by Penny Jordan
She was free. Really free, for the first time since Gary’s death. Without a backward glance, Lark walked out of the court and into the spring sunshine.
The London streets were busy, heavy with the sounds of traffic, a muted dull roar which suddenly sounded as triumphant as the most triumphal of all hymns. She wanted to dance down the street, to embrace almost everybody she saw. She wanted to cry out to them that she was free, that the ordeal was over. And yet, would they understand? No.
Probably, like the jury, they would have condemned her too, had they been given the chance.
A week later she wasn’t feeling anything like as euphoric. Reality had set in hard upon the heels of her initial exuberance. Since Gary’s death she had been living in a small bedsit she had managed to rent, but she had very little money of her own.
According to her aunt and uncle, the money that her parents had left her had been virtually swallowed up by her education. After school she had gone on to university, where she had obtained a Business Studies degree, and then it had taken her six months to find her first job.
Her bedsit was cold and damp, and she grimaced bitterly to herself as she sat huddled over its one-bar electric fire. Who would have believed that twelve months ago she had considered herself to be one of the luckiest people she knew? She had just landed her first job with a prestigious PR firm in the city. The salary hadn’t been very high, but the PR firm was a very high-profile one which handled a lot of famous names.
She had planned to stay there for two or three years to gain some initial experience, and then look for something better. When added to her salary and carefully eked out, the five thousand or so pounds that was left to her from her parents’ money would have just about lasted until she had been in a position to look for something better, but now all that was gone.
She had lost her job almost as soon as the news had broken. Her boss had called her into his office and explained to her in cool and bitingly unkind words that a high-profile PR firm could not afford to carry an employee whose name was splashed so notoriously all over the front pages of the nation’s gutter press. She had not been sacked, simply asked to resign.
That had been six months ago. Now there was virtually nothing left in her account at all. How on earth was she going to get another job, once any prospective employer learnt who she was?
She had an interview with her solicitor in the morning. He wouldn’t tell her what it was about on the telephone. Simply that there were matters he had to discuss with her.
There had been an uproar in the press over Crichtons’ decision to pull out of the case, of course. A spokesman for the company had made the astounding statement that, because of certain anomalies in the evidence, they had decided not to go ahead with the prosecution.
What anomalies? Lark wondered. As far as she could see, the case against her had been very definite indeed. Her solicitor had not been able to enlighten her, either. He had simply said that they had been very, very lucky indeed, and now, as far as the national papers were concerned, she was yesterday’s news.
What had happened? What Gary had done to her would haunt her all her life, she knew that. She would never be able to escape from it, never be able to get a job, make an application for a loan, do anything without referring to the fact that she had once been considered to be guilty of causing another person’s death. And, what was more, of forcing him to lie and steal from his employers.
She had even thought about changing her name. She was not by nature deceitful, and her pride scorned the subterfuge of deliberately lying to others. But what was she going to do—join the already long queue of young people living on state benefits? At this stage, she couldn’t see that she had any other option.
Her room was poorly lit and even more poorly furnished. She shared a bathroom with the other inhabitants of the run-down Victorian terrace. The drains smelled and the bathroom walls ran with damp.
She could never go back to her aunt and uncle. They would never forgive her for Gary’s death. They would never cease blaming her for what had happened to him, and she in turn would never ever be able to feel the same way about them again.
She had looked upon them as her parents. She had loved them and thought they loved her, even though she had always known that Gary, their own child, would come first. The last thing she had expected was that they would turn on her the way they had done. It had left her feeling as though her whole world had slipped out of focus, as though nothing had ever really been as she had imagined it.
Now what she really wanted to do if she was truthful with herself was to escape—but escape to where or to what? She had always been a rather solitary sort of person, perhaps initially because of her parents’ death. The abrupt shock of suddenly finding herself alone in the world at the age of eleven had had a profound effect upon her. Both at school and then later at university, she had been wary of too close a contact with others, of making friends, of allowing other people inside her carefully erected barriers; perhaps because, subconsciously, she was frightened that they would one day desert her as her childish mind had considered that her parents had done.
Logically, of course, she knew that their deaths had not been their fault, but children’s emotions did not respond to logic, and left scars which even adult analysis could not wholly remove.
Smart, businesslike clothes, bought for her new job and hanging on a free-standing rail in her shabby room, reproached her. Now it was hardly likely they would ever be worn. Certainly not for the purpose she had originally envisaged.
During the long, dark days when the court case was pending, she had taught herself to live just one hour at a time. To look no further than one hour ahead, if that. In fact, there had been times when she had felt so depressed that she had wondered whether it was worth being alive at all, but she quickly dismissed such dangerous thoughts.
