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‘Yes, that’s the story of your life, isn’t it? Everything in small doses. A job here, a job there.’
Evie gave a grin that was wicked and delightful in equal measure.
‘You mean I’m immature, don’t you? At my age I ought to be ready to settle down to a nine-to-five job, one offspring and two-point-five husbands.’
‘I think you mean that the other way around.’
‘Do I? Well, whatever. The point is, you think I should be heading for a settled life, suitable for a woman approaching the big ‘‘three’’. Well, nuts to it! I live the way I want. Why can’t people accept that?’
‘Because we’re all jealous,’ Debra admitted with a grin. ‘You’ve managed to stay free. No mortgage. No ties.’
‘No husband.’ Evie sighed with profound gratitude.
‘I’m not sure that’s something you should rejoice about.’
‘It is from where I’m standing,’ Evie assured her.
‘Anyway, the point is that you just up and go when the mood suits you. I suppose that might be nice.’
‘It is nice,’ Evie said with a happy sigh. ‘But as for no mortgage—what I pay on that motorbike is practically a mortgage.’
‘Yes, but that was your choice. Nobody made you. I bet nobody’s ever made you do anything in your life.’
Evie gave a chuckle. ‘Some have tried. Not with much success, and never a second time, but they’ve tried.’
‘Alec, David, Martin—’ Debra recited.
‘Who were they?’ Evie asked innocently.
‘Shame on you! How unkind to forget your lovers so soon!’
‘They weren’t lovers, they were jailers. They tried to trick me up the aisle, or soft soap me up the aisle, or haul me up the aisle. One of them even dared to set the date and tell me after.’
‘Well, you made him regret it. The poor man was desperate because you’d kept him wondering long enough.’
‘I didn’t keep him wondering. I was trying to let him down gently. It just turned out to be a long way down. I never even wanted him to fall in love with me. I thought we were simply having a good time.’
‘Is that what you’re doing with Andrew?’ Debra asked mischievously.
‘I’m very fond of Andrew,’ Evie said, looking up into the sky. ‘He’s nice.’
‘I thought maybe you were in love with him.’
‘I am—I think—sort of—maybe.’
‘Any other woman would think he was a catch—good job, sweet nature, sense of humour. Plus you’re in love with him, sort of, maybe.’
‘But he’s an accountant.’ Evie sighed. ‘Figures, books, tax returns—’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘He believes in the proper way of doing things,’ Evie said in a tone of deepest gloom.
‘You mean about—everything?’
Evie gave her a speaking look.
‘One day,’ Debra said, exasperated, ‘I hope you’ll fall hook, line and sinker for a man you can’t have.’
‘Why?’ Evie asked, honestly baffled.
‘It’ll be a new experience for you.’
Evie chuckled. It was the happy, confident laugh of someone who had life ‘sussed’. She had her job, translating books from French and Italian into English. She was free to travel and did so, often. She had all the male company she wanted, and female company too for, unlike many women who attracted love easily, she also had a gift for friendship with her own sex.
It wasn’t immediately clear why people were drawn to her. Her face was charming but not outstandingly beautiful. Her nose tilted a little too much and her eyebrows were rather too heavy, adding a touch of drama to her otherwise perky features.
Perhaps it was something in the richness of her laugh, the way her face could light up as though the sun had risen, her air of having discovered a secret that she would gladly share with anyone who would laugh with her.
‘Time I was going,’ she said now. ‘Sorry I couldn’t help you, Deb.’
They strolled to the car park, where Debra got into her sedate saloon and Evie hopped on to her gleaming motorbike, settling the helmet on her head. A wave of her hand, and she was away.
She enjoyed riding through this pleasant suburb of outer London. Speed was fun, but dawdling through leafy roads was also fun.
Then she saw Mark Dane.
She recognised him from behind. It wasn’t just the dark brown hair with the hint of russet. It was the fact that he was walking with his head down in a kind of dispirited slouch that, she now realised, she’d seen often before.
Mark had a bright, quick intelligence that pleased her. In class he was often the first to answer, the words tumbling over each other, sometimes at the expense of accuracy.
‘Take it a bit slower and get it right,’ she often told him, although she was pleased by his eagerness.
But out of class he seemed to collapse back into himself, often becoming surly.
No, she thought now. Unhappy.
She slowed down and tooted her horn. The boy turned swiftly, glaring, but then smiling as he recognised the goggled, helmeted figure pulling up beside him.
‘’lo, Miss Wharton.’
