A Haunting Compulsion
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Anne Mather
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CHAPTER ONE
‘DO COME, Rachel. You can’t possibly spend Christmas alone in London. Jaime won’t be home, you know that. We wouldn’t expect you to come, if he was. But you know how much Robert and I would like to see you again, so do come, do come, do come…’
Rachel closed her eyes, as the words echoed through her head, over and over, like a relentless tattoo beating against her brain. Liz had been so persuasive, so sympathetic about her father’s death, so determined that she should not spend the festive season alone in her flat, that it had seemed churlish to go on refusing. Where was the harm, after all? Liz and Robert were nice people, and she liked them. And since Jaime spent so much time abroad, they would no doubt welcome some young company.
Rachel sighed, and opened her eyes again, as the lights of Durham appeared through the hazy darkness ahead of the train. Only a few more miles and they would be in Newcastle, her destination, but despite her contention, the prospect was no longer so appealing.
Perhaps she should not have come, she argued with herself uneasily. This was Jaime’s home, not hers, these were Jaime’s parents. All right, so they had treated her more like a family friend than their son’s—what? Rachel’s lips tightened instinctively. Secretary? Girlfriend? Mistress? A shudder ran over her. Whatever she had been, she was no more, so how could she talk to them as she used to do? How could she discuss her plans for a future in which they had no part? It was an impossible situation. She could envisage the awkward looks, the pregnant silences, the periods of introspection, while each of them regretted the impulse which had brought them all together. And they were committed to ten days of this purgatory. It was going to be awful.
In an attempt to shake off the mood of melancholy which was settling on her, Rachel straightened up in her seat, and retrieving her handbag, extracted her compact. The compartment of the train was almost empty, so she flicked the case open and examined her miniaturised reflection in the mirror.
Her lipstick needed renewing, she decided, but apart from that, the three-and-a-half-hour journey from King’s Cross had not wrought any dramatic changes in her appearance. The same calm Madonna-like features gazed back at her, her dark chestnut hair thick and smooth from a centre parting, her cheekbones high and lightly tinted with becoming colour, her nose firm and straight, her wide mouth, with its sensuous lower lip, deceptively vulnerable. Yet the delicate conformity of those features chilled her somewhat, the slight tilt at the corners of dark-fringed green eyes only emphasising their cool remoteness. Her beauty had long since ceased to please her; the gratification which came from knowing she was attractive to men had died when Jaime proved its worthlessness; and although she still attracted male eyes wherever she went, she had learned to keep the opposite sex at a distance.
The train ambled through Durham station without stopping, and then picked up speed again between the two cities. Already the air felt fresher, colder, even within the air-conditioned comfort of the compartment. It was more than two years since she had been this far north, and longer than that since Jaime first brought her to Clere Heights, and introduced her to his family. But she remembered the sharpness of the air, and the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the house, and the tumult of the waves, spuming on the rocks beneath. Clere Heights was built on the very edge of the ocean, high above the unpredictable currents of the North Sea, and there was no place in the house where one could escape its savage thunder.
Jaime’s room had been at the back of the house, Rachel remembered reluctantly, overlooking the bay, which in summer could be as calm and as blue as the Mediterranean. But on winter nights, the roar of the elements had been strongest here, and it took some determination for her to push away the memories her thoughts evoked now. It was all in the past, she told herself impatiently, but that didn’t prevent it from hurting.
Of course, his parents had known, but she had not blamed them. They were not responsible for their son’s behaviour, and the friendship which had sprung up between Rachel and the Shards had survived in spite of everything. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling she was accepting their hospitality under false pretences, and if Jaime knew, she doubted he would approve.
The train rumbled ponderously over the Tyne Bridge, and below her a ship’s siren hooted mournfully from the trailing vapours of the fog that shrouded the river. The station was just beyond the bridge, a cavernous edifice, blackened from the age of steam, and presently damp and misty, and heavy with the smell of diesel.
The inter-city express which had brought Rachel from King’s Cross pulled into the platform, and tightening the belt of the dark red leather coat about her slim waist, she hoisted her suitcase and struggled to the carriage door. She guessed Jaime’s father would have come to meet her, and dismissing the proffered services of a young porter, whose keen gaze had alighted on the graceful lissomness of her figure, she walked as quickly as she could towards the ticket barrier.
