all out on to the floor and kicked them to one side. Serves me right for trying to be sexy, she thought, biting her lip. I should have remembered that I’m good old Maggie, and bought some sensible knickers.
She took a long, clinical look at herself in the mirror. She would never set the world on fire, but when her face wasn’t streaked with tears, her nose red and swollen, and her grey-green eyes like twin bruises, she was passable, she thought judiciously, even though her hair was common-or-garden red rather than more sophisticated auburn, and she was definitely on the skinny side of slender.
And now unexpectedly back on the market, as estate agents said in their advertisements.
‘A wonderful friend,’ Robin had said.
Was that really all she had been to him? And would she have been any more in that romantic bungalow, tucked away in a flower-filled tropical garden?
Now we shall never know, she thought with bitter self-derision, rooting through her wardrobe for gear more appropriate to mid-October in England.
She repacked her case, then stripped off her dress and jacket, changing into black wool trousers and a matching polo-necked sweater.
She was half-way out of the door when she remembered the cottage keys. She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and reached into the corner, but the familiar bunch wasn’t there.
Frowning, Maggie pulled the drawer out further, riffling through the contents. But there was no sign of the keys. Had she forgotten to put them away after her last visit, a couple of months ago? It seemed so. No doubt they would be tucked away in some handbag.
But she wouldn’t look for them now. She kept a spare set in the bottom tray of the box which stored her costume jewellery. She would take those instead.
She carried her case round to the lock-up garage where she kept her Metro, then dashed round the local mini-market, filling a box with bread, eggs and milk as well as canned goods. She could get meat and vegetables at the farm shop on her way to World’s End.
The weather was deteriorating, she noticed, as she began her journey. She switched on the car radio and listened to the forecast. The outlook was stormy, with rain and high winds approaching gale force at times.
Maggie pulled a face. Electricity supplies to the cottage were inclined to be erratic in bad weather, although the gales might never materialise. But if they did, she had plenty of candles, and a fresh supply of fuel for the Aga had been delivered at the beginning of the month, according to Mrs Grice, the farmer’s wife, who kept a friendly eye on the cottage for her.
I’ll make out, she thought with a mental shrug. And stormy weather suits my mood at the moment. The wind and I can howl together.
Getting out of London was the usual nightmare, and Maggie was a mass of tension by the time she won clear of the suburbs. She had intended to drive straight to the cottage, but now she decided she would take her time—stop for a meal even. It was ages since she had been out to dinner, she realised with amazement. Robin didn’t care for restaurant food, so she had usually ended up cooking for him at the flat—except when they had eaten at his mother’s house.
She found an Italian restaurant, already filling up with customers, and demolished an enormous plateful of lasagne, washed down with a glass of the house wine, following this with a helping of chocolate fudge cake laden with cream.
Robin, who believed in healthy eating, would have disapproved of every mouthful, and the knowledge gave her a kind of guilty pleasure as she lingered over her cappuccino. Comfort-eating, she thought. When her three weeks in hiding ended, she’d probably be like a barrel.
The wind had risen considerably by the time she started off again. Strong gusts buffeted the car, slowing her journey considerably, and she was half tempted to stop and spend the night at a hotel and hope for better conditions next day.
Oh, to hell with it, she thought. I’ve come half-way. I may as well go on.
The further she drove, the more she regretted her decision. The rain was battering against the roof and windscreen as if trying to gain access and the wind sounded like some constant moan of torment.
It was nearly midnight before she turned with a sigh of relief on to the track which led to the cottage. Clouds were scudding across the sky like thieves in the night, and the trees which lined the track were swaying violently and groaning as if in pain.
I’ve never seen it as bad as this, Maggie thought, avoiding a fallen branch. Thank goodness I had the roof mended in the spring.
She parked in her usual spot, grabbed her case, and ran for the front door. The wind tore at her, lifting her almost off her feet, and for a moment she felt helpless in its power and badly frightened. The gust slackened, and she threw herself forward, grasping the heavy metal door-handle to brace herself while she searched in the dark for the keyhole.
At last the door yielded, and she almost fell into the living-room. It was a struggle then to re-close the door. The wind fought her every inch as if it were a living enemy, and her arms were aching by the time she had finished.
Gales, indeed, she muttered to herself. This feels more like a hurricane.
She tried the light switch beside the door without much hope, but to her surprise the central light came on, although it was flickering badly.
Just give me time to find the candles, Maggie appealed silently, going to the small walk-in pantry. As she lifted its latch, it occurred to her how unusually warm the room felt.
It was as if—as if … She stood motionless for a moment, then crossed the room to check. There was no ‘if’ about it. Someone had lit the Aga.
Mrs Grice sometimes lit it for her, if she knew she was coming down, but this time Maggie hadn’t signalled her intentions. So unless Mrs Grice had suddenly been gifted with second sight …
Oh, don’t be stupid, Maggie apostrophised herself. She probably thought the place smelled damp and needed airing through. I’ll thank her tomorrow.
She found the candles, their pottery holders, and a box of matches, as well as the old-fashioned stone hot water bottle she had picked up in a junk shop. She needed its comfort tonight, she thought, as she filled the kettle and put it to boil on top of the hotplate. She would have some Bovril as well, she decided, taking the jar out of the cupboard.
There was a solitary beaker upside down on the draining-board. Maggie stared at it for a moment, frowning. Where had that come from? she wondered with a frisson of uneasiness.
Now stop it, she caught at herself impatiently, Mrs Grice came and lit your stove for you. Surely you don’t grudge her a cup of coffee for her efforts? All the same, it was unusual. Mrs Grice was a meticulous housekeeper, not given to abandoning stray cups on draining-boards.
When the kettle boiled, she filled her bottle, picked up one of the candles and the matches, and mounted the flight of open-tread stairs which led from the living-room to the upper floor. Her bed, she thought, could be warming while she had her Bovril.
She opened her bedroom door, and went in, putting the candlestick down on the dressing-table before turning on the light.
And froze.
Her bed was already occupied. A naked man was lying across it, her brain registered in panic, face downwards, and fast
