occurred to her, as she scraped her hair back into its usual style, that she was ravenous. No point in being late on an empty stomach, she thought, as she dashed into her smart galley kitchen, slipping bread into the toaster, and switching on the kettle.
There was no sign of Roan having breakfasted. Not so much as a cup of coffee, she noticed, but perhaps he felt he’d helped himself to quite enough already. And if that was intended as a joke, it hadn’t worked, she told herself with a pang.
She ladled honey on to her toast, eating and drinking standing up, before grabbing her bag and racing to the door.
At first sight, the living room was in its usual pristine condition, with no trace of him there either. And then she saw the piece of paper lying on her ash table, a sheet torn at random, it seemed, from a sketch block, the edges ragged. And in the middle of it, a small circle of gold.
The wedding ring, she thought, that she’d handed back to him yesterday with such insouciance. And scrawled across the paper in thick black letters the single word, ‘Souvenir.’
So it had been revenge, she thought, feeling suddenly numb. Amongst all the disastrous mistakes she’d made last night, she’d been right about that, at least.
I couldn’t have made it easier for him if I’d tried, she thought. Or sweeter.
And somehow I have to learn to live with that.
By the time Harriet reached the office, the weekly round-up meeting had already begun.
‘Nice of you to join us, Miss Flint,’ Tony commented acidly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harriet sat down, needled by the sight of Jon Audley exchanging complicit grins with Anthea. ‘My alarm didn’t go off.’ Largely because I forgot to set it, having so many other things to think about at the time. Most of which I don’t want to contemplate.
And her inner turmoil had been further compounded by an encounter with George, the concierge, as he sorted the mail in the foyer. His beaming smile, and the faint archness of his, ‘Good morning, Mrs Zandros,’ had totally stymied any rebuke she’d been considering over the matter of the key, and she’d simply mumbled a flushed response and fled.
‘How brave of it,’ said Tony, recalling her sharply to the here and now. ‘How did things go yesterday, by the way?’
For a moment she stared at him, totally thrown once again. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was a croak.
‘At Hayford House.’ He held out his hand. ‘I presume you’ve already written up your report with your usual blazing efficiency.’
She took a deep steadying breath. Think! ‘Actually, no,’ she returned calmly. ‘As nothing has changed diametrically since the last report was produced, I thought it would be simpler to work from that.’ She looked at Jonathan. ‘I presume you still have a copy on file.’
There was a silence, then he said curtly, ‘I didn’t write one. I simply got on to our maintenance people and—requested a visit.’
‘And made a follow-up call to ensure it had been carried out?’
‘I didn’t suppose it was necessary.’ Jon’s look spoke daggers. ‘They’re pretty reliable, and God knows there weren’t any major issues.’
‘No,’ Harriet said reflectively. ‘And the tenants appreciated how busy you are.’ She allowed another awkward silence to establish itself, then glanced back at Tony’s annoyed face. ‘I’ll get on to it as soon as the meeting is over.’ But will that be before or after I call Isobel …?
At any other time she’d have been jubilant having scored a minor triumph over the obnoxious Audley, but, set against everything else going on in her life, it barely registered, and she was aware she was frankly sleep-walking her way through the rest of the meeting.
And the remainder of the morning wasn’t much better. Her concentration was shot to pieces, her thinking dominated by the memory of last night, and her need to make sense of what had happened. And, of course, deal with it.
Three times she reached for the phone and began to dial Isobel’s number. Three times she got halfway, only to abandon the call.
I can’t talk to her yet, she thought. I’m too confused. Besides, what on earth can I say? Tell her I want an injunction against him, followed by the quickest divorce in the history of the world? How many awkward explanations will that throw up?
‘What’s the matter? Have a bad night?’
She jumped almost convulsively as she looked up to see Tony watching her from the doorway.
Colour stormed into her face. ‘No,’ she returned defensively. ‘Why do you ask?’
He frowned. ‘Because you’ve been looking white as a ghost— totally wiped out. Just as if …’ He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’
He strolled forward, hands in pockets. ‘Yet now you could be running a temperature,’ he commented critically. ‘Sure you’re all right? Not sickening for something?’
She stared at the screen in front of her. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good.’ He hesitated again, then said almost gently, ‘You know, Harriet, you don’t have to drive yourself so hard all the time. Maybe you should take some time off—chill out a little. No one would think less of you.’
Her voice was quiet. ‘I might.’ Because the job I do is—me. I can’t let go of that. I dare not.
‘That’s what I’m trying to get at.’ Tony sighed. ‘Being Gregory Flint’s granddaughter does not require you to be one hundred per cent perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Even though mistakes can be dangerous?’ And when I’ve just made one—a terrible one—bordering on total disaster. A mistake which is making me wonder about myself—ask questions I don’t want to answer?
‘Even then,’ he said. ‘It could perhaps ease things round here as well. Improve office relationships.’
She drew a swift breath. ‘To do a sloppy job?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘To be human. Maybe that missed alarm was a signal.’ He paused. ‘Look—take the rest of the day off. Shop—take a walk in the park—go home and catch up on your sleep. Anything that will relax you. And it’s not a suggestion, Harriet,’ he added briskly, seeing she was about to protest. ‘I’m telling you to do it.’
At the doorway, he paused. ‘Oh, and leave the laptop. That’s another order.’
Harriet stared after him. Wasn’t there one department of her life where she was still allowed a choice? she asked herself in a kind of desperation.
She had a curious feeling that the foundations on which she’d constructed her existence were being eroded, and the entire structure was beginning to totter.
And it was humiliating being sent home like this—like an unruly pupil being made to stand in a school corridor, she thought stormily, as she grabbed her
