Читать книгу His Convenient Marriage - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

‘THE Ogre’s asked you out to dinner?’ Jenny looked blank with disbelief. ‘And you’ve actually accepted.’ She shook her head. ‘God, Chessie, you must be out of your tree.’

Chessie shrugged defensively. ‘I don’t see why. Something marvellous happened for him today, and he wants to celebrate.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny said derisively. ‘They’ve invented a mask for him to wear—like the Phantom of the Opera.’

Chessie stared at her, appalled. ‘What an utterly foul thing to say,’ she said slowly. ‘Miles is my boss, and we owe him a great deal, yet you can’t say one decent word to him, or about him.’

‘Owe him?’ Jenny’s face reddened. ‘What the hell do we owe him? He’s taken our home away from us, and he’s making us pay for it by treating us like drudges.’

‘Really?’ snapped Chessie. ‘Well, I haven’t noticed much drudgery from your direction. And if Miles hadn’t bought this house, someone else would have done so, and we’d have been out on our ears. There was no way we could keep it. Why can’t I get that through to you?’

Jenny looked mutinous. ‘Well, I still think we could have done something. I saw this thing on television the other day about small country house hotels. It was really cool. I bet we could have made a bomb with Silvertrees.’

‘In about twenty years, maybe,’ Chessie said levelly. ‘But Dad’s creditors weren’t prepared to wait that long for their money. And our present existence is like a holiday camp, compared with hotel-keeping. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.’

Jenny sniffed. ‘I still think it could have worked,’ she said obstinately.

Chessie was suddenly caught between tears and laughter. Extraordinary how Jenny, so clever at school, could have such a tenuous hold on reality at other times.

She wondered what role her sister had pictured for herself in this make-believe ménage. Acting as receptionist, no doubt, and arranging a few flowers. Because she couldn’t cook to save her life, and had never shown the slightest aptitude for housework either.

‘And, anyway—’ Jenny got down to the nitty-gritty of the situation ‘—if you’re going out tonight, what am I going to eat? I bet The Ogre hasn’t invited me.’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ Chessie agreed. ‘But you won’t starve. There’s some chicken casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is use the microwave.’

‘Hardly on a level with being wined and dined.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘And another thing—since when has The Ogre been “Miles” to you? I thought it was strictly, “Yes, Mr Hunter, sir.”’

‘So it was, and probably will be again tomorrow,’ Chessie told her calmly. ‘It’s just a meal, that’s all.’

I wonder how many times I’m going to say that before I convince even myself, she thought later as she reviewed the meagre contents of her wardrobe.

It had been a long time since she’d eaten in a restaurant. She’d been having lunch with her father, she remembered, hardly able to eat as she’d tried nervously to probe what had been going on in the company.

She could recall the uneasy questions she’d asked—the reassurances she’d sought.

Neville had patted her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘There’s nothing for my girl to worry about.’

He’d talked loudly, and laughed a lot. Drunk a lot too. He’d seen some former business associates across the restaurant, and had waved to them expansively, beckoning them over, but they hadn’t come.

Even then that had seemed ominous, like the first crack in a dam, only she hadn’t dared say so. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it could have been so. Longed for it all to have been her imagination.

She’d worn a plain cream linen shift, she remembered, with large gold buttons. That didn’t exist any more, sadly, and she had little else that was suitable for dining out in.

Most of her clothes fell into two categories, she realised regretfully. There was working (ordinary) and working (slightly smarter). In the end, she opted for a plain black skirt reaching to mid-calf, and topped it with an ivory silk chainstore blouse. The gilt earrings and chains that Jenny had given her for her last birthday made the outfit seem a little more festive.

She was in her early twenties and she felt a hundred years old. There were little worry lines forming between her brows, and the curve of her mouth was beginning to look pinched.

She usually wore her light brown hair gathered for neatness into a rubber band at the nape of her neck, but decided to let it loose for once, its newly washed silkiness brushing her shoulders.

The only eye-shadow she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.

As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.

The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.

