by Liz Fielding
Not moving because he knew what he would see in those tender green and gold eyes.
Understanding, pity, a smile that let him off the hook and the awkwardness of a morning after that neither of them knew how to deal with.
Not moving, because the moment she woke it would be over.
He’d drifted back into the kind of sleep that had eluded him for more than a year and the next time he woke, hours later, it was to a note propped against a cold mug of tea.
I’m taking the new aircraft back to base. Take my two-seater, or the train runs hourly at seven minutes past.
See you Monday.
M.
Bright and businesslike, a forget-it-and-move-on message. He couldn’t leave it like that and he couldn’t wait for the train.
He’d flown her little aircraft back to base, his need to see her, reassure her, overriding the PTSD he’d been experiencing since Rachel’s crash. In the darkness of that night there had been no thought of protection and he needed her to know that she was safe, but by the time he touched down no one was answering at her flat and her car was gone.
She must have anticipated the possibility of him turning up at her door, tongue-tied, not knowing what to say and chosen to put some distance between them so that she could face him in the office on Monday morning as if nothing had happened.
It was, undoubtedly, the sensible thing to do and, maybe, if he’d been there on Monday, a shared look would have been enough to get them past that first awkward moment, but on Sunday night the call had come from Cyprus. His local partner had been hurt in a car crash and he’d had to fly out to take control.
He’d told himself that he would call her; he’d picked up the phone a dozen times and then put it down again. Unable to see her face, read her body language, have a clue what she was thinking, he had no idea what to say. Men were from Mars…
His father relied on flowers to cover the word gap and he’d got as far as logging onto an online florist but stalled at the first hurdle when he was invited to choose an occasion. Birthday, anniversary, every cause for celebration you could imagine. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t an option that would cover this particular scenario.
And what flowers?
His father had been lucky—all it took was a tired bunch of chrysanthemums from the garage forecourt to provoke an eye roll, a shake of the head and a smile from his mother.
His own experience of married life suggested that nothing less than long-stemmed red roses would do if you were grovelling. No power on earth would induce him to send them to Miranda.
She deserved more. Much more. She deserved to hear him say the words. If only he could work out what they were.
He’d arrived back from Cyprus determined to clear the air but she was in the Gulf picking up a couple of mares that were booked for a visit to stud. Then he was in France and so it had gone on. Maybe it was coincidence, but if someone had arranged their schedules to keep them apart they couldn’t have done a better job.
Miranda couldn’t change his schedule, but she could swap her own around. Clearly she needed space and he’d had to allow her that.
Until today.
He’d flown back from Ireland determined that, no matter what, he’d talk to her. He still could.
‘I’ll stop by on the way home and take her some grapes,’ he said. It was okay to be concerned about someone you’d known, worked with for years. And grapes didn’t have the dangerously emotive subtext of flowers. Red, black, white—they were just grapes.
‘You’ll have a wasted journey. She checked the times of the trains to London before she left and then called her sister to let her know what time she’d be arriving.’
‘Which sister?’
‘Portia was on the box covering the post-awards parties, she’d have flown home if it was Immi, so it must be the one with the Royal Ballet.’
‘Posy. Did she say how long she’d be away?’
‘She asked me to take her off the schedule for a month.’
‘A month!’
‘She’s worked a lot of extra days covering for other people, including you. She’s owed six weeks.’ She gestured in the direction of his office. ‘Maybe she said more in the note she left on your desk.’
A cold, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach as he saw the sealed envelope with his name written neatly in Miranda’s handwriting.
He didn’t have to open it to know that she wasn’t coming back.
He sat down, read the brief note saying that she was taking leave owed in lieu of notice. She didn’t give a reason; she didn’t have to. Determined not to let this happen, he reached for the phone.
‘Imogen, it’s Cleve Finch.’
‘Hi, Cleve. What can I do for you? There isn’t a problem with the new aircraft?’
‘No… No, it’s fine. I just need Posy’s address.’
‘Posy?’ She sounded surprised, but there was nothing guarded in her response. Evidently Miranda hadn’t shared what had happened with her twin.
‘I’m going to be in London this evening and I wanted to drop something off for Miranda,’ he said, trotting out the excuse he’d rehearsed. ‘Obviously I’d have asked her for the address but her phone appears to be switched off. She is staying with Posy?’
‘You’re kidding. Posy has a room you couldn’t swing a cat in. Andie was just dropping in to pick up the keys before catching her flight.’
‘Flight?’ So much for his plan to take her out to dinner somewhere, talk things through. ‘Where’s she gone?’
‘To L’Isola dei Fiori. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘I’ve been in Ireland all week.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Posy inherited an amazing old house from her godmother. It’s got a fabulous conservatory and the most glorious gardens…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I imagine they’re all overgrown.’ There was a little sigh. ‘We used to stay there in the school holidays. It was magic.’
