Snowfire

by Anne Mather

  Now he left his companion to come and greet her, but although she attempted to proffer a nervous hand he ignored it, and brushed his lips against her cheek. The odour of the shaving foam he had used invaded her nostrils, along with the distinctly masculine scent of his body, and she caught her breath. But she bore the salutation valiantly, and even managed a smile when he drew back.

  ’How’s the leg this evening?’ he asked softly, his words for her ears only, and she said, ‘Better, thank you,’ in a stiff tone that couldn’t help but reveal her feelings. But what else could he expect? she thought tensely. She was still recovering from shock.

  He looked even more attractive this evening, though his clothes were not as formal as she had expected. Probably because she was too accustomed to dining with older men, she reflected ruefully. After all, even Stephen had been almost ten years older than she was. None the less, Conor’s button-down collar—worn without a tie, she noticed—and black corded trousers were decidedly casual. The fine wool jacket he was wearing with them was a sort of dusty green, and matched neither his shirt nor his trousers. Yet, for all that, the clothes suited him, accentuating still more the differences between them.

  Now, as if afraid she was missing something, Sharon joined them, and Olivia felt as dowdy as a sparrow with two gorgeous birds of paradise. No, not a sparrow, a starling, she corrected drily. Sparrows were small and compact, not long-legged and ungainly.

  ’Hello, Mrs Perry,’ she said, once again relegating Olivia to an older generation. ‘Isn’t it cold? I bet you wish you’d chosen the Caribbean for your holiday.’

  Olivia’s smile felt glued to her mouth. ‘Oh—yes,’ she murmured, wondering exactly what Conor had told Sharon about her. He had evidently mentioned that she was married. She just hoped he hadn’t said too much about the crash.

  ’Let me get you a drink,’ suggested Conor swiftly. ‘You two can find somewhere to sit down.’

  ’I’m quite capable of standing,’ said Olivia, well aware that they hadn’t been occupying one of the wooden tables when she came in. She gave Conor a resentful look, and then looked away again. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, thank you. No ice.’

  Conor inclined his head, and although he didn’t say anything she sensed his indignation. Well, she thought defensively, she wasn’t an old lady. Not as old as he was implying, anyway. He might mean well, but she didn’t like it. Not when she already felt like the ripest gooseberry in the basket.

  ’Shall we sit down?’ asked Sharon, after Conor had departed to get her drink, and Olivia sighed. Oh, what the hell? she thought; perhaps she was being foolish in refusing the opportunity to take her weight off her leg. She’d already had one experience of what could happen when she acted recklessly. Her present predicament was a direct result.

  So, ‘If you like,’ she agreed offhandedly, and followed the girl to a table in the corner.

  Sharon set her drink on the table in front of her, and then looked thoughtfully at her companion. ‘Conor says you’re a lawyer,’ she remarked. ‘That’s not how you got to know Mrs Brennan, is it?’

  Mrs Brennan! For a moment, Olivia didn’t understand who she was talking about. Her thoughts had been so wrapped up with Conor and this awful situation that it took several seconds for comprehension to dawn.

  ’Oh—you mean Sally,’ she said hurriedly, and Sharon gave a nod. ‘No—I—as I believe I told you, my grandmother used to live next door. At number seventeen Gull Rise, I mean. I lived with her after my own parents died. That’s how I met—all the Brennans.’

  ’I see.’ Sharon studied her consideringly. ‘So you’ve known Conor a long time.’

  ’A—fairly long time,’ conceded Olivia reluctantly, realising that Conor had apparently been less loquacious than she’d thought. She endeavoured to change the subject. ‘Do—er—do you work with Conor, Miss Holmes?’

  ’Heavens, call me Sharon!’ She uttered a girlish laugh. ‘Miss Holmes makes me sound so old!’ She let the implications of this sink in, and then added carelessly, ‘No, my friend and I run a boutique in Ashford. I don’t think Conor likes career-minded women.’

  Or intelligent ones either, thought Olivia maliciously, meeting the other woman’s eyes, and glimpsing avidity in their depths.

