anyone you need to let know where you are?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
‘Just as well,’ he said with slight wryness, ‘because I have no way of contacting them for you. I don’t have a mobile.’
‘And I left mine on the hall table. I wasn’t going to be gone long: drive down and collect my notebook, drive home.’
‘Yes. The Aga doesn’t have a back boiler, but there should be enough hot water left if you want a shower,’ he continued. ‘Bathroom’s the first door at the top of the stairs.’ Hesitating a moment, he added, ‘Helena left all her clothes here, and although you might not want to wear her things there are whole drawers of new underwear, things she’d bought and never used. There’s no easy way to offer this, but you’re very welcome to take anything you need. It might take a while to find you somewhere else to stay. Her bedroom is next to the bathroom.’
‘Thank you. Clean underwear would be nice.’
‘Then help yourself. I’ll get us some breakfast.’
Nodding, she walked out and into the hall, and then up the stairs. She felt ragged and weak. And the strain of being alone with him until however long it took for him to find her somewhere else to stay was going to be enormous. And yet she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Halting outside Helena’s room, she hesitated. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious about the other woman’s bedroom. Not theirs, Helena’s. Maybe they didn’t sleep together, but in this day and age it was usual for engaged couples to do so, and Beck didn’t look like a man who was celibate. He looked as though he would be a very competent and gentle lover. Innovative, perhaps…And she really rather despised herself for wanting a man who belonged to someone else. For wanting a man who could be attracted to another woman when he was involved with someone else.
Feeling like an intruder, she pushed open the door. White. Everything was white. Drapes, bedlinen, carpet, even the furniture was white. The only colour was an ornate, and probably very expensive, turquoise glass lamp. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened one door of the fitted wardrobe—except it wasn’t a wardrobe, it was a small, walk-in closet. Clothes hung neatly to either side, all covered in plastic. Evening clothes, day clothes, smart, casual. Shoe racks held all her footwear. All neatly paired. Handbags were tucked beside them. Her own wardrobe looked as if the army might have been holding manoeuvres in there. To actually find a pair of shoes involved taking everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe and then stuffing it all back in. Shoes she never wore, shoes that no longer fitted…Looking at all this, she was embarrassed, and vowed that never, ever would she let anyone else look in her wardrobe. Best clear it out in case she disappeared.
Don’t tempt fate, Carenza.
Backing out, she closed the door. She would just borrow some underwear, she decided. Helena’s clothes wouldn’t have fitted her anyway. Opening each drawer in the tall cabinet that stood by the window, she stared at all the tiny frilly triangles that seemed to constitute Helena’s underwear. Glancing down at her own ample proportions, she laughed. She might just get into a thong. Selecting one, she shut the drawer and escaped from all this glamour.
Removing her jacket, she hung it over the rail at the top of the stairs and walked into the bathroom, which was a great deal more than functional. White granite had been moulded to form the basin, flow smoothly into the bath, and then up to form the shower. A vision in white modernity, as though it had been carved from snow. An ice sculpture. Gold fittings, bottle-green tiles and floor. Almost a shame to use it, really.
A curved groove in the granite allowed the glass door for the shower to be slid easily into place, and with a wry smile for all this sybaritic luxury she stripped off. There was no sign of Helena’s toiletries on the glass shelves, so she used Beck’s.
Had the relationship been in trouble? she wondered as she rubbed her hair as dry as she could and then dressed. Had her disappearance come as a surprise? It wasn’t something she felt she could ask because she really didn’t know him all that well. Only knew that he had the ability to make her heart beat faster, induce fantasies, even after she’d known he was engaged. Her infatuation had been extraordinarily foolish considering the contrast between herself and Helena. Beck obviously went for the pocket Venus type…So why, then, was he attracted to herself? As unlike Helena as it was possible to be? Tall, with brown hair and eyes, legacy of a Greek great-grandmother, busty, definitely hippy—exotic, someone had once said, but she couldn’t see it. Never saw her own quicksilver smiles, or the flashes of amusement in her dark eyes.
Tilting her head to one side, she wondered what she was really like. A contrary sort of person, she decided, one moment serene, the next a flurry of energy and enthusiasm. She also tended to say what she was thinking, which wasn’t always wise. Neither was it wise to stay in the house of a man you were very strongly attracted to. A man you wanted to touch. Constantly. And she’d lingered too long.
Quickly washing out her own underwear and hanging it on the towel rail, she gave a wry smile. Her underwear was pretty but definitely big. Big knickers, big bra, not something Beck would be used to.
With a little shake of her head for thoughts that really didn’t matter, she walked out. The smell of frying reached her as she descended the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
He turned as she entered the kitchen, eyes sombre. ‘Hungry?’
‘Very.’
‘Good. The tea’s made, only needs pouring.’
Whilst she poured the tea into the two mugs, he dished up eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and fried bread.
‘Tuck in,’ he ordered as he placed the meals on the table.
They ate mostly in silence, and when they’d finished both sat, staring down into their tea. She couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that might not have thorns on it, anyway.
‘I’m not much good at small talk,’ he eventually apologised quietly.
She smiled. ‘Neither am I. Did I thank you for rescuing me?’
‘No thanks were needed.’
She lapsed back into silence, and then asked quietly, ‘Where’s Spanner? I never see him around.’
‘Spanner?’ he echoed softly. ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry. Shall you get another dog?’
‘No.’
Because his life was still unsettled? Because he might have a murder charge hanging over his head? ‘Why Spanner?’ she asked curiously. ‘It seems an odd name for a dog.’
‘Because when I found him as a tiny, abandoned puppy he was trying to chew a nut off a piece of scrap metal.’
‘Oh.’
‘And you? Is business good?’
‘So-so. I’ve just finished a large commission. Barn conversion. I opened a small shop in Croydon.’ She grinned, then qualified, ‘I’m renting out a small area in a wallpaper and fabric shop. I persuaded the owner that it would be good for his business. When people came in to buy decorating materials, he could steer them in my direction. Or, alternatively, if they came to see me, I could make my selections from his stock.’
‘Sounds
