you’re a witch!’ he said with wry amusement. ‘But if this relationship is going to work,’ he added, suddenly serious, ‘we’ve both got to at least try to be civil to each other.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she conceded. ‘But in future could you please ask me first before you arrange things?’
Surprisingly the evening turned out much better than Josie expected. Conan was a good conversationalist, the food was simple but perfectly cooked and they discussed music, books, and finally ended up having a heated debate over the best film ever made.
Josie said Casablanca and Conan insisted he liked The Graduate better.
‘You can’t be serious!’ Josie cried. ‘Bogart made a truly noble sacrifice for the woman he loved.’
‘True, but personally I would leave nobility to the fool, and take the girl and run, as in The Graduate.’
‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’ She grinned, caught the predatory gleam in his eyes, and knew he was not joking.
They drove home a little after ten, and they parted on a sober note.
‘Tomorrow, at the funeral, you won’t do anything foolish,’ Conan insisted as they walked up to the door. ‘Like having hysterics or throwing yourself on the coffin.’
‘No,’ she said simply, tilting her head back to look up coldly into his shadowed face. ‘I am well aware that to the world at large Charles was simply a friend to me, and the brother of my fiancé. Why do you think I went to work today? I am as capable as you are of playing my part in this marriage of convenience. You have nothing to worry about’ On that note she opened the door, and closed it behind her in his face.
The next day, in Beeches village church, Josie only half listened to the vicar’s eulogy for Charles. The biological father of her child was being buried, and the tears on her cheeks were no more than she would have cried at any friend’s funeral. Her feelings for Charles had been fleeting at best, and she felt swamped by guilt. She glanced sideways at her companion. Conan was dressed in a long black cashmere overcoat, a black suit beneath, black tie, the brilliant white of his shirt only serving to emphasise his sombre attire. His face was equally grave, and he stared impassively ahead, not a flicker of emotion on his granite features.
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