Jenny had won a scholarship to the school in the neighbouring town where she was a day girl, so Chessie had no actual fees to find. But there was so much else. The only acceptable sports gear and trainers had to come with designer labels, and the school had a strict uniform code too, which had been a nightmare while Jenny was growing so rapidly.

But her sister was going to have exactly the same as all the other girls. She’d been determined about that from the first. No ridicule or snide remarks from her peers for Jenny.

But no one said it was easy, she thought, grimacing, as she picked up her all-purpose jacket and bag.

She paused to take a long critical look at herself in the mirror.

Did she really look the kind of girl a best-selling novelist would ask out? The answer to that was an unequivocal ‘no’, and she found herself wondering why he hadn’t sought more congenial company.

Because, no matter what cruel comments Jenny might make, there was no doubt that Miles Hunter was an attractive and dynamic man, in spite of the scar on his face. And she wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this.

But then, she’d hardly regarded him in the light of a human being, she thought wryly. He was the man she worked for, and his initial rejection of her compassion had barred any personal rapport between them. He’d become a figurehead, she thought. A dark god who had to be constantly placated if she and Jenny were to survive.

She found herself thinking about the girl he’d told her about—the fiancée who’d ditched him because of his scars. Was he still embittered about this? Still carrying a torch for the woman who’d let him down when he’d most needed her support?

Could this be why, apart from the fan mail, which she dealt with herself, there were no phone calls or letters from women—apart from his sister, and his agent, who was in her late forties?

And could it also be why there was no love interest in his books—not the slightest leavening of romance?

He was a terrific writer, and the tension in his stories never slackened. Each book went straight into the bestseller lists after publication, yet if Chessie was honest she found his work oddly bleak, and even sterile.

But that’s just my opinion, she told herself ruefully as she let herself out through the side door. The thriller-reading public who snapped him up had no such reservations.

Besides, she didn’t know for sure that Miles had no women in his life. He was away a great deal in London, and other places. He could well be having a whole series of affairs without her being aware of it. Maybe he just liked to keep his personal life private—and away from the village.

He was waiting by the car. He was wearing beautifully cut casual trousers, which moulded his long legs, and a high-necked sweater in black cashmere. A sports jacket was slung across one shoulder.

He was staring at the ground, looking preoccupied and slightly cross, failing to notice her soft-footed approach.

He didn’t seem to be looking forward to a pleasant evening, thought Chessie, wondering if he was regretting his impulsive invitation. If so, she was sure she would soon know, she told herself philosophically.

She found herself hoping that Jenny hadn’t eaten the entire chicken casserole, because she might well be joining her.

She said, ‘Good evening,’ her voice shy and rather formal.

He looked up instantly, his eyes narrowing as if, for a moment, he had forgotten who she was. Then he nodded abruptly.

‘Punctual as always,’ he commented, opening the passenger door for her.

Well, what did he expect? Chessie wondered defensively as she struggled with her seat belt. She was hardly going to hang about coyly in the house, keeping him waiting.

As he joined her she caught a hint of his cologne, slightly musky and obviously expensive.

‘I thought we’d try The White Hart,’ Miles said as he started the engine. ‘I hear the food’s good there, if you don’t mind the village pub.’

‘Not at all.’ Neither Chessie’s clothes nor her confidence were up to a smart restaurant. ‘Mrs Fewston’s a marvellous cook. Before she and her husband took over the Hart, she used to cater for private dinner parties. In fact, I think she still does, sometimes.’

‘I shall have to bear that in mind. It’s time I did some entertaining.’ He sent her a swift, sideways glance. ‘Well, don’t look so astonished. I can’t go on accepting hospitality without returning it.’

‘Er—no.’ Chessie rallied. ‘And Silvertrees is a great house for parties.’

‘It’s also a family house,’ he said laconically. ‘As my sister never fails to remind me.’ He paused. ‘I think that’s a hint that I should invite her and her blasted kids to stay.’

‘Don’t you like children?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve never had much to do with them. Actually, Steffie’s are great, although she calls them the monsters,’ he added drily.

