Читать книгу Follow Thy Desire - Anne Mather - Страница 8

HELEN was in the garden, helping her father to clear away all the leaves and broken twigs left by the winds of the past week when Jennifer came charging out to tell them that Susan had arrived accompanied by her stepbrother.

‘Barry?’ exclaimed Helen, looking up, and then coloured as Morgan Fox came round the corner of the house.

‘No. Me,’ he announced wryly, as Helen’s father walked to meet him. ‘How do you do? You must be Mr Raynor.’

‘That’s right.’ Helen’s father shook hands, removing his gardening glove to do so. ‘Nice to meet you. How are you finding England after all this time? Cold, I expect’

Morgan’s mouth lifted slightly. ‘Cold, indeed,’ he agreed, as Mr Raynor passed him, indicating that he should follow him into the house, and then he looked back at Helen: ‘Good morning. Are we interrupting anything?’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Helen shook her head quickly, noticing how much better his cream denim pants fitted him, the thigh-length sheepskin jacket accentuating the width of his shoulders. ‘We—er—we were just tidying up the garden. It’s been quite windy this last week and everywhere is covered with leaves.’

‘Hmm, autumn,’ drawled Morgan, making no effort to follow her father through the conservatory and into the warm kitchen. ‘I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to smell woodsmoke on frosty air.’

Helen shifted awkwardly, conscious that her brown chunky sweater had holes at the elbows, and that her jeans after several washings clung to her like a second skin. ‘I expect you’d miss the heat, though, wouldn’t you?’ she ventured, licking her lips. ‘I mean—you must regard Africa as your home.’

His lips twisted then, and his eyes when he looked at her were cold and calculating. ‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘There’s no chance of me coming back to live in England, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘I—I’m not afraid!’ Helen was indignant. ‘I only meant—–’

‘I know what you meant. I’ve had it from Barry since I got here. I forfeited my right to live at Banklands when I married Pam and went to live in Osweba!’

‘Did he say that?’ Helen was aghast.

‘In so many words.’ Morgan sighed, and then made a dismissing gesture. ‘Oh, forget it. I have. As it happens, I have no desire to come back to England. My—work is in Nrubi. But there’s still Andrea…’

‘Your daughter.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced towards the house. ‘We’d better be going in or your parents are going to suspect we’re conducting some illicit liaison.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Helen quietly, and then on impulse she added: ‘Why did you mention your daughter? Does she want to come to England? I thought—when she didn’t come with you…’

‘I know. And you’re right. She didn’t want to come, but not because she’s indifferent. She—well, she’s very shy.’

‘But we—the Foxes, that is—they’re her family!’

‘I know that.’ Morgan’s eyes had lost their calculating gleam, but they were still cool as he changed the subject, saying: ‘I’ve asked Barry what you would like for a wedding present, and he says I should ask you. What about it? Have you any ideas?’

Helen scuffed her booted toe in the soil at the edge of the path. ‘Oh, I—anything you like.’

She couldn’t look at him for a few moments, but when she lifted her head his eyes were upon her. Immediately, she felt that unfamiliar weakness inside her, that sense of wanting and need that had nothing to do with the emotion she felt towards her fiancé. She knew an almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to make him as aware of her as she was of him, and as if the thought was father to the deed, she felt her muddy boot slide across the concrete, forcing her to grasp his arm to save herself. She felt the taut muscles beneath her fingers, palpable through the rough skin of his jacket, the heat of his body, as just for an instant she was close against him. And then he had stepped back from her, a muscle jerking betrayingly in his cheek.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her face flaming brilliantly. ‘I—I lost my balance.’

His eyes revealed none of his feelings, but he made a polite gesture towards the house and she was forced to go ahead of him. They walked through the glass-roofed conservatory where her father nurtured his collection of semi-tropical plants, and then in through the kitchen, scented with the smell of roasting meat.

Mrs Raynor was in the kitchen, and Helen introduced Morgan awkwardly, glad to go on into the living room where Jennifer was showing Susan her collection of pop pictures. Mr Raynor was there, too, lighting his pipe, and he smiled when his daughter came into the room, asking her whether her mother had got the kettle on.

Morgan came to join them and Helen thankfully took Susan upstairs to show her the sandals she wanted to borrow. But Susan had not been unaware of how long Helen had spent in the garden with her brother, and she was more interested in that than anything else.

