Читать книгу Hell Or High Water - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 5

THE apartment was silent except for the clatter of the typewriter, when the doorbell rang. It was a frustrating intrusion into the mood of the narrative, and the man seated at the machine stopped typing abruptly to rest his balled fists on the desk. Then, stilling the impulse to tear up the ruined page of the manuscript, he rose to go and answer it, a second peal grating in his ears as he crossed the floor. He was not in the mood for casual callers, and friends of long acquaintance knew better than to interrupt him at a time like this, but his suspicions as to who it might be were realised when he opened the door.

‘Jarret! The reluctantly-ageing blonde who crossed the threshold without waiting for his invitation caressed his cheek with an elegantly-gloved hand. ‘Mmmm, you haven’t shaved this morning, darling. But I love you anyway, rough or smooth!’

The sensuous tones of the woman’s voice had little effect on their recipient. With the grimness of impatience tightening his lean features, he leaned against the door frame, making no move to close it, and his feminine visitor allowed a slightly nervous trill of laughter to escape from her lips.

‘Darling, don’t stand there looking at me as if I wasn’t welcome …’

‘You’re not!’ he retorted.

‘… particularly when I came here with some rather exciting news for you.’

There was a controlled expellation of breath, and then he said flatly: ‘I’m not ready for this, Margot. As you can see, I’m working …’ he waved a careless hand towards the desk, ‘and I’d like you to go as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, we are a sourpuss today, aren’t we?’ she teased, showing no immediate inclination to obey him. Instead, she descended the two steps that separated the body of the apartment from the entrance on perilously high heels, and did a deliberate pirouette beside his desk. ‘What’s thematter?’ she asked, puckering her lips, gloved fingers flicking the pages beside the typewriter without interest. ‘Did we have a heavy night last night, or did we just get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’

‘Get out of here, Margot!’

The demand was made almost mildly, a narrow-eyed mask guarding his expression, and she chose not to respond to it.

‘Don’t be so grumpy, Jarret,’ she pouted. ‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink? The traffic in Knights-bridge was terrible, and I’m simply dying for something long and cool and satisfying. Just like you, darling.’

‘I warn you, Margot …’

The quietly threatening tone at last got through to her, and with a gesture of offence she tilted her chin. With the lines of her throat ironed out by the attitude, it was one of her best poses, and she knew it, but Jarret felt the tightness of repulsion in his stomach as he surveyed the deliberate come-on.

‘Can’t you at least have the courtesy to close the door for a moment?’ she demanded at last, when her ploy produced no reaction. Her mouth compressed. ‘You really are the most selfish bastard, Jarret. I don’t know why I care about you.’

‘Don’t you?’ Jarret’s expression was resigned, but after a slight hesitation he closed the door and came down the shallow stairs to where she was standing. ‘So?’ he said, brows arching enquiringly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Lady Margot Urquart’s lips twitched frustratedly. She did not like the forbearing tone of his voice, or trust the superficiality of his words. In spite of their different social backgrounds, he was still able to make her feel like a gauche ingénue, and despite the fact that she was more than ten years his senior, the cool blue-eyed stare reduced her to an open-mouthed sycophant.

‘You’re a brute, Jarret!’ she protested, running a deliberate hand into the unbuttoned neckline of her silk shirt. ‘Here I am, making a special journey just to do you a good turn, and you treat me like a—like a leper! I know you’re working, I know you want to get on with your book.But that’s why I’m here—to help you.’

‘I didn’t know you’d taken a course in typewriting, Margot,’ Jarret commented dryly, brushing past her to tug the offending sheet out of the machine and roll it into a ball between his palms. ‘But I’m sorry to disappoint you, I prefer to work alone, and with fewer interruptions the better.’

‘Oh, Jarret!’ Margot’s lips pursed. ‘You know I didn’t mean that. And why are you destroying that page? Surely I didn’t spoil your train of thought.’