There was no sign of Robert Shard, however, in the press of people waiting to meet the train. Tall, like his son, his grey head would have been instantly noticeable, she was sure, but there seemed mostly women standing in groups, watching the discharging passengers.
‘Rachel! Rachel, I’m here!’
The slightly breathless feminine tones attracted Rachel’s attention as she was replacing her return ticket in the bag looped over her shoulder. Glancing round, she saw not Jaime’s father but his mother hurrying towards her, her attractive features flushed with anxiety, her ready smile breaking as Rachel saw her.
‘Oh, my dear, I was so afraid I was going to be late!’ Elizabeth Shard enveloped the girl in a warm embrace, bestowing a welcoming kiss on her smooth cheek. ‘It’s quite foggy out of town, and I got stuck behind a horse-box, and I was convinced the train would be punctual when I wasn’t.’
Rachel laughed, returning the older woman’s hug enthusiastically, feeling her earlier misgivings melting slightly in the warmth of Liz’s greeting. ‘Actually, it is on time,’ she conceded humorously, glancing at her watch. ‘But so are you, so calm down. I’ve just walked off the platform.’
‘Have you? Have you really?’ Liz examined her face with a worried scrutiny, and then gave a little laugh. ‘Thank heavens for that! I can breathe freely again. Now, shall we get some assistance?’
Before Rachel could protest, Liz had summoned the very porter she had refused earlier, but fortunately he seemed not to notice. Picking up Rachel’s suitcase, and the leather travel bag containing the book and magazines she had brought for the journey, he led the way outside, and tucking her arm through Rachel’s, Liz urged them to follow him.
‘At least I had no difficulty in parking,’ she remarked, as they emerged into the damp misty air, and detecting a trace of irony in her voice, Rachel wondered why. Perhaps it had something to do with Robert’s not meeting her, she reflected, and hoped her visit was not a cause for contention between them.
‘Did you have a good journey?’ Liz asked, supervising the loading of Rachel’s belongings into the boot of the sleek grey Jaguar that was awaiting them in the station yard. ‘It’s such a filthy night. Not at all like the day before Christmas Eve! I wonder what’s happened to all our white Christmases.’
Rachel smiled, and made some suitable response, then coiled herself gratefully into the front seat of the car. It was good to feel warm again, and when Liz came to join her she said as much.
‘Yes, it is rather chilly,’ her hostess agreed with a grimace. ‘Never mind, we still have open fires at Clere Heights.’
‘I’m looking forward to that,’ Rachel admitted, settling more comfortably in her seat, and again sensed a certain tenseness as Liz started the engine.
‘So, how are you?’ As if to dispel any such suggestion, Liz changed the subject. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was rather,’ Rachel agreed, with a sigh. ‘But it wasn’t so unexpected, you know. He’d had heart trouble for a number of years.’
‘Yes,’ Liz nodded. ‘I remember Jaime—that is—you spoke of it when you were here before.’
Rachel nodded, aware of how difficult it was going to be to avoid using Jaime’s name, and added: ‘It’s over now. It’s almost four months since Daddy died. And thank goodness, I have my work.’
‘Yes.’ Liz slowed to accommodate traffic lights, then went on: ‘You’re an assistant editor now, aren’t you? You must find that more exciting than secretarial work.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Rachel spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It means I can use my own initiative, instead of only portraying someone else’s. I find it very interesting.’
‘But not too hard, I hope.’ Liz gave her a swift glance. ‘You look—thinner. I hope they’re not working you too hard.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Thinner is hardly a flattering description,’ she commented teasingly. ‘You should say slimmer. Thinner implies skinny.’
Liz gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Well, you’re not that. But you’re not as—rounded as I remember.’
Rachel bent her head. That was true. But it wasn’t entirely due to her work, or to the shock of her father’s death. She had lost weight after the break-up with Jaime, and she had never really regained it.
‘That’s enough about me,’ she said now, refusing to become introspective. ‘How about you—and Robert? Are you both well?’
‘Rob and I?’ Liz spoke a little breathily. ‘Oh—why, yes. Yes, we’re fine, thank you, Rachel. Nothing seems to bother us. Except for the occasional cold, you know, and a twinge or two of rheumatics.’ She moved her shoulders dismissingly. ‘Old age, I suppose.’
‘You’re not old.’
Rachel was quick to dispute it, but Liz shook her head. ‘I’m fifty-seven this year, and Rob’s sixty,’ she declared flatly. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’
‘But that’s not old,’ Rachel argued affectionately. ‘Is Rob still working as hard as ever? Surely he doesn’t still go to the office every day?’