‘What were you talking about?’ she asked, flopping down carelessly on to Helen’s bed and flicking over the pages of a magazine she found on the bedside table. ‘You looked awfully embarrassed when you came in. What was he saying to you?’

Helen’s embarrassment was rekindled. ‘We were talking about autumn, if you must know,’ she declared impatiently. ‘Look, do you want to try these sandals on or don’t you?’

Susan’s expression was resigned, but she obediently pulled off her boot and slipped one of the gold-strapped sandals on to her foot.

‘Hmm, nice,’ she agreed critically, turning her foot from side to side. ‘How lucky we both take the same size.’ Then she tossed it off again, and reaching for her boot returned to the attack. ‘I should be careful if I were you anyway,’ she said seriously. ‘Barry was really mad last night, wasn’t he? Jealous as hell!’

‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t approve of you using that kind of language!’ retorted Helen severely, hiding her unwilling anxiety in irritation, but Susan was not subdued.

‘You talk like an old maid sometimes, do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Just because I’m trying to give you a piece of advice, you act like I was a schoolgirl trying to advise the teacher. Well, let me tell you, Helen, I know more about men than you do. You might be older than I am, but emotionally speaking, you’re not even in the running!’

Helen thrust the sandals into their box and held them out to the younger girl. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take them. And stop trying to tell me how to run my life.’

Susan took the box and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, moving her shoulders indifferently. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Warn me?’ Helen couldn’t let that go, although she knew she would regret it later. ‘Warn me about what?’

‘Why, about getting involved with Morgan, of course.’

‘Getting involved with Morgan?’ echoed Helen in disbelieving tones. ‘I’m not getting involved with anyone—except Barry.’

‘But don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to,’ put in Susan infuriatingly. ‘You’re attracted to Morgan, aren’t you? But you’re wasting your time. He’s married already.’

‘I think you’d better go,’ said Helen, controlling her temper with difficulty. ‘And please don’t repeat what you’ve said to me to anyone. To anyone, do you hear?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Susan sniffed. ‘I won’t tell Barry, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ retorted Helen coldly, and led the way downstairs again herself.

Morgan and her parents were drinking coffee in the living room. Jennifer had returned to the study where she was doing her homework, and thankfully Susan went to find her, leaving Helen to face the others on her own. But at least she did not have the ignominy of feeling Susan’s eyes upon her at every turn, and she poured herself some coffee and seated herself almost unnoticed in the corner.

Morgan was talking about Africa, telling Mr Raynor about the tropical diseases he had to contend with in the course of his work and the advances which had been made in vaccination and inoculation. It was fascinating listening to him describing conditions in an African village, the contrasts between the youths who went to the city to get educated and their parents and grandparents who still lived by the tribal customs which had existed for hundreds of years. He talked of the hostility which still existed in some areas between the so-called white man’s medicine and the medicine men of the tribe, who used ritual magic and herbal remedies to effect their cures.

‘But do they get results?’ asked Mr Raynor smiling, as he tapped his pipe against his palm, and Morgan gave a rueful grin.

‘Sometimes,’ he conceded honestly. ‘I suppose faith has a lot to do with it, but occasionally some miraculous recovery comes to light. No one knows why. There are times when I’d say that by forcing a sick patient to drink some obnoxious mixture or applying a poultice made out of chicken feathers and God knows what else to an open wound would be fatal; but then I visit the village again and I find this chap going hunting with his brothers and I realise modern medicine has taken another backward step.’

‘It must be quite frustrating,’ said Mrs Raynor sympathetically, but Morgan shook his head.

‘Not frustrating, no. I’m always glad when a patient gets well, by whatever means. I think perplexed is a better word. I’d like to learn more about these primitive medicines, study them in depth.’ He paused, and Helen saw a strange expression cross his face. ‘But that’s not very likely, I’m afraid.’

‘No,’ Mr Raynor nodded. ‘I imagine these witch doctors guard their secrets closely.’

‘Yes,’ Morgan agreed, but Helen had the distinct impression that that was not what he meant at all.

Soon afterwards, he said he would have to be leaving, and Mrs Raynor took the opportunity to invite him for dinner on Tuesday evening.

‘Could we make that Wednesday or Thursday?’ he asked apologetically. ‘I—er—I have an appointment in London on Tuesday, and I don’t suppose I’ll be back much before ten.’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Raynor was eager to oblige. ‘Thursday, then. If that’s all right with you, Helen?’