‘I’ve screwed it up,’ remarked Jarret unpleasantly, and her chin tilted once more. ‘And that’s not the only thing that’s screwed up around here. I’d be grateful if you’d get to the point and go!’

Margot sniffed. ‘If you’re going to be like that …’

‘What? Like what?’ Jarret rested his denim-clad hips against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘How am I expected to behave? I didn’t invite you here, Margot.’

‘It’s that Sinclair girl, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed suddenly, switching tactics completely. ‘Jo told me you’d been seeing her. That’s why you’re being so utterly beastly—because of her!’

Jarret’s expression did not change. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here, Margot?’ he suggested, ignoring her outburst, and with a sound of deep frustration she flounced across the room.

‘Well, if you won’t offer me a drink, I’ll help myself,’ she declared, glancing at him over her shoulder as she halted by a tray of bottles and glasses. ‘Can I get you one, the hair of the dog, and all that, or will that disturb your creative impulses too?’

‘I don’t want a drink, Margot,’ he refused, levering his lean body into the leather chair beside the desk and draping one leg casually over the arm. ‘I don’t need that kind of stimulation this early in the morning.’

‘It is half past eleven, darling,’ Margot defended herself sulkily, pouring a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler chinking with ice and adding the merest touch of American dry. ‘Hmm, that’s better,’ she affirmed, licking the traces of alcohol from her full lips and viewing him mistily. ‘The first drink of the day is always the best.’

‘And that’s the first?’ mocked Jarret sceptically, and then regretting the impulse to arouse further recriminations, added: ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve come here now, Margot? Or must I assume that was just an excuse to pacify the beast in me?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ Margot was indignant, flicking her pleated skirt with a careless finger, drawing attention to the slenderness of leg and ankle. ‘I really do have some news for you, Jarret, but I’m half inclined not to tell you, you’ve been so uncivil to me.’

Jarret’s mouth thinned. ‘Then don’t.’

Margot’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be like that, just because I choose to tease you. You know I could never deny you anything. I don’t know why you persist in treating me like a fool!’

Jarret swung his leg to the floor. ‘Look, Margot, I don’t have the time to sit here and discuss my shortcomings. Okay, I’m a brute and a bastard and I treat you abominably. So what’s the attraction? I’ve never given you any reason to think you could run my life for me.’

Margot sighed, swinging round on her heels and pacing restlessly to the windows. From this height, the whole panorama of London and its greater outskirts were spread out below in sprawling detail, a grey plume of smoke rising from the chimneys of the power station across the river. It was a grey day, dull and uninspiring, when the metropolis looked somewhat less than its best.

Turning, she surveyed the room behind her with more satisfaction. It was austere, of course, recognisably masculine, but attractive in spite of that. She would have liked to have thought that she had been instrumental in his leasing this apartment, but the truth was its owner had been more than willing to acquire a tenant of Jarret’s increasing popularity, and consequently he had been given the pick of the block. That had been more than eighteen months ago now, and his reputation still continued its meteor-like rise.

Jarret, watching the emotions that governed her expression, wondered exactly what Jo Stanford had told her. That lady had her own reasons for feeling aggrieved with him, and he felt the increasingly familiar pangs of dissatisfactionin him, that came from a surfeit of social adulation.

Margot finished her drink, and then, surveying the ice cubes still slipping around in the bottom of her glass, said: ‘You know how you’ve been saying that London is too—hectic for you, that this apartment is too accessible to really provide ideal working conditions? Well …’ she paused to give her next words their full impact, ‘I’ve found just the place for you.’

‘Really?’ Irritation flicked along Jarret’s nerves. ‘You’ve found just the place for me? How considerate of you!’

‘No, really, Jarret, I mean it.’ Margot was aggravated by his sardonic tone. ‘I’m not joking. I know exactly the sort of place you need, and it just so happens that the owner is a friend of mine.’

