You Owe Me

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Had he really loved Natalie or had he simply married her because he had had to? She had had a lucky escape Chris told herself. She could have been Natalie, crushed by marriage to a husband who didn’t love her, trapped…She was letting her imagination run away with her, Chris told herself. She had no reason to suppose that Slater did not love Natalie, perhaps it was even wishful thinking! No! Never!

“Well, Chris?”

“I’m coming home.” It wasn’t what she had intended to say at all, but now the words were out they could not be retracted.

“Good girl.” Tom Smith’s voice approved, and Chris shivered wondering what train of events she had set in motion. She didn’t want to go back to Little Martin; she didn’t want to see Slater or his child. The past was another country; and one she had sworn she would never re-visit, but it was too late now, she was already committed; committed to a child she had never seen, and remembering instances of Natalie’s vindictiveness, she wondered momentarily just why her cousin had named her as her child’s guardian. This thought was brushed aside almost instantly by a flood of guilt. If Natalie had been jealous of her, hadn’t she been jealous too in turn? Hadn’t she felt almost ready to kill her cousin when she saw her in Slater’s arms. She sighed. All that was over now, Natalie was dead, and in the end, for whatever reason, her cousin had entrusted to her care her child, and she could not in all honour ignore that charge, if only for her aunt’s sake.

CHAPTER TWO

LESS than thirty-six hours later when she stepped off a ’plane at Heathrow, Chris still wasn’t sure quite how she had got there. A brief call to her agent explaining the situation had resulted in cancellation of several of her assignments and the postponement of others. It was a testimony to her success that this was allowed to happen, her agent told her drily when she rang from London to tell Chris what she had done.

London was much cooler than New York. To save herself the hassle of a complicated train journey Chris had elected to travel to Little Martin by taxi. The cabbie raised his eyebrows a little when she explained where she wanted to go. The fare, would she knew, be astronomical, but that was the least of her worries right now. Had she done the right thing? Time alone could answer that. She had acted impulsively, rare for her these days, listening to the voice of her conscience rather than logic. Sophie did not know her and it was almost criminally stupid to imagine the child would respond to her when she could or would not to her own father.

Closing her eyes Chris leaned back into her seat, unaware of her driver’s appreciative scrutiny of her through his rear view mirror. Her clothes were simple, but undeniably expensive, and the cabbie wondered what it was that took her to such a remote part of the country in such a rush. She wasn’t wearing any rings.

It was three o’clock when the taxi deposited her at Slater’s house. She hadn’t known where else to go, and since Tom Smith had told her that Slater would be expecting her it had seemed the sensible thing to do. She had only brought one case with her. The local estate had the keys to the cottage she had inherited from her aunt and she planned to collect them later on. The cottage would make an ideal base for her whilst she tried to get to know Sophie and decided what to do. It had at one time been let out but the past tenants had left some time ago and now it was empty.

Her ring on the doorbell produced no response and as she waited for someone to appear Chris acknowledged that at least some of the tension infiltrating her body was caused by the thought of meeting Slater.

The house seemed deserted and she rang again, frowning when there was no response. Tom had assured her that Slater would be there. He wanted to see her before she saw Sophie, so Tom had said. Sighing she tried the door handle, half surprised when it turned easily in her hand.

The moment she stepped into the hall memories flooded through her; she had often visited the house with her aunt and uncle who had been friends with Slater’s parents, but most of her memories stemmed from the brief months when she had met Slater here, when merely to cycle down the drive and arrive at the house had sent dizzying excitement spiralling through her veins. It had been in this hall that he had first kissed her the afternoon she had come on some now forgotten mission from her aunt. Slater had taken her by surprise, and she had been too stunned to resist. He had seemed half shocked himself, but he had recovered very quickly, making some teasing remark about her being too pretty to resist. That had been the start of it…

She sighed, glancing anxiously round the panelled room. Where was Slater? She called his name doubtfully, shivering a little in her thin silk dress. What had been warm enough in New York was far from adequate here at home, despite the fact that it was June.

