good way of doing that.’
‘I’ll help you keep supple—I can think of some very enjoyable exercises to do every night.’
She giggled. ‘I bet you can.’
‘When did you say your brother-in-law was going to deliver that object you call a car up here?’
‘Don’t make fun of my flower wagon! I love it. It may not go very fast but it is reliable, and it’s a thing of beauty! A one-off, unique. People always stare when I go by in it.’
‘I bet they do,’ Ross said curtly.
She had bought it secondhand from a car auction two years ago: a Mini car painted a metallic green. Michael had transformed it over a couple of weekends, painting a jungle all over it—palms and huge, exotic tropical flowers in extraordinary colours.
‘Phil hopes to bring it up here next weekend. He can’t get the time off during the week. He’ll have to take the train to London to pick up my car, then drive it up here and take the train back home to Penrith. It’s a long journey; it’s very good of Phil to offer to do it.’
Ross nodded. ‘Nice guy, Phil. I liked him.’
The emphasis reminded her that he did not like Michael, and never would. She suppressed a faint sigh. If only they could be friends. They were the two most important men in her life and she hated knowing that they resented each other.
‘And your sister’s nearly as gorgeous as you are,’ Ross added, smiling, then looked at his watch. ‘Must rush. See you, darling. Oh, and I left a couple of books on the forest for you, on the kitchen table.’
It was her first day alone in the house. She got up after she had finished her toast and tea, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose dark pink shirt, then sat down at the kitchen table and worked out a daily schedule for her housework. She had learned discipline in ballet school; you had to be organised or you got nowhere.
After making their bed and tidying the bedroom and all the rooms downstairs she went out into the garden to gather vegetables for supper. She would make a vegetable casserole, she decided, a layered dish of thick slices of carrots, potatoes, onions, parsnips, turnips and young broad beans. It was a meal she had often cooked before, in London, but there she had used vegetables from a nearby street market. They had not been as fresh as the ones she was picking from Ross’s neat, straight rows.
When it was nearly cooked she would stir in tomatoes and mushrooms and sprinkle the top with mixed fresh breadcrumbs and grated cheese to make a crunchy gold topping. She would serve lamb with it for Ross, but she, herself, would only eat the vegetable casserole. As well as exercising daily she would need to diet. For years she had been working out for hours every day, using up a lot of calories and energy. Now that she had stopped she would put on weight if she didn’t watch it.
Looking at her watch, she was shaken to see that it was only eleven! The day was dragging. What if Ross didn’t get back until six or seven? How was she going to cope with such long days alone, with nothing to do and nobody to talk to?
She left the trug of vegetables on the draining board, to wash later, and made some black coffee. While she drank a cup she sat down at the kitchen table and opened one of the books Ross had left her. It was easier to read than she had been afraid it would be—almost every page had a coloured picture on it and the text was direct and simple. She started with a section on the wildlife of a conifer forest, and read for twenty minutes with deep interest until she suddenly heard Ross’s voice outside.
Dropping the book, she rushed to open the front door, then stopped dead as she realised he was not alone. There was a woman in his arms.
Shocked, Dylan froze, staring—who on earth was she? Someone very sophisticated, with blonde hair the colour of a new-hatched chick and a figure with more curves than a switchback ride. Her high, round breasts were shown off by a tight white sweater which clung to every seductive inch, her slim waist was cinched by a black leather belt, and she had very long legs in tight jeans.
Ross turned to smile, his manner unworried and confident. ‘Dylan, this is Suzy Hale. She’s Alan’s wife—I’ve told you about him, one of my colleagues and a very good friend of mine—they live ten miles off. She’s come along to introduce herself and invite us both over for dinner, next week. Isn’t that nice of her?’
Dylan barely heard half he said. She was too busy noticing the smear of bright red lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Did he always kiss his best friend’s wife on the lips?
Somehow, though, she managed a smile and murmured, ‘That would be lovely.’
The blonde slid out of Ross’s grasp and came towards her, holding out her hand, the fingers tipped with bright red nail varnish that matched her lipstick.
‘Hi, Dylan, welcome to the back of beyond!’ Her fingers were firm and warm and her smile was so friendly Dylan couldn’t help smiling back.
‘That’s a London accent, isn’t it?’
The other woman laughed, her head flung back. ‘Well spotted! I was born in Finchley, lived there for years. Bit of a culture shock, this place, isn’t it, to a Londoner? How is the old place? I bet you’re missing it already! I know I do. I rarely get a chance to go there since my family moved to Wales. My brother got a job in a hospital in Cardiff; he’s a physiotherapist. Our parents decided to go, too. My father came from Cardiff originally, so they were keen to go back there. Now I have to stay in a hotel if I go to London, and, as you know only too well, London hotels cost an arm and a leg. But then everything in London is expensive, and on Alan’s salary we can’t afford to spend money like a drunken sailor.’ Dylan was dazed by the speed at which the other woman talked. Scarcely drawing breath, Suzy went on, ‘Ross says you were a ballet dancer—I’m ashamed to admit I’ve never ever seen ballet. The only dancing I ever did was at a rave. I’m not an intellectual, I’m afraid.’ She turned a laughing face at Ross. ‘And 1 can’t believe Ross went to the ballet! Buy the ticket by mistake, did you, Ross? Thought you’d be seeing something like the Folies Bergère?’
Ross seemed very amused by her—did he enjoy her bubbly personality and headlong chatter? Dylan wished she was an extrovert, could talk as easily, but she found it impossible to shed her inhibitions.
Dancing was a physical art; she never needed to talk. She could express herself eloquently in gesture and movement, so she was never self-conscious on a stage, but faced with other people she felt herself tighten up, unable to relax.
‘Actually, I bought a ticket because I saw a big blown-up photo of Dylan outside the theatre,’ Ross said, and Dylan did a double-take. He had never told her that. He glanced at her, dark grey eyes teasing.
‘I knew it! You didn’t go in to see a ballet, you went to see more of Dylan. Did she look sexy in a tutu?’ Suzy roared with laughter.
‘I’m sure she would—but in the photo it looked as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all,’ Ross drawled. ‘She looked totally naked, but when she appeared on stage I realised she was actually wearing a body-stocking.’
Dylan went pink. Was that really why he had come to the ballet that first night? In the hope of seeing her dance in the nude?
‘I bet that was a disappointment!’ Suzy mocked, and he grinned at her.
‘You’ve got a wicked mind!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Dylan,
