a bomb with Silvertrees.’
‘In about twenty years, maybe,’ Chessie said levelly. ‘But Dad’s creditors weren’t prepared to wait that long for their money. And our present existence is like a holiday camp, compared with hotel-keeping. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.’
Jenny sniffed. ‘I still think it could have worked,’ she said obstinately.
Chessie was suddenly caught between tears and laughter. Extraordinary how Jenny, so clever at school, could have such a tenuous hold on reality at other times.
She wondered what role her sister had pictured for herself in this make-believe ménage. Acting as receptionist, no doubt, and arranging a few flowers. Because she couldn’t cook to save her life, and had never shown the slightest aptitude for housework either.
‘And, anyway—’ Jenny got down to the nitty-gritty of the situation ‘—if you’re going out tonight, what am I going to eat? I bet The Ogre hasn’t invited me.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Chessie agreed. ‘But you won’t starve. There’s some chicken casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is use the microwave.’
‘Hardly on a level with being wined and dined.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘And another thing—since when has The Ogre been “Miles” to you? I thought it was strictly, “Yes, Mr Hunter, sir.”’
‘So it was, and probably will be again tomorrow,’ Chessie told her calmly. ‘It’s just a meal, that’s all.’
I wonder how many times I’m going to say that before I convince even myself, she thought later as she reviewed the meagre contents of her wardrobe.
It had been a long time since she’d eaten in a restaurant. She’d been having lunch with her father, she remembered, hardly able to eat as she’d tried nervously to probe what had been going on in the company.
She could recall the uneasy questions she’d asked—the reassurances she’d sought.
Neville had patted her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘There’s nothing for my girl to worry about.’
He’d talked loudly, and laughed a lot. Drunk a lot too. He’d seen some former business associates across the restaurant, and had waved to them expansively, beckoning them over, but they hadn’t come.
Even then that had seemed ominous, like the first crack in a dam, only she hadn’t dared say so. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge it could have been so. Longed for it all to have been her imagination.
She’d worn a plain cream linen shift, she remembered, with large gold buttons. That didn’t exist any more, sadly, and she had little else that was suitable for dining out in.
Most of her clothes fell into two categories, she realised regretfully. There was working (ordinary) and working (slightly smarter). In the end, she opted for a plain black skirt reaching to mid-calf, and topped it with an ivory silk chainstore blouse. The gilt earrings and chains that Jenny had given her for her last birthday made the outfit seem a little more festive.
She was in her early twenties and she felt a hundred years old. There were little worry lines forming between her brows, and the curve of her mouth was beginning to look pinched.
She usually wore her light brown hair gathered for neatness into a rubber band at the nape of her neck, but decided to let it loose for once, its newly washed silkiness brushing her shoulders.
The only eye-shadow she possessed had formed into a sullen lump in the bottom of its little jar. Jenny had some make-up, she knew, purchased from her scanty and infrequent earnings delivering leaflets round the village, but, under the circumstances, a request for a loan would go down like a lead balloon, so she just used powder and her own dusky coral lipstick.
As a final touch, she unearthed her precious bottle of ‘L’Air du Temps’ from the back of her dressing-table drawer, and applied it to her throat and wrists. When it was gone, there would be no more, she thought, re-stoppering the bottle with care.
The salary she was paid was a good one, but there was little money left over for luxuries like scent.
Jenny had won a scholarship to the school in the neighbouring town where she was a day girl, so Chessie had no actual fees to find. But there was so much else. The only acceptable sports gear and trainers had to come with designer labels, and the school had a strict uniform code too, which had been a nightmare while Jenny was growing so rapidly.
But her sister was going to have exactly the same as all the other girls. She’d been determined about that from the first. No ridicule or snide remarks from her peers for Jenny.
But no one said it was easy, she thought, grimacing, as she picked up her all-purpose jacket and bag.
She paused to take a long critical look at herself in the mirror.
Did she really look the kind of girl a best-selling novelist would ask out? The answer to that was an unequivocal ‘no’, and she found herself wondering why he hadn’t sought more congenial company.
Because, no matter what cruel comments Jenny might make, there was no doubt that Miles Hunter was an attractive and dynamic man, in spite of the scar on his face. And she wondered why it had taken her so long to realise this.
But then, she’d hardly regarded him in the light of a human being, she thought wryly. He was the man she worked for, and his initial rejection of her compassion had barred any personal rapport between them. He’d become a figurehead, she thought. A dark god who had to be constantly placated if she and Jenny were to survive.
She found herself thinking about the girl he’d told her about—the fiancée who’d ditched him because of his scars. Was he still embittered about this? Still carrying a torch for the woman who’d let him down when he’d most needed her support?
Could this be why, apart from the fan mail, which she dealt with herself, there were no phone calls or letters from women—apart from his sister, and his agent, who was in her late forties?
And could it also be why there was no love interest in his books—not the slightest leavening of romance?
He was a terrific writer, and the tension in his stories never slackened. Each book went straight into the bestseller lists after publication, yet if Chessie was honest she found his work oddly bleak, and even sterile.
But that’s just my opinion, she told herself ruefully as she let herself out through the side door. The thriller-reading public who snapped him up had no such reservations.
Besides, she didn’t know for sure that Miles had no women in his life. He was away a great deal in London, and other places. He could well be having a whole series of affairs without her being aware of it. Maybe he just liked to keep his personal life private—and away from the village.
He was waiting by the car. He was wearing beautifully cut casual trousers, which moulded his long legs, and a high-necked sweater in black cashmere. A sports jacket was slung across one shoulder.
He was staring at the ground, looking preoccupied and slightly cross, failing to notice her soft-footed approach.
He didn’t seem to be looking forward to a pleasant evening, thought Chessie, wondering if he was regretting