The sitting-room door was half open and drawn by some force greater than her will Chris walked towards it, almost in a trance. It had been here in this room that all her bright, foolish dreams had been destroyed. Like a sleepwalker she walked inside, surprised to find how little had changed. Natalie had loathed the house’s traditional decor and she had half expected to find everything different. The sun shone rosily through the french windows, clearly revealing the features of the man stretched out on the settee and Chris came to an abrupt halt, her breathing unexpectedly constricted, almost unbearably conscious of the air burning her skin, as though someone had ripped off an entire layer and left her exposed to unendurable pain. The shock of seeing Slater was a thousand times worse than she had envisaged, and it mattered little that he was oblivious to her presence, apparently fast asleep. Suddenly the intervening years meant nothing, the sophisticated shell of protection she had grown round her during them dissolving and leaving her acutely vulnerable.

His hair was still unmarked by grey, thickly black and ruffled, his frame still as leanly powerful even in sleep. His eyes were closed, lines she didn’t remember fanning out from them. His mouth curled downwards, a deep cynicism carved into his skin that she didn’t recall, and that shocked her by its unexpectedness. His face was the face of a man who had suffered pain and disillusionment, or so it seemed as she looked at him, and yet where she should have felt glad that this was so, his appearance made her heart ache. Seven years and God alone knew how many thousand miles, they had been apart, and yet as she looked at him Chris found her reaction to him as intense and painful as it had been so long ago.

She couldn’t possibly still love him; that was ridiculous, no, what she was experiencing now was something akin to déjà vu… It was only the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly that caused this reaction… She must remember that he was not and never had been the man she had thought him. She had invested him with qualities, virtues that he had never possessed.

Unaware of what she was doing, she moved closer to him. Tiredness was deeply ingrained in his features. As she moved something clinked against her shoe and she glanced downward to see a half-empty bottle of whisky and a glass. Slater had been drinking? She frowned, and then reminded herself that he was a man whose wife had only recently committed suicide, and that whatever his feelings for Natalie, there must be some feelings of pain and guilt inside him. He moved, frowning in his sleep and the cushion on which he was resting his head slipped on to the floor.

Chris bent automatically to retrieve it, balancing herself against the edge of the settee. Her fingers brushed accidentally against Slater’s wrist and he jerked away as though the light contact stung. His shirt was open at the throat, and she could see the dark hair shadowing his skin, thicker now than she remembered, or was it simply that at nineteen she had been less attuned to sheer masculine sexuality than she was now.

Her heart started to jump heavily and she began to draw away, grasping with shock as Slater’s fingers suddenly closed round her wrist. His eyes were still closed, a deep frown scoring his forehead. His thumb stroked urgently over the pulse in her wrist, and Chris didn’t know what shocked her the most; his caress or her response to it. He was still deeply asleep and she dropped to her knees at his side, gently trying to prise his fingers away without waking him. Anger and tension brought a hectic flush of colour to her skin. Seven years when she had learned to defend herself against every awkward situation there was, and yet here she was reduced to the status of an embarrassed adolescent, simply because a man held her wrist in his sleep.

But Slater wasn’t simply any man, she acknowledged bitterly and her combined embarrassment and pain sprang not so much from the fact that he was touching her, startling though her reaction to that touch was, as from the knowledge that he undoubtedly believed she was someone else; perhaps Natalie, perhaps not. She couldn’t release his fingers. She would have to wake him up. Inwardly fuming, outwardly composed, she leaned over him, trying not to admit her awareness of the smooth firmness of his flesh beneath his shirt-sleeve as she touched his arm.

The moment she shook him his eyes flew open. She had forgotten how mesmeric they could be, topaz one moment, gold the next. They stared straight into hers.

“Chrissie…” He started to smile, the fingers of his free hand sliding into her hair and cupping the back of her head. Too startled to resist, Chris felt him propel her towards him. Her eyes closed automatically, her lips parting in anticipation of his kiss. She might almost never have been away. His kiss was tender and powerful; she was nineteen again quivering on the brink of womanhood, wanted him and yet frightened of that wanting and his kiss told her that he knew all this and understood it.