‘I’m sure it was wonderful, but—’
‘Sorry, I was having a moment… Posy can’t get away until late summer and she’s been worried about leaving it empty so Andie’s using her leave to give it an airing. It’s a bit off the beaten track,’ she added. ‘She might not get a signal. Is it important or will it wait until she comes back?’
‘What?’
‘Whatever you were going to drop off at Posy’s?’
‘Yes… No…’
She laughed. ‘Okay…’
‘Yes, it’s important. No, it won’t wait,’ he said, quickly.
‘In that case you’ll want her address.’
CHAPTER THREE
ANDIE GATHERED HERSELF AND, having braved the door for a second time, discovered that it was the scullery ceiling that had sagged and was blocking the door.
Afraid she’d bring the whole lot down if she tried to force her way in, she trundled her wheelie and shopping around to the main entrance, found the correct heavy iron key and let herself in.
There were no worries about wet sandy feet messing up the gleaming marble tiled floor now. It was thick with dust and there was a drift of feathers where a bird must have got in through the roof and panicked.
She gave a little shiver, hoping that it had got out again.
Everywhere was shuttered. The only light was from the open door and, as the sun slid behind the mountains, that was fading fast. Using her bag to prop the door open, she crossed to a light switch but when she flicked it down nothing happened. She tried another in case it was just a duff bulb but with the same result.
She’d remembered the house as inviting, full of light, air, laughter. She’d never given a thought to how it might be in the winter, to be alone here, but the damp chill, dark shadows were weirdly creepy and suddenly this didn’t seem such a great idea.
She could manage with candles for light—there had always been tall white candles in silver holders throwing their soft light in the evenings—but she was going to need hot water to clean the place up.
If rainwater had
got into the wiring she was in trouble.
She hurried through the house opening shutters, letting in what light remained before braving the cupboard under the stairs in search of a fuse box.
There was good news and bad news. The bad news was that this had to be a regular occurrence. The good news meant that there was a torch and fuse wire on top of the old-fashioned fuse box.
More bad news was that the torch battery was on its last legs and she checked the fuses as quickly as she could, found the blown one and had just finished when the torch died. She shoved it back into place and breathed a sigh of relief as a light came on in the hall.
She carried her shopping into the old-fashioned kitchen. Someone had had the sense to leave the door of the huge old fridge open. It would need a good wash down but holding her breath in case it blew another fuse, she switched it on at the mains, still holding her breath as it stuttered before reluctantly humming to life.
Better.
She tried a tap. Nothing. The same someone had sensibly turned off the water and drained the tank.
She left the taps turned fully on and looked under the sink for a stopcock. It wasn’t there and she opened the door to the scullery.
It was a mess. Directly below the damaged part of the roof the rain had seeped down through the upper floor and the ceiling was sagging dangerously and she certainly wasn’t about to risk switching on the light.
Using the little light spilling in through the kitchen door, she picked her way across the debris to the big old sink in the corner and opened the door of the cupboard beneath it.
Something scuttled across her foot and she jumped back, skin goosed, heart pounding.
It was a mouse, she told herself. Not a spider. She’d seen a tail. She was almost sure she’d seen a tail…
Swallowing hard—and desperately trying to think why she’d thought this was a good idea—she bent down and peered into the cupboard. It was too dark to see anything and too deep for her to be able to reach the stopcock without getting down on her hands and knees and sticking her head inside. She swallowed again, knelt gingerly and, with a little squeak as her face brushed against cobwebs, made a grab for the tap handle.
She was about to give it a turn when the bright beam of a torch lit up the inside of the cupboard to reveal the thick festoon of cobwebs and a startled mouse frozen in the spotlight.
Then, out of the darkness, a man’s voice rapped a sharp, ‘Come?’
Already on edge, a notch away from a scream, she leapt back, caught her head on the edge of the cupboard and saw stars.
‘Mi dispiace, signora…’
Too damn late to be sorry…
‘Don’t dispiace me!’ Andie staggered to her feet and, hand on top of her ringing head, turned furiously on the intruder. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Oh, you’re English.’
‘What in the name of glory has that got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Epic fail,’ she retaliated gamely, but her shaky voice wouldn’t have scared the mice, let alone the man standing in the doorway, blocking out what little light there was. Half blinding her with his torch. She put up her arm to shield her eyes from the glare. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Matthew Stark.’ He lowered the torch, took a step forward, began to offer her his hand but wisely thought better of it. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on the villa for the owner.’
‘Oh? She didn’t mention you when I picked up the keys. Rosalind Marlowe is my sister.’
‘Rosalind?’
‘She prefers Posy.’ She would have cursed her sister for not warning her that she had appointed a caretaker but she’d carefully timed her arrival at her sister’s digs for the moment when she would be dashing off to warm up for the evening performance. Sisters had a way of looking at you and instantly knowing that something was wrong. ‘I’m Miranda Marlowe.’
‘Oh…’ He sighed with relief, clearly not that keen on evicting a squatter. ‘Of course. You were at the funeral. If she’d let me know you were arriving I would have come up earlier and turned on the water. Checked that everything was working.’
