Читать книгу One Man's Mistress: One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 10

TALLIE emerged from the underground station and began the long trudge back to the flat, her feet whimpering in protest. She felt hot, sticky and dirtier than the pavement she was walking on, but she knew the sensation that her skin was crawling under her clothes was sheer imagination.

Nevertheless, the image of opening the cupboard under the sink in the bedsit she’d just been to look at, and seeing black shiny creatures scuttling for safety would lodge in her mind for a very long time.

It seemed to her that she’d spent most of the past week reviewing all the possible options. That she’d tramped endless streets, climbed endless stairs, and yet, in spite of her best efforts, she was still destined to be homeless in less than forty-eight hours.

Maybe I’m just too fussy, she thought wearily. After all, I can’t exactly afford to pick and choose, not when time is running out on me. But everything remotely liveable is out of my price range, and in the places I might just be able to afford, I’d be afraid to close my eyes at night in case I woke up and heard hundreds of tiny feet marching towards me from the sink cupboard.

The only bright spot in her personal darkness was how little she’d seen of Mark Benedict since that first evening. In fact, he seemed to be spending the minimum time at the flat, which she suspected was a deliberate policy. That he was keeping his distance while he bided his time, waiting for eviction day when she would be out of his home and his life for good.

He was usually gone by the time she emerged from her room in the morning, which was her own deliberate policy, and he invariably returned late at night, if at all, so the rest and recreation season must still be in full swing.

Not that it was any concern of hers, she added hastily. And if Miss Acid Voice was the one to float his boat, then good luck to the pair of them.

Because the fewer awkward encounters she herself was forced to endure, the better.

Maybe, when the time came, she would simply be able to … slip away, leaving the amount she’d calculated she owed him for use of the electricity and the telephone on the kitchen table. A dignified retreat, with the added advantage that there’d be no difficult questions about forwarding addresses to deflect, and she wouldn’t have to admit openly that she’d found nowhere else to live and that, as a consequence, she was going home.

In Mark Benedict’s fortunate absence, Tallie had fielded two anxious phone calls from her mother that week, enquiring if she was all right and how the caretaking was progressing. She’d forced herself to admit there were a few teething troubles, adding brightly that she was sure they were nothing she couldn’t handle.

Preparing the ground, she told herself wryly, for the moment when she turned up on the family doorstep confessing failure. And soon it would be as if she’d never been away, with the waters closing over her time in London as if it had not existed, and probably taking the book down with it too. Drowning it in loving routine and the domestic demands of a busy household.

Then there would be the rest of it. She could see her life stretching ahead of her like a straight, flat road. Finding a job locally, she thought. Running out of excuses not to go out with nice David Ackland, who’d joined his father’s accountancy practice in the nearby market town, and who, her mother said, had been asking after her, wondering when she’d be back to visit.

And, hardest of all, trying to avoid all the places in the village that she would always associate with Gareth, even if he was never coming back.

The thought of him was simple misery—like a stone lodged in her chest.

But she had to get over it. Had to draw a line and prepare for her future, even if it wasn’t the one she would have chosen.

Yet how many people are actually that lucky? she wondered drearily as she let herself into the flat, pausing to listen to the silence. Ensuring once again that she had the place to herself.

She dumped her bag in her room, kicked off her shoes and went straight to the bathroom for a long and recuperative shower, thoroughly scrubbing her skin and shampooing her hair until all lingering creepy-crawly memories were erased and she felt clean again.

She put on her cotton robe, bundled up her discarded clothing, and left the bathroom, only to walk straight into Mark Benedict in the passage outside, tall and dark in a business suit, his silk tie wrenched loose by an impatient hand.

‘Oh, God.’ Tallie recoiled with a gasp. ‘It’s you.’

He looked at her, brows raised. ‘And why wouldn’t it be? I do live here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said shortly, annoyed at her overreaction, and wishing with all her heart that she too was fully dressed, with her hair dry, and definitely not clutching an armful of stuff that included her damned underwear. ‘I was just … startled, that’s all.’

‘Well, not for much longer.’ He paused. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware.’