  ’Oh—present company excepted, of course,’ Sharon added, clapping a rueful hand over her mouth. ‘But you’re different, Mrs Perry. You’re—well, you’re sort of—–’

  ’—older?’ suggested Olivia pleasantly, deciding there was no point in antagonising Sharon needlessly. It wasn’t Sharon’s fault she was here, after all. It wasn’t Sharon’s fault that Olivia had mistaken Conor’s motives.

  ’Well, yes,’ the girl was continuing now, and then rushed on, as though Olivia was a confidante, ‘You wouldn’t believe what Conor has to put up with, working with so many women. Women doctors, that is. The women patients get a fix on him, of course, but that’s different. They’re sort of dependent, aren’t they? But some of those women medics are man-hungry!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know what causes it. I suppose hospitals have always been known for stuff like that. Life and death! It sort of brings you close to nature. Regular hotbeds of intrigue, aren’t they?’ she added, with a giggle. ‘If you’ll excuse the pun!’

  Olivia shook her head. She had the feeling Sharon watched too many soap operas. ‘Did—er—did Conor tell you that?’ she enquired mildly, and the girl reached determinedly for her glass.

  ’Not in so many words,’ she admitted, but her eyes were moving past Olivia, her lips parting to allow her tongue free access to her upper lip. ‘Here’s Con,’ she added, somewhat unnecessarily, and Olivia’s lips tightened. The girl’s expression was as hungry as any man-hunter’s at that moment, and she wondered if Sharon was really as ingenuous as her words would have her believe.

  ’One gin and tonic, as requested,’ Conor announced, setting a glass containing a measure of gin in front of her. He delivered himself of the small bottle of tonic water to go with it, and then took the stool beside Sharon. He had got himself a drink, too, Olivia noticed. Orange juice, by the look of it, and her eyebrows lifted almost involuntarily. ‘I’m driving,’ he said, reading her expression all too easily. ‘Cheers!’ He lifted his glass towards her.

  ’Cheers,’ Olivia echoed, adding a splash of tonic to the gin, and taking a generous mouthful. Perhaps she should have chosen something more innocuous, she reflected, aware that she was probably going to need to keep her wits about her this evening. But right then she needed the boost that only alcohol could give her.

  ’I’ve been telling Mrs Perry about the clinic,’ said Sharon, not altogether truthfully, and Olivia guessed she was warning her against making some unwary comment. ‘You wouldn’t believe what people will do to get money to support their drug habit.’ She smiled artlessly into Conor’s eyes. ‘Con’s ever so patient with them. I sometimes think I should become one of his addicts myself. I might get more attention that way.’

  Olivia didn’t know where to look. Instead of returning Sharon’s gaze, Conor had turned his eyes on her, and she wondered if he knew how uncomfortable she felt. But, of course, he must do, she thought bitterly, remembering how effortlessly he had read her thoughts before. He was probably enjoying this. Waiting to see how she would react to the situation.

  But, to her surprise, it was Conor who saved her embarrassment. ‘I’d guess Liv has to deal with enough drug-related offences, without wanting to spend the evening talking about them,’ he remarked evenly. ‘And call her Olivia, will you? She’s not my mother!’

  ’Oh, thanks!’

  Olivia’s mollification was short-lived, as Conor’s mouth curled into a most infuriating smile. The pig! He was enjoying this, she thought angrily, glaring at him. But one thing was certain. She was not going to pander to his ego.

  ’My pleasure,’ he responded silkily, and Sharon put her glass back on the table with a decided snap.

  ’I’ve told—Olivia—about the boutique,’ she intervened, o
bviously not enthusiastic about using the other woman’s Christian name, but unwilling to be ignored. ‘She might like to call in some time. We sell clothes to—to everyone.’

  Including older women, appended Olivia drily, but at least Sharon’s words had attracted Conor’s attention.

  ’I’m sure Liv appreciates the offer, but I doubt she’ll take you up on it,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a trek to Ashford, and Liv doesn’t drive.’

  ’Yes, I do.’ Despite her misgivings, Olivia couldn’t let him get away with that. ‘I admit I haven’t brought the car with me. But I do have one. In spite of everything,’ she finished, a trifle smugly.

  Conor’s gaze was interrogative now. ‘You’ve had approval from your doctor?’