Helen nodded. ‘Any night suits me,’ she shrugged, realising as she did so that she sounded offhand. But Susan’s words still lingered, and she half wished she didn’t have to see Morgan again until the day of the wedding.

Helen left her job at the hospital on Tuesday evening. She would be returning after her honeymoon, but it was good to feel herself free for almost three weeks. Not that she didn’t enjoy her work. She did. It gave her great satisfaction to know that she was helping someone recover the use of their limbs, particularly if the patient was a child or an elderly person who had given up hope of ever being able to walk again. But the quality of her work was demanding and this week before the wedding was demanding enough in itself.

Nevertheless, the following morning found her at a loose end, with her parents and Barry at work, and Jennifer in school. During the afternoon she planned to go to the flat she and Barry were going to lease and take along some of the household things they had collected over recent weeks, but the morning was fine and sunny and she didn’t much feel like applying herself to housework. Instead she took herself off into town, and in the paperback book department of W H Smith she encountered the one person she least wanted to meet.

‘Morgan!’ she said, rather dismayed, after practically walking into him round the end of one of the fixtures. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘It’s my usual port of call on visits to England,’ he replied evenly, pushing a textbook on neural surgery back into the rack. ‘I always take a pile of books back with me.’

‘Yes,’ Helen nodded, folding her fingers firmly round the strap of her handbag. ‘Did you—er—did you have a good day in London?’

Morgan regarded her with a faintly mocking expression. ‘Do you really want to know? I got the impression you didn’t particularly want to meet me just now.’

‘Oh, no.’ Helen reddened. ‘It was just—I was surprised to see you, that’s all.’

Morgan inclined his head, and she moved jerkily away from him. Dear God, she thought sickly, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stand near him without becoming overpoweringly conscious of his hard masculinity? Why did the very sight of him in his worn leather jacket and black suede pants affect her with something very like a physical shock when Barry never ever had this reaction on her?

‘Helen.’

He was speaking to her, and she swung round nervously, her fingers probing the buttons of her own suede coat. ‘Yes?’

‘Can I buy you a cup of coffee?’

‘What? Coffee?’ She moved her shoulders offhandedly. ‘I—why, yes, I—suppose so.’

‘Good.’ He gestured towards the exit. ‘Shall we go? I can call back here later.’

‘All right.’

Outside, he turned towards the market place and she fell into step beside him, wondering rather anxiously what Barry would say when he found out that she had been having coffee with his stepbrother while he was at work. And then, she decided, she didn’t care. She wasn’t doing any harm, and besides, if she was honest she would admit that she had wanted to accept Morgan’s invitation. But why that should be so after the way she had felt when she encountered him, she did not care to analyse.

They sat at a table in the window of a small cafe that overlooked the Shambles, and after the waitress had taken their order Helen was glad of the activity outside to distract Morgan’s attention. But presently, after the coffee was served, he looked her way, and she put her hands down on to her lap to hide their damp unsteadiness.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, and her eyes flickered bewilderedly up to his.

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes.’ He tipped the front legs of his chair back and regarded her through narrowed lids. ‘I shouldn’t have invited you to join me. But I selfishly felt like some company.’

Helen didn’t know how to reply. ‘I—it was very kind of you invite me—–’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t do it out of politeness anyway.’

Helen licked her dry lips. ‘Wh—why did you do it, then?’

Morgan’s chair dropped back on to all four legs with a protesting creak. ‘Because I find I like talking to you,’ he said, and the ready colour that never seemed far away in his presence poured back into her face.

‘I—I shouldn’t have thought that was something to apologise about,’ she murmured awkwardly at last, but when she ventured a look at his face she saw the wry cynicism in his expression.

‘Something makes me think Barry wouldn’t agree with you,’ he remarked dryly. ‘He made his feelings very clear the other evening.’

‘Oh, Barry says a lot of things he doesn’t really mean,’ exclaimed Helen, moving her shoulders protestingly. ‘He’s very glad you’ve come home.’

‘Is he?’ Morgan sounded unconvinced. Then as once before, he changed the subject, saying abruptly: ‘My father tells me you’re a physiotherapist. Do you like working with old people?’

Glad of the respite from personal matters, Helen said: ‘Not all my patients are old. There’s a fair percentage of children, too, and in any case, I like the work.’

