the other. It was younger, smoother, the eyes lighter.
‘I’ve phoned Dr Graham.’ A woman’s voice spoke near her, the diction clear, echoing in the hollow spaces of her head. ‘He was at home, thank God, not on that damn golf course! He’ll be here in five minutes. How is she?’
Jo frowned. Ceecliff. That was Ceecliff, standing close to her, behind the two men.
She breathed in slowly and saw her grandmother’s face near hers. Swallowing painfully, she tried once more to speak. ‘What happened?’ she managed to murmur after a moment.
As Ceecliff sat down beside her Jo realised she was lying on the sofa in the dimly lit living room. Her grandmother’s cool, dry hand took hers.
‘You fainted, you silly girl. Just like a Victorian Miss!’
‘Who’s there?’ Jo looked past her into the shadows.
‘It’s me, Jo.’ Nick’s voice was taut.
‘Why is it so dark?’ Jo levered herself up against the cushions, her head spinning.
‘There’s the mother and father of a storm going on, dear,’ Ceecliff said after a moment. ‘It’s dark as doomsday in here. Put the lights on, Nick.’ Her voice sharpened.
The three table lamps threw a warm, wintry light in the humid bleakness of the room. Through the window-panes the sound of the rain was deafening on the broad leaves of the hostas in the bed outside.
‘Where’s the doctor?’ Jo stared round.
‘He’s not here yet, Jo.’ Ceecliff smiled at her gravely.
‘But I saw him –’
‘No, dear.’ Ceecliff glanced at Nick. ‘Listen. That must be his car now.’ Above the sound of the rain they could all hear the scrunch of tyres on the gravel. Moments later the glass door of the entrance hall opened and a stout figure let himself into the hall.
Ceecliff stood up. She met David Graham in the dim, heavily beamed dining room, which smelled of pot pourri and roses, and put her finger to her lips.
‘It’s my granddaughter, David,’ she murmured as he shook himself like a dog and shed his Burberry on the mellow oak boards.
David Graham was a fair-haired man of about sixty, dressed, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket and woollen tie. He kissed her fondly. ‘It’s probably the storm, Celia. They affect some people like this, you know. Unless it’s your cooking. You haven’t been giving her that curry you gave Jocelyn and me, have you?’ He did not wait to see her mock indignation. His case in his hand, he was already moving towards the door of the living room.
Nick smiled down at Jo uncertainly. ‘I’ll leave you both to it, shall I?’
‘Please.’ David Graham looked at him searchingly for a moment, noting the tension of Nick’s face – tension and exhaustion, and something else. Putting down his case beside Jo, he waited until Nick had closed the door behind him. Guilt, that was it; Nick Franklyn had looked guilty.
He sat down beside Jo and grinned at her, picking up her wrist.
‘Do you make a habit of this sort of thing, my dear?’ he asked quietly.
Jo shook her head. ‘It’s never happened before. I’m beginning to feel such a fraud. It’s just the storm, I’m sure. They always make me feel strung up and headachy.’
‘And you’re not pregnant as far as you know?’ He smiled.
‘Certainly not! And before you ask I’ve given up smoking. Nearly.’
‘There’s something wrong with your throat?’
She moved away from him slightly on the sofa. ‘A bit painful, that’s all. I expect I’m getting a cold.’
‘Humph.’ The doctor bent to open his bag. He withdrew a wooden spatula. ‘Open up. Let’s have a look, shall we?’
Her throat was agony. Not sore. Not raw, but bruised and aching. Without registering any emotion at all the doctor put down the spatula and reached for a thermometer. When it was in her mouth he brought his hands up gently to her neck and, brushing aside her hair, he felt beneath her ears and under her chin with cool impersonal fingers.
Jo could feel her hands shaking. ‘What is it?’ she said as soon as she could speak.
He held the thermometer up to the green-shaded table lamp and squinted viciously as he tried to see the mercury. ‘I’m always telling Celia to get some proper lights in this damn room. In the evening you can’t tell your gin from the goldfish water. It is thirty-seven which is exactly what it ought to be. Your pulse is a bit above average for a Sunday afternoon, even in a storm, though. Let’s try some blood pressure shall we?’
‘But my throat?’ Jo said. ‘What’s wrong with my throat?’
‘Nothing that I can see.’ He was rummaging in his case. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘It aches. Here.’ She raised her hand to her neck while her eyes focused on the little pump in his hand as he inflated the cuff around her arm.
It was all coming back to her. She had been in the conservatory with Nick. He had stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, then slowly he – or somebody – had slid them up around her throat and begun to squeeze … She could remember what happened quite clearly now. It was Nick. It had to have been Nick. No one else was there. Nick had tried to kill her! She felt sick. Nick wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t possible. It must have all been some hideous nightmare. She swallowed painfully. But it was too real for a nightmare.
She realised suddenly that the doctor was watching her face and turned away sharply. ‘Is it high?’ she asked as he folded away his equipment.
‘A little, perhaps. Nothing to get excited about.’ He paused. ‘Something is wrong, my dear, isn’t it? You look worried. Is there something you ought to be telling me?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Dr Graham. Except that perhaps I should own up to a few late nights, working. I expect that could make me feel a bit odd, couldn’t it?’
He frowned. ‘I expect it could.’ He waited as though he expected her to say more. When she didn’t he went on, ‘I can’t explain the throat. Perhaps you’re getting one of these summer viruses. Gargle. That will help, and I suggest you take it easy for a bit. Spend a few days here, perhaps.’ Smiling, he stood up. ‘Not that Celia is my idea of a peaceful companion, but this is a good house to rest in. It’s a happy house. Better than London, I’ll be bound. If it happens again, go and see your own doctor.’
‘Thank you.’ Pushing herself up, Jo managed to stand. Outside the window there was another pale flicker of lightning. ‘I’m sorry my grandmother called you out in this.’
He laughed as he picked up his case. ‘If she hadn’t I’d have slept through it and kicked myself for not closing the vents in the greenhouse, so she did me a favour! Now, remember what I said. Take it easy for a bit. And do see your own doctor if you go on feeling at all unwell …’ He gave her a piercing glance, then with a nod he turned to the door.
As soon as he had stepped out into the hall Jo turned to the sideboard. The lamp shed a green, muted light behind it towards the mirror, and tipping the shade violently so that the naked light of the bulb shone onto her face Jo stood on tiptoe, peering at the glass. Her reflection was white and stark, her eyes shadowed and huge in the uncompromising light. Leaning forward she held her hair up away from her neck and peered at it. Her skin looked normal. There were no marks there.
‘Jo! You’re burning the silk on that shade!’ Ceecliff’s cry made her jump. Hastily she put it straight, noticing guiltily the brown mark already showing on the lining. She could smell the scorched fabric.
‘What on earth were you doing?’
‘Just looking at my throat.’ Jo glanced behind her grandmother.