‘How could I forget?’ Tallie tried a nonchalant shrug and found herself grabbing at her slipping bundle instead. Insouciance was never going to work for her with Mark Benedict around, she thought crossly. ‘But please don’t worry. I shan’t exceed my deadline.’

‘You’ve found another flat?’

‘I have somewhere to go, yes.’ She added with deliberate crispness, not wishing to be questioned further in case she let slip some hint that she was going home in defeat, ‘If it’s any business of yours.’

‘You don’t think I’m bound to be just a little concerned? Under the circumstances?’

‘I think it’s unnecessary.’ Tallie lifted her chin. ‘And please spare me any more references to abandoned puppies.’

‘At the moment,’ he said, his mouth twisting, ‘a half-drowned kitten seems more appropriate.’ He reached out and pushed a strand of wet hair away from her cheek with his fingertip. It was the lightest of touches, but Tallie felt it shiver all the way down to her bare feet. Found herself staring at him, suddenly mute with shock at her body’s unwonted—and unwanted response.

‘If you’re still wondering why I’m home at this hour,’ he went on casually, apparently unaware that she’d been turned to stone before his eyes, ‘I have some friends coming to dinner tonight.’

‘Oh.’ She took a steadying breath, thankful that she hadn’t been guilty of squeaking, jumping back in alarm or any other embarrassing giveaway. ‘In that case, I’ll eat early. Leave the kitchen free for you.’

‘I shan’t be slaving over a hot stove myself.’ His voice held faint amusement. ‘I use a firm of caterers—Dining In—but they’ll probably be glad of some room to manoeuvre.’

‘Naturally.’ She managed a smile of sorts. ‘Consider it done.’

‘And when I have more time,’ he said, his glance thoughtful, ‘you can tell me all about your new place … Tallie.’

She was at her bedroom door, but she turned defensively. ‘How did you know I was called that?’

‘Because someone left a message for you on my answering machine earlier, and that’s the name she used instead of Natalie.’

She flushed with vexation. ‘Oh, heavens, my mother …’

‘I don’t think so. The name she gave was Morgan—Alice Morgan. She wants you to call her.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘You do know who she is?’

‘Yes, she’s the agent who’s going to try and sell my book when it’s finished.’ Tallie took another deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I—I haven’t mentioned to her yet that I’m moving, but I’ll warn her … not to call here in future. You won’t be bothered again.’

‘For God’s sake.’ The amusement was tempered with exasperation. ‘It’s hardly a problem, if she needs to contact you. And why shouldn’t I know that you’re called Tallie? I’ve no objection to you addressing me as Mark.’

‘Because Tallie’s a private name,’ she said coldly. ‘Used only by my family and friends.’

Whereas, on your lips, it sounds as intimate as a touch, and I can’t cope with that. Not again.

‘From which I infer that I shall not find myself on your Christmas card list this year.’ Back at a safe distance, he leaned a shoulder against the wall, folding his arms. ‘Not very grateful when you’ve been granted a stay of execution.’

‘But the sentence is still going to be carried out. Besides,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘I think it’s much better if we remain on … formal terms.’

‘However, even you must admit that formality’s slightly tricky—under the circumstances.’ His tone was sardonic and the green eyes held a glint that reminded her without equivocation that he knew exactly what her thin cotton robe was concealing.

She felt her face warm and cursed him under her breath. When she spoke, she kept her voice level. ‘Circumstances that I did not choose, Mr Benedict. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure we both have other things to do.’

Head high, she went back into her room, closing the door behind her with firm emphasis, then leaning back against its panels with a slight gasp as she tried to control the harsh thud of her heartbeat.

How did he do that? she wondered helplessly. How was it possible for someone she hardly knew to … wind her up with such ease? And why did he bother, anyway?

I’m still raw over Gareth, she told herself, which has made me more vulnerable than I should be. I ought to be able simply to shrug off Mark Benedict’s crude, sexist jibes, instead of letting him see he can get to me.

But I can get back at him, and I will. While he’s entertaining his friends this evening, I shall be busy with yet another encounter between Mariana and the revolting Hugo, and she’ll be triumphing all over again.

