is everything. Nyssa had learned that at her first press conference. Eighteen years old, her hair had been cropped punk-short then, henna-bright against the hastily applied ivory-pale make-up, the black dress borrowed for the occasion from one of her stepsisters.
It had been pure drama and the press had loved her for it. She’d learned a lot that day about image and what it could do for a cause, and she’d abandoned charity store cast-offs and taken on the establishment on its own terms. These days there were developers who backed away from anything she showed an interest in. People took her seriously.
Presumably Charles Parker had thought a neglected cinema would be beneath her notice.
Image. Nyssa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She’d grown out the cropped hair to the briefest of sleek pageboy bobs, but it was still bright red. These days, though, the effect was the result of regular visits to a Knightsbridge crimpers rather than the enthusiastic use of her mother’s dressmaking shears and a packet of henna.
Her naturally pale complexion was accentuated by bright red lips that rarely smiled. And now that solemnity too was part of her image.
She sprayed herself with her favourite scent, with its luscious green topnote of gardenia, and turned to the elegant designer dress hanging over the wardrobe door. Black. Of course.
Fine jersey, smooth and flowing as silk. Taking the dress down from its hanger, she lifted it over her head, sliding her arms into long, narrow sleeves, easing the bodice against her skin and letting the skirt fall in a gentle swirl about her legs. She fastened tiny buttons over breasts lifted and emphasised by a black lace bra, the kind of bra that had caused traffic accidents when the advertising hoardings went up.
She was well aware that the effect was sexy as well as dramatic. It had been planned that way. Short of World War Three breaking out, that glimpse of cleavage would guarantee her a place on the front page of every tabloid tomorrow morning.
She’d learned a lot in three years of campaigning. More than how to walk past a security guard and have him hold open the door for her even as she breached his defences. More than how to convince cynical reporters that she was right. More than how to stick it out when she appeared to be the only person in the whole world who cared…
As she fastened a pair of antique jet drops to her earlobes, there was a tap at the door.
‘Nyssa?’
Her hands trembled as she was seized by nerves and she nearly dropped one of the precious earrings, fielding it with fingers that were suddenly all thumbs. Damn! She hung onto the edge of her dressing table for a moment, taking slow, careful breaths until she recovered. Then she carefully fastened the second drop, painted a smile on her face and opened the door.
‘Gil!’ She tried to keep the heartleap out of her voice. Since her group had grown so loud and annoyed so many important people, her brother-in-law had been trying to get her to use one of the specially trained drivers from his security company. So far she had managed to resist him, but on occasion Gil would turn up before a big event to ‘offer her a lift’. And his home was not more than twenty or so miles away from the bustling market town of Delvering. ‘How unexpected,’ she said, managing just a touch of irony. ‘Just passing, were you?’
‘Not exactly. But I thought you might welcome a little moral support.’
Moral support was the last thing she wanted from her brother-in-law. ‘I have the uncomfortable feeling that, roughly translated, that means you still think I’m a little girl who has bitten off a chunk more than she can chew. Right?’
She longed for him to deny it, but he just laughed. ‘I might think it, but I wouldn’t dare say it. Not the way you’re looking tonight.’
‘Really?’ She hated his laughter, but she’d learned not to let her feelings show around Gil; it wasn’t his fault that she was in love with him, so she kept her voice light. ‘Was that a compliment? I couldn’t be quite sure.’
‘Don’t fish, brat. You’ll have every man in the country leering over your picture in the papers tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?’
No. Of course it wasn’t. There was only one man she had ever wanted to leer at her. Unfortunately he was married to her stepsister.
‘Only if it encourages them to write to the Department of the Environment and demand a planning enquiry,’ she said briskly. ‘Is Kitty with you?’
‘No, Harry’s got the sniffles and you know how she fusses about him, but she sends her love.’ He paused. ‘Actually, she’s a bit tired…’ Nyssa, not exactly panting to hear about his domestic life, smiled politely and made a move towards the door. Gil put his hand on her arm, stopping her. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know, Nyssa. She’s expecting another baby.’
He had wanted to tell her himself. Before someone else did. That was why he’d come tonight.
He’d never said a word, yet it was obvious that he knew all about the schoolgirl crush she’d had on him. A friend of her father’s, albeit a younger one, he had tried to be kind, walking on tiptoe around her feelings, taking care not to hurt her. It was why he still treated her like a schoolgirl, because he suspected, as Kitty did, that it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush. Well, it couldn’t be, could it? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any more; she was twenty-two. And kindness was the last thing she wanted from him.
‘I’m very happy for you both,’ Nyssa said, brightly enough. ‘Have you told James and Sophia?’ She hadn’t been able to bear calling her mother anything but Sophia since she had married Kitty’s widowed father—the memory of her own father was still too precious. ‘You’re going down for James’s birthday, I imagine?’ Nyssa asked.
‘We thought we’d tell everyone then. You’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘If I can,’ she hedged. ‘The feeling is that Parker will attempt to demolish the cinema quickly, before we can get it listed.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very slow off the mark.’
‘Sophia will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come,’ Gil said, distracting her. ‘We could give you a lift down if you don’t want to drive yourself.’
‘No. I’ll try. Really.’ And then she’d discover something desperately important to do. The alternative was to go and smile and hide her feelings, as she had been doing ever since Gil and Kitty’s wedding. Except that if she stayed away Kitty would know why and feel sorry for her. And her mother would know why and worry about her. And Gil would know why and feel guilty. She couldn’t win. But at least she had an excuse to send him away now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Gil. You should be at home with Kitty.’
‘She wanted me to come. She worries about you, too, Nyssa.’
Did he really think that knowing his wife had sent him would help? ‘The entire Lambert clan appear to have cornered the worry market on my behalf, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m among friends here, Gil. The worst thing that’s going to happen is the slide projector jamming in the middle of my presentation.’
As if to confirm the truth of her words, someone beat a lively tattoo on the door. ‘Nyssa? Are you ready? We’re all down in the bar waiting for you.’
‘I’ll be right with you, Pete. Get me an orange juice, will you?’
‘Who’s that?’ Gil asked.