‘You know, I thought perhaps he might be,’ remarked Jarret dryly, getting to his feet. ‘Well, thanks, Margot, but no thanks. If and when I do decide to leave London I’ll do so of my own volition, not to take up some offer you’ve contrived to arrange——’

‘Oh, you’re deliberately misunderstanding me!’ Margot almost stamped her small foot in impatience, reaching for the bottle of Scotch again and splashing its contents into her glass. ‘I haven’t arranged anything, nor do I intend to. Except perhaps—well, you are the one who has to make the decision.’

‘Yes, I am, and if you don’t mind——’

‘Jarret! Jarret, listen to me!’ She swallowed a mouthful of Scotch for sustenance, and approached him severely, holding herself erect. ‘I know what I’m talking about. It’s not just an idea—King’s Green is exactly the place for you.’

Jarret faced her wearily, irritation giving way to endurance as he regarded her appealing features. ‘When will you learn that I prefer to do my own hunting, house or otherwise,’ he told her steadily, and she plucked wretchedly at his sleeve, unwillingly inciting his sympathy.

‘Won’t you at least consider the suggestion?’ she ventured, encouraged to transfer her hand from his sleeve to his cheek, gazing up at him limpidly. ‘It really is a gem of a place, and Alice wouldn’t be selling at all, if the upkeep of it wasn’t so prohibitive.’

Jarret’s mouth twisted. ‘So what makes you think I needsuch an extravagance?’

‘Darling …’ She reached up to touch his unshaven jaw with her lips. ‘You can afford it, you know you can. And King’s Green is the ideal spot for you to work.’

Jarret put her firmly away from him, and ignoring the wounded look she gave him, walked half resignedly across the room. ‘Where is this place?’ he demanded, massaging the back of his neck with impatient fingers. ‘Is King’s Green a village or a house or what?’

‘It’s a house,’ Margot offered, at once forgoing her pride in her eagerness. ‘Queen Anne, I think. Oh——’ this as he started to protest, ‘—it’s in excellent condition. A little damp in places perhaps, but that can easily be rectified, and it’s in an absolute dream of a setting.’

‘Where?’ Jarret distrusted Margot’s enthusiasm, but her next words allayed his suspicions.

‘A place called Thrushfold in Wiltshire. On the Wiltshire-Dorset borders, actually. Near enough to London to drive up in a matter of hours, but not near enough to attract casual visitors.’

Jarret acknowledged this with a faint inclination of his head. ‘Wiltshire,’ he murmured reflectively. ‘I see.’

‘You’d love it!’ Margot pressed her advantage. ‘It’s got everything—half a dozen bedrooms, two or three reception rooms, and a library! You could work in there. It overlooks the paddock. And the grounds themselves are just big enough to ensure privacy.’

‘How big?’ enquired Jarret dryly, and Margot moved her shoulders in a little offhand gesture.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ she prevaricated. ‘Does it matter? Forty—maybe fifty, I’m not sure. What’s really important——’

‘Forty or fifty what?’ Jarret interrupted her. ‘Acres? Margot, you must be out of your tiny mind! I’m no land-owner!’

Margot pouted. ‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t be, darling. I think you’d make a marvellous squire! And King’s Green hasn’t had one of them for—oh, ten years or so.’

‘Let me get this straight.’ Jarret pushed his thumbs into the low belt of his denims. ‘You’re suggesting I buythis—this King’s Green from some—friend of yours?’

‘A school friend, yes. Alice Chase.’

‘And she’s a widow?’

‘Hardly your taste, darling,’ retorted Margot spitefully. ‘She’s twelve stone if she’s an ounce!’

Jarret ignored her. ‘That’s the proposition you came to put to me,’ he continued. ‘That I buy—King’s Green.’

‘Why not?’ Margot was forced to put her maliciousness aside. ‘It is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? A place in the country. Somewhere you can work—in peace.’

‘Mmmm.’ Jarret sounded as though he was extremely doubtful.