She was smiling to herself as she dressed. In spite of her housing problems, she had to admit that the book seemed to be going really well, as she would be able to tell Mrs Morgan. And one of the reasons was clearly the introduction of Hugo the Bastard. In fact, she was enjoying Mark Benedict’s character assassination by proxy so much that she might have to rein it in a little. Not allow him quite such a prominent role in case the gorgeous William appeared a little dull by contrast, which she could already see might be a danger, she thought regretfully.

But the battle of Salamanca was approaching, and he could play a starring role in that—leading a cavalry charge maybe, except that Hugo was probably the better horseman …

She bit her lip. Well, no need to mention that, and some judicious editing might be needed in other scenes. However, she thought more cheerfully, another couple of weeks and she’d have almost enough to show Alice Morgan as work in progress.

Or she would have done, if only the weeks in question remained at her disposal.

Come on, don’t be negative, she adjured herself. At least you’ve got a long, uninterrupted evening ahead of you.

As she popped bread into the toaster and heated up a small can of beans for her supper, she found herself wondering if the snippy Ms Rest and Recreation would be among those present tonight. Not, of course, that it was any concern of hers. And even if the lady stayed over afterwards, the bedrooms were quite far enough apart to avoid any awkwardness.

Although any embarrassment would undoubtedly be all on my side, she admitted, chewing her lip again. What I have to learn is to be more relaxed about these things.

Not that it would matter once she was back under her parents’ roof. They were old-fashioned about morality, and she supposed she’d inherited their attitude. Or thought she’d done so before Gareth had entered her life, she added with a faint sigh. If only he’d wanted her in return …

She ate her meal at the breakfast bar, then washed her plate and cutlery and put them away, making sure the kitchen was immaculate before she poured herself a mug of freshly brewed coffee to take to her room.

As she walked out into the passage, Mark was approaching from the sitting room, talking on the cordless phone.

‘Look, don’t worry about that,’ he was saying. ‘I’m just thankful that you and Milly are all right. No, it’s fine. I can handle it. I’ll book a table somewhere.’ He listened for a moment, then nodded. ‘Make sure you both get properly checked over. Goodnight, Fran. I’ll be in touch.’

He saw Tallie and grimaced ruefully. ‘My caterers,’ he said. ‘A car came out of a side street without stopping and ran straight into them. They’re not badly injured, they reckon, just bruises and shock, but their van’s a write-off and so, of course, is tonight’s meal.’

‘Oh.’ Tallie stared at him. ‘So what will you do?’

He shrugged. ‘Try and find a restaurant that can feed six of us, although frankly I haven’t much hope at this short notice.’

‘Can’t you cook something yourself?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’ve surely got enough time.’

‘Sadly, I lack the skill,’ he said. ‘Eggs are my cut-off point—scrambled, boiled or fried. Hardly adequate under the circumstances.’ His brief sigh held irritation and frustration in equal amounts. ‘I don’t suppose you number a chef among your London acquaintances—someone who’d like to earn a few extra bob before the evening shift?’

Out of nowhere, Tallie heard herself say, ‘I can cook.’

There was a silence, then he said politely, ‘I’m sure you can. What were you going to suggest—spaghetti Bolognese?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘And you’re being patronising again, just when I’m trying to help.’

She paused, then added levelly, ‘In any case, a really good ragu sauce would take far too long to make. My mother’s emergency stand-by dish—Mediterranean chicken with saffron rice—is much quicker, and it tastes fantastic. I suggest something really simple like smoked salmon for a starter, and a fruit flan from the deli round the corner as dessert. Chantilly cream would make it a bit more special.’

He said slowly, ‘You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?’

‘You were entitled to throw me out a week ago,’ she said, ‘but you didn’t. This makes us quits.’

Mark Benedict took a deep breath. ‘Then I can only say I’d be eternally grateful. Write down all the things you need and I’ll get them.’

Tallie raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean you can cope with supermarkets?’

The green eyes glinted at her. ‘Now who’s being patronising?’

He took the list she eventually handed him, reading it through in silence, then glancing at her, brows raised. ‘Anchovies? I don’t think Sonia likes them.’

‘Is that Miss Rest and Recreation?’ The words were out before she could stop them. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she added, flushing as she saw his mouth harden. ‘It’s really none of my business.’

‘Hang on to that thought,’ he suggested unsmilingly.