  ’Yes.’ Olivia took another swig of gin, resenting his implication.

  ’And it’s an automatic, I presume?’

  ’Yes,’ she said again. ‘Really, Conor, I’m not an invalid! However disappointing that may be!’

  It was an unforgivable thing to say, and she regretted it almost at once. Looking away towards the bar, where Tom Drake was leaning on the counter, chatting with one of his cronies, she wondered if she could just make some excuse and join them. Anything would be better than spending the evening fending off Sharon’s spite and Conor’s sympathy.

  An uneasy silence had fallen now, and she was almost relieved when Sharon said, ‘Oughtn’t we to be leaving? You did say you’d booked the table for eight, didn’t you, Con? And if the roads are slippy …’

  ’What? Oh—yes, I guess so.’ Conor swallowed the remainder of the orange juice in his glass, and set it back on the table. He paused, and then said quietly, ‘Are you ready, Liv? You can leave the rest of your drink, if you want to. We’ll have some wine when we get to the Roundhouse.’

  The Roundhouse. Olivia absorbed the name he had used without recognition. But, contrarily, she chose to empty the contents of her glass before rising, meeting his gaze with a defiant one of her own, because she didn’t have an alternative.

  If Sharon was aware of the undercurrent between them as they drove the three miles to the restaurant, she chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, she kept up an incessant chatter about the girl she worked with at the boutique, and other friends Conor seemed to know. And, as Olivia was ensconced in the back of the car, and didn’t know any of these people anyway, her isolation was complete.

  The Roundhouse turned out to be a converted windmill, whose stark white-painted façade belied the colourful warmth within. A mirror-backed bar adjoined the circular restaurant, and there was a comfortable air of bustle, and the delightful smell of good food.

  Sharon hadn’t brought an overcoat with her, but Conor suggested Olivia might like to leave hers in the cloakroom. It would be easier than having it draped over her chair all evening, and she was glad of the opportunity to escape for a few moments.

  There were two women already in the cloakroom, chatting to the attendant, but Olivia was aware that their eyes were drawn to her as she limped across the floor. She was beginning to realise how frustrating it could be to be disabled. She wished people would just ignore her, or treat her like everyone else. She didn’t want their sympathy. She didn’t need it.

  The face that looked back at her from the mirror was no more appealing. She should never have worn the cherry lipstick, she thought. It looked too bright and garish, and the speed with which she had downed the gin and tonic had brought an unnatural blush of colour to her cheeks. It wouldn’t surprise her if Sharon thought she was having hot flushes, she brooded cynically. It would be all one with the way the girl was treating her. And she wasn’t improving matters by acting like a shrew.

  The truth was that she had got out of the habit of being in company, she admitted. Since the accident, she had tended to avoid social gatherings. Which was one of the reasons why returning to work had not been such a good idea. She seemed to have lost the ability to communicate with people. She needed a breathing space. A time for her mind to mend, as well as her body.

  To her relief, the two women departed before she was ready to hand over her coat. And then, delivering it to the attendant, she discovered she had made another error of judgement. They hadn’t been gossiping about her at all.

  ’Isn’t it awful,’ the attendant sighed, ‘losing a child so young? I expect you heard that lady say her daughter had just died of leukaemia, didn’t you? Only thirteen, she was. Poor woman. How do you get over something like that?’

  Olivia made some suitable rejoinder, and emerged from the cloakroom feeling duly chastened. When she saw Conor and Sharon waiting for her by the bar she determined to be more positive. It wasn’t their fault she wasn’t enjoying the evening, she told herself. She was far too sensitive about herself, and they were bearing the brunt. She had to stop looking for trouble, and stop being so touchy.

  ’I’ve got you a glass of white wine,’ Conor said now, handing it to her, and Olivia squashed the unworthy thought that he was treating her like Sharon. All the same, she couldn’t help wondering if he doubted her ability to hold her liquor. Did he imagine she must have been tipsy to have made that insulting remark earlier?

  With her mind about to hop on to the old tack, she remembered what she had promised herself as she came to join them. Conor had bought her a drink, that was all. She ought to be grateful. Besides, the wine was nice, and probably much better for her.

  ’Our table’s almost ready,’ said Sharon, checking one of the gold studs she wore in her ear with a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘The food here’s really special. You ought to try the watercress mousse. It practically melts in your mouth.’

  ’I may do that.’ Olivia was pleased to hear her voice sounded reasonably friendly as she responded to Sharon’s suggestion. ‘Do you come here often? I suppose it’s fairly handy.’

  ’Sometimes. If we don’t feel like making a meal,’ responded Sharon cosily, giving Conor an intimate smile. ‘But we don’t mind staying in, do we, Con? We don’t need a lot of entertaining. We can entertain ourselves.’

  ’I’m sure you can.’

  Olivia buried her nose in her glass and wished for the waiter to come and save her from herself. But dear God, did the girl have to be so obvious? They lived together. Conor had as good as said as much. So what of it? It didn’t mean anything to her.

  To her relief, her prayers were answered, the dark-coated maître d’ arrived at that moment to escort them to their table near the window. In the polite process of choosing where each of them was going to sit, Olivia was able to relax, and she was happy to use the excuse of studying the menu to avoid any further eye-contact with Conor.

  But when their orders had been taken there was nothing to prevent him from looking directly at her, and she wondered if it had been such a good idea to avoid the seat next to his. And, in an effort to try and restore the conversation to a more casual footing, she determinedly asked him how his aunt was, and whether she still lived in Florida.

  ’Still in the same house,’ agreed Conor, lounging indolently in his chair. ‘We’re a consistent family. We like familiarity. And my aunt has a lot of friends in Port Douglas.’

  ’I’m sure.’ Olivia ignored the reproof, and persevered, ‘I suppose your cousins are married now. Do they live in Port Douglas, too?’

  ’One of them does,’ Conor conceded evenly. ‘The other lives in California. But they come home fairly regularly. It’s a big house. There’s lots of room.’

  ’And I suppose you go home fairly regularly, too,’ Olivia ventured, feeling a little more confident, but when she lifted her head Conor’s expression was less than encouraging.

  ’Paget is my home,’ he declared, his eyes as cool as ice-floes. ‘Why else d’you think I wanted to keep the house?’

  ’Well …’ Olivia shrugged. ‘I thought—after living in the United States for so many years—–’

  ’Only nine years, Liv. I’ve been back in England for quite some time. I was a resident at a hospital in London, before I came back to
Paget.’

  Olivia licked her dry lips. ‘Oh! I didn’t know.’

  ’How could you? You were too busy with your own life.’ Conor almost made it sound like a criticism. ‘So, tell us,’ he continued, ‘what does your husband do for a living?’

  Olivia hesitated. Knowing what she did about Conor, there was no earthly reason why she should choose to keep her divorce a secret any longer. But the idea of confessing her inability to sustain a relationship to Sharon brought an unwelcome tightness to her throat.

  ’He—I—a sales manager,’ she got out jerkily, immediately ashamed of her dishonesty. ‘He—works for an electrical manufacturer,’ she added, when it became apparent that something more was needed. ‘Food processors, blenders, that sort of stuff.’

  ’Ooh, I bet you have all the latest gadgets in your kitchen,’ exclaimed Sharon, half enviously, and Olivia felt even worse.

  ’Not necessarily,’ she mumbled, and once again she was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of the wine waiter. The discussion that ensued erased any further need to elaborate, and happily Sharon seemed to prefer talking about her own affairs to anyone else’s.

  The food lived up to Sharon’s prediction, and although Olivia found it difficult to do it justice she couldn’t deny that the delicate mousse and juicy steak were every bit as delicious as she could wish. But, even though Sharon monopolised Conor’s attention for most of the meal, her appetite was practically non-existent. In consequence, she drank rather more of the fine claret Conor had ordered than perhaps she should have done, and when they rose from the table her unsteadiness wasn’t wholly the result of her injury.

  As though sensing her uncertainty, Conor moved round the table to put his hand beneath her elbow, and although Olivia cast him an indignant look she couldn’t deny she needed his support. Just till she got her balance, she told herself, as his strong fingers bit into her arm. He probably resented having to do this just as much as she did.