If it hadn’t been for that land-mine, he might have been married with a family of his own by now, Chessie thought. She tried to imagine it, and failed.

But that was so unfair, she reproached herself. She was behaving just like Jenny. Because she’d never known the man he’d once been. The man who’d enjoyed everything life had to offer—who’d played sport, and laughed, and made love.

And the chances were she’d never have encountered him anyway.

Miles Hunter, the award-winning journalist and hard-hitting television reporter, would have been based in London. He wouldn’t have been interested in a large, inconvenient house on the edge of a sleepy village. He’d have been where it was all happening—where he could pack a bag, and be off whenever a story broke.

He would probably never have contemplated becoming a novelist until circumstances had forced him to rethink his life completely.

Yet, here they both were. And together …

The White Hart was a pleasant timbered building, sited near the crossroads outside the village. A former coaching inn, it was always busy. Jim Fewston was as knowledgeable about wine as his wife was about cooking, and that kept the people coming. Tonight was no exception, and the car park was almost full when they arrived.

‘Just as well I booked a table,’ Miles commented as he slotted the car with expertise into one of the few available spaces. ‘Although it would seem that not everyone’s here for the food,’ he added drily.

She followed his glance, and saw movement in a car parked on its own under the shelter of some trees. Glimpsed shadowy figures passionately entwined, and hurriedly looked away.

‘What an odd place to choose.’ She tried to match his tone.

‘Not if you’re having an illicit affair.’ Miles shrugged. ‘Presumably any corner will do.’

In the bar, Chessie drank an excellent dry sherry, and Miles a gin and tonic as they studied their menu cards.

Many of the people already there were local and known to her, and she’d been greeted cordially when she’d arrived, although a few of the greetings had been accompanied by slyly speculative glances.

But that was only to be expected, she thought as hunger drove out self-consciousness.

She chose watercress soup, and guinea fowl casseroled with shallots in red wine, while Miles opted for pâté, and steak cooked with Guinness and oysters.

“‘Do you come here often?” is the usual opening gambit in this situation,’ Miles commented sardonically as the waitress disappeared with their order. ‘But I’m well aware that you don’t, so what do you suggest as an alternative topic?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She played with the stem of her glass. ‘I think my social graces are rusty with disuse.’

‘And I doubt that I ever had any.’ His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘It promises to be a silent evening.’

‘I’m quite used to that.’ Tentatively, she returned his smile. ‘Jenny spends most of her time in her room, studying for her exams, so I’m accustomed to my own company.’

‘People tell me solitude is a luxury,’ Miles said after a pause. ‘But I’m not sure it works so well as a way of life.’ He paused. ‘What’s your sister planning to do when she leaves school?’

‘She’s applied to read natural sciences, but I don’t think she has any definite ideas about an ultimate career yet.’ She thought she detected a faintly quizzical expression in the blue eyes, and hurried on defensively. ‘But it’s early days, and she doesn’t have to make any hasty decisions.’

She leaned back against the comfortable red plush of the bench seat. ‘I had to struggle every inch of the way at school, but learning seems to come easily to Jenny.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Miles said politely, after another pause. ‘There’s a good St Emilion on the wine list, or would you prefer Burgundy?’

‘No, the Bordeaux would be fine.’ She remembered with a pang a holiday she’d once spent with her father, exploring the vineyards of south-west France. It had been a magical time for her, even though he’d constantly fussed about Jenny left behind with her aunt’s family, and made a point of phoning her each evening.

‘There it is again,’ Miles said quietly, and she looked at him in startled question.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That expression of yours—like a child who’s just heard Christmas has been abolished.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Chessie pantomimed dismay. ‘How wimpish. I’ll try and look more cheerful from now on.’

‘Are all your memories so painful?’

She gave the pale liquid in her glass a fierce and concentrated stare. ‘How did you know I was—remembering?’

‘An educated guess—having attended the same school myself.’ He finished his gin and tonic. ‘Want to talk about it?’