‘Yes—yes, of course. And the anchovies dissolve in cooking.’ Embarrassment was making her gabble and she knew it. ‘Your—your friend won’t even know they’re there, I promise. Or me either, for that matter,’ she went on hastily.

‘You’re planning to dissolve too?’

She bit her lip. ‘No,’ she returned stonily. ‘Just maintain my usual low profile.’ She paused. ‘After all, you have to admit that I’ve hardly been obtrusive this week.’

‘That,’ said Mark Benedict, ‘is a matter of opinion. But we won’t debate it now because I have to go shopping.’

When he’d gone, Tallie went into the dining room. She found the elegant linen table mats and the napkins that matched them, gave the silver cutlery and the tall wineglasses with their impossibly slender stems a careful polish, and set places for six people.

There were three dinner services in the tall cupboards that flanked the fireplace and she chose the simplest one—plain white china delicately edged in silver. Because she couldn’t be sure how long it was since it had been used, she tied a tea towel round her waist in lieu of an apron and gave the plates, cups and dishes a swift but thorough wash.

She was just drying the last piece when Mark Benedict returned.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he commented, pausing at the dining room door before joining her in the kitchen.

‘You did say six people?’

He nodded. ‘My cousin Penny, with her current companion, Justin Brent, two pals of mine, Charlie and Diana Harris, plus Sonia, of course, and myself.’ He paused. ‘Although, you are naturally welcome to join us,’ he added courteously.

‘You’re very kind,’ she returned with equal politeness. ‘But I’ve eaten already.’ And even if I was starving, I’d still say no.

She began to unpack the heavy carriers, almost disappointed to discover that he hadn’t forgotten a thing.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ He was propped in the doorway, watching her, his presence making the kitchen seem oddly smaller and more cramped.

‘No, thanks. It’s all down to me now.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wasn’t sure if you’d want to use those lovely candlesticks on the sideboard, and whether or not there were any candles for them.’

‘A romantic thought,’ he said. ‘But I think we’ll stick to the wall lighting.’

‘Just as you wish.’ Tallie began to chop onions, praying at the same time that his frankly disturbing scrutiny wouldn’t cause her to lose a finger. As she reached for the garlic press, she said with faint asperity, ‘There’s no need to stand over me. I didn’t include rat poison on my list, so don’t worry.’

‘Do I give that impression? Actually, I’m simply admiring your efficiency.’

‘And checking at the same time that I really know what I’m doing.’ She gave him a steady look. ‘However, I’m not accustomed to an audience, so if you’re sufficiently reassured, maybe you could go and see to … wine and things.’

The firm lips twitched. ‘Wine and things it is, then,’ he murmured. ‘May I bring you a drink, Miss Paget, to assist in your labours?’

It occurred to her that she felt slightly drunk already and that she had the way he’d been watching her to thank for it.

She said rather primly, ‘I think I need all my concentration, thank you. But I do need some white wine for the sauce. Nothing too fancy,’ she added hastily.

Mark Benedict gave an easy shrug. ‘I was thinking of continuing the Mediterranean theme with some rather nice Orvieto. Will a slightly cheaper version do for cooking?’

She nodded, staring rather fiercely at the chicken joints she was extracting from their packaging.

‘And please try to relax, sweetheart,’ he added quietly. ‘You’re doing me a big favour, remember, not passing some crucial examination.’

Easy for him to say, thought Tallie. He hasn’t got, Don’t mess up—don’t mess up unrolling through his mind like a banner as I have. And I lied when I said I wasn’t used to an audience. At home, there were always people in the kitchen and it never bothered me. So why is it different with him?

But she couldn’t answer that, any more than she could explain to herself why she’d volunteered to cook this meal. It had been an absurd thing to do, especially when she owed him less than nothing. She could so easily have left him to sort out his own dilemma—and been perfectly justified in doing so.

Yet, maybe, in some weird way, she’d wanted to prove to Mark Benedict that she wasn’t simply a freeloader with grandiose ideas about her own talent and an aversion to working for a living. That she was, in fact, as practical as the next person.

Maybe she also wanted to show him that she was large-minded enough to overlook his past behaviour. Heaping coals of fire on his head, as the saying went, instead of pouring petrol over him and chucking a lighted match.

