smoothing down her hair. She looked fabulous, in a white silk trouser suit which didn’t look cheap and a pair of flat-heeled sandals. Cool, expensive, classy. Claire hoped her little number wasn’t going to appear too tawdry. God, the embarrassment. ‘There are going to be a lot of clients,’ she continued, ‘and some representatives from abroad. America, a couple from France. God knows why this couldn’t have been held at one of the London hotels, but no, Tom thought that it would be a nice touch to have me slaving over a hot stove.’

  ‘I thought the caterers h
ad done the slaving,’ Claire pointed out mildly, and Jackie grinned.

  ‘You know what I mean. I’ll leave you to get dressed.’ She eyed the holdall cryptically. ‘And I hope you do me proud.’

  Oh, yes, Claire thought as she stood in front of the full-length mirror forty minutes later, you won’t recognise me. Shame, she thought, that James wasn’t around. He might have realised that it wasn’t just her personality that had changed, it was everything.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLAIRE hadn’t noticed his arrival at all.

  She had emerged from her bedroom, having spent ages painstakingly applying her make-up and scrutinising herself in the mirror. She wanted to make sure that everything was all right because she felt awkward in the dress. It really wasn’t her sort of attire at all. It was very dramatic, but she decided that too much was exposed; it was just too clingy—not that there was much that she could do about that. And anyway, it was obviously the right choice for this sort of do, because Jackie had circled her four times in the bedroom, clearly impressed.

  She had walked into the lounge, which was already humming nicely with twenty or so people, with more arriving by the minute, despite Jackie’s original assurances that it was going to be a small affair, and she had immediately caused a sensation. A couple of the women there she knew from old, and they were open with their friendly curiosity, and the remainder she could feel staring at her, trying to work out whether they should ignore the possible threat or introduce themselves and check out the situation first-hand. It was a novel sensation, and rather enjoyable, she discovered, after the initial discomfort.

  So it was a bit of a surprise when someone whispered into her ear, ‘You look ravishing. Where have you been all my life?’ and she looked around, startled, to find herself staring into two very blue, very assessing, eyes. A few months ago she would have blushed at this blatant introduction, but ever since she had walked out on James she had slowly found herself cultivating the art of pretence, even when she was a mass of confusion inside, and she called upon her new-found knowledge now, smiling politely, coolly, making sure that he got the message that she was not up for grabs.