‘Well, you won’t have to for much longer.’ Sebastian forced a smile. ‘I really hope it all works out for you, Ginger.’ He dropped a light kiss on her hair. ‘Now, I’ll get out of the way, and leave you in peace. Look after yourself.’
‘I always do,’ she called after him.
Presently she heard her front door close and, collecting clean undies and the cool navy dress and jacket she was going to wear on the journey, she went into the bathroom.
She was disturbed by what had happened, she realised, as she lay in the warm water. She had adored Seb from the first moment Louie had introduced them, and they had never had anything approaching a cross word before.
Oh, damn Jay Delaney, she thought bitterly. Why couldn’t he use some other PR company to represent him? And why does he have to be Seb’s personal client? Someone like that doesn’t deserve Seb’s loyalty.
The story had broken first in one of the Sunday tabloids. Jay Delaney had given a party to mark the end of filming for his top-rated series, McGuire. It had started in a nightclub, and had moved back to the hotel where he had a suite. His victim, Debra Burrows, had worked at the nightclub and been invited to the party with some of the other hostesses.
On her own admission, Debbie had had too much to drink, and had gone into one of the other rooms to sleep it off. When she woke it was the early hours of the morning, and everyone else had left. She was alone with Jay Delaney, who had made it clear he expected to have sex with her, and when she refused he had raped her.
‘I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He was like an animal,’ she had told the newspaper. ‘He said he could have any girl he wanted. That I should be flattered.
‘I was such a fan of his. I worshipped him, and I was thrilled when he asked me to the party. But he’s a sham, and a hypocrite. He’s made me feel dirty—used.’
Her pretty bruised face staring from the front page had haunted Maggie ever since.
She thought, ‘There but for the grace of God …’
Now, she drew a deep breath. She wouldn’t spare Jay Delaney another thought, she vowed silently. He wasn’t worth it, nor was any other man who preyed on women.
It was men like Robin who mattered. Men who were kind and tender—and decent.
Maggie stared at the dregs in her cup, asked herself if she wanted more coffee, and decided against it. She took another restive glance at her watch, and sighed.
Where was Robin? What on earth could have happened to him? He was supposed to have picked her up over half an hour ago, and he was usually punctual to a fault. She got up and began to prowl round the sitting-room, her uneasiness mounting. If traffic on the way to the airport was as heavy as it normally was, then they could end up by being extremely late. It was no good thinking they might be able to make up time on the journey either. Robin was a careful driver who didn’t like to take chances.
All in all, the longed-for holiday wasn’t getting off to a very good start. She had tried to telephone his home, but there had been no reply, signifying that he had set out at least.
Could the car have broken down, she wondered apprehensively, or, worse still, could there have been some kind of accident?
She shook herself. I won’t think like that, she told herself determinedly. He’s just been held up, that’s all, but he’ll be here in a minute, and until he arrives I’ll do a last check—make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
She had just re-packed her handbag for the second time when she heard the buzzer.
‘Oh, thank heavens.’ She ran to answer the door. ‘I was really beginning to worry,’ she told him, smiling, and halted, her brows knotting. The first thing that occurred to her was that he was wearing a formal dark suit, the kind of thing he would put on for the office, instead of the casual slacks and shirt she would have expected. The second was that he looked pale and worried.
Her heart sank. Maybe her fears about an accident were only too justified.
‘Come in.’ She took his hand, drew him into the room. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
He sat down on the sofa. He didn’t look at her. ‘Maggie, I can’t go to Mauritius. I’ve had to cancel my flight.’
‘Can’t go?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? We’ve been looking forward to it for months and …’
‘I know, I know,’ he cut in. ‘And I feel terrible letting you down like this, but you see—it’s Mother.’
For a moment, she looked at him blankly. She thought, I’m not hearing this. It cannot actually be happening, in nineteen-eighties Britain. This is some terrible joke.
Only, somehow, she didn’t feel like laughing.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I understand. Are you telling me your mother has imposed some kind of ban on your going—because if so, she’s left it rather late in the day and …’
‘Oh, no.’ He looked horrified. ‘It’s nothing like that. She likes you, Maggie, she really does. No, she’s been taken ill. The doctor thinks it may be her heart. She’s had to go into hospital for tests. I went with her to see her settled in, and I’ve got to go back tonight.’
Maggie swallowed. ‘Her heart?’ she queried. ‘But she’s never had any problem before, has she? Isn’t this rather sudden?’
Robin looked even more solemn. ‘Apparently that’s when it can be most dangerous. And, of course, she’s never been strong,’ he added defensively.
It was Maggie’s private opinion that Mrs Hervey could go ten rounds with an ox and win on a knock-out, but she bit back the angry words.
‘All she could think of was you,’ Robin went on. ‘She kept saying to me while we were waiting for the ambulance, “Poor Margaret will be so disappointed.” She was nearly in tears.’
‘I can imagine,’ Maggie said grimly. ‘When did all this start?’
‘In the early hours of this morning, although she did confess to the doctor that she hadn’t been feeling very well for several days. But she said nothing, tried to pretend nothing was wrong, because she didn’t want to be a nuisance.’
Maggie’s lips parted, then closed again. She knew an overwhelming impulse to seize Robin by his neatly knotted conservative tie and say, ‘Your mother has turned being a nuisance into an art-form. She is greedy and selfish, and terrified of losing you. She’s taken a stock situation from fiction—a cliché that I’d pencil out, screaming, if I came across it in a script—because she knows that I’ll recognise it as such and you won’t. It’s her way of telling me that I can’t win. That she’s prepared to use the ultimate weapon against me—delicate health.’
‘You’ve gone really pale.’ Robin reached out and patted her hand, rather clumsily. ‘I knew how concerned you’d be. I tried to think of some way of breaking it to you …’
‘Passing on this kind of news is never easy.’