‘It was a last-minute decision and, since I’m the practical one in the family, she knew I could handle a stopcock—’ spiders were something else and, stepping back to let him in, she said, ‘—but knock yourself out, Matthew Stark.’
‘Of course.’ He stepped forward.
‘Don’t stand on the mouse,’ she warned.
‘You like mice?’
‘Not in the kitchen, but I don’t want to have to clean up the bloody body of one you’ve squashed with your size tens.’
‘Right,’ he said, his tone clearly that of a man who wished he’d stayed at home. ‘No squashed mice…’
That was one squashed mouse too many and her stomach heaved as he ducked beneath the sink. He immediately backed out again and looked up at her. Breathing through the wave of nausea, she was grateful for the dark.
‘You’d better turn the tap on or the air—’
‘It’s already done,’ she snapped.
‘Of course it is,’ he muttered.
He re-emerged from the cupboard a moment later with a cobweb decorating his hair, which made her feel marginally more generously disposed towards him.
They retreated to the kitchen; he brushed the dust off his hands. ‘Shall we start again? And it’s Matt, by the way. Nobody calls me Matthew.’
‘Andie,’ she replied discouragingly as the pipes began to clang and air spurted noisily from the tap. ‘How did you know I was here? Did I trip an alarm?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. No mobile signal, no Internet. I saw the light.’
‘Very low tech.’
‘You work with what you have. We were Sofia’s nearest neighbours as we live at the edge of the village. I looked out for her.’ He looked around. ‘Are you staying here on your own?’
She recognised that his question was provoked by concern—obviously if there had been anyone else in the house they would have appeared by now—but, conscious of her isolation, she responded with a question of her own.
‘You knew Sofia? How was she? I hadn’t seen her for several years before she died.’
‘Independent, crotchety, glamorous to the end and impossible to help but she was kind to my mother. She’s crippled with arthritis, which is why we came to the island. For the warmth, the hot springs,’ he added.
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘It is what it is. She was using the spa at Sant’Aria but when Sofia heard she invited her to use the hot spring here on the beach whenever she liked. I laid some decking across the sand which made it easier for both of them to access the pool. I think she enjoyed having someone to talk to.’
‘My grandmother still came when she could.’
‘Yes. I met her once… Posy is happy to continue with the arrangement until the house is sold.’
She sensed a question and nodded. ‘Your mother is welcome any time.’
‘Thanks.’ He looked around. ‘This isn’t exactly home from home. Do you need any help clearing up? That ceiling is a mess.’
‘Are you a builder?’ she asked.
‘No, but I can handle a broom.’
He obviously meant well but she just wanted to lie down.
‘I think it’s going to need a little more than that but if you don’t mind I’ll worry about that in the morning.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Long day, rough crossing,’ she said, letting go of the chair back she was clutching for support. ‘And the taxi ride up here was rather more exciting than I’m used to.’
He didn’t look convinced but he let it go. ‘If you’re sure, I’ll leave you in peace.’ He paused at the door. ‘There’s no phone line but you’ll find a cord by the bed in the master suite and another by the sofa in her little sitting room. If you need any
thing, a tug will ring a bell I rigged up in the garden. I will usually hear it. Very low tech,’ he added, a touch sarcastically, ‘but—’
‘You work with what you have.’
He’d put himself out, come running when he thought Posy’s house was being robbed and she’d been barely polite.
‘Thank you, Matt. You’ve been a very good neighbour and I promise you, I’m a much nicer person when I’ve had eight hours’ sleep.’
‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright.’
‘You saved me from having to stick my head in a cupboard full of cobwebs,’ she said, with a little shiver. ‘You are totally forgiven.’
He smiled, nodded, headed for the door. She watched him out of sight then shut the door and locked it, returned to the kitchen. The water was now running freely and she turned off the taps.
She had light and water, all she needed now was somewhere to sleep. Sofia had a master suite on the ground floor but she couldn’t bring herself to use that. As children they’d slept upstairs and she had fondly imagined curling up in her childhood bed, watching the lights of passing ships. Right now the prospect wasn’t that inviting.
The stairs were cobweb festooned, littered with stuff she didn’t want to examine too closely. No worries about what she was going to be doing tomorrow. Cleaning…
She brushed her teeth in the downstairs cloakroom, washed her face in cold water.
There was a throw on a sofa in the room Sofia had called her ‘snug’. Andie opened the French doors, hung it over the edge of the veranda so that any creepy crawlies would fall down into the garden and gave it a thorough shake.
Out in the distance she could see the lights of a ship and she paused for a moment, leaning on the wall, breathing in the fresh air coming off the sea. Then a yawn caught her and she shut the French doors, climbed into her PJs and wrapped herself in the lightweight silk robe she’d packed, wishing she’d brought her fleecy one.
Having located the bell cord and tied it up safely out of harm’s way—the last thing she needed was to set it off and have Matt racing back convinced that she had a concussion—she stretched out and was asleep almost before she’d closed her eyes.