Life was a gift, she had reminded herself fiercely. A gift that must not be wasted the way Gary had wasted his. She shivered again, but this time not because of any lack of heat. What had driven Gary to do what he had done?
She had known, of course, that he had always been a weak character, someone who did not like taking the blame for his actions. She had discovered that when they were children. Whenever they had been naughty and about to be found out, he had always somehow managed to ensure that she was the one to shoulder the blame. She had not objected in those days—perhaps because she had known instinctively that his parents would always support him against her. Had she known that? The thought was vaguely shocking. Could it be that she had somehow taught herself to love her aunt and uncle because she felt that her love was what she owed them? Could it be that she had never really felt that depth of affection for them at all, just as they had never felt any true affection for her? Had they perhaps always resented having to take her in, a solitary child, orphaned by the death of her parents? Parents who had not had the foresight to provide financially for a secure future for her.
Her uncle had had a good job, but there had always been a consciousness of money in the household. She remembered that, when they were children, her aunt had constantly reminded them how much their clothes had cost, how much their food had cost. She had never thought about it before, but could this have been what had led to Gary’s absorption with money? Could this have been what had led him into embezzlement?
Surely not! How many times over the past few months had she gone over and over the events leading up to Gary’s suicide? How many times had she queried what lay behind his actions? Had it simply been the fear of discovery? The knowledge that such discovery would lead to imprisonment? Or had there been something more—a more deep-rooted fear and unhappiness?
Despite the fact that his parents had spoilt him, they had not been physically affectionate adults. She remembered that, as children, she and Gary had constantly been reproved for demanding physical signs of affection.
Her parents had been different, and how she had missed their hugs and kisses during those f
irst two years with her aunt and uncle! Gradually she had learnt to accustom herself to their differing ways. Gradually she had learnt to keep her emotions to herself, and realised that if she was to gain her aunt and uncle’s approval she would have to learn a different code of behaviour.
How much of her true self had she repressed deliberately over those years? How much had she become the person that her aunt and uncle expected her to be rather than the person she genuinely wanted to be?
It was pointless thinking about that now. Nothing could change the past, but there was still the future, and somehow she was going to have to find a way to live through it. But how? No money; no job; no true home; no friends; no family. All she could see ahead of her was a black void of nothing.
It was true that she had made friends with some of the old men who worked the allotments down by the railway when, out of desperation, she had one day wandered down there from the Victorian terrace where she lived, looking for something to do.
She had stopped to chat to one of the men, and then later on had offered to help him with his weeding. The hard physical work had helped her over those initial, dark, early days when she had first discovered that Crichtons intended to prosecute her. One thing had led to another, and within a matter of weeks she had found that she was helping several of the elderly men work their plots. None of them knew who she was or what she was involved in, and there had been a certain kind of relief to be found in tugging up the weeds and digging the rich, moist soil.
Lark had discovered that she enjoyed gardening. Neither her aunt nor uncle really bothered much with the small, neat suburban garden that surrounded their house. Someone came in twice a week to mow the lawns and keep the beds tidy during the summer months, and once a month during the winter.
Her aunt and uncle preferred the small, select dinner parties they attended, the bridge games with their small coterie of friends. Their lives were very regimented, Lark now realised. It was something which she hadn’t really been aware of before, but then, of course, she had been living away from home for some considerable time, first at university and then later in her bedsit.
Gary, too, had moved out of the parental home, but unlike her he had found a job in the local market town where his parents still lived. Crichtons had opened up there several years ago, with brand new offices, all based on computer technology, and Gary had soon found a niche for himself there, with his skill as an advanced computer operator. Quite where and when he had met Lydia Meadows, Lark didn’t know.
When she had asked her aunt and uncle about Gary’s relationship with the other woman, they had denied vigorously that he had ever known her, but that seemed improbable because Lydia was a local girl, albeit one who was several years older than both herself and Gary. Even so, Lark remembered reading several years ago in their local newspaper that Lydia won a nationwide beauty competition. She had gone from there to modelling, her name cropping up regularly in the local paper.
Her marriage to Ross Wycliffe, a local businessman, had been widely publicised. Ross was many years her senior, a widower with grown-up children of his own. He also had a reputation for being very shrewd and hard-headed in business. He was reputed to be a millionaire. Certainly the photographs that Lark had seen of Lydia showed a very soignée young woman dressed expensively in furs and jewellery. How on earth had Gary got involved with her, if involved he had been? He had been in love with her, that much had been obvious on the one occasion when Lark had seen them together.
She had gone home unannounced for the weekend, wanting to collect some books that were still in her bedroom at her aunt and uncle’s. Her visit had just happened to coincide with a time when her aunt and uncle themselves were away on holiday, and so she had gone round to Gary’s to ask him if she could borrow his key to his parents’ house.