‘Well, at least come and see it,’ she urged him. ‘There’s no harm in that, is there? I mean, you’re not committed to anything, are you? And I’m sure you’ll be—enchanted, when you see it.’

‘Enchanted?’ Jarret stifled his rather wry humour. ‘Oh, Margot, you don’t know me very well, do you?’

‘Well enough,’ she murmured huskily. ‘But not as well as I’d like.’

Jarret sighed. ‘Look, I guess you thought you were doing me a favour, coming here and letting me know about this place, but—well, I can’t make a decision just like that. I—need to think about it.’

‘Of course.’ She sounded as if she had never doubted it. ‘But you will make up your mind soon, won’t you, darling? I mean, I told Alice I’d let her know within a couple of days.’

‘A couple of days,’ echoed Jarret irritably. ‘Hell, I can’t make that kind of decision in forty-eight hours!’

Margot hesitated. ‘Come and see it,’ she suggested again. ‘It’s only an hour or two’s drive. We could go tonight, and come back tomorrow.’

‘We?’

‘Of course, darling. I promised Alice I’d introduce her to you. She’s one of your fans, you know. She has all the books you’ve written.’

‘All three of them?’ mocked Jarret cuttingly.

Margot flushed. ‘Will you come?’

‘I can’t,’ he stated flatly. ‘Not today. It’s out of the question.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ she persisted, only the tightening of her lips indicating her reaction to the inevitable reasons for his refusal. ‘Jarret, you owe it to yourself——’

Jarret cut her off without preamble. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he specified abruptly. ‘It’s Friday. We can drive down before lunch and be back in town in time for dinner.’

‘Are you making me an offer?’ Margot probed, but Jarret’s expression was not encouraging.

‘I have work to do,’ he reminded her, and she made a sulky gesture of acceptance.

‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘So early!’ Margot was horrified.

‘If I can make it, surely you can,’ he averred dryly. ‘Is it a date?’

‘How could I refuse such a gallant proposition?’ she retorted, showing a little of the humour which had attracted his attention in the first place. ‘All right, darling, nine o’clock it is. Will you pick me up?’

‘Promptly,’ he affirmed, with a bow of his head, and forced to the conclusion that for the present this was all she could expect of him, she put down her glass and moved towards the door.

‘Until tomorrow,’ she murmured, lingering long enough for him to respond if he chose, but Jarret remained where he was.

‘Tomorrow,’ he agreed shortly, and the door closed rather heavily behind her.

With her departure, Jarret breathed a sigh of relief. Then, raking back his hair with aggressive fingers, he went to take one of the narrow cigars he favoured from the carved box on the bookshelves. He was already regretting the impulse he had had to give in to her, and impatience carved its identity across his dark features. Why the hell had he agreed to such a wasted outing? It was only her way of getting him to spend the day with her. Why on earth hadn’t he told her to go to hell, and shut her out of his life once and for all? He shook his head. A country estate was not for him, and she knew it. A house, maybe. That had possibilities. But forty or fifty acres of arable land …

He slumped down into the chair beside the typewriter and propped his head on his hand. What had he done that morning? Two, maybe three pages! He wasn’t even satisfied with what he had written. It was vacuously amateurish, he thought, with savage criticism, ignoring completely the incisive prose which had made a bestseller of his first novel and subsequent successes of his second and third. Nevertheless, the meaningless words and phrases were not Jarret Manning at his best, and the horrible suspicion that he had nothing more to say stirred in his stomach like a corpse in its tomb.

It was useless to pretend he was working at the moment. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, and where once these minor distractions would not have troubled him, lately he was inventing reasons for not sitting down at the typewriter.

Would a change of surroundings help? He suspected it might. Margot had been right when she had said he was too accessible in London, too open to distraction, and maybe for his own good he needed a change. Too many parties, too many drinks, too many late nights … The indictment was endless, and he had no one to blame but himself. He had let the fruits of his success dictate his style of living, and for a writer that was professional suicide. Maybe if he got away from town for a while, he would have time to think. In the clean, unpolluted air of the countryside his brain would reassert itself, and recover from the crippling effects of too little stimulation and too much apathy.