She shook her head. ‘What can anyone say? One minute you’re riding high. The next, you’re flat on your face in the mud, not knowing whether you’ll ever get up again. That’s my personal angle. The rest I’m sure you read in the newspapers at the time. They didn’t leave many stones unturned.’

He said gently, ‘It would have been difficult to miss.’ He watched her for a moment. ‘Well—aren’t you going to say it?’

‘Say what?’

‘That your father was entirely innocent, and, but for his untimely death, he’d have cleared himself of all charges.’

Chessie slowly shook her head. She said bleakly, ‘If he’d lived, I think he would still have been in jail. In many ways, his death was a mercy for him. He’d have hated—hated …’

She stopped, biting her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being very boring. This is supposed to be a celebration, not a wake.’

He said quietly, ‘I would not have asked if I hadn’t wanted to know, Francesca.’

But why did he want to know? she wondered as she drank some more sherry. Now that they were out of their working environment, maybe he felt he had to make conversation that didn’t concern the current script or the purely domestic details either.

Yet he could have picked something less personal. Music, maybe, or cinema.

What did a man and a woman talk to each other about over dinner and a bottle of wine? She was so totally out of touch. And nervous.

She hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Alastair. The dates she’d gone out on in London had been totally casual and uncommitted. She couldn’t think of one man out of all of them she’d wanted to see again, let alone know better.

And since London, of course, there’d been no one at all.

Until tonight—which naturally didn’t count, she reminded herself swiftly.

It was a relief when the waitress came to say their table was ready. The soup and pâté, when they arrived, were so good that it was really only necessary to make appreciative noises and eat.

So Chessie made appreciative noises, and ate.

She and Miles had been put in one of the smaller rooms off the main dining room. It was panelled and candlelit, and intimate, with all the tables set for two. Even the flower arrangements were small, presumably to allow diners to gaze unimpeded into each other’s eyes.

The Fewstons must have a romantic streak, Chessie thought, buttering her bread roll, still warm from the oven. But it had led them severely astray this time.

She’d have settled for a wall of delphiniums and hollyhocks to shelter behind. Or even a privet hedge.

While their plates were being changed, Chessie hurried into speech, asking about the film script, and what would be involved in adapting the book.

It wasn’t just an excuse to find an impersonal topic, she told herself. She was genuinely interested, and after all she was going to be closely involved in the project.

But what next? The weather? Would it be a hot summer, and was it really the greenhouse effect?

Brilliant, she thought. What a conversational ball of fire you are, Chessie, my dear.

‘Am I really such a difficult companion?’ Miles leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes hooded.

Rocked back on her heels, Chessie took a gulp of wine, feeling her face warm with sudden colour.

‘No, of course not,’ she managed. Although he could be a mind-reader.

‘Perhaps I should have told you to bring a notebook, and dictated a few letters between courses,’ he went on. ‘You might have felt more at ease then.’

‘I doubt it.’ She put down her glass. ‘I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.’

‘You’re eating an excellent meal,’ he said. ‘Which you haven’t had to prepare, cook, and wash up after.’

‘And that’s all there is to it?’ She felt oddly breathless.

‘No, but the rest can wait.’ The cool face was enigmatic, the scar silver in the candlelight. ‘May I refill your glass?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Chessie covered it with a protective hand. ‘Something tells me I need to keep a clear head.’

His smile mocked her. ‘I haven’t seduction in mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘It never crossed my mind.’

‘How incredibly pure of you,’ he murmured. ‘Considering the amount of time we spend alone together, have you really never wondered why I’ve never made a pass at you? Or do you think my scars have rendered me immune from the normal male urges?’

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose that for a moment. But I took it for granted that passes were out because of our situation—the terms of my employment. And because …’ She paused.

‘Yes?’ Miles prompted.

She swallowed. ‘Because it would be—inappropriate behaviour, and tacky as well. The amorous boss and his secretary—that’s a cliché, and you don’t deal in clichés,’ she added in a rush.

‘Thank you—I think,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Yet it was our—situation that I wanted to discuss with you.’