She uncovered her head. ‘Hallo, Mark. Had a busy day?’
‘Yes, I’ve been—’ He stopped, reading the irony in her eyes and gave up. ‘I didn’t exactly come to school.’
‘What did you do—exactly?’
He shrugged, implying that he neither remembered nor cared.
‘It’s not the first time you’ve played truant,’ she said, trying not to sound like a nag.
Again the shrug.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Hanfield Avenue.’
‘You’ve wandered quite a way. How are you going to get home?’
Shrug.
‘Wanna lift?’ She indicated the bike.
He beamed. ‘Really?’
‘As long as you wear this,’ she said, removing her helmet.
He donned it eagerly and she checked that it was secure.
‘But now you don’t have a helmet,’ he said.
‘That’s why I’m going to go very slowly and carefully. Now, get up behind and hold on to me tightly.’
When she felt him grip her she eased away from the kerb. It took half an hour to reach his home, which was in a prosperous, tree-lined street, full of detached houses that exuded wealth. She swung through the gates and up the drive to the front door, mentally preparing what she would say to Mark’s parents, who would be home by now, and worried.
But the woman who opened the door looked too old to be his mother. Her eyes were like saucers as she saw his mode of transport.
‘What on earth—?’
‘Hallo, Lily,’ Mark said, climbing off the bike.
‘What do you mean, coming home at this hour? And on this thing?’ She glanced sharply at Evie. ‘And who are you?’
‘This is Miss Wharton, a teacher from school,’ Mark said quickly. ‘Miss Wharton, this is Lily, my dad’s housekeeper.’
‘You’d better come in,’ Lily said, eyeing Evie dubiously. ‘Mark, your supper’s in the kitchen.’
When she was in the hall Evie said quietly, ‘Can I talk to Mark’s parents?’
Lily waited until Mark was out of sight before saying, ‘His mother’s dead. His father won’t be home for a while yet.’
‘I’d like to wait for him.’
‘It could be a very long wait. Mr Dane comes home at all hours, if he comes home at all.’
‘What does he do that takes so long?’
‘He takes over.’
‘He does what?’
‘He’s in industry. Or rather, he owns an industry, and his industry owns other industries, and if he doesn’t own them he takes them over. If he can’t take them over he puts them out of business. That’s his way. Get them before they get you. I’ve heard him say so.’
‘So that’s why he’s not here,’ Evie mused. ‘After all, if you’re busy taking over the world it wouldn’t leave much time for other things.’
‘That’s right. I’m usually all that poor kid has, and I’m not enough. I do my best, but I’m no substitute for parents.’ She checked herself, adding hastily, ‘Don’t tell Mr Dane that I said that.’
‘I’m glad you did. But I won’t tell him, I promise.’
‘I’ll make you some tea. The living room’s through there.’
While she waited for the tea Evie looked around and understood what Debra had told her about Justin Dane, plus what Lily had just revealed. This was the home of a wealthy man. He could give his son everything, except the warmth of a welcome.
It dawned on her that there was something missing in the living room. She began to look more closely, but without success. She started again, examining every ledge and bookshelf, searching for some sign of Mark’s mother. But there wasn’t a single photograph, either of her or her and her husband together: nothing to remind her child that she had ever lived.
‘Who the hell are you?’
The outraged voice from the doorway made her jump.
There was no doubt of the identity of the man standing there. If the hint of russet in his dark brown hair hadn’t proclaimed him Mark’s father she would still have known him from Debra’s description.
Pride and assurance personified, she thought. Everything under control. And when it wasn’t he hit the roof.
His lean face was set in harsh lines that looked dangerously permanent and there was a ferocity in his eyes that she refused to let intimidate her.
‘I’m Miss Wharton,’ she said, determinedly pleasant. ‘I teach languages at Mark’s school.’
He made a wry face. ‘Really!’
‘Yes, really,’ she said, nettled.
‘Dressed like that?’
She looked down at her colourful outfit and shrugged.
‘A verb conjugates exactly the same, however I’m dressed, Mr Dane.’
‘You look like some crazy student.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him her best smile. She knew he hadn’t meant a compliment but she couldn’t resist riling him. ‘At my age that’s a really nice thing to hear.’
‘I wasn’t flattering you.’
‘You amaze me. I’d assumed you went through life winning hearts with your diplomacy.’
There was a flicker in his eyes that suggested uncertainty. Was she, or wasn’t she, daring to mock him?
Let him wonder, she thought.