Realising he was not about to write anything of significance today, he determinedly put his self-doubts aside and went to wash and shave. Then, adding a navy corded jacket to his denims, he left the apartment. Downstairs in the underground car park, one of the fruits of his success he did appreciate awaited him, and he lowered his lean body behind the wheel, and started the powerful twelve-cylinder engine. It responded without effort, and he reversed out of the space and then accelerated smoothly up the ramp to the street.

It took him less than half an hour to reach his destination, a narrow terraced house in a row of the same, situated in a less salubrious area across the river. The sun was endeavouringto break through the clouds as he parked his car at the kerb, and levered himself out on to the pavement, and he paused to grin at an elderly matron peering through the lace curtains of the house opposite before walking up the path to the house.

It could do with painting, he reflected, letting himself in with his key and slamming the door behind him. ‘It’s only me, Dad!’ he called by means of a warning, and then strolled down the narrow passage to the back of the house.

The old man was not in the living room or the kitchen, but the open back door indicated his whereabouts. He was in the long narrow garden, pottering about in the greenhouse, and Jarret pulled a wry face as he went to show himself.

‘What are you doing here?’ the old man demanded peevishly, not entirely able to hide his pleasure nevertheless. ‘I don’t normally see you Thursdays, do I? You got some trouble or something, or is this just a social call?’

Jarret grimaced. ‘That’s some line in welcomes you’ve got there, Paddy,’ he remarked without rancour leading the way back to the house. ‘I make a special effort to come and see you, and what do you say?’

‘Don’t call me Paddy,’ the old man grunted, coming into the kitchen after him and reaching for the kettle. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or are you needing something stronger? I’ve a bottle of stout in the cupboard, if it’s not too strong for your taste.’

Jarret grinned. ‘The stout would be fine,’ he agreed, propping himself against the table. ‘And how have you been since the last time I saw you?’

The old man busied himself getting out two bottles of stout and levering off the caps. Jarret saw, with some concern, that his hands were getting shaky, and there wasn’t the strength in them there had been a year ago. That stroke he had had, had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and Jarret wished he would let him do something for him.

But Patrick Horton was intensely independent, he always had been, and since Jarret’s mother died he had resisted all efforts to share in his stepson’s success. It was ironic really, Jarret thought now, that his mother should havedied only weeks after his first book was published, and the subsequent success it had enjoyed had never made her life any easier.

Now he accepted the stout the old man handed him, declined the offer of a glass, and raised the bottle to his lips. It was rich and black, and only slightly warm despite the heat of the day, and he drank it thirstily, acknowledging the old man’s pleasure in his enjoyment as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘So?’ he urged. ‘You’re keeping well? No more of those dizzy turns you were having a month or two ago?’

‘Psshaw, dizzy turns!’ His stepfather was impatient. ‘I’m getting too old, that’s all that’s wrong with me. And you didn’t come here to discuss my aches and pains.’

Jarret sighed. ‘I wish you’d let me find you somewhere—pleasanter, somewhere smaller. Somewhere you could look after your garden, and not have to bother about taking care of a house. A bungalow, for——’

‘I was born in this house, Jarret, and I intend to die here,’ his stepfather interrupted him firmly. ‘It may seem scruffy and old-fashioned to you, after that place of yours up West, but it suits me down to the ground.’

Jarret shook his head. ‘You’re an obstinate old fool, do you know that?’

‘Why? ‘Cause I won’t let you squander your money on me. Humph!’ He chuckled. ‘You save it for those skinny bits of skirt I see you going about with. Don’t know what you see in them, I don’t honestly.’

‘Don’t you?’ queried Jarret lazily, and his stepfather chuckled once again.

