morning,’ she said briskly, ‘this is Emily Warner.’
‘Who?’
She bristled. ‘Your cleaner, Mr Tennent. I wondered how you were feeling today.’
‘Oh, right.’ There was a pause. ‘Actually, I feel bloody awful.’
‘Have you eaten anything?’
A spasm of coughing blasted her ear before he spoke again. ‘No,’ he rasped. ‘Not hungry.’
‘Is your temperature still high?’
‘Probably.’ He gulped audibly. ‘Oh, hell—’
Emily seethed for a moment after he disconnected, then told herself it was idiotic to feel offended. Even more so to worry about a perfect stranger. Especially one who couldn’t remember who she was.
Mindful of Ginny, who always looked effortlessly right, Emily took time over her appearance, then went downstairs for a last hug from the twins before she set off for Knightsbridge to meet her friend.
‘I say, darling, you look rather gorgeous today,’ exclaimed Ginny Hart, when Emily joined her in the Harvey Nichols coffee shop.
‘I like the “today” bit,’ chuckled Emily, shedding the amber wool coat bought in the days when she still had a high-salary job. ‘I try my best every day.’
‘A bargain, that coat—matches your eyes,’ commented Ginny, and eyed the clinging black knit dress with approval. ‘Don’t tell me you wear that kind of thing to scrub floors!’
‘I don’t scrub floors. My clients provide labour-saving devices. Like mops.’
Ginny sniffed. ‘The tyrant who cleans for us demands extraordinary things. A new three-inch paintbrush to dust the skirtings, would you believe?’
Saturday morning coffee had been a treat enjoyed together in the days of flat-sharing, and a ritual kept to whenever possible since, despite marriage for Ginny and a relationship of a less binding nature for Emily.
‘So what’s new?’ asked Ginny, after their order arrived.
‘I met the man I clean for at last,’ said Emily, raising her voice slightly.
‘The mystery man on the top floor?’ said Ginny, and bent her blonde head nearer. ‘What’s he like? Tall, dark and gorgeous?’
‘Yes,’ said Emily, giggling when Ginny’s jaw dropped.
‘Really? Not sinister after all, then. Frankly, I always thought it a bit iffy that he took you on without an interview.’
‘You know perfectly well he took me on trust because Liz Donaldson gave me such a glowing reference.’
‘As well she might,’ Ginny frowned. ‘But you’re not going to do this kind of thing forever, surely?’
‘Of course not. But for the time being I’m enjoying it. I work at my own speed in very pleasant surroundings. Especially Lucas Tennent’s loft.’ Emily looked her friend in the eye. ‘Right now the work is good therapy for me.’
Ginny sniffed. ‘And at least you’re being paid to do it, unlike—’ She held up a hand. ‘All right, I’ll shut up. Tell me about this sexy banker, then, now you’ve finally met up with him.’
Emily described the meeting in graphic detail, winning peals of laughter from her friend. ‘Actually, he was very nice about it, Ginny. I can’t help thinking about him, to be honest.’
‘Because he’s gorgeous?’
‘No—because the poor man’s ill with no one to look after him.’
Ginny ordered more coffee, then turned to Emily with a militant light in her eye. ‘You say this man’s no turnoff in the looks department, probably earns pots of money, and lives in a loft apartment overlooking the Thames. Come on, Em! There must be hordes of females panting to mop his fevered brow.’
‘Bound to be. But apparently he’d rather wallow in misery alone.’ Emily stirred her fresh coffee, frowning. ‘Which he’ll have to all weekend. I’m not due at his place again until Monday morning.’
‘Good. See you keep it that way.’ Ginny reached to touch Emily’s hand. ‘You’re just beginning to get your life back together, so for pity’s sake stop worrying about a man you hardly know.’
To change the subject Emily suggested some leisurely window shopping rather than spending another afternoon in the cinema, and as usual the time flew in company with Ginny, with no opportunity for introspection. But later, during the journey on the Tube and the walk to Nat’s house, no matter how hard she tried to block him out, Emily couldn’t help worrying about Lucas Tennent.
The feeling persisted during the evening. Emily worked for a while on her laptop, but because she’d based her main male character on Lucas Tennent the procedure was a washout as a way to stop thinking about him. At one point she even picked up the phone to ring him. But in the end she put it back without dialling and settled down to work instead. And eventually achieved such fierce concentration it was long after midnight before she closed the laptop and fell into bed.
Emily woke with a start next morning, hoping Lucas Tennent hadn’t developed pneumonia in the night just because she hadn’t troubled to check. And when he answered the phone she felt totally justified, because he sounded even worse than the time before. Before she could even ask how he was, he gasped something incoherent and rang off.
A couple of hours later, feeling like Red Riding Hood off to visit the wolf, Emily turned down the cobbled street towards Lucas Tennent’s building, bag of shopping in hand. Cursing the nagging conscience which had driven her there, she rang his bell first then unlocked the door.
‘It’s Emily Warner, Mr Tennent,’ she called. ‘Your cleaner. May I come in?’
There was silence for so long Emily was sure he must be lying unconscious somewhere. But eventually Lucas Tennent materialised in the doorway to his bedroom. He’d looked ill enough at their first encounter, but now he looked ghastly, his ashen pallor accentuated by streaks of unhealthy colour along his cheekbones. His bloodshot eyes were underscored by marks like bruises, his jaw black with stubble, and his tousled hair lank with sweat.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he grated through chattering teeth, and wrapped his dressing-gown closer.
Emily flushed. ‘You sounded so ill I was worried. I thought you might need—’
‘For God’s sake go away. I don’t need anything—’ He gave a frantic gulp and raced off, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
Emily glared at it, incensed. So much for her Good Samaritan act. Seething, she slapped the newspaper down on the chest, added a carton of fresh milk, and was halfway through the door with the rest of her unwanted shopping when a hoarse, repentant voice halted her.
‘Miss Warner—Emily. I was bloody rude. My apologies.’
She turned to look at him. ‘Accepted,’ she said coldly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Don’t
