see her that didn’t matter.
‘Oh, come off it, Nat, you know what I’m talking about...the party last night? I just saw Johnny’s producer, and she told me Sam had...’
Natalie heard a sound outside her office and hurriedly said, ‘Sorry, Gaynor, somebody coming in...can’t talk now, see you later.’
She hung up, but it wasn’t Sam, it was only one of the producers, who hurried in asking urgently, ‘Where’s Sam?’
‘He isn’t around at the moment, Red,’ fenced Natalie.
‘Hangover?’ She should have remembered that James Moor had been at the party last night. He was not much taller than she was, a cheerful, energy-burning man in his early thirties, with eyes the colour of chestnuts and a shock of bright red hair, hence his nickname.
She shrugged, not answering.
‘Poor Sam. I wonder how much he remembers?’ Red said, grinning at her. ‘Well, get him to give me a buzz, will you, when he does show?’
He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. Natalie glanced at her watch. It was half-past ten now, but Sam still hadn’t shown up. Was he coming in to work at all today? Or was he hiding under his duvet wondering how to get himself out of trouble?
‘Mr Erskine’s office,’ Natalie said, picking up the receiver, and heard a high-pitched female voice she instantly recognised.
‘I want to talk to him!’ it shrilled.
I bet you do, thought Natalie, but said in a blank, polite voice, ‘I’m sorry, he isn’t in the office at the moment. Can I take a message?’
Furiously, the voice shrieked, ‘You mean he doesn’t want to talk to me!’
‘Who shall I tell him called?’ Natalie said in her creamiest tone, smiling to herself as she pictured the other woman’s expression. Helen West was a singer, a vibrant redhead, whose career had never quite got anywhere but who always behaved as if she were a big star. She had a temper as hot as her hair.
‘You know damned well who it is!’ Helen West yelled. ‘And you can tell him from me he isn’t getting out of it by hiding behind you. He’s going to regret doing this to me! And so are you—don’t worry!’
The phone slammed down and Natalie winced. Replacing the receiver, she looked at the clock. Twenty to eleven—where was he? Probably Helen West was right and Sam was hiding. From both of them. As well he might!
But he had a couple of really important appointments—he would have to show up sooner or later. Unless he had fled the country? No, he wouldn’t do that. He would be here sooner or later.
She couldn’t wait.
On going to bed the night before, Sam Erskine had automatically set his alarm for seven o’clock, as usual, but had slept through the peremptory ringing, which had finally died away leaving him to sleep on and on. It was well after ten when he finally stirred and turned over, yawning.
Opening one eye, he hurriedly shut it again as light blazed into it. ‘Ohhhh...’ he groaned, putting a hand to his thudding head.
After a moment he cautiously opened his eye again and looked at the clock, letting out a grunt of disbelief—what on earth was he doing, still in bed at this hour? It wasn’t Sunday, was it? Warily he opened his other eye and sat up, groaning again as the movement increased the thudding in his head; he felt as if someone was heating a gong inside his scalp, sending shock waves through the rest of him.
Vague memories of the night before slowly began to come back. Of course. The party. Johnny’s party. It must have been quite a night. Thank heavens Johnny only had a birthday once a year; too many parties like that could be life-destroying.
Pushing back the bedclothes, Sam swung his long legs out of bed and stood up, a hand over his dazzled eyes. Why was the sunlight so bright this morning? Why couldn’t it have been one of those dark and rainy days, when the sky was like old grey flannel and there was barely enough light to see by?
Naked, he walked across the room to the bathroom. Sam never wore pyjamas; he preferred to sleep naked, especially in summer. It saved on washing. He paid a cleaner to come in once a week to clean his flat but she did not do his washing; Sam had to do it himself.
He had a routine of stuffing his dirty clothes into the washing machine every Saturday and ironing them on Sunday afternoons while he listened to rival radio stations and got ideas from any programmes he enjoyed, or made derisive notes on what he considered their failures. He quite enjoyed the hours he spent that way; he had come to like ironing, it was a soothingly boring occupation, kept his hands busy and left his mind available for a free-flow of ideas. Some of his best projects had come out of an afternoon ironing.
After turning on the shower he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and saw uneasiness in his grey eyes, but couldn’t think why it should be there. What was preying on his subconscious? He knew something was—if only he could remember what!
He hadn’t crashed his car, had he? Hit someone? He stepped under the shower and gave a yelp of shock as his warm flesh came into contact with the cool jets of water.
At least this should wake him up! He showered rapidly, checking himself as he did—but there were no marks on his strong, angular face or the lean, muscular body below it. If there had been a fight he had not been injured in any way.
Maybe it was the other guy who had come off badly? he thought, grinning, not displeased with that idea. He hoped it hadn’t been Johnny—the last thing he needed was a feud with his top star. But Johnny wasn’t the fighting type. He was too afraid of damage to his face.
Something had happened, though. He just knew it. Ever since he woke up something had been hovering at the back of his mind just out of sight, never going away but never letting him see it clearly.
What on earth was it?
As he towelled himself, and dressed in a red-striped shirt and dark grey suit, he chased the memory. Something had definitely happened last night and Sam couldn’t shake off a growing uneasiness. Knotting his dark red silk tie, he stared into the dressing table mirror, not seeing himself at all, calling up memories of the party.
He had taken a taxi, which had stopped to pick up Helen who had been wearing pleated black satin which left a lot of her visible—bare white shoulders, half her high, creamy breasts, all her arms and even some of her thighs, glimpsed through slits in the long skirt.
She had looked sensational, and when Johnny had met them at his front door, he had gazed, open-mouthed. ‘Wow, you sexy thing!’ he’d breathed, arms flung wide. ‘Give me a kiss!’
Johnny had been lit up, the life and soul of the party, as always, loving being the centre of attention, and Helen hadn’t exactly struggled to escape his clutches.
She had been in one of her moods last night. All the way to the party she had been coaxing and badgering Sam on the usual subject. They had been arguing about it for weeks. Helen wanted to get married. Sam didn’t.
He had good reasons for not wanting to get married. He had explained them all over again, he had been patience itself—but Helen had refused to accept them. In fact, she’d refused to listen