‘Well, yes, I guess I do at that,’ he agreed wickedly. ‘But that’s not to say I approve. You’ll be getting yourself into trouble one of these days, and then all that money of yours won’t be enough to get you out of it.’

‘Mmm.’ Jarret took another mouthful of his stout as if considering the point, and the old man continued:

‘Like that Honourable what’s-her-name you used to see sometimes. Margaret something or other.’

‘Lady Margot Urquart,’ amended Jarret dryly. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw her this morning.’

‘Did you?’ His stepfather made a sound of contempt. ‘Soshe’s still hanging around, is she? What the hell do you want with an old bird like her?’

‘I have to remind you that it was Margot who persuaded James Stanford to publish Devil’s Kitchen!’ he retorted, shrugging. ‘Besides, she’s not that old, Paddy. I doubt if she’s even forty.’

‘And you’re thirty-one,’ his stepfather pointed out shortly.

Jarret sighed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Margot did have a reason for visiting me …’

‘I can believe it!’

‘No, really.’ Jarret had finished the contents of the bottle and now he took mock-aim at the old man. ‘She’s suggested I buy some place out in the country.’

Patrick Horton absorbed this in silence for several minutes while he examined the contents of his small pantry. Then, realising his stepson expected an opinion from him, he turned and glanced at him over his shoulder.

‘What kind of a place?’

Jarret shrugged. ‘A house—and some land. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’

‘And who’s going to live there? You and Lady Margot?’

‘Of course not.’ Jarret was impatient now. ‘Me! Just me!’ He pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘I’m getting stale, Dad. The words just aren’t coming any more. I need to get away—I’m stifling in London.’

‘What you mean is you’re bored, don’t you?’ his stepfather remarked shrewdly. ‘Too many late nights and too much alcohol. And too many women!’

‘All right!’ Jarret heaved a deep breath. ‘What you say is true. I’m too easily diverted. Maybe out at Thrushfold I’ll be able to breathe again.’

‘Thrushfold?’ His stepfather frowned. ‘Where’s that?’

‘I’m not precisely sure. Somewhere in Wiltshire. The house is called King’s Green. A genuine old property!’ he added, with mock transatlantic reverence.

‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’

‘No.’ Jarret put the bottle on the table behind him and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘No, I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t even seen it. That’s one of the reasonswhy I wanted to see you—to ask you what you thought. To find out whether you think it’s a good idea or not.’

‘Hmm.’ The old man grimaced. ‘You had anything to eat?’

‘Some toast, at breakfast time,’ replied Jarret patiently. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I think I’ll open a tin of soup,’ declared Mr Horton consideringly. ‘Which would you prefer? Chicken or oxtail? It’s all the same to me.’

‘I’ll take you out for lunch, Dad,’ protested Jarret, shaking his head, but his stepfather declined.

‘If my soup’s not good enough for you——’ he began, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jarret shed his coat and reached goodhumouredly for the can-opener.

Later, seated at the kitchen table ladling spoonfuls of oxtail soup into his mouth, Jarret returned to the object of his visit. ‘About this house, Dad,’ he began uncertainly, ‘what do you think? Ought I to go out of town for a while?’

Mr Horton considered for a few moments, and then he nodded his balding head. ‘I’d say it was the best idea you’d had in a long time,’ he asserted, frowning. ‘But not if you take anyone along with you.’

‘If you mean Margot, I’ve no intention of doing so.’

‘I didn’t mean her, actually. I meant that other one I read you’d been seeing. Some model girl, isn’t she? Comes from America. They gave you quite a write-up in the Gazette.’

‘Vivien Sinclair,’ remarked Jarret flatly. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her name. Yes, she’s a model. And I’ve been seeing her for over six months. But there’s no likelihood of her joining me in my country retreat. She likes the bright lights far too much for that.’

