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A Woman of Our Times
BY ROSIE THOMAS
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in the United Kingdom in 1990 by Michael Joseph
Copyright © Rosie Thomas 1990
Rosie Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © APR 2014 ISBN: 9780007560646
Version: 2017-07-10
Contents
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by Rosie Thomas
About the Publisher
London, 1985
Harriet looked at her watch.
In less than an hour, the car would come to take her to Heathrow. In a little more than twelve hours she would be in Los Angeles, with Caspar.
For a moment, she let herself think about him. She didn’t expect that he would be waiting for her in the crowd at the barrier. Of course he would not. But there would be another car, and then a suite or an apartment somewhere with a view of the ocean, or the blue on blue geometry of a pool. Caspar would be there, wearing a white shirt, with the beginnings of a tan. He would say something, nothing significant, ‘Baby, are you dead from the flight? Come here to me,’ and the resonance of his voice would make it important. He would put his arms around her.
The television reporter, sitting across the desk with her list of questions ready, saw how Harriet’s face softened and brightened. The electrician noticed it too, and glanced at his lights.
Then Harriet checked her watch again. She was used to apportioning her time and care, and the technicians’ business with lighting and sound levels was taking too much of it.
‘Are you going to need very much longer?’ she asked. ‘The car is coming for me at three.’ The producer’s assistant gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Nearly ready for you now.’
While she waited, Harriet looked at the wide expanse of her office. The producer of documentaries and his PA murmured together on one of the pair of low sofas, while the sound man and the electrician hovered over their metal boxes. The cameraman waited too, behind the cold eye of his lens. It was a bright day outside, but the brighter television lights dimmed the glow of it. They created, within their circle, an artificial atmosphere of intimacy.
The PA stretched her long legs in dark stockings, stood up and came across to the desk. She produced a hand-mirror and gave it to Harriet.
‘Do you want to make a quick check before we begin?’ At the same moment the reporter cleared her throat, sat upright in her chair. Harriet looked dispassionately at her own reflection. Her face, unremarkable, looked the same as always, except that it wore more make-up than usual. She handed back the mirror.
‘That’s fine, if it’s all right for you,’ she said politely.
‘Ready to go,’ the sound man announced with one finger pressed to his headphones. The producer sat forward and his PA held her clipboard like a breastplate.
In the moment before the producer murmured ‘Two, three, and go’ Harriet looked down at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. The big square diamond in its Thirties platinum setting glittered on her right hand. Harriet wondered fleetingly if she ought to have taken it off for the interview. But then she thought, Rewards. I bought it, I earned it. Why not? She had not taken down the Emma Sergeant portrait of herself from the end wall, nor had she removed the Chinese silk rug from the floor.
Harriet lifted her hands and rested them on the desk. A few inches from her fingertips, on the pale polished wood, lay a cracked and splintered fragment of packing case. It looked like a piece of driftwood that had been battered by the sea before being cast up on a silver beach.
The reporter had been looking at