She barely had time to register these facts before his hold suddenly tightened, his eyes blazing burnt gold into hers as he withdrew from her. Chris blinked, slower than he was to make the transition from past to present, until she saw the biting contempt in his eyes and recognised that when he had kissed her he had not been fully awake; not fully aware of what he was doing.

“So you finally came.” He released her and was on his feet, whilst she still knelt numbly on the floor. “I suppose we ought to be honoured, but I’m sure you’ll forgive us if we don’t bring out the fatted calf. What brought you back, Chrissie? Guilt? Curiosity?”

Just about to tell him that she had only just learned of Natalie’s death, Chris stumbled to her feet as she heard sounds outside. The sitting-room door opened and a smiling plump woman in her fifties walked in holding the hand of a small child.

Chris breathed in sharply. So this was her niece…Natalie’s child. Slater’s child. She couldn’t endure to look at him as she studied the little girl, and knew instinctively why Natalie had named her as guardian, just as she knew that her cousin’s decision had not been motivated by any of the gentler emotions. Natalie had not changed, she decided helplessly, studying the small face so like her own; the untidy honey-blonde hair, and the general air of dismal hopelessness about the child. By some unkind quirk of fate Sophie could more easily have passed for her daughter than Natalie’s although unlike Chris she had brown eyes.

Chris frowned. Natalie had had blue eyes, and Slater’s were amber-gold. No one as far as she knew in either family had possessed that striking combination of blonde hair and velvet-brown eyes, and yet it was familiar to her, so much so that it tugged elusively at her memory.

“There you are, Sophie,” her companion said brightly, “I told you you were going to have a visitor didn’t I?”

The child made no response, not even to the extent of looking at her, Chris realised sadly.

“I have to go and get some shopping now Mr James,” she added to Slater.

“That’s fine, Mrs Lancaster. You’ve made up a room for our visitor, I take it?”

“The large guest room,” Mrs Lancaster told Chris with a smile, adding reassuringly to Sophie. “I’ll be back in time for tea, Sophie, and then perhaps tonight your aunt will read your story to you.”

Once again there was no response. Chris ached to pick the child up and hug her. She looked so pitifully vulnerable, so lost, and hurt somehow, and yet she sensed that it would be best not to approach her. She frowned as she remembered what Slater had said about a room for her. She must tell him that she would be staying at the cottage. She glanced at her watch, remembering that she still had to collect the keys.

“Bored with us already?” Slater drawled sardonically.

Chris saw Sophie conceal a betraying wince at her father’s tone and she frowned, wondering what had caused the child’s reaction. Had Slater perhaps often spoken to Natalie in that sarcastic voice? Children saw and felt more than their parents gave them credit for, but she could hardly question Slater on his relationship with her cousin. Did he know why Natalie had appointed her as Sophie’s co-guardian?

She glanced at him bitterly. Perhaps he had shared Natalie’s resentment that their child should so much favour her. She shuddered to think of the small unkindnesses Sophie could have suffered at Natalie’s hands; torments remembered from her own childhood, and then reminded herself that Sophie was Natalie’s child, and that as usual she was letting her imagination run away with her.

Chris looked up to find Sophie studying her warily, as she crept closer to her father. His hand reached out to enfold her smaller one, the smile he gave her was reassuring. A huge lump closed off Chris’s throat. She had been wrong about one thing at last. Patently Slater did love his small daughter—very much. There was pain as well as love in the gold eyes as they studied the small pale face.

“I can’t think why Natalie specified that I was to be her guardian,” Chris murmured unguardedly.

Almost at once Slater’s expression hardened. “Can’t you?” he said curtly. Sophie tensed, and as though he sensed her distress, he stopped speaking, smiling warmly at the child before continuing, “I’d better show you to your room.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Chris was cool and very much in control now. She gave him the same cold brief smile she reserved for too-eager males. It normally had an extremely dampening effect, but Slater seemed quite unimpressed. “I’ll be staying at the cottage,” she continued. “In fact I’d better get round to Reads and collect the keys. They’ve been keeping the place aired and cleaned for me.”

