style="font-size:15px;"> She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly tucked under her arm. ‘When you’ve unpacked, come on up and we’ll have some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.’
‘Thank you.’ Olivia gave her a resolute smile. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Ah, well, darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Declan sent you. And I’d do anything for Declan.’
So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.
But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She’d expected to be charged twice or three times as much.
Sasha’s kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.
‘Quiet, Humph, you fool.’ Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. ‘You’ve got to tell friend from foe. He’s a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a Rottweiler,’ she added. ‘Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the embroidered cushion—that’s Humph’s.’
She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on thankfully.
‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ Sasha said, lighting another cheroot. ‘How long have you known my lovely Declan?’
Olivia put down her mug, her stomach churning in swift apprehension. ‘Er—not long.’
Oh, come on, she chided herself. Tell the truth, even if she dumps you back on the pavement. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I met him for the first time about an hour ago. I—I was looking for someone else entirely.’
‘Serendipity,’ Sasha nodded, apparently unfazed. ‘A happy accident.’
‘Not,’ Olivia said tautly, ‘how I’d have described it.’
‘Ah, you clashed.’ Sasha gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Excellent.’
‘I don’t think he sees it that way,’ Olivia said thinly.
‘Well, of course not. He’s had to beat women off with sticks since he could walk. And now he’s a media personality I expect he gets targeted by all sorts.’
‘Media personality?’ Olivia stared at her, while connections in her brain jangled into place. ‘My God,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘I’ve just realised—he’s Declan Malone. He interviews politicians on television. I knew I’d seen him somewhere.’
But not, she thought, next to naked on a doorstep.
Sasha gurgled. ‘You could say that, darling. I think I’m going to like you.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘Declan can be abrasive sometimes, because his work demands it, but his heart’s in the right place or you wouldn’t be here now. Why, he’s even got one of his in-laws lodging with him, which I think is carrying charity too far.’
Olivia swallowed her last morsel of carrot cake. ‘One of his in-laws?’ she repeated.
‘Well, almost.’ Sasha gestured broadly, doing no good to yet another pile of miscellaneous paperwork. ‘The chap who’s married to his cousin Maria. But she and Declan were practically brought up as brother and sister, so I suppose it counts.’
‘Yes,’ Olivia said, dry-mouthed. ‘I—suppose it does.’
She felt deathly cold—shrivelling inside. She wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee.
My God, she thought, despairingly. He’s Maria’s cousin, and I just marched up to his door and laid my claim to her husband. What have I said? What have I done?
Oh, Jeremy—Jeremy. Why didn’t you warn me?
Because he didn’t know you were about to descend on him, a small, flat voice in her head reminded her. You did it all off your own bat, and now you have to live with the consequences. Whatever they are.
‘Are you all right?’ Sasha was staring at her. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, darling.’
‘No.’ Olivia mustered a smile. ‘I think I’ve just realised how much I’ve bitten off—and I’m wondering if I can chew it.’
‘While on the subject of chewing.’ Sasha grabbed an envelope and drew a swift sketch map on the back of it. ‘The Portobello Road, darling, and our closest food source. Today’s market day, so you’ll find everything you need, but keep a close grip on your wallet. Pickpockets are practically endemic down there, so try not to look like a tourist.’
She didn’t feel like a tourist, Olivia thought an hour later, as she picked her way warily along the crowded Portobello pavements. More like an alien from the Planet Zog.
She’d spent a fraught hour with Sasha, being interrogated with the utmost charm on her background from birth to the present day. Nothing to hide there, but she’d had to dance round the subject of why she’d come to London, and how she’d happened to fetch up in W11.
She’d said far too much about her association with Jeremy already, and she suspected Sasha would approve no more than Declan Malone.
She’d been quite glad to make her urgent need to shop for provisions an excuse to escape.
And now here she was, walking down the Portobello Road. At first she thought she’d come to the wrong place, because all she could see on both sides of the road were antiques shops. The displays of silver and crystal were certainly mouth-watering, but there was no sign of any food outlets.
She crossed a road, and suddenly found herself absorbed into an alternative reality. A rowdy, brash reality, where dozens of ethnic accents brayed and clashed. Where clumps of street musicians vied for attention with a non-stop assault on the eardrums. Where stall-holders bellowed incomprehensible special offers. Olivia was wearing her bag slung diagonally across her body under her jacket, and she kept a protective hand on it as she found herself almost borne along on a tidal wave of humanity.
She was used to crowds, for heaven’s sake. She’d lived and worked in Bristol. But here the noise and numbers suddenly threatened to overwhelm her.
She’d never seen a market like it. As well as all the fruit and vegetables on offer, there were innumerable stalls offering bric-à-brac, second-hand clothing—including a display of old fur coats and military uniforms from another century—books, jewellery and musical instruments.
The temptation to linger and explore was fierce, but buying food had to be her main priority.
She turned and fought her way back, diving into a supermarket with something like relief. She filled a basket with staples, then pushed her way up the road to a specialist bakery she’d noticed earlier, where tempting displays of every kind of bread and pastry were presented outside for customers to