‘Not every day,’ Liz conceded, with a tight smile. ‘Since Robin joined the firm he’s taken a lot of work from his father’s shoulders, and I expect eventually he’ll take over.’
Robin was Jaime’s younger brother. At the time Rachel had known Jaime, he had been at university, and she had only met him once. He was married now, she knew, and in her last letter Liz had mentioned that they had become grandparents at last. Rachel guessed they wished Jaime had been like his brother, content with running the family steel business, but an ordered life had never appealed to him.
‘I suppose your granddaughter must be two months old now,’ Rachel commented, needing something to say now and not quite knowing what, and Liz nodded.
‘Lisa? Oh, yes.’ She smiled. ‘She’s quite adorable. Her grandfather and I see a lot of Robin and Nancy.’
Rachel acknowledged this, wondering how Jaime’s brother had reacted to the fact that she was to spend Christmas with his parents. Did that account for Liz’s occasionally taut countenance, the sudden air of enforced courtesy, so out of keeping with her normal uninhibited chatter? She was getting the distinct impression that all was not well at Clere Heights, and taking the bull by the horns she said:
‘Is something the matter, Liz? I want you to be honest with me.’ And as the older woman started to protest, she added: ‘I know you invited me here, and I am grateful, really, but if it’s causing any problems with the family—’
‘With the family?’ Liz interrupted her impatiently. ‘Rachel, what possible problem could your coming here create with the family?’
She shook her head vigorously, and taking the opportunity, Rachel plunged in again. ‘I’d just hate for you to feel that you’ve committed yourself, and you can’t change your mind,’ she said. ‘I mean, I can easily stay at a hotel—’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Liz sounded as if she meant it, and Rachel sighed.
‘But something’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s not Robert, is it? I must admit, I expected it would be he who came to meet me—’
‘Jaime’s home!’
Liz broke in on her attempted explanation, with flat deliberation, and Rachel felt all the blood drain out of her face.
‘What—what did you say?’ she echoed faintly, but she knew without Liz repeating it. She had said that Jaime was home, and the shock drove the strength from her body.
‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true.’ Liz was hastening on with her explanations now. ‘We didn’t know he was coming. How could we? It was totally unexpected. He only arrived the day before yesterday—’
‘You should have told me.’ Rachel only managed to articulate the words with difficulty. ‘You should have let me know. I would have made other arrange—’
‘He wouldn’t let us,’ Liz exclaimed helplessly. ‘And why should you, anyway? You were invited; he was not. And if he hadn’t been shot, he wouldn’t be here—’
‘Shot!’
Rachel hadn’t thought it was possible for her to feel more shocked, but she did. She turned in her seat, gazing in horrified fascination at Jaime’s mother, and Liz quickly told her what had happened.
‘He’s all right,’ she assured her urgently, while Rachel fought to control the overwhelming instinct she had to grasp Liz by the shoulders and shake the information out of her. ‘It’s a nasty wound, but he’ll survive. He’s fortunate not to have been injured before this, the places they send him! God knows, he was lucky to escape with his life.’
Rachel endeavoured to assimilate what Liz was saying, but her mouth was dry, and there was a beading of perspiration dewing her forehead. Jaime had been shot, she told herself incredulously. Someone had tried to kill him, but miraculously he had escaped serious injury. How had it happened? Where had he been shot? And how long would it take for him to recover?
‘I know it must be a shock to you, Rachel,’ Liz was going on sympathetically. ‘You can imagine how we felt when he turned up on Tuesday afternoon. They flew him home from Masota on Monday, and I think they would have preferred him to spend a few days in hospital in London, but you know what Jaime’s like. He flew to Newcastle on Tuesday morning, and arranged for a hire car to bring him home.’
Rachel expelled her breath heavily and forced down the sense of panic inside her. This was ridiculous, she chided herself angrily. She was behaving like an idiot. Why should it matter to her what happened to Jaime Shard? He meant nothing to her any longer, and of a certainty, she meant nothing to him. Why get upset, just because he was hurt? He deserved to suffer, for the way he had made her suffer; and Betsy, too, come to that. Perhaps fate was kinder than she thought. Perhaps retribution came to everyone in time.
