it.
Maybe when he’s going out with nobodies like Evie and myself, he prefers to keep his private life strictly under wraps, she thought, recalling that Evie hadn’t featured in many of the pictures in the scrapbook. In fact, Tarn couldn’t remember seeing even one, suggesting her foster sister had been told to stay off-camera when she appeared with him in public.
And she’d have been far too besotted to protest, or ask, ‘Are you ashamed to be seen with me?’ Tarn told herself bitterly.
She had phoned The Refuge several times, but the hoped-for permission to visit Evie was still being withheld, which worried her.
‘That place really is like a prison,’ she complained to Della, who shrugged.
‘Maybe seclusion is what she most needs,’ she returned. ‘When my mother was in hospital last year, she said she’d have given every penny she possessed for a couple of days of peace, quiet and no visitors.’ She added gently, ‘I think, my pet, you have to give them credit for offering her the best possible treatment.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Tarn conceded, sighing.
She wished very much that she hadn’t left Evie’s letters in New York. She’d have liked to check how long had elapsed between the first date with Caz, and that delirious weekend alone with him in the depths of the country.
However, it couldn’t be much longer before he made his move, she thought, biting her lip. No matter how circumspect and restrained his behaviour towards her, his eyes often told a different story, sending the unequivocal message that he wanted her.
It was moments like that which kept her awake at night, and made her question uneasily whether the shivers that ran through her at the thought of seeing him again were solely caused by apprehension.
If he has this effect on me without even trying, she mused wretchedly, how will I manage when he decides to get serious? If he ever does.
It was a question for which she had to find an answer sooner than she’d thought.
She was on her way down to the art department the following day, when she came face to face with him in an otherwise deserted corridor.
Caz stopped a few feet away from her, and she felt the hungry intensity of his gaze touch her like an electric charge. She stared back at him, aware of the sudden clamour of her pulses, knowing that if she took even a single step forward she would be in his arms.
But Caz stood his ground. Kept his distance. She saw his hands clench into fists at his side and swift colour flare along his cheekbones. He said abruptly, ‘Dinner? Friday evening—at my flat?’
The moment of decision had arrived, catching her unprepared and suddenly hesitant.
You don’t have to do this, said an urgent voice in her head. You can take Della’s advice, abandon the whole idea and run.
For a moment, she had to struggle to think of Evie as she’d been on that first visit to The Refuge, but knew she needed to remember the small, broken figure in the bed, with the scared voice who was the reason why she’d embarked on this course of action, and why she had to go on to the inevitably bitter end.
Her mouth was dry. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If—if that’s what you want.’
‘You must know that it is.’ He paused, drawing a deep breath. ‘I’ll send Terry to pick you up at eight.’
She nodded. ‘Eight o clock,’ she said huskily. ‘Yes.’
She moved to one side of the corridor, he to the other, and they continued on their respective ways without saying more.
Tarn however by-passed the art department, heading instead for the women’s cloakroom. She went straight to a basin, running the cold tap over her wrists, and wiping her face with a damp paper towel as she waited for her inner tumult to die down a little.
Two days and two nights, she thought, before she could achieve her aim and start the process which would make Caz Brandon the target of the contempt he deserved. He’d feature in some very different headlines before it was all finished.
She leaned against the basin, feeling faintly nauseated as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, face white, eyes glittering like a cat’s.
She said under her breath, ‘I look like a stranger. Worse than that—like someone I wouldn’t want to know. I could even pose for a portrait—Nemesis, goddess of retribution.’
Only a few weeks ago, her life had been in place. Her career was fine, she was enjoying her sojourn in New York and she was in a relationship that might even have become love if she’d given it the chance.
Although at this moment, she found it hard to remember what Howard had looked like, let alone what it had meant to be held, kissed by him.
It seemed as if this thing with Evie had consumed her, leaving room for nothing else.
When it was over, she doubted whether she would return to the States for longer than it took to re-let her apartment and pack the rest of her things.
Maybe she’d take at least some of Della’s advice and find a new home somewhere in Europe. France, maybe, or Italy. Or perhaps a Greek island. After all, the nature of her job meant she could work anywhere that she could set up her computer, so why didn’t she take full advantage of the fact? Find her real self again in this new beginning.
But it was too soon to be making any decisions about the long-term when it was the immediate future which had to be foremost in her mind.
And right now, the art department was still waiting, so getting back to work was a priority. Time enough afterwards, when she got home, to consider all the implications of Caz’s invitation, and how to deal with them.
She had the flat to herself on Friday evening, as Della was spending the weekend at her sister’s house in Kent. She’d told her that she and Caz were having dinner but omitted further details, knowing exactly the objections that Della would raise. Knowing that nothing her friend could say would deflect her from her ultimate goal.
Tarn was glad too that she could be nervous without a witness, as she systematically tried on and discarded every dress in her wardrobe, eventually going back to her first choice, a simple wrap-round style in a jade-green silky fabric which clung unashamedly to her slender body.
She used cosmetics with a light hand, darkening her long lashes with mascara, and painting her mouth a soft, clear coral.
Nothing too overt, she told herself as she brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with an antique silver clasp.
Her legs were shaking under her as she walked down to the car. She sat huddled into a corner of the rear passenger seat, staring out at the busy London evening with eyes that saw nothing.
She wasn’t even aware of the route Terry had taken, rousing herself only when the car drove through a security checkpoint and down a ramp to a private underground car park.
‘The lift is here, madam. You press the button marked “P” for the penthouse, and “G” for the garage on your return. Mr Brandon will arrange for me to be waiting for you here by the lift gates.’
If