“Chris!” There was anger and bitterness reverberating in his voice, and Chris saw Sophie tauten again. Slater must have been aware of her tension too, because he broke off to say soothingly, “It’s all right Sophie, I’m not cross. We have to talk,” he told Chris levelly, “and it would be much easier to do so if you stayed here, but I remember enough about you to realise that you’ll go your own way now, just as you did in the past. I’ll walk out to your car with you.”

No doubt so that he could say the things to her he wanted to without upsetting Sophie. It was strange, Chris reflected painfully. All these years she had deliberately refused to think about Slater’s child, and yet now that she had seen her, she felt none of the resentment or pain she had expected. Sophie was simply a very unhappy, vulnerable child whom she ached to comfort and help, but she was sensible enough to know that the first approach would have to come from Sophie herself.

“I don’t have a car,” she told Slater coolly. “If I can leave my case here for an hour I’ll come back and collect it once I’ve got the keys for the cottage. I can use my aunt’s Mini to drive back in.”

Slater’s smile was derisive. “Please yourself Chris,” he drawled mockingly. “I’d offer to take you, but I can’t leave Sophie, and she isn’t too keen on riding in the car.”

Chris frowned, but Sophie’s face bore out her father’s statement, she looked tense and frightened.

IT TOOK HER longer than she had anticipated to walk to the village—she had forgotten that she was no longer a teenager and accustomed to the almost daily walk. The estate agent expressed concern when she told him her intentions.

“But my dear Chris, the place has been empty for nearly two years…”

“I arranged for it to be kept cleaned and aired,” Chris reminded him frowningly.

“Which we have done, but the roof developed a leak during the winter, it needs completely rethatching. I have written to tell you,” he told her half apologetically, and Chris sighed, hearing the faintly accusatory note in his voice. “Using your aunt’s Mini is completely out of the question. I doubt you could even get it started. I’ve got a better idea. My sister has a small car which I know she won’t mind you borrowing. She’s in Greece at the moment on holiday, and won’t be back for several weeks. How long are you intending to stay in Little Martin?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Chris told him accepting his offer of the loan of a car, but refusing to allow him to book a room at the village inn for her. However bad the cottage was, she could stay there one night, surely? She was already befuddled with all the decisions she had had to make recently. Tomorrow she could decide where she was going to stay. It would have to be somewhere close to Sophie otherwise there would be no point in her visit.

After she had collected Susan Bagshaw’s small Ford and thanked Harold Davies for the loan of it, Chris drove straight back to Slater’s house. She had been longer then she expected and her heart thumped anxiously as she approached the house. Unbidden the memory of Slater’s warmly persuasive kiss made her mouth soften and her pulses race.

Stop it, she warned herself angrily. He had kissed her almost as a reflex action, his true feelings towards her more then clearly revealed in his attitude to her once he was properly awake. What was the matter with her anyway? She had been kissed by dozens of men since she left Little Martin. But their touch had never affected her as Slater’s had done, she admitted tiredly. Perhaps now that she was back in Little Martin, it was time for her to face up to the fact that she had never really overcome Slater’s rejection of her; that her feeling for him had never properly died; principally because she had never allowed herself a true mourning period. She had rushed straight from the discovery of his infidelity into the hectic world of modelling, refusing to even allow herself to think about what had happened. Had she really come back simply for Sophie’s sake, or had some instinct, deeper and more powerful than logic drawn her back, forcing her to face the past and to come to terms with it, because until she did, she would never really be free to love another man?

She could admit that now, just as she could admit how barren and empty her life was. All the things she had really wanted from life had been torn from her and so she had been forced to set herself alternative goals, but career success had never really attracted her; the values instilled in her by her aunt still held good. At heart she was still that same nine-teen-year-old. She wanted a husband and children, Chris admitted, surprised to discover how deep this need was, but Slater stood firmly in the way of her ever forming a permanent relationship with any other man; as did her life-style. The men she met were not marriage material. Disturbed by the ghosts she had let loose inside herself, Chris parked the car and walked towards the front door.

