that won't be true in your case, ducks. You wait here, while I see.’ She disappeared to the rear of the musty hall and went through a door.
Catriona, fighting her tears, stood forlornly on the step. What if there was no address? She supposed there would be a hostel somewhere she could go to for the time being. Perhaps the driver would know. He seemed kind. Yet at the back of her mind were all the warnings she had ever heard about trusting strangers in big cities. She had never felt more alone, even at Aunt Jessie's funeral, for there the unspoken sympathy of the rest of the village had been like a rock for her to lean on. Here there was no one and nothing if Jeremy could not be found.
‘Here we are, lovey.’ The woman was coming back, flourishing a piece of paper. ‘Mr Lord—11 Belmont Gardens. I thought I could recollect him saying where he was moving to.'
‘Oh, thank you.’ Catriona took the paper, realising that the woman's hand was remaining outstretched. For a moment she wondered if she was expected to shake hands, then she realised. Flushing, she dug into her shoulder bag and produced a pound note. Before she could say anything, it was gone from her hand and tucked away into a pocket of the nylon overall.
‘That's very good of you, dear, very good.’ The woman beamed at her. ‘Now, if you were wanting a room, my first floor front is giving notice this week.'
‘No,’ Catriona said quietly. ‘No, thanks. I must be going now.’ And she ran back down the steps to the waiting taxi. She gave the new address to the driver.
‘It's from the sublime to the gorblimey with you, girl,’ he commented, as the cab drew away. ‘Dead posh, Belmont Gardens.'
Catriona didn't find this piece of information particularly encouraging either. She realised for the first time how little she really knew about Jeremy and his background. She knew that he was an only child, and that both his parents were living, but little more.
It had never occurred to her during those happy sun-soaked days in Scotland to probe too deeply. Nor had she speculated too much while they were apart. She had preferred to remember the warmth of his kisses, and the glow in his eyes when he looked at her in that secret way that seemed to shut them off from the rest of the world even when others were there. These things were somehow more real than Jeremy's family, Jeremy's friends and the rest of his life in London in which as yet she had no part.
She realised of course that she would have to accept her part in them, but Jeremy had fitted so easily into her background that she had few doubts that she would slot as quickly into his. Now she was not so sure.
Looking out of the cab window, she realised the area they were in now was a marked improvement on the one where Jeremy used to live. Here the rows of houses were tall and spacious and trees edged the streets in neat lines.
The taxi turned right, swerving into a small square. In the centre of the square was a tiny railed-off park, with lawns, seats and flower beds. The houses that surrounded it were tall and elegant with delicately wrought iron railings in front of them. Many of them had window boxes filled with gay flowers, and Catriona could not help a little cry of pleasure and surprise.
‘Told you so,’ the driver commented smugly. He drew up with a flourish. ‘Here we are, ducks—number eleven. Shall I bring your gear up?'
‘I—I can manage, thank you.’ Catriona was feeling nervous again. As the taxi drew away and vanished round the corner, she felt almost as if she just lost a friend. Her palms felt moist and she wiped them down the sides of her jeans, before shouldering her rucksack and picking up the guitar case.
‘Here we go,’ she thought, gazing up at the white façade of the house. A scarlet front door confronted her and as she counted the six immaculate steps which led to it, she noticed a gleaming brass bell surmounted by a name-plate in the wall.
The stark black lettering on the card seemed to leap out at her. ‘J. Lord,’ she read with relief, and pressed the bell.
Almost immediately she heard steps inside the house, and her stomach muscles contracted. She licked her dry lips, controlling her instinct to run away as quickly as she could, now that the moment of truth was here.
But it was a small woman, neatly dressed in a dark frock and apron, who opened the door this time, and looked at her inquiringly.
Catriona tried to speak with an assurance she was far from feeling.
‘Mr Lord, please.'
‘Well, I don't know, I'm sure, miss.’ The woman looked at her searchingly, taking in the shabby coat and the rucksack. ‘Is he expecting you?'
‘Yes,’ said Catriona, mentally crossing her fingers. It wasn't really a fib, she told herself. Jeremy had said she could come at any time. ‘Please tell him Miss Muir is here.'
The woman held the door open and stood back to allow Catriona to enter. ‘Come in, Miss Muir. I'll tell Mr Lord. Perhaps you'd like to leave your luggage in the hall.'
Catriona felt almost embarrassed to do so. It was a spacious hall with a black and white tiled floor and gleaming white walls. A carved chest stood against one wall supporting a tall Chinese vase. She put her rucksack and guitar in a corner, where she hoped they would not be noticed, and followed the woman to a door on the right.
‘Will you wait here, miss?’ the woman asked, and Catriona nodded speechlessly. She had never seen such a room. The walls were covered in a heavy cream paper and this colour was repeated in the thick fitted carpet. The floor-length curtains and luxurious suite were in a matching fabric which combined shades of sapphire and jade, and Catriona, who had always been told by Aunt Jessie, ‘Blue and green should never be seen,’ gasped at the effect this produced. The few other pieces of furniture—some occasional tables and a rosewood cabinet—were obviously antique and a cream marble mantelpiece bore a collection of exquisite Chinese porcelain dogs.
Catriona began to feel bewildered. What had Jeremy to do with all this luxury? She had never thought that he might be rich, but what other explanation was there for a life-style which was beyond anything she could have imagined? The shabby chintzes of Muir House had never seemed so far away.
Desperately she stared around. Oh, why had she come? What a fool she had been! There was no place for her here. The contrast between her own near-pennilessness and her present surroundings was a humiliation. And worst of all, one of her shoes had left a dirty mark on the carpet.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she hurried towards the door, but almost simultaneously it was flung open, and Catriona halted with a gasp.
Regarding her was a tall man. He was wearing a dark silk dressing gown, and a towel was flung carelessly over one shoulder. His feet and legs were bare and one lock of damp-looking black hair hung down across his forehead. He put up a hand and brushed it impatiently away from the coldest grey eyes that Catriona had ever seen.
‘Who are you?’ she asked shakily. It was too much! The long journey, the lack of sleep, the first disappointment, and now this utter stranger looking her over as if she were an unprepossessing remnant on a bargain counter.
‘That's rich, coming from you,’ he commented, in a voice that matched his eyes. ‘According to you, Miss—er—Muir, I'm expecting you.'
Catriona fought back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her completely.
‘Not you—Jeremy,’ she said dolefully.
‘Jeremy?’
