him you don’t want to get married this week, this month or even next year. Let him make the running, and build on what you feel for each other. I’m sure things will work out.’
‘I’d rather die,’ Janie said dramatically. ‘I refuse to be humiliated.’
‘No, you’d rather run the gauntlet of a series of nohopers,’ Ros said bitterly. ‘You could be getting into a real minefield.’
‘Don’t fuss so. I know how the system works,’ Janie said impatiently. ‘You don’t give your address or telephone number in the preliminary contact, and you arrange to meet in a public place where there are going to be plenty of other people around. Easy-peasy.’ She nodded. ‘But you could be right about the “fun-loving executive”, so I’ll go for “Lonely in London”.’
‘Janie, this is such a bad idea…’
‘But lots of people meet through personal columns. That’s what they’re for. And I think it’s an exciting idea—two complete strangers embarking on a voyage of mutual discovery. You’re a romantic novelist. Doesn’t it turn you on?’
‘Not particularly,’ Ros said grimly. ‘On old maps they used to write “Here be Dragons” on uncharted waters.’
‘Well, you’re not putting me off.’ Janie bounced to her feet again. ‘I’m going to reply to this ad right now. And I bet he gets inundated with letters. Every single woman in London will be writing to him.’
At the door, she paused. ‘You know, the trouble with you, Ros, is that you’ve been seeing that bloody bore Colin for so long that you’ve become set in concrete—just like him. You should stop writing about romance and go out and find some. Get a life before it’s too late.’
And she was gone, banging the door behind her.
Ros, caught in the slipstream of her departure, realised that she was sitting with her mouth open, and closed it quickly.
She rarely, if ever, had the last word with Janie, she thought ruefully, but that had been a blow below the belt.
She knew, of course, that Colin treated Janie with heavy tolerance, which her stepsister repaid with astonished contempt, but Janie had never attacked him openly before.
But then Colin doesn’t approve of Janie staying here while Dad and Molly are away, she acknowledged, sighing.
He’d made it clear that their personal life had to be put on hold while she was in occupation.
‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing that she was sleeping in the room opposite,’ he’d said, frowning.
Ros had stared at him. ‘Surely we don’t make that much noise?’
Colin had flushed slightly. ‘It’s not that. She’s young, and far too impressionable already. We should set her a good example.’
‘I’m sure she knows the facts of life,’ Ros had said drily. ‘She could probably give us some pointers.’
But Colin had not budged. ‘We’ve plenty of time to think about ourselves,’ he’d told her, dropping a kiss on her hair.
And that was how it had remained.
Suddenly restless, Ros got up from her desk and wandered across to the window, looking down at the tiny courtyard garden beneath, which was just beginning to peep into spring flower.
Her grandmother, Venetia Blake, had planted it all, making sure there were crocuses and narcissi to brighten the early months each year. She’d added the magnolia tree, too, and trained a passion flower along one wall. And in the summer there would be roses, and tubs of scented lavender.
Apart from pruning and weeding, there was little for Ros to do, but she enjoyed working there, and, although she was a practical girl, with no belief in ghosts, there were times when she felt that Venetia’s presence was near, and was comforted by it.
She wasn’t sure why she should need comfort. Her mother had been dead for five years when her father, David Craig, had met Molly, his second wife, herself a widow with a young daughter. Molly was attractive, cheerful and uncomplicated, and the transition had been remarkably painless. And Ros had never begrudged her father his new-found happiness. But inevitably she’d felt herself overshadowed by her new stepsister. Janie was both pretty and demanding, and, like most people who expect to be spoiled, she usually got her own way too.
For a moment Ros looked at her own reflection in the windowpanes, reviewing critically the smooth, light brown hair, and the hazel eyes set in a quiet pale-skinned face. The unremarkable sweater and skirt.
Beige hair, beige clothes, beige life, she thought with sudden impatience. Perhaps Janie was right.
Or perhaps she always felt vaguely unsettled when the younger girl was around.
Janie was only occupying Ros’s spare bedroom because their parents were off celebrating David Craig’s early retirement with a round-the-world trip of a lifetime.
‘You will look after her, won’t you, darling?’ Molly Craig had begged anxiously. ‘Stop her doing anything really silly?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ros had promised, but she had an uneasy feeling that Molly would regard responding to lonely hearts ads as rather more silly.
But what could she do? She was a writer, for heaven’s sake, not a nanny—or a minder. She needed her own space, and unbroken concentration for her work. Something Janie had never understood.
Ros had studied English at university, and had written her dissertation on aspects of popular fiction. As an exercise, she’d tried writing a romantic novel set at the time of the Norman Conquest, and, urged on by her tutor, had submitted the finished script to a literary agent. No one had been more surprised than herself when her book had sold to Mercury House and she’d found herself contracted to write two more, using her mother’s name, Rosamund Blake.
Her original plans for a teaching career had been shelved, and she’d settled down with enormous relish to the life of a successful novelist. She realised with hindsight it was what she’d been born for, and that she’d never have been truly happy doing anything else.
With the exception of marrying and raising a family, she hastily amended. But, unlike Janie, she was in no particular hurry.
And nor, it seemed, was Colin, although he talked about ‘one day’ quite a lot.
She’d met him two years ago at a neighbour’s drinks party, which he’d followed up with an invitation to dinner.
He was tall and fair, with a handsome, rather ruddy face, and an air of dependability. He lived in a self-contained flat at his parents’ house in Fulham, and worked for a large firm of accountants in the city, specialising in corporate taxation. In the summer he played cricket, and when winter came he switched to rugby, with the occasional game of squash.
He led, Ros thought, a very ordered life, and she had become part of that order. Which suited her very well, she told herself.
In any case, love was different for everyone. And she certainly didn’t want to be like Janie—swinging deliriously between bliss and despondency with every new man. Nor did she want to emulate one of her
