by Anne Mather
‘I’m all right, honestly.’ Sara sat up, pushing back the weight of her hair with a hasty hand, and forcing a smile to her lips. ‘But all this rain…’ She indicated the wet day beyond the double-glazed windows. ‘It’s so depressing.’
‘Hmm.’ Stringer frowned, positioning himself in front of her, arms folded like some mediaeval inquisitor. ‘You’re sure that’s all it is? You’ve not been overdoing things? I mean,’ he paused significantly, ‘I heard about you and Fielding. I believe you used to be quite close.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Sara lay back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head, unconsciously drawing his attention to the rounded curve of her breasts, the burgeoning fullness, that swelled against the thin silk of her navy shirt. Stringer had always been aware of her in the office, of her quiet intelligence and unassuming personality, but never before had he been so sensible to her latent sexuality, to an innate femininity about her that seemed curiously to have been awakened. He was a married man, after all, with a wife and three sturdy sons to his credit, but for once he felt a stirring of emotion that had nothing to do with the paternal attitude he usually adopted towards her. Was Fielding responsible for this? He couldn’t believe it. But she had definitely changed since her holiday in the West Country, and even the lines of weariness around her eyes had a languorous attraction all their own.
‘You can tell me to mind my own business, if you like,’ he was continuing, when she lowered her arms again and said:
‘My association with Tony Fielding ended weeks ago, Arthur. Oh, I admit, I was pretty upset at the time, but since then…’ She paused. ‘As it happens, he rang me a couple of days ago. I told him I didn’t want to see him any more.’
Stringer sighed. ‘He found out, didn’t he? About—well, about your heart condition.’
Sara nodded, without rancour. ‘Diane told him. I suppose she did me a favour.’
‘Huh!’ Stringer snorted. ‘I doubt that was her intention. But never mind. So—you really are okay?’
‘Okay,’ Sara echoed, resting her elbows on her desk again. ‘But it was nice of you to ask. I appreciate that.’
Stringer hesitated. He was a squat man, square and sturdy, with a mat of curly brown hair and a long, intelligent face. In his forties now, he had started with the firm when he was a teenager, and had risen to the position of Managing Director. Yet for all that he had never lost his Derbyshire accent, or his consideration for every member of their staff. He was well liked, and popular among his contemporaries, and there had never been a shred of scandal attached to his name, even though he met some of the most successful women writers in the world. But at this moment he had an almost overwhelming impulse to lay it all on the line, and ask this young woman to have lunch with him.
‘Sara…’ He leant forward, resting his square capable hands on the edge of her desk, regarding her with restless intensity. ‘Sara, if there’s anything I can do…’
‘There’s not.’ Her cool response sobered him, and with a feeling of impotence he left it there.
After he had gone, however, Sara could not deny the faintly warming sensation, deep inside her. Arthur cared, she thought in amazement. He really cared what happened to her. The world was not such a harsh place, after all.
Two days later Diane telephoned.
Sara had half expected her to do so, and her immediate impulse was to replace the receiver without responding, but Diane was ready for that.
‘I’ve seen Michael,’ she said at once, and although she knew she was all kinds of a fool, Sara had to answer her.
‘You—have?’ she queried, striving for nonchalance, while her mind fragmented with images of Michael and Diane together. ‘So? Why are you telling me?’
‘Oh, come on…’ Diane was not to be put off that easily. ‘Don’t pretend it doesn’t interest you, because I just don’t believe it. You’re interested all right. Would you like to know why he came to see me?’
‘Not particularly.’ Sara’s voice was tight now, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Was it something to do with Adam’s will? I believe he owned Ravens Mi—’
‘It wasn’t to do with Adam!’ declared Diane tersely. ‘Do you honestly think Michael cares whether or not I own Ravens Mill or he does?’ She hesitated. ‘No. It was to do with you.’
‘Me?’ Sara almost squeaked the word, and Diane said: ‘Yes, you!’ with sardonic irony.
Sara’s palm was moist against the handpiece of the receiver. Michael had gone to see Diane? About her? She could guess why, but what had Diane told him?