It was several minutes after she had rung the bell when Slater appeared. He had changed his clothes and in the checked shirt and jeans he could almost have been the Slater of seven years ago. Chris felt her muscles tense as he invited her in. As he stepped back her body brushed briefly against his in the close confines of the half-opened door. Her nerve endings reacted wildly, shivering spasms of awareness flickering over her skin, whilst she schooled her face to betray nothing.

“What happened to the Mini?” he asked once she was inside.

“Harold didn’t think it would start. He’s loaned me his sister’s car in the interim.”

“What did you do? Flash those sea-green eyes at him? You’ll have to be careful, Chris, this isn’t New York. Husband-stealing isn’t acceptable practice down here.”

Anger burned chokingly inside her. Who was he to dare to criticise what he assumed to be her way of life? After what he had done to her, how dare he…She bit back the angry retort trembling on the tip of her tongue. Tom Smith had warned her that should he wish, Slater could protest against and possibly overrule Natalie’s will. If she wanted to fulfil the role Natalie had cast for her she must try to maintain some semblance of normality between Slater and herself.

“Where’s Sophie?” she asked hesitantly, trying to fill the bitter silence stretching between them.

“In bed,” Slater told her, adding sardonically, “Children often are at this time of night. It’s gone eight, and she’s had a particularly tiring day. Meeting strangers always seems to have a bad effect on her.”

He had no need to remind her of her status, Chris thought tiredly. No one was more aware of it than she; it made her feel very guilty. There was something about Sophie that touched her almost painfully. Perhaps it was the physical resemblance to herself; the memories of the pain and loneliness of her own childhood, once her parents had died and before she realised the depth of the bond that could exist between her aunt and herself.

“I don’t know exactly why you’ve come here Chris,” he added tautly, “But Sophie isn’t a toy to be picked up, played with for a while, and then put down when you’re bored. She’s a very vulnerable, unhappy little girl.”

“She’s also my only living relative,” Chris said unsteadily, “and I feel I owe it to Natalie to do whatever I can for her.”

“Is that how you see her?” he jeered unkindly. “As a responsibility? She’s a responsibility it’s taken you damn near six weeks to acknowledge, Chris. Sophie doesn’t need that sort of half-hearted, guilt-induced interest.”

“I’ve only just received Tom Smith’s letter,” Chris protested angrily.

“Why? Or is it that you only return to your own address at six weekly intervals, just to check that it’s still there?”

His inference was plain and dark colour scorched Chris’s face. Let him think what he wished, she thought bitterly. Let him imagine she had a score of lovers if that was what he wanted. Why not? It was far better than him knowing the truth. That there hadn’t been a single lover, because in her heart she was still aching for his lovemaking…still grieving for what she had lost.

“I didn’t want you here,” she heard him saying curtly to her, “but Natalie did appoint you as Sophie’s joint guardian, although I think we both know that can’t have sprung from any altruistic impulse.”

Hard eyes impaled her as she swung a startled face towards him. But then why should she be so surprised? Naturally Natalie would have told him how much she hated her. After all in the early days at least they had been deeply in love; in love enough for him to have discarded her in the cruellest and most painful way he could. “I suppose Natalie did resent the fact that she looks like me,” Chris agreed bleakly.

Slater’s face was grim. “In the circumstances it hardly endeared the child to her,” he agreed, and Chris frowned a little. At times he had a manner of speaking about Sophie that seemed to distance her from him, almost as though the little girl were not his daughter, and yet there was such an obvious bond of affection between them. Before she could question him further about his remark he went on to say, “Tom Smith seems to think you might be able to reach Sophie, and so does John Killigrew, the doctor in charge of her case at the hospital. Sarah and I aren’t so sure.”

Sarah? Chris’s heart pounded. Was this the explanation for Natalie’s suicide. Did Slater have another woman?

