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‘Then all I can say is—rather you than me,’ said Della. ‘And now I’m going to make some coffee.’
Left to herself, Tarn sank back against the cushions, trying to relax. She didn’t really need coffee, she thought. She was hyped up quite enough as it was, the adrenalin still surging through her. And this was only the first stage of her plan.
The next big hurdle, of course, would be getting a job at the Brandon Organisation. This evening was a walk in the park compared with that.
But you can do it, she told herself robustly. There’s a lot riding on this—the total and very public humiliation of Caz Brandon. In some way.
For a moment, the image of him filled her mind as completely as if he was standing there in front of her. Tall, broad-shouldered and elegant to his fingertips in his dinner jacket and black tie, his dark hair combed back from a lean incisive face. Hazel eyes, long-lashed under straight brows, a firm-lipped mouth, the nose and chin strongly marked.
Oh, yes, she thought savagely. She could see why Evie had fallen for him so far and so fast. With very little effort, he could probably be—irresistible.
And she gave a sudden shiver.
She’d been in New York when Aunt Hazel’s call had come, she recalled later that night, when sleep remained curiously elusive.
‘Tarn—Tarn—are you there—or is it just that nasty machine?’
She’d known at once from the agitated tone that it meant trouble. In any case, her foster mother rarely rang just for a catch-up chat. And lately there’d been hardly any calls at all, Aunt Hazel, she’d supposed, being totally preoccupied by preparations for Evie’s forthcoming and presumably triumphant marriage.
She said briskly, ‘Yes, I’m here. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Evie. Oh, God, Tarn.’ The words were tumbling over each other. ‘My poor baby. She’s taken an overdose of sleeping pills—tried to kill herself.’
Tarn heard her with horrified dismay. Evie might be something of a flake at times, but attempted suicide? That was unbelievable. Awful beyond words.
‘Tarn—did you hear what I said?’
‘I heard,’ Tarn said slowly. ‘But why should she do such a thing? In her letters, she always seemed so happy.’
‘Well, she’s not happy now, not any more.’ Aunt Hazel was crying with loud, breathy sobs. ‘Perhaps never again. Because he’s finished with her—that man—that brute she was going to marry. The engagement’s off and she’s had a complete nervous collapse as a result. She’s been rushed into some kind of rest home, and they won’t allow visitors. Not even me.
‘Tarn, I’m going frantic. You’ve got to come home. I can’t be alone at a time like this. I may go to pieces myself. You have to find out what’s going on at this place—The Refuge. They might talk to you. You’re so good at this kind of thing.’
Except, Tarn thought grimly, that would-be suicides and mental breakdowns were well outside her experience zone.
She said gently, ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Hazel. I’ll get the first available flight. But you shouldn’t be on your own. Would Mrs Campbell stay with you till I get there?’
‘Oh, no,’ the older woman said quickly. ‘You see I’d have to explain—and I can’t. No-one else knew about the wedding, apart from us. It was all going to be a totally hush-hush affair. And if Mrs Campbell ever found out, she’d tell everyone that my poor girl’s been jilted, and I couldn’t bear that.’
‘Hush-hush?’ Tarn repeated astonished. ‘But why?’
‘Because that’s the way they both wanted it. No fuss.’ Mrs Griffiths was crying again. ‘Who could have thought it would end like this?’
Who indeed? Tarn thought grimly as she eventually replaced the receiver. And why on earth would the head of publishing conglomerate the Brandon Organisation want his forthcoming marriage to be a secret? Unless, of course, there was never going to be any marriage—and that was another secret that, this time, he’d carefully kept to himself.
Because St Margaret’s Westminster and an all-day party at the Savoy or some other glamorous venue, accompanied by all the razzmatazz at his disposal seemed more the style for a billionaire tycoon.
Not that many of them crossed her path very often, she reminded herself wryly.
She still found it almost impossible to credit what had happened. It was true that her foster mother had always been an emotional woman, and prone to exaggeration yet this time there seemed every excuse for her reaction.
She wandered restlessly round her loft apartment, as she considered what to do.
A flight to Heathrow for the following day was, of course, her main priority. But she had also to deal with the problem of Howard, who would not be pleased to hear that she wouldn’t be accompanying him to the Florida Keys to stay with some friends he had there.
Tarn herself had mixed feelings about the cancellation of the trip. She and Howard had been dating for a while now, but she’d been careful to keep their relationship as casual and platonic as all the others she’d embarked on in the past. Not that there’d been that many.
However, she recognised that this state of affairs could probably not be maintained indefinitely. This invitation was clearly intended to move things to a more intimate level, and she’d accepted, mainly because she could think of no good reason to refuse.
Howard Brenton worked as management editor with Van Hilden International, the company which published the celebrity ‘biographies’ which Tarn now so successfully ghosted under her company name ‘Chameleon’. Which was how they’d met.
He was attractive, amusing and available (three starred A’s on the Manhattan scene). Tarn liked him, but wasn’t sure if love would ever be on the cards. But, she’d eventually decided, perhaps it deserved to be given at least a fighting chance.
After all, what was she waiting for? she’d asked herself with faint cynicism. Prince Charming to gallop up on a white horse, like Evie, who’d been sending her letter after letter rhapsodising over the manifold perfections of Caz Brandon, the man she was going to marry?
But now it seemed that her own warier approach was the right one because Evie’s idol had proved to have feet of clay.
She shook her head in angry bewilderment. How could it all have gone so wrong? And, apparently, so fast? Evie’s last screed, cataloguing in some detail her future husband’s numerous acts of generosity and tenderness had arrived just over a week ago, indicating that her path in life would be strewn with roses. Tarn would have sworn there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind.
Yet there must have been something, she thought. Some small clue, some hint she could trace that would signal all wasn’t well. And if there was, then she would find it.
She booked her flight, left a message on Howard’s voicemail, suggesting they meet for a drink in their favourite bar as soon as he finished work, then went across to her desk.
She opened a drawer and extracted Evie’s letters, collected into a bundle, and secured by a rubber band.
There were a lot of them, each envelope containing page after page of ecstatic outpourings from Evie’s first meeting with Caz Brandon in a classic secretary/boss situation down to what had probably been the last, she thought biting her lip, and she wasn’t altogether sure why she’d kept them.
Unless she’d believed they were some kind of proof that fairy tales can come true. If so, how wrong was it possible to be?
Evie, she thought, had always been a great one for writing things down. As well as the mass bombardment of letters, she’d kept a diary since she was a small child, and later produced reams of poetry to celebrate the girlhood crush of the moment.
She made herself a beaker of tea, settled into her favourite cream leather recliner and began to read.
‘I’ve got the most fantastic job working for the most fantastic man,’ Evie had written in her swift, untidy scrawl, the words leaping off the page. ‘His regular secretary is away on maternity leave, so, hopefully, I’m in for the duration. And after that—who knows?’
Ironically, Tarn could remember feeling relieved that Evie had finally found work that suited her, and also thinking with amusement that all it had taken was a good-looking boss.
Evie’s next letter was a fairly bread and butter affair, but the one after that bubbled with excitement. The boss from heaven had asked her to work through her lunch hour, and had ordered a platter of sandwiches which he’d shared with her.
Well, what was he supposed to do—eat them in front of her? Tarn muttered under her breath.
‘He was asking me all sorts of questions about myself—my interests—my ambitions.’ Evie had gone on. ‘He’s just so easy to talk to. And he smiles with his eyes.’
I just bet he does, thought Tarn. She recalled smiling herself over Evie’s raptures the first time around. But how could she ever have found them amusing?
Curiosity had led her to look at Caz Brandon on the Internet, and she had to admit he was everything Evie had said and possibly more. But why couldn’t I see what he really was? she asked herself as she read on. A cynical womaniser playing with a vulnerable girl’s emotions.
Over the next week, Evie’s hero stopped being Mr Brandon and became Caz instead.
‘Caz took me for a drink after work at this fabulous wine bar,’ Evie confided in her next effusion. ‘It was simply heaving with celebrities and media people and I was introduced to them all. I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels.’
After that, the invitation to dinner seemed almost inevitable. Evie gave a description of the restaurant in total detail—the décor, the service, every course they’d eaten and the wine he’d chosen.
Like a child in a toyshop, Tarn thought, sighing.
And the toys kept on coming. There were more dinners for two, plus theatre visits, concerts and even film premieres.
Then, eventually, there was the weekend at a romantic inn in the depths of the countryside.
‘Of course I can’t go on working for him,’ Evie had written. ‘Caz has this strict rule about not mixing business with pleasure, and he says I’m all pleasure. So I’m being transferred to another department.
‘He’s also arranging for me to move into my own flat so that we can be together whenever we wish, but I’ll be protected from people gossiping and drawing the wrong conclusions.
‘I know now what the marriage service means by “to love and to cherish”, because that’s how Caz is with me.’
A gap of a few weeks followed, while the loving and cherishing presumably continued apace, then Evie wrote again.
‘Tarn, we’re engaged. He’s bought me the most beautiful ring—a huge diamond cluster. It must have cost an absolute fortune, and shows how much he must love me. I’m only sorry I can’t wear it to work, but I realise that would hardly be discreet.
‘I can hardly believe he’s chosen me. All his other girlfriends have been so glamorous and famous. But, by some miracle, I’m the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with.’
Well, it was feasible, Tarn had told herself, dismissing her instinctive uneasiness about this whirlwind courtship. Evie was pretty enough to catch anyone’s eye, and her lack of sophistication might come as a welcome relief to a man accustomed to high-powered women.
‘His flat is wonderful,’ the letter had continued. ‘A big penthouse with views all over London, and an amazing collection of modern art. I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but he says he’ll teach me when we’re married.
‘And he has the most incredible bed I’ve ever seen—Emperor sized at the very least. I tease him that he may lose me in it, but he says there’s no danger of that. That however far away I went, he’d find me. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Not the word I’d have chosen, thought Tarn, dropping the closely written sheet as if it had burned her fingers. Or not any more. ‘Hooked and reeled in’ now seemed far more apposite.
The letters that followed were full of wedding plans, the chosen dress, flowers and possible honeymoon destinations, which Tarn had glossed over at the first reading. Now they assumed an almost unbearable poignancy.
And finally, ‘Being with Caz is like having all my sweetest dreams come true. How can I be so lucky?’
Only Evie’s luck had changed, and she’d suddenly discovered what a short step it was from dream to nightmare. So much so, that the thought of life without him had become impossible, and she’d tried to end it.
Tarn sat staring down at the mass of paper in her lap. She thought of Evie, wisp-slender, with her unruly mass of blonde hair and huge blue eyes, the unexpected late-born child, her flaws excused, her foibles indulged. Adored and cosseted for the whole of her life. Expecting no less from the man who, for reasons of his own, had professed to love her.
How blatantly, unthinkingly cruel was that?
Her throat was tight and she wanted very much to cry, but that would not help Evie. Instead she needed to stay strong and feed the smouldering knot of anger deep within her, bringing it to full flame.
She said aloud, her voice cold and clear, ‘You’ve destroyed her, you bastard. But you’re not going to get away with it. Because, somehow, I’m going to do exactly the same to you.’
Several weeks on, the words still echoed in her head. And tonight, thought Tarn as she punched her pillow into shape and curled into the mattress. Tonight she’d taken the first real step on the path to Caz Brandon’s ultimate downfall.
CHAPTER TWO
THE REFUGE was a large redbrick house in Georgian style, standing in several acres of landscaped grounds.
As she’d approached it on her first visit, Tarn, seeing the people sitting around the lawns in the sunshine, had thought it resembled an exclusive country house hotel, until she realised just how many of those present were wearing the white tunics and trousers of medical staff.
And, as she got inside, the illusion of peace and comfort was completely destroyed. She’d known that permission for her to see Evie had been given reluctantly, but she’d not expected to be taken into a small room leading off the imposing tiled hall, obliged to hand over her shoulder bag and informed tersely it would be returned to her when she left, or have to submit to a swift search before being taken upstairs to be interviewed by Professor Wainwright, the clinical director.
And her protest about the way she’d been treated cut no ice with the grey-haired bearded man facing her across a large desk.
‘Our concern is with the well-being and safety of the men and women in our care, Miss Griffiths, and not your sensitivities,’ he told her tersely.
Tarn decided not to argue over her surname and looked him coldly in the eye. ‘You cannot imagine for one moment that I would wish to harm my sister.’
He opened the file lying in front of him. ‘Your foster sister, I believe.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘It’s one of the aspects of her case that have to be considered,’ he returned, and paused. ‘You understand the conditions of your visit, I trust.’
Tarn bit her lip. ‘I am not to question her about what happened or the events leading up to it,’ she responded neutrally. Not that I have to as her own letters have told me all I need to know. But I don’t have to tell you that.
She added quietly, ‘Nor am I to apply any pressure on her to confide in me about her treatment here.’
‘Correct.’ He looked at her over the top of his rimless glasses. ‘It is unfortunate that we have had to temporarily exclude her mother from visiting Miss Griffiths, but it was felt that she is an excitable and over-emotional woman and her presence could be less than helpful.’
‘Is anyone else allowed to see her?’
‘No-one.’ He closed the file. ‘This may be reviewed if and when she begins to make progress.’ He pressed a buzzer. ‘Nurse Farlow will take you to her.’
At the door, she paused. ‘I brought my sister some of her favourite chocolate truffles. They were in the bag that was taken from me. I’d still like her to have them.’
‘I’m afraid she is not allowed presents of food at the moment. In future you should check whether any proposed gifts are permitted.’
It was more like a prison than a clinic, Tarn thought, as a sturdy blonde woman escorted her silently through a maze of corridors. And they seemed to be treating Evie more as a criminal than a patient.
Didn’t they understand what had happened here? How Evie had been used by this rich bastard then callously dumped when he’d got all he wanted and become bored? How her attempted suicide was an act of total desperation?
When they eventually halted at a door, the nurse gave Tarn a warning glance. ‘This first visit is for fifteen minutes only,’ she informed her brusquely. ‘At the end of this time, I’ll be back to collect you.’
She opened the door, said, ‘Someone to see you, dear,’ and urged Tarn forward.
Tarn had almost expected a cell with bars on the window. Instead she found herself in a pleasant bedroom with modern furnishings, seascape prints on the neutral walls, and soft blue curtains. Evie was in bed, propped against a pile of pillows with her eyes closed, and Tarn almost recoiled in shock at the sight of her.
Her fair hair was lank, her face was haggard and her body looked almost shrunken under the blue bedspread.
Thank God they’ve kept Aunt Hazel away, Tarn thought, swallowing, or she’d be having permanent hysterics. I feel like bursting into tears myself.
There were a pair of small armchairs flanking the window and Tarn moved one of them nearer the bed, and sat down.
For several minutes there was silence, then Evie said hoarsely, ‘Caz? Oh, Caz, is it you? Are you here at last?’
For a moment, Tarn was unable to speak, shaken by a wave of anger mixed with pity. Then she reached out and took the thin hand, saying quietly, ‘No, love. It’s only me.’