‘You—you mentioned Masota,’ she said now, her brain working furiously as she tried to decide what she should do. Obviously she could not stay at Clere Heights now, whatever Liz said, but conversely, she could hardly demand that she turn the car round and take her back to the station tonight.
‘Yes, Masota,’ Liz agreed, accelerating as the outskirts of the city fell away behind them, and the fog enveloped them in its ghostly embrace. ‘You know where it is, don’t you? It’s one of those central African republics.’ She sighed, having to slow her speed again as visibility was reduced. ‘There was a coup. You may have read about it. That’s why Jaime was in Kamsuli.’ She shook her head. ‘It was one of those awful coincidences. The camera team were caught in an ambush, laid by the government forces, would you believe? He spent four days in a prison hospital before they would let him go.’
Rachel moistened her lips. ‘And—and how is he?’
‘All right, I suppose. Subdued.’ Liz grimaced. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’
Rachel managed to nod her head. ‘I’m sorry. For—for your sake, I mean. It must have been a terrible jolt, him just turning up like that.’
‘With his leg all stiff, and walking on crutches?’ Liz added fervently. ‘My God, I thought he’d had it amputated at first. My blood went cold!’
Rachel could imagine their reactions, and she thought how typical it was of Jaime not to give them any warning.
Choosing her words carefully now, she said: ‘You must see, Liz, I—I can’t stay, as we intended. I mean—I just can’t!’
‘Why can’t you?’ Liz turned to give her an appealing gaze. ‘Rachel, my dear, I know how you must feel, believe me! But you must try and understand our feelings, too.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why I came to meet you, and not Rob. I thought—foolishly perhaps—that you might take the news more—naturally, from me.’
‘Well, I would—I did!’ Rachel made a helpless gesture. ‘Liz, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I do really, but—’
‘If you leave, Jaime will leave, too,’ Liz declared flatly, and Rachel caught her breath.
‘What do you mean?’
Liz hesitated. ‘When we told him—Jaime, that is—that you were coming, he guessed how you would react when you found out he was here.’
I bet he did, thought Rachel tautly, but she didn’t say it.
‘He knew, if we forewarned you of his presence, you wouldn’t come.’ She put her hand gently over Rachel’s fingers, tightly linked together in her lap. ‘My dear, it is Christmas. Couldn’t you allow for these—unexpected circumstances?’
Rachel turned her face away. ‘What did you mean when you said, if I go, Jaime will go, too?’
‘That’s what he said,’ averred Liz unhappily, and Rachel felt a bitter sense of injustice kindling inside her. This was also typical of the way Jaime used people. He knew he could not stop Rachel from leaving by any normal methods, but by threatening to leave himself, he had effectively tied her hands. How could she go, knowing she would be depriving his parents of their son’s company at this season of the year, particularly when they saw him so infrequently? His home was in London, and such time as he spent in England he spent there, mostly in the luxury penthouse apartment with its magnificent view of the city. It was only rarely he made the journey north, and it was pure misfortune that he should have come to them now, just when Rachel had planned to visit there.
Rachel bent her head now, not knowing how to answer the older woman, and Liz made a sound of frustration. ‘Look, darling, I know this has all come as a shock to you, and you’re probably thinking we’re unreasonable in hoping you’ll stay, but is it so impossible?’ She sighed. ‘After all, it’s not as if you’re going to be alone with Jaime or anything. Robin and Nancy and the baby are coming tomorrow, and on Christmas Day we’re having quite a party!’ She waited for Rachel’s response, and when she said nothing she added: ‘I’m sure you’d enjoy it, Rachel. Imagine how we’ll feel if you let Jaime drive you away.’
It was hopeless! Rachel pressed her lips together tensely, and sought for a way out, but there was none. No matter how she strove to find an answer, she persistently came up against the wall of Jaime’s ultimatum, and she could imagine the bitterness it would evoke if he insisted on returning to London. Particularly when he had been hurt, and had turned to his parents for help.
She drew an uneven breath. Somehow she was going to have to make the best of it, at least until Christmas was over. She could not let the Shards down, not now, not after they had been kind enough to open their home to her. It was not their fault that Jaime had arrived and disrupted all their arrangements. And as it evidently was his leg that was injured, might he not spend a good deal of the time in his room anyway? He would need to rest to recover his strength, and surely after all this time she was not afraid to face him.
‘All right,’ she said at last, making the fateful decision. ‘I’ll stay, Liz. Over the weekend anyway. After that, we’ll see.’
