heavens, the omelette!’ Emma looked down at the phone helplessly, and Victor made an angry gesture.
‘Who is it?'
Emma put the receiver to her ear. ‘I can't talk any more now – J-Jennifer. C-could you ring tomorrow?'
Without waiting for Miguel's reply, she thrust the receiver down on the rest and fled into the kitchen, grabbing the smoking pan from the flame. The eggs were ruined, a brown and lumpy mess in the bottom of the pan.
Victor had followed her and looked over her shoulder critically. Wrinkling his nose at the remains of the omelette, he said: ‘Who's Jennifer?'
‘Jennifer?’ Emma sought wildly for an explanation. ‘You remember Jennifer. She – she and I used to be great friends before she got married.'
‘I thought that was Sheila.'
‘I did have more than one friend,’ retorted Emma, with an amazing amount of composure in the circumstances. She looked down into the pan. ‘Go and sit down again, and I'll make another omelette.'
‘No, thanks.’ Victor stretched his arms tiredly. ‘Quite honestly, after waiting so long my appetite's somewhat diminished.'
Emma bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry.'
‘So'm I.’ Victor turned and walked back into the hall. ‘I'll just finish my drink and then I'll go. You look tired. Aren't you sleeping well?'
Emma moved her head helplessly. ‘Reasonably well,’ she answered. She followed him into the lounge. ‘At least let me get you another drink.'
‘No, thanks. I've had enough. I have to drive home, remember?'
Emma nodded and stood uncertainly, twisting her hands together as he swallowed the remains of his Scotch.
‘What did she want anyway?’ Victor returned to the subject of the phone call and Emma who had thought that matter over made a deprecatory gesture.
‘Oh, she'd tried to ring me earlier, and when I wasn't in, she decided to ring back.'
‘Was it something important?'
Emma managed a smile, feeling the guilt burning in her cheeks. ‘Not really. She's – expecting her first baby.’ That was an inspiration and seemed to satisfy Victor at last.
‘Oh, well, I must go.’ He came towards her, taking her by the shoulders and holding her firmly as he bent to kiss her lips. It was meant to be a very chaste kiss, but Emma, disturbed and needing reassurance, allowed her lips to part beneath his, pressing closer against him.
Victor drew back at once, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth rather vigorously. ‘I must go,’ he said, his face flushed for once. ‘Good night, Emma.'
‘Good night, Victor.'
Emma pressed her lips together and accompanied him to the door. If only he showed a little more emotion! Heavens, they were to be married soon. What kind of a relationship were they going to have if he backed away from the most natural demonstrations of their love for one another?
Victor didn't kiss her again. He squeezed her hand warmly, and then went down the steps. Emma closed the door with a kind of suppressed violence, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a little more experience where men were concerned.
She had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when Mrs. Cook returned. The housekeeper came into the room looking in surprise at the scoured pan. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were eating out.'
Emma had not told Mrs. Cook they were going to the Salvaje concert. It was easier that way.
‘We were,’ she answered her now. ‘But I wasn't very hungry, so we came back here.'
‘So I see.’ Mrs. Cook took off her coat and went to hang it away. Emma realized she had accepted the explanation without elaboration and decided to say no more. There was no point in relating the circumstances which had led up to the present state of affairs unless she wanted to make more explanations. Instead, she said good night, and went up to bed.
But although she was tired, sleep was elusive. She kept wondering what Miguel Salvaje had thought of her abrupt ending of their telephone conversation. She was half prepared to believe that he might indeed come round to the house, but the dawn light was paling the sky when she at last fell into a deep slumber and no one had disturbed the silence of the night.
Mrs. Cook awoke her at ten with a cup of tea. Regarding Emma's pale face critically, she said: ‘You look terrible! Didn't you sleep?'
Emma struggled up and took the cup of tea. ‘Not very well,’ she conceded, pushing back her heavy hair. ‘What time is it?'
‘Ten o'clock. Do you want breakfast in bed?'
Emma grimaced. ‘No, nothing, thank you.'
Mrs. Cook shrugged and walked towards the door. Then she halted. ‘By the way, there was a telephone call for you.'
Emma's nerves tightened. ‘Already?'
‘Yes. That Miss Harding from the agency. She said to ask you whether you could go in this afternoon. Apparently she's short-staffed again.'
‘Oh!’ Emma put down her cup and lay back against the pillows. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I could. Was that all?'
‘What more did you expect?’ Mrs. Cook was curious.
Emma shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.'
‘Did you enjoy the concert last evening?'
Emma stared at her. ‘How do you know we went to a concert?'
‘Miss Harding told me. When I told her you were still in bed she asked whether you'd had a late evening.'
‘I see.’ Emma swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Oh, well, it was no secret.'
‘Then why didn't you tell me?’ Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘Does Mr. Harrison know that Salvaje brought you home the night of the fog and then visited here a week later?'
Emma rose to her feet. ‘No, why should he?'
‘Strange that he should buy tickets for that particular performer, don't you think?'
Emma gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You're an inquisitive old woman, Mrs. Cook!'
‘I know it. I also know that while your father's away I'm responsible for you.'
‘I'm twenty-five, Mrs. Cook!'
‘I know that. But you're still my responsibility. If you ask me, there's something peculiar about the whole thing.'
‘Nobody asked you, Mrs. Cook.'
The housekeeper sighed and her expression became anxious. ‘Miss Emma! You wouldn't be thinking of doing anything silly now, would you?'
‘I don't know what you mean.’ Emma moved towards her.
