at the moment, all these bigwigs need a bit of sheep-dogging by the local plod. I just wanted to say, I saw the report on your burglary first thing this morning. I was going to give you a ring.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Saved me a phone call meeting you here. I wonder if you’d mind me dropping by later?’
Dora opened her mouth; too many times recently no words had come out. To her relief there was an answer all ready and waiting.
‘Sure. Why not?’ she said lightly. ‘Do you know where I live?’
‘It’s on the incident report. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to be getting back. Can’t keep the VIPs waiting. Once they’ve stopped shaking hands they start to get twitchy and wandering off on their own. I’ll see you later.’
Dora watched him jog back towards a group of distinguished-looking men, wondering why it felt as if she had become a passenger in her own life.
The intercom bell rang briefly. It was later that same day and Dora was sitting in her office looking at the computer screen. Outside, the street light’s glow announced the coming evening, though Dora had no sense of the time. Catiana Moran’s latest, unfinished novel scrolled up slowly, line by line. She could see the words but her mind didn’t seem to be able to decipher them.
The furniture had all been replaced and tidied, books rearranged, cupboards repacked, papers sorted, but the sense of calm and stillness was absent, as if the atmosphere had been ransacked along with the rest of the flat. She’d left the phone unconnected. The last thing she needed was more frantic voices to stir the slowly settling dust. She glanced at the receiver with its cord all neatly bound around, tying the words in. She really ought to ring Kate.
Her mind was butterflying. Lillian Bliss looked very much how she had fantasised her alter ego might look. Taller, bigger hair – far bigger mouth. She winced and stroked the scrolling words thoughtfully with her finger. The screen was cold.
Beside her keyboard was the novel Catiana had autographed.
The doorbell rang again. It sounded very distant. Dora shook herself as if she was trying to slough off fatigue. The bell rang more insistently. She leant across and pressed the button.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Dora, it’s me.’
Dora blinked. Four simple words in a voice from the past that made her gut contract.
‘Jon?’
‘Would you mind if I come up?’
‘Two minutes, I’m just changing,’ Dora lied and clambered to her feet.
She flitted around the room in desperation, turning off the computer, tidying away Catiana’s unexpurgated thoughts. Hurrying into the sitting room, she bundled the debris of the day into the cupboard near the fireplace, plumped cushions, straightened curtains and switched on a table lamp, while a nagging internal voice told her how ridiculous it was. After all, Jon Melrose had just dropped by to talk about the burglary.
Which made her wonder, if that were the case, why the sound of his voice had left an odd tingling glow in the pit of her stomach and her pulse had shifted up a gear? Glancing into the mirror above the fireplace, humorous grey eyes peered back from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She pulled them off, folded them on the mantel shelf, licked her finger and scrubbed at the spot of magnolia emulsion on the end of her nose – noting ruefully as she did that there was paint all over her hair as well.
Reflected in the mirror’s dusty eye, the sitting room looked soft and homely. Taking a final swipe at the cat’s hairs on the arms of the sofa, Dora hurried back into the office, letting a finger hover above the entry button. The kitchen –
Turning quickly, she threw open the door, scrambled lunch-time’s fish and chip wrappers into a ball and slam-dunked them into the bin. It was really too late to do anything about the rest of the room.
One deep breath, two deep breaths, after all she wasn’t a child. Struggling to regain her composure, she stepped back into the office and pressed the button.
‘Come up. It’s open.’
She heard the street door close and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Dora licked her lips, counting the footfalls and for a second all she could think of was how gorgeous Jon Melrose had looked in black.
Lawrence Rawlings, cradling the remains of a large brandy, settled himself back in an armchair by the fire to watch his fellow guests. The function room at Fairbeach’s Conservative Club was packed. Alicia Markham had buttonholed Edwin Halliday. The look on the cabinet minister’s face was a delight. Lawrence smiled – damned woman, rattling on about the effects of agricultural policy on Fairbeach farmers, while Halliday, the worse for several glasses of wine and a rather good port, was blinking, affecting rapt interest.
Little brackets of animated conversation had formed around the function room.
Jack Rees’ memorial supper for the Fairbeach Conservative inner circle had proved surprisingly successful, though Lawrence suspected Alicia had planned it to ensure Edwin Halliday MP felt obligated to stay overnight. Lawrence had seen the look in her eyes – agricultural policy was not the only thing on her mind.
His concentration moved on. To his surprise Guy Phelps was no more than a yard away, on his blind side, staring at him. Lawrence, a little nonplussed at being trumped at his own game, lifted his glass.
‘Went off rather well, wouldn’t you say?’ remarked Guy. ‘Alicia says we have to call a council of war now Jack’s safely buried.’
Lawrence Rawlings said nothing.
Guy glanced back into the room. ‘Marvellous to see everyone together like this. I’m sure good old Jack would really have approved.’
Lawrence snorted and indicated the chair on the other side of the hearth. ‘Take my advice, Guy, save the sentimentality for the hustings. Jack Rees would have stuck his nose round the door, found a damned good excuse why he had to leave early, and then gone off to shag one of the waitresses.’
Guy coloured slightly.
Lawrence rolled the dregs of brandy round in his glass. He couldn’t help wondering why Guy wasn’t snuggled up alongside Alicia and Edwin. He wasn’t sure he had the patience for the long trawl through the social niceties to find out. Guy was about to speak when Lawrence got to his feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, my daughter and son-in-law are having a drink downstairs in the club bar. I promised them I’d go down and meet them after the dinner.’
Guy swallowed down his prepared sentence. ‘You’re leaving, Lawrence?’ he said in astonishment. ‘But, I thought –’
‘Not leaving, think of it as a short sabbatical.’
‘I’ve been thinking –’ Guy began again.
Lawrence beaded him with ice-blue eyes. ‘I wouldn’t make a habit of it, Guy. Leave it to those of us who have the knack. Alicia, I’m sure, will handle all your serious thinking for you.’ He stood the brandy balloon down on a side table. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t ordered up a circle of simpering acolytes for you yet.’
Phelps looked uneasy. ‘My wife is over there with Mrs Hewitt and the other ladies. Jack Rees was a loner, I prefer to model myself –’
Lawrence leant forward and patted Phelps gently on the shoulder.
‘Jack Rees was a man in a million, Guy. If he hadn’t been, he’d have been Prime Minister years ago. Take my advice, take all the sycophants and hangers-on Alicia can dig up for you. And make sure they find you a good political agent. Politics is a lonely business, you can do with all the support you can buy. Now, if you’ll excuse me I really have to go downstairs and talk to Sarah and Calvin. Why don’t you have another brandy?’
Lawrence