basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They’d spent the first year furnishing it, prowling round second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted. But the eclectic mixture they’d assembled wouldn’t have fitted in here, and they’d sold most of it on to the couple who’d bought the basement from them as well.
Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in a series on ‘Working at Home’, but rather to Kate’s disappointment Ryan had refused to take part, saying simply he couldn’t afford the disruption to his routine.
Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.
I’ll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase on to a sofa.
And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful. She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.
She cleared her throat. ‘Ryan—are you there?’ And, for the first time, was aware of a faint echo in all that vaulted emptiness.
She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He’s always here. And besides, he didn’t take the car.
Across the room, she could see the answering machine’s red light winking at her. When she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.
She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan’s office to see if he’d left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.
Of course, she thought. He wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow.
She felt absurdly deflated. She’d rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or anywhere for that matter.
She sighed. She’d have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies, and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it, because Ryan wouldn’t be long—not if he hadn’t taken the Merc.
On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was preternaturally tidy—unused even, as if no one had been there all day.
Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You’re just disappointed. You don’t have to be paranoid as well.
She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.
As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.
Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.
She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.
For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.
Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.
She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.
‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’
He’d added more gently, ‘You don’t have to worry, Kate. I’ve got money put away to cushion us initially. I won’t let you starve.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ she’d protested. ‘If you jack your job in, there’s no way back. And becoming a writer is such a—leap in the dark. How do you know you can do it?’
‘I’ll never know, unless I try.’
‘I suppose not.’ She’d sighed. ‘Well, do it, if you must. After all, we’ve always got Special Occasions to fall back on.’
There was a silence, then he’d said quietly, ‘So we have. I was almost forgetting.’
But, in the event, it hadn’t been needed. Ryan’s script had been read and auctioned by Quentin Roscoe for a sum which had made Kate blink.
‘You’re a genius.’ She’d flung her arms round Ryan, kissing him rapturously. ‘Nothing can stop us now.’
Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.
‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’
‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’
‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’
‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’
‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’
‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’
‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’
‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’
‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw
