‘Do whatever you like. I’ve finished,’ he said, abandoning his half-eaten meal and making a move to leave.
‘Can I make you something?’ she asked, feeling dreadful about interrupting his meal even though she had, moments before, been wishing it would choke him. It was only polite to make the offer. One of them should probably make the effort and it clearly wasn’t going to be him.
‘Playing the domestic goddess isn’t going to change my mind, Miss Moore,’ he replied, as if to prove her point. ‘I’m quite capable of making my own coffee.’
‘Obviously you’d have to be,’ she replied, ‘or go without.’
So much for politeness. She’d been so determined not to let him annoy her, but apparently all he had to do was speak…
‘I’m actually making tea,’ she continued, in an effort at appeasement. After all, she had not only matched his rudeness, but also trumped it. ‘However, while acknowledging your undoubted competence, it would be no trouble to make you a pot of coffee at the same time. Since I’m boiling the kettle anyway. You can come back when I’ve gone upstairs and help yourself if you don’t want to stay.’
There was a moment of absolute silence when the air was thick with words waiting to be spoken. Not even the dog moved.
Harry felt as if his feet were welded to the floor. His brain was urging him to walk out. He couldn’t handle people. Couldn’t handle this woman who one minute was all soft curves and temptation, and the next disapproval and a sharp tongue. It was too complex. Too difficult. His only thoughts had, for so long, been simple, one-dimensional, fixed on survival, locked on one goal because he’d known that if he lost sight of it, even for a moment, he’d lose his mind.
He had to be alone. It was the only way he could survive…
But his body, which he’d been driving so hard and so long on sheer will-power, seemed suddenly unable to carry out the simplest of commands. It had demanded the food she cooked and now he seemed unable to walk away; trapped between the possibility of heaven and the certainty of hell.
As Jacqui waited the silence seemed to stretch like elastic until she feared it might snap. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine what he was finding so difficult about answering what had been a very simple question, yet she could see the battle waging inside his head.
She jumped as he finally moved, picked up his plate, carried it over to the sink, scraping the remnants into the disposal unit and rinsing it off before stowing it in the dishwasher.
‘You’re a very irritating woman, do you know that?’ he said, slamming the door so that the rest of the crockery rattled.
That was a matter of opinion. She thought he more than matched her in that respect, but good manners—and her well-honed survival instincts—suggested it would be wiser not to say so. Instead she crossed the kitchen, picked up the kettle and began to fill it.
‘A good cook, but irritating,’ he continued, elaborating on his theme.
‘One out of two isn’t bad. I might have been irritating and a terrible cook.’ She switched on the kettle and turned to face him. ‘No redeeming features whatever.’
On that, apparently, he was not prepared to venture an opinion. Instead he asked, ‘Is Maisie in bed?’
‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. Of course she’s in bed.’
‘There’s no “of course” about it. She’s usually up half the night, flouncing around, being spoilt by Sally’s ridiculous friends.’
‘Is she?’ Why was she not surprised? ‘Well, she’s had a big day. She didn’t even make the end of the story before she fell asleep.’
‘Amazing.’
‘You don’t like her very much, do you?’
‘Sally should stick to rescuing dumb animals,’ he said, which didn’t answer her question. But then you could often tell more from what people didn’t say. And what he hadn’t said would, she suspected, have filled volumes. ‘She can abandon them up here once she’s done the photo-call and there’s no harm done.’
What…? Was he implying…?
‘Maisie hasn’t been abandoned,’ she declared.
‘No? What would you call it?’
‘I’m sure that what happened today is nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding.’ Not one that she’d have made, but she wasn’t passing any judgements until she was in possession of all the facts. ‘Actually, I did want to ask you something. Do you know if she keeps any clothes here? Outdoor play clothes? There was nothing in her room, but then it is something of a fairy grotto. Denim would undoubtedly spoil the illusion.’
‘Undoubtedly. I’m afraid I can’t help you. But she won’t need them, since she isn’t staying.’
Jacqui wasn’t a violent woman, but if he’d been an inch or two smaller, she might just have seized his shoulders and shaken him. As it was, he’d probably laugh and his face might crack in two. Safer not to risk it. She’d have to start smaller. Try and tease out a smile…
She stopped. No point in wasting time worrying about ‘smile’ therapy; she would be more usefully employed in seizing the moment, reasoning with him. The kettle boiled just then, distracting her and by the time she’d poured water over a tea bag in a mug for herself, and made coffee for Harry Talbot, she’d thought better of it.
If she reasoned and failed, then he’d just end up more stubbornly fixed in the position he’d adopted. Every time he said ‘she isn’t staying’ the words would became harder to retract.
And Maisie wanted to stay.
Better not give him the chance, she decided, dunking the tea bag.
Better to just wait until Vickie had spoken to Selina Talbot, at which point everything would doubtless resolve itself. And in the meantime she’d deal with the situation on the ground. One crisis at a time.
At least he seemed disinclined to rush off for once. She wouldn’t get a better chance to talk to him. Nothing to threaten him—which was rather an odd thought under the circumstances; he was the ogre, not her—but just in the hope of finding common ground.
They hadn’t, so far, had what could be described as a normal conversation.
‘Does that chicken actually live in the kitchen?’ she asked, saying the first thing that came into her head. Normal? ‘Or is she sick?’
‘The story is that one of the cats brought her in out of the rain when she was a chick and treated her as part of her litter.’
‘Are you suggesting that she thinks she’s a cat?’
‘That’s Aunt Kate’s theory.’ The look he gave her suggested otherwise.
‘You’re not buying that?’
‘I haven’t noticed any identity problem when the cockerel’s preening his feathers, but if the choice was a basket in