‘Have you decided to sell the house?’ Her last exquisite mouthful of guinea fowl turned to ashes in her mouth. Suddenly she was contemplating the prospect of being homeless and back on the job market at the same time.

It had always been a possibility, she supposed, yet just lately—stupidly—she’d allowed herself to feel settled. Safe even.

‘Absolutely not.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘What gave you that idea? Didn’t you hear me say I was planning to do some entertaining?’

‘Yes—I’m sorry.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose insecurity makes you paranoid.’

‘I can appreciate that.’ He put down his knife and fork, frowning slightly. ‘That’s part of the reason I want you to consider a change in your terms of employment.’

‘A change?’ Chessie was puzzled. Her contract with Miles had been carefully and meticulously defined. There were no obvious loopholes or room for manoeuvre. ‘What kind of change?’

He drank some more wine, the blue eyes meditative as he studied her across the top of the glass.

He said, ‘I thought we might get married.’

Chessie had a curious feeling that the entire world had come to a sudden halt, throwing her sideways. The subdued hum of conversation and laughter around them faded under the swift roar of blood in her ears.

Her whole body was rigid as she stared at him, lips parted in astonishment as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a voice that seemed to have travelled vast distances across space and time. ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’

‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve just proposed to you—asked you to become my wife.’ He sounded totally cool about it—unbelievably matter-of-fact. ‘Look on it, if you want, as a new kind of contract.’

He was mad, she thought dazedly. That was the answer. Completely and totally insane. Suffering some kind of delayed shell-shock.

Her lips moved. ‘Marriage is—hardly a business arrangement.’

‘I’d say that depends on the people involved.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Considering our individual circumstances and problems, marriage between us seems a sensible idea.’

He paused. ‘You need more stability and security than you currently enjoy, and I’m going to require a hostess as well as a housekeeper. I think we could work out a perfectly satisfactory deal.’

‘Just like that?’ Her voice sounded faint. She still could not believe what was happening.

‘No, of course not,’ he said with a trace of impatience. ‘I don’t want an immediate answer. But I’d like you to give my proposal some coherent and rational thought before you reach any decision.’

Coherent? she thought. Rational—when applied to this? The words were meaningless.

‘Judging by your reaction, this has been a bit of a thunderbolt,’ he went on.

‘Yes.’ Chessie swallowed. ‘You—could say that.’ She spread her hands in an almost pleading gesture. ‘I mean—we hardly know each other.’

‘We work together every day, and we live in the same house. That’s not exactly a casual acquaintance.’

‘Yes—but …’ She fought for the right words, and lost. ‘Oh, you know exactly what I mean.’

‘I think so.’ His face was sardonic. ‘You’re still pondering the lack of amorous advances.’

‘It’s not that—or not totally, anyway.’ She pushed her glass at him. ‘I will have some more wine, please. I seem to need it.’

She watched him pour, his hand steady. He was completely calm, she thought incredulously. Detached, even. But how could that be, when he’d just turned her world upside down?

She hurried into speech again. ‘There’s never been anything remotely personal between us—not until now. Yes, we’ve seen each other every day, but we’ve never talked about anything but work, and problems to do with the house.’ Mostly created by Jenny, she realised with a pang. Then—oh, God—Jenny.

‘Has this shift in our relationship plunged you into some kind of trauma?’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t intend that.’

‘No—but it’s all so sudden.’ She stopped, grimacing. ‘Hell, now I sound like the heroine of a bad historical novel.’

‘And highly sensible of the honour I’ve just done you.’ It was his turn to pull a face. ‘Only I don’t think you are, by any means. You look more winded than appreciative.’

‘Being hit by a thunderbolt doesn’t usually call for appreciation,’ Chessie said with something of a snap. ‘What did you expect—that I’d fall into your arms?’

‘Hardly. You’d damage the crockery.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘If you’re saying you’d have preferred a conventional courtship, then I can only apologise. But we’ve always had a reasonable working relationship, and our marriage would simply be an extension of this. So I thought the pragmatic approach would have more credence than hearts and flowers.’