‘You won’t regret it, darling!’ Liz’s relief was palpable. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d refused.’ She allowed a nervous little laugh to escape her. ‘I so much want us all to enjoy this Christmas!’
Rachel forced a small smile. ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed,’ she commented, unable to keep the dryness out of her tone. ‘And please, don’t expect too much.’
‘A reconciliation, you mean?’ Liz shook her head. ‘No, my dear, we don’t expect that.’
‘Good.’ Rachel’s response was fervent, and she turned her head away again to stare blindly through the misting windows. She could never forgive Jaime, she thought, never! And the prospect of the next few hours filled her with apprehension.
In spite of the fog, the journey was over all too soon, as far as Rachel was concerned. The forty or so miles between Newcastle and Rothside, the nearest village to Clere Heights, was accomplished in a little over an hour, and it was only a quarter to nine as Liz drove between the stone gateposts, that marked the boundary of the Shards’ property. Rachel remembered that the drive that led to the house wound between hedges of thick rhododendrons that in early summer were a mass of purple flowers. But at this time of the year the glossy leaves were drooping and wet with the mist that rose thickly from the ocean, and the crunching sound of wheels on gravel was muted by its drifting vapour.
It was a reluctant relief to see the house looming up ahead of them. Lights gleamed through uncurtained windows, throwing shafts of illumination across the gravelled forecourt, and as the car ground to a halt, the heavy oak door was swung wide to reveal Robert Shard’s broad figure.
With the mist shrouding the upper floors of the house, Rachel could only imagine the long-leaded windows, baying out above the front door, and the clinging creeper that covered the walls and gave them a pinkish tinge. She could see the wide bay windows on either side of the door, and glimpsed the leaping flames from the open fire Liz had promised her, but although she told herself she had had no alternative, she couldn’t help the certain conviction that she should not have come here.
‘Rachel, my dear!’ Robert Shard had descended the shallow steps and crossed the forecourt to swing her door open. ‘Welcome to Clere Heights! I’m so glad you made it. Isn’t it a vile night?’
‘I was almost late,’ his wife commented, climbing out at the other side of the car. ‘The fog’s really thick.’ She smiled across at Rachel. ‘It’s just as well you weren’t flying up. I’m sure the airport must be closed.’
As Rachel got out, she heard the muted thunder of the ocean, and her heart quickened. Returning Robert’s kiss with a nervousness she tried hard to disguise, she admitted that the weather wasn’t at all seasonai, and then thanked him for inviting her, through lips stiffened, she insisted, by the cold.
‘It was a pleasure,’ Robert Shard assured her warmly, drawing back to study her face. ‘I suppose Liz has told you we’ve got an unexpected visitor. I guess it came as something of a surprise.’
An understatement, thought Rachel tautly, but she managed to disguise her misgivings. ‘I feel something of an—interloper,’ she offered, glancing round at Jaime’s mother. ‘I’m sure you’d all enjoy yourselves better, if I—were not here.’
‘Rubbish!’ Robert wouldn’t hear a word of it. ‘We’ve been looking forward to your visit, and hearing all about what’s been happening to you. Isn’t that so, Liz?’ And at his wife’s nod: ‘But go along inside now. Are your cases in the boot? Good. I’ll get them.’
Rachel hesitated, but Liz came round the car to join her, tucking her arm through the girl’s and urging her forward. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Maisie’s got supper all ready and waiting. I expect you could do with something to eat.’
In truth, Rachel had never felt less like eating, but she could hardly say so, and she accompanied Liz into the hall of Clere Heights feeling sick with apprehension. Where was Jaime? Was he waiting for them in the comfortable sitting room, which the Shards used most evenings? Was he in bed? She faced the coming confrontation with a feeling close to dread, and wondered if Liz had noticed she was trembling.
‘Take off your coat,’ said Liz, as they stood beneath the attractive chandelier that hung above the wide, square hall of the house. Panelled in a dark wood, but highlighted by the pale gold carpet underfoot, the hall was as big as any of the rooms Rachel had known in her father’s house, and the staircase that wound around two walls was broad and stately, and heavily carved. An enormous bowl of pink and cream roses occupied a prominent position on the oak settle that stood at the foot of the stairs, and their perfume mingled with the dampness from outside, as Robert carried in her luggage and shouldered the door closed.