“Sarah?” she questioned lightly, avoiding his eyes, in case he read in them what she was thinking. Much as she had cause to resent her cousin, she could only feel sympathy with her, if she too had suffered the pain of being rejected by Slater. At least in her case all he had destroyed was her ability to love and trust, while in Natalie’s…

“Sarah is the psychotherapist in charge of Sophie’s case. Such behaviour isn’t entirely unknown in children and generally springs from a deep-seated trauma. Until we discover what that trauma is it is unlikely that she will speak, although there are various ways in which we can encourage her, but if you do intend to stay and help, Sarah will brief you on these herself.”

Chris stared at him nonplussed. “I thought the trauma was obvious,” she said unsteadily. “Sophie has lost her mother in the most distressing way…Surely that…”

“Sarah doesn’t believe that is the cause and neither do I.” He was almost brusque, turning slightly away from her so that his face was in the shadows. “Sophie and Natalie did not get on. Natalie spent very little time with the child.”

Chris was not entirely convinced.

“Why did Nat commit suicide?” she asked him abruptly.

He swung round, the shadows etching the bones forming his face, stealing from it every trace of colour. His eyes glittered febrilely over her as he studied her, his body tense with an emotion she could not define.

“Tom Smith has already told you. She was mentally disturbed.”

“You don’t seem particularly concerned.” It was a dangerous thing to say, and she almost wished it unsaid when he continued to stare at her.

“What is it you want me to say Chris?” he demanded bitterly at last. “Natalie and I elected to go our separate ways a long, long time ago. My main concern now is Sophie. She’s already suffered enough at the hands of your cousin. I don’t intend to let you increase that suffering. Just remember that while you’re here I’ll be watching every step you take. Do anything that affects Sophie adversely and you’ll be leaving.”

“I’m not leaving Little Martin until I see Sophie running about, laughing and chattering as a six-year-old should,” Chris retaliated fiercely, the commitment she had just made half shocked her, almost as though she had been impelled to take the first step down a road she hadn’t intended to traverse. Slater was still watching her and fantastically, despite his cold eyes and grim mouth she had the impression that he was pleased by her reaction, although she could not have said why. Imagination, she told herself sardonically. Slater could have no reason at all for wanting her to stay.

“That’s quite a commitment you just made,” he told her softly. “Are you capable of seeing it through I wonder?”

She bent to pick up her case pushing the honey blonde cloud of hair obscuring her vision out of the way, impatiently, as she stood up to face him.

“Just watch me,” she told him grimly.

She was outside and in the car before she realised that she had not made any arrangements for the following day. A quick mental check informed her that it would be Friday—how travelling distorted one’s sense of time—that meant that Slater would be working. She would call on him early in the morning and tackle him about what access she could have to Sophie. Feeling as though she had cleared at least one obstacle, she put the car in gear and set out for the cottage.

CHAPTER THREE

THE lane which led to the cottage and which she remembered as scenic and rural, was dark, almost oppressively so, the lane itself badly rutted in places, and Chris heaved a small sigh of relief when at last she picked out the familiar low crouching outline of the cottage in the car’s headlights.

Parking outside she hurried up the uneven paved path. The lock was faintly rusty and she broke a nail as she applied leverage to the key. Grimacing ruefully she stepped inside, flicking on the light automatically. Her eyes widened in shock as she stared round the sitting room. Damp stains mildewed one of the walls; the cottage felt cold, and even worse, smelled faintly musty. She remembered now that her aunt had always insisted on a small fire even in the summer, and that she had often expressed concern about the building’s damp course too. As a teenager she had paid scant attention to these comments, but now she was forced to acknowledge their veracity.

