You Owe Me. PENNY JORDAN

room. Damp stains mildewed one of the walls; the cottage felt cold, and even worse, smelled faintly musty. She remembered now that her aunt had always insisted on a small fire even in the summer, and that she had often expressed concern about the building’s damp course too. As a teenager she had paid scant attention to these comments, but now she was forced to acknowledge their veracity.

      Why had no one written to her; told her how much the cottage was deteriorating? Or perhaps they had and their letters were still following her round the world. Sighing Chris made her way through the living room and into the kitchen. Here too signs of decay and neglect were obvious. The cottage was clean enough but desolate somehow, and so cold and damp that the atmosphere struck right through to her bones. The dining room was no better, more patches of damp marring the plaster. With a heavy heart Chris made her way upstairs. The roof needed re-thatching John had told her, and during the winter it had leaked. He had added that they had made what temporary repairs they could, but all her worse fears were confirmed when she opened the first bedroom door and walked inside. She and Natalie had once shared this room; its contours, every crack in its walls were unbearably familiar to her, as was the faint, but unmistakable perfume, heavy and oriental, at seventeen she was far too young to wear such a sophisticated fragrance, but she had insisted on doing so nonetheless, and its scent still hung on the air. Surely after six years it ought to have died, Chris thought frowningly. Unless of course Natalie had been here more recently. But why? She had flatly refused to take on any responsibility for the cottage when Natalie had been forced to have her aunt moved away from it. It could moulder away to dust was what Tom Smith told her she had said when she asked him to get in touch with her. She touched the cover of one of the single beds absently, withdrawing her fingers as they met the damp fabric. She shivered suddenly, noticing the mildew clinging to the cover. This had been her bed…She smiled wryly to herself. She had chosen the quilt herself. Natalie had chosen exactly the same thing, and then had burned a hole in her own with a cigarette while smoking secretly in bed. Absently her fingers smoothed the fabric, tensing as they found the small betraying burn mark. This was Natalie’s quilt. What was it doing on her bed?

      Memories of Natalie’s possessiveness during their shared childhood flooded her. Natalie had hated her ever touching anything of hers. She would never have allowed her quilt to be placed on Chris’s bed. That was all in the past, Chris reminded herself. No doubt whoever cleaned the cottage had mixed up the quilts. She turned round and walked out of the room, shutting away the memories and lingering traces of Natalie’s perfume. She couldn’t possibly sleep in that room, it was far too damp.

      Her aunt’s bedroom showed the same distressing signs of neglect. Now she knew why Slater had offered her a bedroom she thought wryly. She would have to stay here tonight. She could hardly go back now and wake up the whole household. So where did that leave her? If she wanted to get close to Sophie she would either have to take a room at the pub or…or swallow her pride and ask Slater if his offer of a room was still open. Much as she wanted to help Sophie she didn’t know if she could cope with sharing the same house as Slater.

      She wasn’t nineteen any more she reminded herself wryly. What was she afraid of? That Slater would try to take up where they had left off? Hardly likely. No, tomorrow she would just have to go cap in hand to him and ask for his help, much as she resented the idea. But that was tomorrow. She still had to cope with tonight. Sleeping in either of the bedrooms was out which left only the living room. Shivering slightly at the thought she remembered that her aunt used to keep spare bedding in the airing cupboard. If it was still there, perhaps it might at least be dry. While she was here she would have to get a builder in to check over the cottage and put it to rights; put in a new damp course and renew the roof. Until that was done no one could possibly live here.

      As she walked towards the bathroom, she glanced automatically at the small chest in the landing alcove and then frowned. Two cigarette butts lay in the ashtray. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled warningly and she suppressed the desire to turn round and look behind her. Obviously they had been left there by the cleaner. And yet as she entered the bathroom Chris had the distinct impression that something was not quite right…Pushing aside the notion as fanciful she opened the airing cupboard, relieved to discover a pile of bedding there that felt dry to the touch. The house had an immersion heater so at least she would be able to have a warm bath before curling up downstairs on one of the chairs, although she didn’t anticipate getting a good deal of sleep. Coming back had resurrected far more memories than she had anticipated, or was it Slater’s briefly tender kiss that had stirred up all the tension she could feel inside herself? Why had Natalie committed suicide? Would they ever know? Mentally disturbed was how Slater had described her and whilst it was true that she had always had a tendency towards hysteria, especially when she couldn’t get her own way, she had always thirsted for life with a tenacity that Chris simply could not envisage disappearing overnight.

      She woke up as she had expected to, cold and stiff, shivering in the early morning light. It was seven o’clock. In the past Slater had always left for the factory at eight thirty, which didn’t leave her much time to see him.

      Bathing and dressing in fresh clothes, she brushed her hair, leaving her skin free of make-up. Her stomach growled protestingly, reminding her how long it was since she had had something to eat, as she hurried out to the car.