And now all she had to do was prove her point, she told herself, determinedly turning her attention back to the task in hand.

Within the hour, her Mediterranean chicken was flawlessly assembled and already sending out a mouth-watering aroma of tomatoes, garlic and wine as it simmered slowly in the oven.

The smoked salmon would be served with a simple lemon wedge, a watercress garnish and little rolls of paper-thin brown bread and butter. She’d already whipped up the Chantilly cream to go with the tarte tatin that Mark had bought, arranged a platter of cheese flanked by a bunch of green grapes at one end and some celery sticks at the other, and spooned a rich Colombian blend of coffee into the cafetière.

All that was left was the saffron rice, which she’d cook at the last minute.

She looked down at her plain top and boring trousers, wondering if she should change into a skirt, make herself rather more presentable for the arrival of Mark Benedict’s guests.

Don’t be silly, she adjured herself crisply. You’re the skivvy. You belong in the kitchen and no one’s going to give a second glance at what you’re wearing. Least of all the host.

Promptly, at eight o clock, the door buzzer sounded and she heard voices and laughter in the hallway. Then, a minute later, she was joined by a tall, dark girl with an engaging grin. ‘Hi, I’m Penny Marshall, Mark’s cousin. I gather you’re Natalie Paget, otherwise known as our saviour—rescuing us from the queue at the local pizza parlour.’

Tallie smiled back. ‘I don’t think it would have come to that.’

‘But I’d like to have seen Sonia’s face if it had.’ Penny lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘It might almost have been worth it.’ She glanced round. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Thanks, but I think everything’s under control.’

‘In that case, why not come along to the sitting room and have a drink with us?’

Tallie moved restively. Picked up a spoon and put it down again. ‘That’s … kind, but I’d really rather not.’

‘We don’t bite, you know. Well, one of us might, but she’s not here yet, so you’re quite safe.’

Tallie smiled with an effort. ‘I see. Do I take it that you don’t like your cousin’s girlfriend?’

‘Let’s just say that, for me, she comes pretty low down on his current list of playmates.’ Penny shook her head. ‘Mark, of course, is a total commitment-phobe, which is probably why he spends so much time abroad when he has good people who could take his place perfectly well.

‘And he seems to have rounded up every female in London who shares his views—or lets him think she does, anyway. I think a few of them have their own agenda, much good may it do them. So if Sonia believes she’s extra-special, she’s fooling herself.’

Tallie became guiltily aware that she was paying too much attention to these indiscreet disclosures.

She said firmly, ‘Well, I must get on.’

‘But you just said everything was fine.’ The other girl gave Tallie a coaxing smile. ‘So come and meet the others, while the coast is clear.’

‘It just—wouldn’t be appropriate.’

‘Because you happen to be doing the cooking? Oh, come on now …’

‘No.’ Tallie met the other girl’s gaze squarely. ‘Because I’m only staying here temporarily, and very much on sufferance, and Mr Benedict wouldn’t like it.’

‘My dear girl, it was Mark’s idea, or I wouldn’t have dared, believe me. He said you might be more amenable if the invitation came from someone else.’

Tallie bit her lip. ‘And I feel that things are best left as they are.’

‘Ah, well,’ Penny said with a sigh, and walked to the door. Where she turned back. ‘As a matter of interest—and because I’m irredeemably nosy—how do you come to be here? Mark’s the last person in the world I can envision taking in a lodger.’

Tallie’s smile was wintry. ‘I’m the one who was taken in. The offer came from Kit Benedict, who made me think the flat belonged to him.’

‘Kit the Curst, eh?’ Penny gave a short laugh. ‘Now, why didn’t I guess? Egged on by his ghastly mother, no doubt. Sticking like glue to Ravenshurst clearly isn’t enough. It must really gall her to know there’s another desirable piece of real estate that she can’t stake a claim on.’

‘Ravenshurst?’ Tallie queried.

‘The family home in Suffolk. Lovely old house where Mark was born, and was growing up perfectly happily until the frightful Veronica got her hooks into his father and played the “I’m pregnant” card.