Why had no one written to her; told her how much the cottage was deteriorating? Or perhaps they had and their letters were still following her round the world. Sighing Chris made her way through the living room and into the kitchen. Here too signs of decay and neglect were obvious. The cottage was clean enough but desolate somehow, and so cold and damp that the atmosphere struck right through to her bones. The dining room was no better, more patches of damp marring the plaster. With a heavy heart Chris made her way upstairs. The roof needed re-thatching John had told her, and during the winter it had leaked. He had added that they had made what temporary repairs they could, but all her worse fears were confirmed when she opened the first bedroom door and walked inside. She and Natalie had once shared this room; its contours, every crack in its walls were unbearably familiar to her, as was the faint, but unmistakable perfume, heavy and oriental, at seventeen she was far too young to wear such a sophisticated fragrance, but she had insisted on doing so nonetheless, and its scent still hung on the air. Surely after six years it ought to have died, Chris thought frowningly. Unless of course Natalie had been here more recently. But why? She had flatly refused to take on any responsibility for the cottage when Natalie had been forced to have her aunt moved away from it. It could moulder away to dust was what Tom Smith told her she had said when she asked him to get in touch with her. She touched the cover of one of the single beds absently, withdrawing her fingers as they met the damp fabric. She shivered suddenly, noticing the mildew clinging to the cover. This had been her bed…She smiled wryly to herself. She had chosen the quilt herself. Natalie had chosen exactly the same thing, and then had burned a hole in her own with a cigarette while smoking secretly in bed. Absently her fingers smoothed the fabric, tensing as they found the small betraying burn mark. This was Natalie’s quilt. What was it doing on her bed?

Memories of Natalie’s possessiveness during their shared childhood flooded her. Natalie had hated her ever touching anything of hers. She would never have allowed her quilt to be placed on Chris’s bed. That was all in the past, Chris reminded herself. No doubt whoever cleaned the cottage had mixed up the quilts. She turned round and walked out of the room, shutting away the memories and lingering traces of Natalie’s perfume. She couldn’t possibly sleep in that room, it was far too damp.

Her aunt’s bedroom showed the same distressing signs of neglect. Now she knew why Slater had offered her a bedroom she thought wryly. She would have to stay here tonight. She could hardly go back now and wake up the whole household. So where did that leave her? If she wanted to get close to Sophie she would either have to take a room at the pub or…or swallow her pride and ask Slater if his offer of a room was still open. Much as she wanted to help Sophie she didn’t know if she could cope with sharing the same house as Slater.

She wasn’t nineteen any more she reminded herself wryly. What was she afraid of? That Slater would try to take up where they had left off? Hardly likely. No, tomorrow she would just have to go cap in hand to him and ask for his help, much as she resented the idea. But that was tomorrow. She still had to cope with tonight. Sleeping in either of the bedrooms was out which left only the living room. Shivering slightly at the thought she remembered that her aunt used to keep spare bedding in the airing cupboard. If it was still there, perhaps it might at least be dry. While she was here she would have to get a builder in to check over the cottage and put it to rights; put in a new damp course and renew the roof. Until that was done no one could possibly live here.

As she walked towards the bathroom, she glanced automatically at the small chest in the landing alcove and then frowned. Two cigarette butts lay in the ashtray. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled warningly and she suppressed the desire to turn round and look behind her. Obviously they had been left there by the cleaner. And yet as she entered the bathroom Chris had the distinct impression that something was not quite right…Pushing aside the notion as fanciful she opened the airing cupboard, relieved to discover a pile of bedding there that felt dry to the touch. The house had an immersion heater so at least she would be able to have a warm bath before curling up downstairs on one of the chairs, although she didn’t anticipate getting a good deal of sleep. Coming back had resurrected far more memories than she had anticipated, or was it Slater’s briefly tender kiss that had stirred up all the tension she could feel inside herself? Why had Natalie committed suicide? Would they ever know? Mentally disturbed was how Slater had described her and whilst it was true that she had always had a tendency towards hysteria, especially when she couldn’t get her own way, she had always thirsted for life with a tenacity that Chris simply could not envisage disappearing overnight.

She woke up as she had expected to, cold and stiff, shivering in the early morning light. It was seven o’clock. In the past Slater had always left for the factory at eight thirty, which didn’t leave her much time to see him.

Bathing and dressing in fresh clothes, she brushed her hair, leaving her skin free of make-up. Her stomach growled protestingly, reminding her how long it was since she had had something to eat, as she hurried out to the car.