His car had been parked outside. When no one had responded to her knock, she had gone round to the back of the small, semi-detached house. Neither of the participants in the passionate embrace she had witnessed through the window of Gary’s dining-room had been aware of her presence for several seconds. Indeed, she herself had been so stunned that it had taken her that length of time to realise that she was intruding, and she was just about to whisk herself away when Lydia Meadows had turned around and seen her.
Neither of them had been very pleased by her presence, and initially she had put that down to the fact that she had interrupted them. It wasn’t until later that she realised exactly who Lydia was, and why she would not be too happy about someone seeing her making love with a man other than her husband.
She had tried to talk to Gary about it, knowing how his parents would feel about his involvement with a married woman, but their relationship was such that they had never been close, and he had brushed her off with a curt refusal to discuss the matter.
It had been obvious that he had loved Lydia, but had she loved him in return? And had it been for her sake that he had been stealing money from his company?
Sighing faintly, Lark reminded herself that it was pointless going over and over this old ground again and again, that nothing was to be gained from living in the past. It was over, and she would have to find a way of putting it behind her. She could never go back. Her aunt and uncle would never forgive her for what had happened. Both of them blamed her for Gary’s death—perhaps in their shoes she would have felt the same, although she hoped she would have had more compassion, more insight into other people’s feelings.
Over the years there had been many, many occasions when she had desperately longed for her own parents, but to long for them so desperately at twenty-two, when she was supposedly an adult, seemed rather ridiculous. But long for them she most certainly did.
Her thoughts switched abruptly from her cousin to James Wolfe. It was odd the way she couldn’t get him out of her mind, couldn’t quite prevent herself from thinking about him in unguarded moments, remembering the cool timbre of his voice, the reasoned logic of his arguments, the overwhelming, overpowering and illogical emotional turbulence he had aroused in her. Her passionate outburst in the court room still had the power to make her flinch inwardly, and to wonder at the way he had broken through her defences.
She had sworn to herself that she would never betray herself in that way, and yet, with a few well-chosen words, he had caused her to forget that promise and to cry out to the world how badly she felt it was treating her. Did he ever feel the guilt and compunction he had accused her of not feeling? Did he ever wonder what happened to the victims of his savage cross-examinations? Victims who, like her, could quite easily have been innocent. No, of course he wouldn’t. Men like him never did, did they? Men like him… She shivered slightly.
There had been very few men in her life, and certainly none like James Wolfe. So why was it that the very thought of him caused this frisson of sensation to race across her skin, almost as though in some primitive way she feared him on a level that had nothing to do with their meeting in court? On a level that was purely emotional, and had to do with her being a woman and him being a man.
She told herself that she was being ridiculous, that she had allowed the atmosphere in the court to disturb her far too deeply, and that was why she was still so vulnerable at the mere thought of the man. But somehow the excuse didn’t quite ring true.
James Wolfe had made an impression on her which no amount of stern self-lecturing could entirely dismiss. There had been something so male and vigorous about him, something that aroused and piqued her feminine curiosity. That was what one got for being a virgin at twenty-two, she mocked herself. Idiotic fantasies about strange men.
CHAPTER TWO
LARK was still thinking about James Wolfe when she walked from the tube station to her solicitor’s office on the morning of her interview. A chance sighting of a dark-haired man sitting in an expensive car at the traffic lights caught her attention, and it wasn’t until he turned his head to return her look that she realised that it wasn’t James and that she was staring at him q
uite blatantly. She blushed and walked on, angry with herself; angry and disturbed.
It was time she put James Wolfe out of her mind. There was no point in dwelling on what had happened. No point in reliving the torment of those long minutes in court.
Oddly, it didn’t help much telling herself that he was the one who had been vanquished. Over the recent months her solicitor’s offices had become as familiar to her as her own shabby bedsit. They were up three flights of stairs in an ancient building that didn’t possess a lift other than one that rather reminded Lark of a creaking, terrifying cage.
She had lost weight; the need to economise had meant that she had cut down on her food. It was quite frightening to realise how lacking in energy she was by the time she reached the third floor.
Her solicitor himself opened the door to her, which rather surprised her. Normally, she was made to wait a good fifteen minutes before being shown into the inner sanctum. But today the outer office was empty. The secretary had gone to lunch, he told her, noticing her curious glance.
‘Lunch, at eleven o’clock in the morning?’ Still, it was hardly any business of hers, although she did notice that her solicitor seemed rather flustered and uncomfortable. She had had that effect on him ever since Crichton International had decided to pull out of the case, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
‘Sit down,’ he told her, beaming at her and picking up a pile of manuscripts from the chair opposite his desk.