‘Which was bloody clever of her, because Mark’s mother couldn’t have any more children. My parents have said it was the most frightful, heartbreaking time, but after the divorce Aunt Clare put herself back together and bought this flat with some money Grandfather had left her. And she got custody of Mark, although he had to spend part of each school holiday under the new regime at Ravenshurst.’ She grimaced. ‘You can imagine what that must have been like.’

Tallie thought of the love and security she’d always taken for granted, and shivered. ‘Yes—I suppose I can—almost.’

‘And as soon as his father died, Veronica sold the house without reference to Mark, who was abroad at the time. She moved to London on the proceeds and had a high old time. Then, within six months she’d got married again—to Charles Melrose of Melrose and Sons, the wine people.’

‘Oh,’ Tallie said slowly, ‘I see.’ So that was where Kit’s job had come from. ‘Did Mark mind very much about the house?’

‘He doesn’t mention it. But I don’t think his memories of the latter years were good ones.’

She paused. ‘And he had another problem too.’

‘And what problem is that?’ Neither of them had heard Mark’s approach but he was there, just the same, standing in the doorway, making Tallie wonder apprehensively how much he’d heard and, at the same time, be thankful she hadn’t contributed her own viewpoint to the topic under discussion.

He’d changed, she realised, into close-fitting black trousers and a matching shirt, open at the neck and the long sleeves rolled back over his tanned forearms.

He looked stunning but dangerous, she thought with a sudden intake of breath. Like a panther.

Penny sent him a wide-eyed look. ‘Why, the late Sonia Randall, of course. Can’t you get her better-trained, darling?’ She sent him an impish grin. ‘Although I suppose punctuality’s hardly her most appealing attribute where you’re concerned.’

Mark reached for a tress of her dark curling hair and tugged it gently. ‘Behave.’ He looked across at Tallie. ‘However, I do apologise for this delay. Will the food be ruined?’

‘No.’ She turned away, putting the jar of oregano back in the cupboard. ‘It—it’s very good-natured.’

‘Unlike dear Sonia,’ Penny added. ‘So how is it she’s joining us tonight at some point? What happened to Maggie? I liked her.’

‘Working in Brussels for three months.’

‘Well, Caitlin, then?’

‘Got engaged to her boss.’

‘Decided to cut her losses, eh?’ Penny enquired dulcetly, then pulled a repentant face as she encountered Mark’s cold glance. ‘Okay, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, and I’ll write out a hundred times “I must mind my own business.”’

‘If I could only believe it would work.’ He paused. ‘Have you persuaded Tallie to join us while we wait?’

Penny shook her head. ‘Cinderella refuses point-blank to come to the ball. You seem to have turned her into a recluse—one of the few women in the world who finds you undesirable, cousin dear.’

He said dryly, ‘Perhaps that’s just as well, under the current circumstances.’

‘You mean someone you can’t send home in the morning?’ Penny’s eyes danced. ‘Now there’s a thought. And you’ve persuaded her to cook for you, too. What next, I wonder?’

‘We’re going to leave her in peace,’ Mark said with great firmness. ‘Before she misunderstands your warped sense of humour and walks out on me altogether.’

He looked at Tallie, who was standing in rigid silence, her face warming helplessly.

He said lightly, ‘Tallie, I apologise for my female relative. There’s no excuse for her.’

She found a voice from somewhere. Used it with an approximation of normality. ‘I feel much the same about my brother.’

She watched them leave, heard him say something that she couldn’t catch and Penny’s gurgle of laughter in response as they walked away down the passage.

Stayed where she was, leaning back against the work-top, looking ahead of her with eyes that saw nothing.

Undesirable …

She tried the word tentatively under her breath. Was that really how she thought of Mark Benedict? Or how she wanted to think?

And found herself remembering with odd disquiet the way her pulse had quickened when she’d seen him standing in the doorway. And how her mouth had suddenly dried …

But I was startled, she told herself defensively. He gave me a shock by … suddenly appearing like that—as if he was some kind of Demon King.

On the other hand, he does it all the time, so there’s nothing to get stirred up about.

All the same, she was sharply aware that the sooner she was away from this flat and out of his life altogether, the better it would be for her—personally if not professionally.

And, in spite of the warmth of the kitchen, she realised she was shivering.