‘Very commendable,’ he remarked, raising his coffee cup to her. ‘Have you ever thought of working outside the hospital system? In schools for handicapped children, for example?’

‘I’d like to,’ she answered frankly, ‘but I still have my training to complete.’

‘You didn’t go to university.’

It was a statement and she shook her head. ‘No. You did, though, didn’t you? What made you decide to be a doctor?’

Morgan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An interest in humanity, I guess, combined with a lucky ability to remember anatomical terms.’

Helen smiled, relaxing somewhat. ‘I don’t believe that. Your father said you got a double first.’

‘My father talks too much,’ he retorted without rancour, and Helen sipped her coffee, thinking affectionately of the man who had made her feel so welcome in his home.

‘I suppose he told you about my marriage breaking up,’ Morgan said suddenly, and Helen’s new-found relaxation fled.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There’s no need to look so flabbergasted—it’s no secret. Pam and I separated two years ago. We were totally incompatible.’

Helen cleared her throat. ‘He—I believe he did say something about it. Does—I mean—your daughter lives with you, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ Morgan finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. ‘Pam never wanted children. I don’t think she’d have married me at all if Andrea hadn’t already been on the way.’

‘Oh!’

Helen’s embarrassment was plain, and Morgan’s lips curved teasingly. ‘Oh?’ he echoed. ‘Is that all you can say? Oh? That doesn’t shock you, surely. Not these days when every girl you meet accepts going to bed as part of the deal.’

‘I don’t!’ declared Helen hotly, deriving a certain amount of courage from the strength of her convictions. ‘And I don’t believe all girls do either. That—that’s just a rumour put around by those who do to excuse themselves!’

‘Oh, yes?’ His eyes were lazily mocking. ‘Do I take it then that you and Barry—don’t?’

‘You can take it whatever way you like!’ she retorted shortly. ‘And now, if you’ve finished your coffee, I’ve got some shopping to do.’

The baiting light went out of Morgan’s eyes, and without another word he thrust back his chair and got to his feet. But when she went to pass him, his hand caught her wrist, his fingers closing over it tightly.

‘Wait,’ he said, his warm breath fanning her forehead. ‘Don’t go rushing off like this. Perhaps we could have lunch together. Allow me to make amends for embarrassing you. Will you?’

Helen’s breathing felt constricted. Because of the narrowness between the tables, her body was close to Morgan’s, the muscles of his legs hard against hers through her skirt and the suede pants he was wearing.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she got out jerkily, and because they were beginning to attract attention, he let her go and she made her way outside with air-gulping relief.

But in the narrow street outside, the question had to be answered, and although she knew she ought to refuse him she found herself agreeing to meet him in a couple of hours outside a pub they both knew.

For the rest of the morning she tried to justify her actions, but without much success, and by the time she had dumped her shopping in the boot of her Mini, parked on the outskirts of town, and walked the quarter mile or so to the Bartlemy, she was as taut as a violin string.

It didn’t help when Morgan kept her waiting almost ten minutes only to find that the restaurant was closed and the bar already full to overflowing with people wanting snacks.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan as they came out into the wintry afternoon again. ‘I got held up at the bank.’

‘The restaurant would still have been closed,’ replied Helen tartly, and then, realising she was being shrewish, she added: ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘I suppose we could go somewhere else,’ he suggested thoughtfully, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. ‘Or should we just—forget it?’

Helen’s heart gave a curious lurch at his words. ‘Oh, no,’ she found herself saying desperately. ‘We can go somewhere else. We could even buy some food and have a picnic by the river…’ But as if to destroy even this nebulous suggestion, a few spots of rain blew into their faces.

Morgan turned his face up towards the lowering skies. ‘No picnic’ he said ruefully, looking down at her again. ‘Perhaps we’d better try somewhere else.’

Most of the popular eating places were crowded, and Helen didn’t much fancy sharing a table with a crowd of students. Morgan was beginning to look weary of the whole idea, and almost without considering the ethics of the situation, she said: ‘Let’s buy some food and take it to the flat. I was going there anyway this afternoon.’ And as her face betrayed the sudden guilt that swept over her, she added defensively: ‘You’d like to see where Barry and I are going to live, wouldn’t you?’

Morgan hesitated, a frown creasing his brow. ‘That’s not really the point, is it?’ he asked. ‘What is Barry going to say when he finds out?’

