area, and wondered if you’d like to have lunch?’
In a pig’s ear, Tara thought cynically. She’d never given him the slightest hint that she’d be prepared to meet him socially. But that hadn’t stopped him. No doubt he intended to pump her discreetly for her verdict in some convenient wine bar.
‘Rather too obvious, my boy,’ she advised him under her breath, rigidly conscious of the disk in her hand.
Her answering smile was cool. ‘I’m sorry. I go on leave this afternoon, and I need to clear my desk. I’m going to make do with the sandwich service.’
‘I’m sorry, too.’ He paused, pulling a face. ‘But I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities.’
When hell freezes over, thought Tara, feeling obliged to walk with him to the lift and chat civilly while they waited for it to arrive.
Altogether too sure of himself, she thought as she walked back. And how dared he think her such easy game?
Janet, however, was looking wistful.
‘He was lovely,’ she confided. ‘I told him you were busy, and he said he was happy to wait.’
‘I hope he maintains that philosophical attitude,’ Tara said drily, as she passed over the disk. ‘Sign the letters in my absence, please, Jan.’ She paused. ‘And mark that report “Confidential”, circulating it to associates only. It won’t be wanted until Tuesday morning’s meeting.’
‘Will do.’ Janet smiled cheerfully up at her. ‘What time are you going?’
‘I’d like to be away by two. I still have some packing to do.’
‘Are you going somewhere gorgeous?’
‘I think so,’ Tara agreed. ‘And do you know the best thing about it?’
‘What?’ Jan’s eyes widened. She clearly expected she was going to be told about George Clooney’s favourite hideaway.
Tara leaned towards her confidentially. ‘No phone,’ she whispered, and went back, laughing, to her office.
‘Polish,’ Tara muttered to herself, checking the items in the box in front of her. ‘Stuff for the brass and silver, oven cleaner, washing-up liquid, and rubber gloves.’ She nodded her satisfaction, and tucked a packet of cleaning clothes around the cans to keep them steady.
Melusine, sleek, black, green-eyed and openly glum as she’d observed the packing process, had taken up a position on the table beside the box. Now she reached out a delicate paw and swiped at the plastic wrapping round the packet.
‘It’s all right.’ Tara ran a caressing hand over the silky fur. ‘You’re coming with me.’ That’s if I can get you in your basket, she added silently.
Melusine preferred to travel on the front passenger seat, with her paws on the dashboard, free, untrammelled, and with an excellent view. At least until her path was crossed by a police car, ambulance or fire engine, when the sound of the siren would cause her to wrap herself round Tara’s neck like a scarf.
Her special bowl, her bean bag, and the cat food she favoured at the moment were already in the boot of the car. The basket was hidden behind the living-room sofa, waiting for the psychological moment when she could be tricked inside.
In fact, Tara had bestowed far less thought on the contents of her own travel bag, she realised with amusement. Apart from the usual quota of undies and toiletries, she was only taking jeans, shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, and training shoes that had never seen a designer label. All practical clothing for the job ahead.
Becky would kill me if she knew what I was doing, she thought ruefully as she carried her box of cleaning materials down to the car. But Ma and Pa will be back next month, and I want the house bright and shining to welcome them.
She hadn’t the slightest doubt that was where they’d head for as soon as they’d unpacked and rested from their South African trip. The house in Chelsea was still nominally home, but Silver Creek House had been their favoured retreat for years now.
It was fairly basic. As well as lacking a telephone, the house had no television or central heating, and the kitchen stove and water heater worked from a large gas tank, sited discreetly at the rear of the house. But these were minor inconveniences as far as Tara was concerned. She’d never minded cleaning out the fireplaces in the sitting room and dining room, or filling the log baskets which fed them. She loved the house, and all its memories of happy family holidays.
During the winter, the Pritchards kept an eye on the place. Mrs Pritchard worked part-time in the nearby village shop, and Mr Pritchard was employed at the small boatyard upstream, where her parents’ much loved boat Naiad spent the winter.
Mrs Pritchard would have been happy to carry out any cleaning that was needed, but Tara preferred to do it herself. Anomalous as it might seem, it was work she thoroughly enjoyed.
When she and Becky had been younger, it had been her sister who’d been the potential high-flyer—the girl about town with the high-paid job and crowded social life. Tara had always been the quieter, more domesticated one.
No one could believe it when Becky met Harry, and opted for marriage and motherhood without even a backward glance at all she was giving up.
However, no one could pretend that housework would ever be Becky’s forte, Tara thought affectionately. But by bringing the same organisational skills to marriage as she had to her career she’d safely ensured she’d never have to do any.
It would be inconceivable to Becky that anyone would give up precious holiday time to scrub, polish and add the odd lick of paint to a shabby, elderly house. And equally incredible that the same person might actually revel in their self-appointed task, or find it positively therapeutic.
Tara glimpsed herself in the mirror as she finally headed for the door, cat basket in hand and a furious Melusine giving her a piece of her mind. Marchant Southern would have got the shock of their lives if they could see her now, she thought, grinning as she surveyed her faded denim skirt topped by an ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was bundled up into a baseball cap, and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of canvas slipons which had seen better days.
But what the hell? she thought as she locked up and went down to the car. I’m not going to be seeing anyone unless I choose. After all, there isn’t another house within miles.
Or at least another inhabited house, she amended quickly. Which Dean’s Mooring certainly wasn’t. Up to three years ago it had been occupied by old Ambrose Dean, white-bearded and fierce, a loner who had guarded his privacy jealously. After his death, the cottage, which stood about a hundred yards upstream from Silver Creek House, had remained empty, and was fast becoming derelict.
Ambrose had been a bachelor, and apparently had had no living relatives. Certainly no one ever came to see him. Jim Lyndon, Tara’s father, had spoken vaguely of contacting the lawyers dealing with the old man’s estate and perhaps making an offer for the cottage, but had never actually got around to doing anything constructive about it.
Maybe I will, Tara thought idly as she started out of London. After all, the parents won’t want to find themselves living next to an eyesore. And I’ve nothing booked in my diary but some serious peace and