‘Don’t you want to know what he wanted?’ Diane asked now, echoing her thoughts, and realising it was better to be forewarned, Sara forced a low murmur of assent. ‘He wanted to ask me about you—about your condition,’ Diane continued. ‘Apparently you’d given him some story about having asthma. Asthma! I ask you. Honestly, Sara, couldn’t you do better than that?’ Sara’s legs gave out on her, and she sought the comfort of her couch. ‘But you—told him the truth, of course?’ she whispered weakly, and Diane’s scornful laughter was answer enough.
‘My dear, what else could I do? Faced with the man! I mean, I didn’t know what pitiful little story you’d trumped up. Heavens, I assumed he knew! I thought all he’d come to me for was the details. You know—how serious it is, and what the chances of living a normal life are.’
‘And—and what did he say?’ Sara had to know. She had to hear how he had reacted. At least from Diane she could be sure of learning the worst.
‘Well…’ Diane considered her words, ‘he was shocked naturally. And maybe a little—relieved.’
‘Relieved?’
‘Of course. Darling, can you imagine his feelings? He’d asked you to marry him. I suppose he was realising what a lucky escape he’d had.’
Sara gasped at this, and as if regretting the callousness of her words, Diane tried to make amends. ‘Well, dear, it has to be faced, hasn’t it? No man—particularly a man as—well, strong and virile as Michael Tregower, wants to be tied to an invalid for the rest of his life.’ She made a sound of impatience, before continuing: ‘I must say he’s not at all like his brother. What a pity he was in South America when I met Adam. He and I are much more alike than Adam and I ever were. We know what we want, and we go and get it. I couldn’t honestly see him allowing me the freedom Adam did, and who knows, I might have been a better person because of it.’ She paused. ‘Still, there’s world enough and time, as they say.’
Sara’s throat felt choked. ‘You mean—you mean—’
‘Oh, darling, don’t be silly.’ Diane laughed again. ‘Right now, all my handsome brother-in-law wants to do is to get out of England, as quickly as possible. He hasn’t even seen me—yet. But we are related, and whether he likes it or not, Adam did have shares in the Los Santos Mining Corporation. So you see…’
Her voice trailed away, and Sara sat there, holding the telephone, mesmerised by what she had just heard. She had thought she couldn’t be hurt any more, but she was wrong, terribly wrong. She felt shattered, absolutely shattered, and more depressed than she had ever felt in her life before.
‘Sara! Sara!’ There was a note of anxiety in Diane’s voice now, and realising she had to say something, Sara took a deep painful breath.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, you’re still there, thank goodness.’ Diane sounded relieved. ‘I only wanted to add one more thing…’
‘What is it?’
‘Well—just that I’d like to see you again Sara—’
‘No!’
‘Listen to me!’ Diane was appealing now. ‘Sara, you can’t blame me for what’s happened. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘You sent me to Ravens Mill,’ insisted Sara dully, but Diane continued to protest.
‘I didn’t know Michael was there, did I? I thought Adam—’
‘Adam!’ Sara’s voice was bitter. ‘Poor Adam! I know how you must have felt.’
‘Sara!’ Diane sounded horrified. ‘My God, yo
u wouldn’t—no. No, you wouldn’t. Sara, no man is worth it, believe me, I know. Even Adam had his revenge of sorts. And there was I terrified because I thought he might—might—’
‘Might what, Diane?’ Sara forced the words from her lips. ‘Exactly what did you think Adam might do?’
Diane heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. He—that is, Michael—wrote me a letter, describing among other things the chemical reaction of—of sulphuric acid on—on human flesh!’
‘Oh, no!’ Sara was horrified now. ‘And you let me—’
‘I had my career to think of,’ Diane pleaded urgently. ‘Try to put yourself in my place, Sara. If—if I’d been disfigured—besides,’ she added quickly, ‘a blind man could hardly be completely accurate.’
‘You’ve just thought of that,’ exclaimed Sara accusingly.
‘Adam would know you were not me,’ insisted Diane.