Rachel was removing her leather coat as Maisie Armstrong, the Shards’ housekeeper, came bustling through the door beneath the curve of the stairs that Rachel knew led to the kitchen. She had heard the heavy door slamming, and her thin face broke into a smile when she saw their visitor.
‘Well, well! It never rains but what it pours,’ she exclaimed, beaming at Rachel. ‘What a night to arrive, to be sure! You’ll be thinking we have nothing but bad weather up here.’
‘I know you don’t,’ Rachel assured her, smiling, and handing over her coat. ‘How are you, Mrs Armstrong? You’re looking well. The weather doesn’t seem to disagree with you.’
‘Ah, Maisie was born and bred to it,’ Robert remarked, making for the stairs. ‘Come along, Rachel. I’ll show you your room before supper. I’m sure you’d like a few minutes to wash your hands and comb your hair.’
Blessing his understanding, Rachel nodded eagerly. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, looking anxiously at Jaime’s mother, and Liz made a deprecating gesture.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she exclaimed, but there was a faint trace of tension in her expression. ‘Come down to the sitting room when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you.’
Rachel nodded, and suppressing the desire to hurry, she followed Robert up the stairs.
A landing circled the hall on two sides, with corridors running in either direction, to the two wings of the house. Built at the end of the last century, when economy of dimensions was not at a premium, Clere Heights was a rambling, spacious building, with two floors above ground level and one below. The second floor rooms were smaller than those on the first floor, meant in the initial instance to accommodate a full quota of servants, but Rachel knew from her previous visits that these were seldom used now. The Shards, who had lived in the house for the last thirty-five years, had made certain modifications, adding central heating and bathrooms, and updating the electrical system, but the character of the place had not been altered, and Rachel had always been happy here. But that was because she had been with Jaime, she thought tightly now, closing her mind to the coming encounter.
Robert led the way along the corridor that gave access to the south wing of the house, and opened the door into a spacious apartment, that sprang to life when he switched on the lamps. The soft green carpet underfoot was reflected in green and gold curtains and a matching patterned bedspread, and Rachel recognised the dark oak furniture from her visit two years ago.
‘Remember it?’ enquired Robert, setting her case on the ottoman at the foot of the square bed, and Rachel nodded mutely, too overcome to speak. ‘We thought you’d like to be in here,’ he added, depositing her hold-all on the bed. ‘Take your time, and acclimatise yourself. Maisie’s supper won’t spoil for a few minutes’ waiting.’
‘Thank you.’
Rachel’s gratitude was evident in the unusual brightness of her eyes, and Robert hesitated a moment. ‘You don’t change, do you, Rachel?’ he said thoughtfully, giving her a rueful smile. ‘You’re still the beautiful enigma, aren’t you? The only girl I ever knew who beat Jaime at his own game. I guess that cool exterior drove him to distraction. I only wish he’d met you before Betsy got her claws into him.’
This was too close to the bone, and as if he knew it, Jaime’s father turned away. ‘See you soon,’ he said, raising a hand as if in apology, and closed the door swiftly, before she could respond.
Left alone, Rachel drew a deep breath before surveying her domain. She still felt weak, and somehow defenceless, and her own reflection in the long wardrobe mirrors didn’t help. It had been a mistake to wear dark colours, she decided. The dark brown silk shirt, and the matching pants that flared at the knee above long suede boots, had looked fashionably businesslike back in London. New they looked drab and unfeminine, robbing her face of all colour, and accentuating the hollows in her cheeks.
Still, she had no time to change now, and carrying her toilet things into the adjoining bathroom, she quickly washed her face. Her skin felt cold, but inside she felt as if she was burning up, and she lifted one of the yellow hand-towels and held it to her face for a few minutes, staring into the haunted green eyes that confronted her. Dear God, how was she going to go through with this? she asked herself silently, then thrust the towel aside before emotion got the better of her.
She had believed she was alone. She had never dreamed that the running water might have provided a screen for someone to enter her room undetected, and when she first glimpsed the dark figure, propped in the open doorway to the bathroom, she started as if she had seen a ghost. But it was no ghost who straightened at her involuntary gesture, who regarded her through narrowed mocking eyes, and she felt as if a sudden blow had just been delivered to her solar plexus.
‘Hello, Rachel,’ he greeted her equably. ‘I thought it would be easier if we got this over in private. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I didn’t like to interrupt your evident absorption in your appearance.’
