the kitchen table.
She wasted very little time in the shower and quickly dried her hair, a thick, dark blonde mop, streaked with pale highlights from so much time spent out of doors. There had been a time when she had wondered what it would be like to have curls like her sister, but had long since accepted the fact that they weren’t for her. Her nose was a little too bold and her mouth overlarge. Curls, a kindly hairdresser had told the fourteen-year-old Joanna as he’d cut away the disastrous results of Heather’s attempt to provide the missing locks with a home perm, were for those girls whose face lacked character. She hadn’t believed him, even then, but these days she was content with a style that needed little more than a cut once every three weeks to keep it looking good.
Satisfied with her hair, she spent a great deal longer than usual on her make-up and painted her nails pale pink. Tonight she was determined to be Joanna Grant. Jo the site engineer could, for once, take a back seat.
She had few evening clothes and she hadn’t needed to deliberate on what she would wear. She stepped into a floating circle of a skirt in pale grey georgette and topped it with a long-sleeved jacket in toning greys and pinks with a touch of silver thread in the design. She fastened large pale pink circles of agate twisted around with silver to her ears and regarded the result with a certain satisfaction. It was quite possible, she thought, with some amusement, that, in the unlikely event they should bump into any of her colleagues tonight, they would be hard pressed to recognise her.
Slipping her feet into low-heeled grey pumps, Jo spun in front of her mirror, coming to a sudden halt at the sound of her doorbell. She stood for a moment, as if rooted to the spot, vulnerable, uncertain of herself. Then the fear that he might not wait lent wings to her heels as she flew to the door.
Clay, his tall figure a study in elegance in the stark blackness of a dinner-jacket, was leaning against the stairpost regarding the toe of his shoe, and he glanced up as she flung open the door. He started to smile and then stopped, cloaking the expression in his eyes as he straightened and stared at the girl framed in the doorway.
‘Are those for me?’ Jo asked finally, to break the silence.
He glanced down at a spray of pink roses as if he couldn’t think where they had come from, then back at her.
‘I rather think they must be.’
‘Come in. I’ll put them in some water. Would you like a drink?’ she asked, trying to remember what she had done with a bottle of sherry left over from Christmas.
‘No, thanks.’ He followed her into the cramped kitchen and watched as she clipped the stems and stood them in deep water to drink.
She turned to him. ‘These are lovely, Clay. Thank you.’
‘So are you, Joanna. No one would ever mistake you for a boy tonight.’ He took a step towards her then turned away, raking long fingers through his hair. ‘I think we had better go.’ For the briefest moment it had seemed as if he was going to kiss her, and the thought quickened her blood, sending it crazily through her veins. Instead he opened the door and she followed him down the stairs to the waiting taxi.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘A little place I know by the river.’ This deprecating description hardly did justice to the elegant restaurant overlooking the Thames and she told him so.
‘I thought you would like to come here.’ He seemed oddly distracted.
‘It’s beautiful.’
He turned and looked down at her. ‘Yes. It is.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingertips lingering against the smooth perfection of her skin. ‘Quite beautiful.’
‘May I show you to your table, sir?’
Clay dragged himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him and he tucked his arm under Joanna’s. They made a striking couple as they walked across the restaurant and several heads turned to follow their progress. Joanna was usually forced to disguise her height when walking with a man, never wearing high heels and, if not exactly slumping, at least keeping what her father had laughingly described as a very relaxed posture. Now, beside the strong figure of Clay Thackeray, the top of her head just reaching his ear, she stretched to her full height, human enough to enjoy the knowledge that she was envied by at least half the women present. Probably more.
Afterwards she couldn’t have described anything they had eaten or much of what they had talked about, although she thought he had told her something about a consultancy that he had begun in Canada and his plans for expansion into Britain. All she could remember was Clay’s face in the candlelight, his hand reaching for hers across the table, the words, ‘Let’s go home.’
In the back of the car she curled against him as if she had known him for years. His arm drew her close and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her head on his shoulder. She didn’t think about where they were going. She didn’t care, as long as he held her.
The car eventually stopped and she lifted her head. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘You are home, fair lady. Where did you expect to be?’
Glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, she allowed him to help her from the car.
‘I’ll see you to your door.’
She turned to him at the top of the stairs. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I think I’m going to have enough trouble sleeping, Jo.’ His arm was around her waist and she didn’t ever want him to let go of her. As if reading her mind, he pulled her closer. ‘But, before I go, I believe you promised me a kiss.’
She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘Now,’ he affirmed, and his lips touched hers for the briefest moment, the time it took her heart to beat. He drew back the space of an inch, no more. ‘Joanna?’ His voice was a question and an answer. Then his mouth descended upon hers and her willing response answered any question he cared to ask.
When at last he released her she could hardly support herself, and he held her in the circle of his arms and stood for a moment with her head upon his shoulder.
‘I must go.’
‘Must you?’
‘Don’t make it any harder.’ He kissed the top of her head and she looked up, but he seemed to be far away, no longer with her. She fumbled in her bag for her key and he took it from her and opened the door.
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
She hesitated for a moment, but then he smiled and on a catch of breath she nodded. ‘Yes.’
He raised his hand briefly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’ Then he was gone without a backward glance and for the first time in her life she felt the pain of being torn in two. Her other half had walked down the stairs in the palm of Clay Thackeray’s hand.
Joanna wondered briefly, as she stood under a reviving shower, exactly what she had thought about before the appearance of Clay Thackeray. Since his appearance a week earlier he had filled her waking hours completely, and a good few of her sleeping ones.
A ring at the door put a stop to these thoughts and she grabbed a towelling