‘Barry’s not my keeper,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘But if you don’t want to go—–’

‘It’s not that,’ he muttered, and then, as if a pain had suddenly made itself unbearable, he nodded, raking back his hair with an impatient hand. ‘Why not?’ he agreed shortly. ‘How do we get there?’

Helen almost lost her nerve, but she managed to say quite coherently: ‘My car—is parked on that lot near the river. We can go in that.’

‘Where is the flat?’

‘Gainsborough Crescent.’

‘Gainsborough Crescent.’ She could see him trying to place the vaguely familiar name. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I know it. But my car—or rather my stepmother’s—is nearer. We can buy what we need on the way there.’

‘All right.’ Helen had no objections. No one in Gainsborough Crescent would recognise Mrs Fox’s yellow Volkswagen, whereas her blue Mini might incite attention.

Morgan bought some eggs and cheese and butter, and some rolls still warm from the oven. He also added a bottle of wine to the steadily increasing load in Helen’s basket, and then they made their way to where he had left the car.

‘You drive,’ he said, after unloading their possessions into the back, and with a puzzled shrug of acceptance, Helen climbed behind the wheel. Morgan got in beside her, supporting his head with evident relief against the padded rest, and she gave him an anxious look before starting the engine.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘Just a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve got something I can take for it when we get to the flat.’

Helen didn’t waste any more time. The Volkswagen was easy to handle, and she swung out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic with the expertise born of experience. She had been driving since she was seventeen, and even Barry had had to concede that she was good.

It only took a matter of five minutes or so to reach Gainsborough Crescent, and she parked the car at the kerb before reaching into the back for her basket.

Morgan’s hand closed on her arm, however, preventing her from reaching it. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, thrusting open his door and getting out, and reluctantly she went ahead into the building.

Gainsborough Crescent was a terrace of tall Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into flats now. Families were no longer so large as to require half a dozen bedrooms, and the rooms on the attic floor were snapped up by students wanting an economical bed-sitter.

The flat Helen and Barry were to occupy was on the first floor. It was small—just a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom, but at least it was all their own. The furnishings were the prime drawback. Nearly all the furniture had done service for more years than Helen would have liked to have guessed, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they could buy and furnish a house of their own.

Leading the way into the living room, she realised that this was the first time she had ever actually invited anyone there. Her mother had seen the flat, of course, but Barry’s parents were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon and they could have a proper flat-warming.

Morgan closed the door behind him, glancing about him appraisingly as Helen bent to light the gas fire. The room was chilly, but the fire created a warm glow, casting enveloping shadows over the worn patches on the hide-covered couch.

Morgan walked straight through to the kitchenette, and when she followed him she found him taking two tablets with a mouthful of water direct from the tap.

‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we have some glasses!’ But he shook his head and straightened, saying:

‘It’s okay, they’ve gone. Now—do you have a frying pan?’

They ate in the kitchenette, seated on stools beside the breakfast bar. Morgan had grated the cheese while Helen beat up the eggs, and then while she made light, fluffy omelettes, he opened the wine. His headache seemed to have disappeared as suddenly as it had come and she was relieved, aware that ridiculous as it might seem she had been concerned about him.

Although the wine was unchilled, it had never tasted so good and they drank the bottle between them. Helen felt quite reckless, drinking so much in the middle of the day, and she hoped that by evening the feeling of lightheadedness would have evaporated.

Morgan insisted on washing the dishes afterwards, and Helen commented on his efficiency. ‘A man can learn to do a lot of things if he has to,’ he replied, with a wry smile, and she knew he was referring to the break-up of his marriage.

‘I suppose—Andrea helps,’ she commented, picking up a tea-towel to polish their glasses. ‘I mean—she’s fifteen, isn’t she? Almost grown up.’

‘Almost,’ he agreed, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘Yes, she does what she can. But she was ill some time ago, and she’s never really properly recovered, I’m afraid.’

Helen stared at his profile, wondering if she dared ask what was wrong with her, and then chided herself for her inquisitiveness. It was nothing to do with her, after all, and yet everything about this man troubled and intrigued her, and it was impossible for her to remain unmoved by his statement.

‘Ill?’ she said now, concentrating on the glass. ‘How—ill?’

‘She contracted pneumonia,’ said Morgan flatly, and her murmur of dismay was barely stifled before he added: ‘You wouldn’t expect that in Africa, I suppose, would you? But in certain circumstances, it’s quite possible. It’s left her weak and—apathetic. What she needs now is care and encouragement, but God help me, I don’t have the time to give it to her.’

Helen finished drying the glass and set it down with exaggerated precision. Then, as he had finished washing the dishes and was drying his hands, she ventured: ‘Are—aren’t there any centres where she could go? You know—to be with young people of her own age?’

‘Not in Nrubi, no.’

‘There are in Engl—–’

‘I know that!’ He spoke harshly, and then, as if regretting his outburst, he muttered: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s one of the reasons why I came here. I thought, if I could persuade Susan to come back with me, to stay a few weeks—two, three months maybe—she might be able to help Andrea, give her back her confidence, show her that there are other people who care about her just as much as I do.’

‘And?’

The word came automatically from Helen’s lips, and Morgan looked at her as he rolled down the sleeves of his cream silk shirt. ‘No,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t take Susan back there, even if she wanted to go, which I doubt. She and Andrea would have nothing in common. I doubt if she’d even get close to her. Andrea’s too—sensitive. Susan would scare her, and besides, she’s far too much of a liability. I have enough responsibilities as it is.’

‘I see.’

‘The pity of it is, I know that if I could get her to come to England, let her get to know my father, she’d be all right when—–’

He broke off abruptly at that point and strode through to the living room, and after a moment’s hesitation Helen followed him. He was standing before the fire, staring down into the flames, and she watched him for a few moments before saying awkwardly: ‘Are you cold? Shall I turn the fire up?’

He turned then and she saw the look of strain he had worn a few minutes before had been erased. In its place was the polite mask of detachment he had worn when she first met him, and she felt curiously disappointed. Not that she wanted him to confide in her, she told herself impatiently, but the silent protestation did not quite ring true.

‘I’m not cold,’ he said now, with a slight smile. ‘Are you ready to leave?’

‘To leave?’ Helen glanced behind her. ‘I—well, I had intended to do some housework this afternoon. To leave—to leave the flat ready for when we get back from—from Majorca.’

‘From your honeymoon,’ agreed Morgan dryly. ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘But how will you get back to town?’

‘I can catch a bus,’ declared Helen shortly, realising she sounded offhanded and despising herself for it. But she had hoped he would offer to wait for her, which in itself was a stupid thing to expect.

‘All right.’

Morgan reached for his coat from the back of the couch where he had thrown it before having lunch, and Helen stood by tensely while he pulled it on. Then, checking the knot of his tie, he walked towards the door.

‘Thanks for lunch,’ he said, and she forced a faint smile.

‘Thank you,’ she countered, wrapping her arms protectively about herself, and he made a dismissing movement of his shoulders.

‘Do I tell Barry I’ve been here or not?’

Helen shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment to prevent them from trembling. ‘I don’t suppose it matters.’

Morgan stared at her for a long disturbing moment, and then with an exclamation, he wrenched open the door. ‘I’ll keep it to myself,’ he declared harshly, and the door slammed heavily behind him.

Helen’s hands went towards the panels after he had gone, fingers spreading against the dark wood as if to repel the feelings that swelled inside her. Then, withdrawing her hands again, she pressed them tightly together, forefingers resting against her parted lips. It took several minutes to get herself in control again, before she turned to face the room behind her with the tight ball of suppressed emotion in her throat almost choking her.

She was getting married on Saturday, she kept telling herself over and over again. This was to be her new home. In less than three days, she would be Mrs Carson, Mrs Barry Carson, and here she was, allowing herself to indulge in futile fantasies about his own stepbrother. A married man, moreover, who had never at any time given her reason to suppose that he found her attractive, too. All he had said was that he liked talking to her—talking to her, nothing else. But nothing could alter the fact that she was attracted to him, which seemed totally disloyal to the man who was to be her husband.

Yet as the immediacy of the situation passed, and practical issues reasserted themselves, she began to put things into perspective. What was happening to her was not so unusual, after all, she told herself reassuringly. It was natural that in these final few days before the wedding she should have second thoughts about giving up her freedom. It was probably quite common for girls to imagine themselves attracted to some other man, particularly if the other man was hard and tanned, and disturbingly alien to her way of life. Why, even Susan had said what an attractive man he was, and she was his sister. Even so, it took her a long time to summon any enthusiasm to do the dusting and vacuuming she had planned, and when she left the flat it was with a feeling of escape…