‘How? He was blind, as you said. How could he have known? Unless he was prepared to give me a chance to speak for myself.’
‘It’s all supposition anyway. Adam was dead—’
‘You didn’t know that.’
‘Oh, Sara—’
But Sara had replaced her receiver, shocked and sick to her stomach. Diane was completely unscrupulous, selfish and self-centred. Why hadn’t she realised it until now? Why hadn’t she been able to see what everyone else appeared to have known all along?
With nausea rising in her throat, she stumbled into the bathroom and relieved herself at the basin. She seldom was sick, but right now, all she could think of was what might have happened if Michael had been as cruel and unscrupulous as Diane.
* * *
There were times during the following days when she was desperately tempted to confide in Arthur Stringer. In a world of hostile faces, he seemed the only friend she had. But in spite of his kindness she had seen something else in his expression, and she had more emotional complications than she could deal with as it was. She didn’t blame Michael. It was what she had expected, after all. But somehow she had expected pity, not revulsion.
It was stupid, she knew, particularly after the way she had acted, but there had been times when she had believed she might see him again. It had just been a tiny glimmer of hope, but now even that had been extinguished, and she felt terribly alone.
Time, however, had its own methods of healing, and by the end of the second week she had almost convinced herself that if Michael had been so easily deterred, he could not—he could never have been—the man she had imagined him to be. Cold comfort, but how could she have loved someone who never even existed? she asked herself logically, and then cried herself to sleep because love was illogical.
The weather eventually changed, and with the disappearance of the rain, the sun came to brighten London’s grey streets. Sara determinedly took to walking home from work, telling herself that the exercise would do her good, and ignoring the persistent small voice inside her that chided her efforts to exhaust her too-vivid imagination. But how could she not think of Michael and what he might be doing, particularly when Diane’s play folded at the Tabasco, and it was stated in the papers that she was going to take a long holiday?
There were flower-sellers at every street corner, and sometimes Sara bought herself a bunch of anemones or violets, burying her nose in their fragrance, trying to recapture her love of simple things she had once taken for granted. How long ago those days seemed, when she had known peace of mind. Was it really Tony who had changed all that, or had it been an inevitable progression? If being hurt was part of living, why should she have imagined she would be immune?
One evening, about a month after her return from Cornwall, she rounded the corner of Dolphin Grove to find a dark brown Mini parked on the double yellow lines outside the flats. It was unusual to find any cars parked in Dolphin Grove. An adequate underground parking area had been provided for the use of the tenants of Dolphin Court, and visitors invariably parked in the adjoining thoroughfare, where there were parking meters. Still, it was nothing to do with her if someone chose to run the risk of confronting an irate traffic warden, and she entered the building with a characteristic shrug of her slim shoulders.
Her eyes were blinded for a moment by the sudden change from sunlight to shadowy interior, but she saw the silhouette of the man who stepped into her path, and her heart leapt suffocatingly into her throat. Blinking in disbelief, she gazed up at him, then shook her head rapidly as he reached for her.
‘Sara…’ His voice was just as disruptively sensual as she remembered, his open-necked denim shirt and tight-fitting jeans accentuating his powerful masculinity. ‘Oh, Sara, it’s been too long…’
Sara’s hands sought his upper arms, holding him off with what little resistance she had. She had to fight the urge to surrender to his eager embrace, but she realised how puny her efforts would be if he chose to impose his will. Nevertheless she had to make the attempt, though her voice shook as she said tightly: ‘What are you doing here, Michael? How did you get my address? I thought we agreed—’
‘We didn’t agree to anything,’ he corrected her dryly, his hands at her waist warm through the thin cotton shirt she was wearing. ‘Now, can we go somewhere more private? I have things to say to you.’
‘No!’ Sara tried to draw back from him. ‘I mean, there’s nothing to say. It’s all been said. Please—I’m hot and tired. I need a shower and a change of clothes. I think it would be much better if you left—right now.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Sorry, but I have no intention of leaving here until you and I have had time to sort things out. Now, do we go to your flat, or do I have to take you to my hotel room? It’s all the same to me.’