He didn’t sound heartbroken, and his stepfather gave him a disapproving stare. ‘You don’t care, do you?’ he exclaimed, permitting a brief word of criticism. ‘Jarret, when are you going to give up this artificial existence and settle down? You know your mother would have wanted you to.’

‘Oh, Dad!’ The younger man lay back in his chair and surveyed his stepfather humorously. ‘Don’t give me thatold line. What Ma would or would not have wanted is immaterial, isn’t it? I mean—well, she’s dead, and my idiosyncrasies aren’t going to hurt her, are they?’

Patrick Horton sighed. ‘You’ll find your own way to the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered.

Jarret shook his head and sat up again. ‘So how about you coming with me instead? Then you could keep an eye on me, ensure that I ate the right food and got to bed at a reasonable time, and didn’t sleep with any strange women!’

His stepfather’s lips twitched in spite of himself. ‘Oh, no!’ he denied at once. ‘I’m not your keeper, nor would I want to be. And as for removing myself to the wilds of Wiltshire at my time of life—no, thanks!’ He paused. ‘But you go, Jarret, son, you go. I’m all in favour of that. I’m in favour of anything that will make you happy.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Jarret leant across to squeeze the old man’s arm, and they finished the meal in a companionable silence.

It was after four when Jarret arrived back at his apartment. Despite the unsatisfactory beginning to his day he felt reasonably content, and half inclined to anticipate the journey to Thrushfold with some enthusiasm. If the house was any good, the sale might be completed before the end of May, with the long lazy days of summer to look forward to. In previous years he had gone to Bermuda and to Cannes, and last year he had spent some time on the west coast of the United States, but the prospect of spending the summer in a home of his own was appealing, and he wondered how he would react to so much isolation.

Vivien Sinclair’s reactions were characteristically opposed to his leaving London.

‘Jarret, you can’t!’ she wailed, when he casually mentioned the idea at dinner that evening. ‘Honey, you’d die in a place like that! Come to Barbados with me next week. You know I’ve got that modelling assignment, and you could work at the hotel while I was at the studios.’

Jarret grimaced. ‘No, thanks,’ he declined gently. ‘I need to work, not to play baby-sitter while you take off your clothes for someone else.’

‘But Jarret,’ she protested, clasping one of his hands in both of hers, regardless of the interested eyes of theirwaiter, ‘when will I see you, stuck out in this Godforsaken hole——’

‘Hardly a hole,’ he corrected her dryly, removing her fingers. ‘Now, do you want yoghurt or ice-cream to finish, or shall I just order coffee for two?’

‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ she protested sulkily, pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag and sniffing miserably into it. ‘You can get me a brandy with my coffee instead. I need something to sustain me after what you’ve just told me.’

Jarret shrugged and summoned the waiter, and ordered the drinks with the minimum amount of fuss. Then he relaxed in his seat while Vivien recovered her humour, apparently immune to her tearful performance.

‘And when do you leave?’ she ventured at last, when it occurred to her that she was doing herself no favours by causing a scene, and Jarret looked up from lighting a cheroot through the narrowed fringe of his lashes.

‘It’s not even definite yet, Vivien,’ he told her flatly, putting his lighter away. ‘I’m going down to see the place tomorrow. I’ll know more about it after that.’

‘But how did you learn of its whereabouts anyway?’ she exclaimed, putting her handkerchief away. ‘Thrushfold! In Wilshire? I’ve never even heard of it.’

‘The county is Wiltshire,’ Jarret amended, realising he might as well tell her the whole tale. ‘Margot Urquart told me about it. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’

Vivien evidently suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips, and asked about the house with as much detachment as she could muster. But later that night, when they were alone in her apartment, she could not deny the need for reassurance that only he could give.

‘You—er—you wouldn’t consider marrying Margot Urquart, would you, Jarret?’ she probed, caressing his ear with mildly anxious lips, and Jarret’s laughter came from deep down in his throat.

‘No,’ he agreed, turning his mouth into her nape, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he kissed her.