Ana would have spared a few minutes from her hectic schedule. His smile twisted. Or perhaps not. Ana spared no thought for anyone but herself.
The garden gate banged and he sat a little straighter. Thank God. ‘Up here,’ he shouted.
He heard the mumble of voices as they came into the hall; seconds later a face appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Wendy Bennington, is it?’ the woman said, taking in the slumped figure on the floor.
Nick nodded, standing up and brushing down his jeans.
‘Your friend made sure we didn’t miss the turning.’ She knelt down and spoke to Wendy. ‘I’m Sarah. We’ll soon have you sorted, my love.’
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY put a plate of spicy crab cakes and salad in front of her sister. ‘So, tell me. What’s the matter?’ She sat down opposite Lydia and flicked back her softly waving hair. ‘I might have overdone the chilli in the dipping sauce, so go careful.’
Lydia took a mouthful of the crab cake. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘I know. It’s the Tobasco.’
‘You’re getting good.’
‘I’m a genius,’ Izzy said, smiling over the top of her glass of wine, ‘but that’s not why you’re here, is it? What’s happened?’
‘You mean apart from Wendy Bennington having a stroke?’
Izzy nodded. ‘Apart from that. Although it’s horrible for her, of course. I don’t mean it isn’t, but…’
The silence hung between them.
‘You’ve seen far worse things than an elderly woman having a stroke, Liddy.’
Which was true.
‘So, what’s bothering you?’
Lydia sighed and looked across at her younger sister, uncertain as to what it was that was nagging at her. It seemed to be a whole mixture of things twirling about in her head making her feel discontented. Irritated. That wasn’t the right word either.
It was as though she’d been travelling happily in one direction only to have it violently blocked off. Like a train being derailed, if you liked. Normally she’d have worked out a way to make it an opportunity, but…
Lydia winced. It didn’t feel like an opportunity. It felt—
She didn’t know what it felt like. There was something about seeing Wendy Bennington slumped in that doorway that had affected her deeply—and in a way she found difficult to understand. Instead of driving back to Hammersmith she’d rung Izzy and begged a bed for the night.
But why? Her sister was absolutely right when she said she’d seen and experienced so much worse.
In her nine years as a journalist she’d witnessed many terrible things. Not just death and injury, but mindless violence and examples of sadistic cruelty that defied description. Some days it was difficult to maintain any kind of belief in the innate goodness of human nature, but she’d trained herself to cope with it. She was inured against it all.
Almost.
Certainly detached. Lydia picked up her wineglass and sipped. It was as if a steel screen came down and kept her objective. It was the only way it was possible to do her job. She imagined it was similar to the way a surgeon worked. You could care, really deeply, but not so much that it prevented you from thinking clearly.
She looked across at Izzy, patiently waiting, her hands cradled around her wineglass. The only time in her life when she’d felt completely out of control was when she’d found Izzy unconscious. There would never, could never, be any event more terrible than finding her sister had taken an overdose.
She hadn’t felt detached then. That night she’d experienced emotions she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. She’d believed Izzy would die and fear had ripped through her like lightning in a night sky. There’d been the sense of being utterly alone and desperately frightened. Not even the unexpected death of her parents had inspired such an extreme reaction.
The only thing that had kept her functioning, on any level, was the passionate hatred she felt for Steven Daly—the man responsible. Bitter anger had uncurled like a serpent within her. It had driven her. Had demanded retribution.
Looking at Izzy now, little more than two years on, it could almost have been a dream. She looked so young—and hopeful. Time was a great healer.
‘Well?’ Izzy prompted.
Lydia forced a smile. ‘I think it was the house,’ she said at last, trying to put words on thoughts she couldn’t quite catch hold of. ‘You’ve never seen anything like it. She lives in a cottage that time’s all but forgotten. All alone in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Perhaps she likes solitude? Some people do.’
‘It’s not that…It’s…’ Lydia frowned. ‘The cottage smells of damp and cat urine…and then there are all these frozen meals for one in the freezer. It’s so incredibly…sad. There’s no other word for it—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What?’
‘I’d forgotten about the cat.’ Lydia put down her wineglass. ‘She’s got a cat.’
‘It’s not your problem, Liddy.’
‘But who’s going to feed it?’
‘Probably the irritating Nick Regan. It really isn’t your problem,’ Izzy repeated, taking in her sister’s expression. ‘If not him, there’ll be a neighbour.’
‘You think?’
‘There’s bound to be.’
Lydia relaxed. Of course there was. Wendy Bennington went abroad for long stretches of time. There were bound to be structures in place to take care of her pet. Lydia picked up her knife and fork. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just…’
Izzy smiled. ‘You really like this Wendy Bennington, don’t you?’
‘I hardly know her.’ Lydia cut a bite-sized piece off her crab cake. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone half a dozen times, no more. I’d never met her face to face.’ Until today—when she’d been confused and frightened. Nothing like the woman she’d been expecting. The image of her slumped in her bedroom doorway hovered at the front of Lydia’s mind.
‘But you like her. I can tell you do.’
Lydia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Did that explain it? She certainly admired Wendy. Had been flattered and very excited at the prospect of writing her biography.
Izzy seemed to follow her thoughts. ‘There’s no reason to think you won’t still write the biography. Give it a few days and see how serious her stroke was. You might be surprised.’
‘I might,’ she conceded.