Sara glanced behind her. ‘That’s—your Mini out there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But it’s a no-parking area.’
‘Big deal.’ Michael’s tone was ironic. ‘Sara—love!’ She quivered at the husky endearment. ‘Don’t let’s waste any more time. I know about your heart condition, and that’s what I want to talk to you about. But not here. Not in this public lobby, a source of entertainment to anyone who passes through!’
Sara licked her lips. His words were a powerful inducement, and she longed to give in to him. It would be so much easier to let him have his way with her, so much more desirable, but wasn’t she only compounding her foolishness? So he knew about her illness. What did that mean? What difference did it make? Only that Diane had been wrong when she said he had been eager to leave the country. Or perhaps he had left, and come back again. Perhaps he had had second thoughts…Whatever his reason for being here, they did not alter the impossibility of the situation.
‘Michael,’ she began again, ‘I—I’m flattered that—that you still want to see me, but—’
‘God!’ His temper erupted violently. ‘Sara, give me your key. The key to your flat, yes. Where is it? In your handbag?’ He jerked the leather purse out of her hands and opened it forcefully, the contents rattling together noisily as he rummaged for her key ring. ‘Are these them? Yes? Good. Shall we take the lift?’
Sara felt powerless to resist his overwhelming determination. It was all very well berating herself for giving in to his demands, but short of running away from him, what else could she do? He was bigger than she was, and infinitely stronger, and sooner or later he was bound to get his own way. She could only hope her spirit was less fickle than her flesh.
CHAPTER TEN
HER FLAT WAS on the second floor, high above the central grove of poplars that gave the close its name. It was not big—just a bedroom and a living room, with a tiny kitchenette attached, and the use of a bathroom shared with the flat next door. An elderly spinster lived next door, who taught at the local primary school. She was a pleasant enough individual, but like Sara, she kept very much to herself, and they seldom met.
Michael fitted Sara’s key into the lock, and the door swung open into her small living room. Fortunately, the flats were let un
furnished, and Sara had been able to keep the best pieces of furniture from her mother’s house after it had been sold. The chairs that flanked the gas fireplace were upholstered in squashy green leather, and there were one or two good pictures on the plain emulsioned walls. Even the carpet underfoot was springy, and the choice of furnishings reflected Sara’s good taste. Despite its size, it was an attractive room, and she was glad she did not have to feel ashamed of it.
Michael allowed her to precede him into the flat, and then followed her more slowly, closing the door behind him. He was obviously intrigued by his surroundings, and she saw his eyes flickering over the old-fashioned gateleg table that stood against the wall, and the writing bureau, with its rosewood marquetry, which was so distinctive. His presence dwarfed the room, however, and she thought how cramped it must seem to him after the generously proportioned rooms he was probably used to.
‘So this is where you’ve been living since your mother died,’ he observed reflectively, straightening away from the door, and as she puzzled how he knew so much about her, he caught her by the shoulders and jerked her into his arms. ‘So long,’ he muttered, against her startled mouth. ‘Too long…much too long…’ and she felt her resistance fade beneath the searching hunger of his lips.
He kissed her many times, short passionate kisses, moving his mouth from one side of hers to the other, until she turned her face up to his, like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun, their lips meeting and clinging as if they would never let go. Her senses were swimming, her breathing was shallow and laboured, but then so was his, and his hands that tugged her shirt from the waistband of her skirt and spread against the column of her spine were hotly possessive.
‘Sara,’ he groaned, when she could feel the hardening length of him against her. ‘I’ll never let you go again. Never!’ And she had no will to deny the revealing response of her own body.
But with her weak and yielding against him, Michael lifted his head, pushing back the damp hair from her forehead, allowing his thumbs to move caressingly over her temples and the heated contours of her cheeks. He seemed to get an immense amount of satisfaction out of just looking at her, and although she was not unused to his appraisal, she could not help the feelings of self-consciousness it aroused. What was he thinking? she wondered anxiously. Was he searching for some revealing trait of her condition, or was he regretting already his impulse to come here after her?