shivered. She was cold. She had been waiting at Inverness for almost four hours, and not even the warmth of her sheepskin coat had been sufficient to ward off the onslaught of the chill winds that blew down from the mountains and whistled through the small station. But this train ran only twice daily and although she had only a few more miles to go it was her only link with Achnacraig.
Achnacraig! She stared broodingly out into the darkness. How like Jonas to be so unaccommodating as to put himself almost beyond approach. And yet she would never have imagined him living so far from London, or his beloved Yorkshire, or any of the places he had previously favoured. She knew he still had his apartment in St. James’ Mews because she had rung there first, only to be told by the caretaker that Mr. Hunter had left for Scotland some weeks before.
Her hands curled in her lap. She had written, to the address at Achnacraig which his publisher had kindly given her, but Jonas’ reply had been brief and to the point. If she wanted to see him, she would have to come to Scotland.
She glanced irritably round the compartment. Her only companions were a red-faced man carrying fishing tackle, and a woman who had probably been shopping in Inverness. Their interest in her had been fleeting and now they both seemed sunk in their own thoughts.
She tried to think positively. She hoped there would be a decent hotel in Achnacraig. She wanted the reassurance of a good meal and a night’s sleep before summoning all her courage for the interview with Jonas. She had written and told him she was coming, and if, as she hoped, she could see him tomorrow, she would be able to return to Inverness tomorrow night and complete her journey back to London the following day.
She opened her handbag and took out her compact, surreptitiously examining her reflection in the small mirror. Wide-spaced hazel eyes, thickly lashed, gazed back at her, slightly shadowed after the restless night spent in the sleeper, while the severity of her hairstyle drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks. She couldn’t help wondering whether Jonas would notice any change in her appearance, in the finer contours of her bones, in the hollows of her throat. She was slimmer now than she had been, although not so thin as in the few months after their separation …
She snapped the compact shut and thrust it back into her handbag. She would not think of that. She was not here to indulge in maudlin sentimentality. This was purely business, and she had no intention of allowing emotion to creep into it. All that had been over long ago, and if Jonas had not uprooted himself and left for some outlandish part of South America before any formal severing of their marriage could be arranged, no doubt they would have been divorced by now.
But she still felt restless. It was all very well telling herself not to think, but the subconscious mind had a habit of disregarding advice. And after all, perhaps it would be better if she did think of what was past, of the way Jonas had behaved, of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. She drew an unsteady breath. It still hurt – but then pride was a very sensitive thing.
She forced her thoughts into other channels, opening the small briefcase she had on the seat beside her and extracting the file she had begun to compile. She read the bare details she had written with as much detachment as she could summon:
Jonas Hunter is the son of the late Professor Godfrey Hunter, lecturer and statistician. Educated at Winchester and Cambridge, Mr. Hunter joined the staff of a national newspaper after leaving university and achieved considerable success as a journalist. Later he turned to television and became an overseas correspondent based mainly in South America. Recently returned to this country, Mr. Hunter has written a political thriller with all the attributes of a major novel. The novel is to be filmed.
She paused and stared moodily through the window. The train was pulling into a station, but it was not Achnacraig. She watched almost absently as the red-faced man with the fishing tackle left his seat and pushed open the door of the carriage. His departure left only herself and the woman in this part of the train.
There was a whistle and with a jerk the train started away again. With reluctance, Julie forced herself to go on. After all, Mark would expect a good interview from her. Her work was good. She knew that. It always had been. It was the one thing she and Jonas had had in common, although in the end it had been instrumental in driving them apart. But now she must not allow personal issues to stand in the way.
She moistened her lips. After the bald statement of facts she had written – age, description, personal details, etc. She bit her lip. These were things she knew only too well. She hesitated. What she needed to know from him was his motive for writing such a novel, such an indictment of the political system. Had he based his novel on fact, on his own experiences, did it reflect his own views? Then there was the question of whether he was planning another novel, whether indeed he had already started it, and if so, what was it to be about? His reasons behind living in some remote castle in Scotland bore speculation, and finally, what were his plans for the future?
She penned a few brief queries and then closed the file. What a situation, she thought bitterly. Was she mad in coming here? Was any job worth such a sacrifice? Of course, Mark saw no sacrifice in it. So far as he was concerned, her marriage to Jonas had ended when they had separated, and just because he was prepared to use that connection to gain an interview hitherto denied to any other magazine it did not mean that he considered their association in any way binding. And the way he had phrased his request had made it plain that if she wanted to remain his assistant and maintain her position on the magazine she should do this small thing for him.
She put the file back into the briefcase and closed the zip. When she had first written to Jonas about a possible interview she had half expected him to refuse, she knew. That was why she had accepted Mark’s ultimatum so calmly. After all, Jonas had refused all kinds of publicity and was fast gaining a reputation for being something of a recluse, a fact Julie had found very hard to believe. All the same, the proof had been there and she had expected her request to be received as unfavourably as the rest. The fact that it had not, that Jonas had actually invited her to visit him in his Scottish retreat for the purpose of gaining an interview, had created a situation which had filled Mark Bernstein with delight and Julie with despair. Jonas’s only stipulation had been that she should not bring a photographer with her, that she should come alone. But the worst part of all had been having to tell her mother … and Angela.
It was, she supposed, a curious anomaly that she and Angela should have remained friends after everything that had happened. But Angela had wanted it that way, and she had, after all, been the innocent party to Jonas’s deceit. When Julie and Jonas split up she had been so upset, so sympathetic, so eager to show how sorry she was that things had turned out the way they did. Julie had still been in a state of shock and in no fit state to withstand the combined persuasions of her mother and Angela, and after a time it hadn’t seemed to matter much, one way or the other.
She had a lot to thank Angela for, actually. It was she who had introduced Julie to Mark Bernstein and been instrumental in getting her this job on his magazine, Peridot. She had found Julie a flat when she had no longer wanted to stay with her mother, and of course she and Julie’s mother were the best of friends. And why not? Angela was the daughter of Mrs. Preston’s old school friend, and Julie and Angela had known one another since they were children.
Both Angela and Julie’s mother had shared her opinion about her proposed trip to Scotland, and they were more vehement about it.
‘I’ll speak to Mark,’ Angela had said at once. ‘He can’t possibly expect you to do this. Interviewing a man who was once your husband! It’s barbaric!’
‘He still is my husband,’ Julie had pointed out resignedly.
‘And he was unfaithful to you!’ Angela had retorted angrily, and not a little cruelly. ‘Julie, don’t be a fool! This place where he’s