Chessie said with difficulty, ‘It doesn’t—worry you that we’re not in love with each other?’

‘You forget I’ve been down that path once already. I can’t speak for you, of course.’ His face was expressionless. ‘Is there anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘No—not any more.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. ‘So it would be just a business arrangement—not a real marriage at all.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Initially, anyway.’

Her heart thudded in renewed shock. ‘But later …?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ The blue eyes met hers directly. ‘Ultimately, we might think again.’ He paused. ‘But any alteration in the terms would only be by mutual agreement.’

‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then say nothing. Not yet. Just think about it, and take as long as you need. I promise I won’t pressure you.’

She flicked the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And if I decide—no? Will I find myself out of a job?’

‘Do I seem that vindictive?’

She reddened. ‘No—no, of course not.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I’ll—consider it.’

‘Good.’ His smile was swift, without a trace of mockery this time. ‘Now shall I tell them to bring the dessert menu?’

‘No, thanks.’ Chessie doubted whether she could force another mouthful of food past her taut throat muscles. She pushed back her chair. ‘Just coffee, please. And will you excuse me?’

The ladies’ cloakroom was fortunately deserted. Chessie ran cool water over her wrists in a vain effort to quieten her hammering pulses.

She didn’t look like someone who’d just been poleaxed, she thought, staring at her reflection, although her eyes were enormous, and there was more colour in her cheeks than usual.

But nor did she look like the future wife of Miles Hunter.

But then she wasn’t really going to be a wife at all, she reminded herself, absently sifting her fingers through the bowl of pot pourri on the vanity unit, and savouring its fragrance.

Her present duties were being extended—that was all. Her change of status would permit her to sit at the opposite end of that beautiful oak dining table when there were guests, but little more.

She supposed he would expect her to move out of the flat, and live in the main house again.

She might even get her old bedroom back—for a while.

Initially. That was the word he’d used. But he’d also said ‘ultimately’, she thought, her heart beginning to pound unevenly. And what then?

She was shaking all over suddenly, her mind closing off in startled rejection.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t. I’ll have to tell him here and now that it’s impossible.’

But she’d promised to consider his proposal, and she’d have to pretend to do so at least.

But she could not marry him. Not in a million years. Not even if Alastair never came back …

Chessie drew a deep, trembling sigh. There—she’d faced it at last. She’d allowed herself to admit the existence of the dream—the little foolish, groundless hope that had been growing inside her ever since she’d heard Jenny’s news.

And how ironic that Miles should have chosen today of all days to present her with his own plan for her future.

‘It never rains but it pours.’ That was what Mrs Chubb, their current and longest-serving daily help would say.

Her little laugh turned into a groan. Once she’d told Miles her decision, it would be impossible for her to stay on at Silvertrees. In spite of his assurances, it would make things altogether too awkward.

There was a temping agency in the nearby town. She would make enquiries there, and then trawl through the letting bureaux for the cheapest possible flat.

Oh, why had Miles done this to her? she asked herself with something bordering on despair. Things had been fine as they were, and now everything was ruined again. And it wasn’t as if he even wanted her.

Although that was something to be grateful for, at least. Because what would she have done if he had ever made a move on her?

Before she could stop herself, for one startled, stunned moment, she found she was imagining herself in Miles’ arms, breathing the musky scent of his skin, feeling his mouth move on hers, coaxing her lips apart. His lean, long-fingered hand grazing her skin in a first caress …

Chessie came gasping back to reality, like a diver reaching the surface of some deep lake. Every inch of her body was tingling. Inside the silk shirt, her small breasts were burning, the nipples hardening helplessly.

Her eyes were green, like a drowsy cat’s, she thought, gazing at herself in horror. Her lips, parted and trembling.

There was no way she could return to the table like this. Or he would know. And then she would be totally lost.

Oh, God, she thought frantically. What’s happening to me? And what am I doing to myself?

And could find no answer that made any sense at all.