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‘I’ll post them on to you tomorrow.’
Shaking his head, he went over to the microwave as it began to bleep. ‘No, I’ll wait for them.’
Zoe was almost desperate to get rid of him. Her voice high, she yelled, ‘This is my house, and I want you to go!’
He opened the curry and inhaled. ‘Smells wonderful.’ Switching off the grill, he used a teatowel to get the plate out, tipped the golden chicken and sauce out on to the plate, surrounded it with the fluffy white rice which had also been in the packet, sat down at the table and began to eat with a fork. ‘Could you pour the coffee?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Delight,’ he said, sliding her a wicked glance from under his extraordinarily long black lashes.
Zoe’s rage wasn’t as strong as her sense of humour; she couldn’t help laughing, much though she wished she could.
He grinned at her. ‘So you are human?’
‘Human—and exhausted,’ she told him, pouring coffee into the mugs. She might as well drink some herself—clearly she wasn’t going to be able to get rid of him for quite a while, and she couldn’t go to bed, leaving a total stranger in her house.
‘How many hours did you work today?’
‘I was up at five, at work by six,’ she told him, sitting down opposite him at the table.
He studied her, brows lifted. ‘Your eyes are red. They match your hair.’
Flushed, she crossly snapped, ‘Thanks. That makes me feel really glamorous.’
He went on staring at her, his black lashes half down over his eyes. ‘The jeans are pretty ancient, aren’t they? But you still manage to make them look like high fashion. I’m not sure how. I suppose it’s just that you’re gorgeous, whatever you wear—even with red eyes! And I must be the millionth man to tell you so. I ought to get a prize for that.’ He leaned over and kissed her mouth briefly, a mere brush of his lips, before she could draw back, and then went on coolly eating his chicken curry.
Zoe drew a shaken breath and was furious with herself. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before! That light touch of his mouth had lasted a second or two—she could almost believe she had imagined it except for this odd breathlessness. She rubbed her mouth, glaring. ‘You take more liberties than any man I’ve ever met! What do you do for a living? D’you work in the media? Only reporters have that much gall.’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m an explorer.’
She blinked, thinking she’d misheard. ‘A what?’ Maybe it was because she was so tired that she was feeling so disorientated, her ears and eyes playing tricks on her, her face flushed, as if she had a fever.
‘Explorer.’ He finished his meal and pushed it away. ‘I’m just back from South America. I’ve been mapping the mountain ranges from Tierra del Fuego all along the coast to the Cord de Mérida, right up in Venezuela. They run from one end of the continent to the other, just inland from the coast, over four thousand miles of mountains, many of them up to four thousand feet high. I’ve been out there for a year, climbing, filming, drawing.’
Open-mouthed, she asked, ‘Alone?’ and he laughed, white teeth showing against tanned skin.
‘No, thank heavens. I was with an international expedition—Europeans, a couple of dozen of us, all specialists: photographers, a couple of doctors, scientists, geologists, biologists. But we were all climbers; that was essential. In those mountains you need to know what you’re doing and you need other people you can rely on. Lives could be lost otherwise.’ He yawned, got up, went to the washing machine and bent to look at the contents. ‘I’ll click this through the cycle now and get it on rinse, then we can pop the clothes into the dryer.’
‘You’re not married, are you?’ Zoe thoughtfully said, watching him deftly adjust the machine.
He turned, gave her a cynical look from those deep, dark eyes, shaking his head. ‘No. Don’t tell me you have scruples about getting involved with married men? Hal didn’t tell me that.’
‘Hal doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does!’ she broke out angrily. ‘He doesn’t really know me at all. We’ve never been what you could call friends!’
‘What does that mean? Translate for me. By “friends” do you actually mean lovers?’
‘No! I mean what most people mean by the word “friends”. Hal and I have worked together...’
‘And he never made a pass?’ Connel sounded disbelieving, and she could imagine why, knowing Hal Thaxford, who made a pass at any attractive woman he met.
‘He made them, yes,’ she said coldly.
‘And got slapped down?’
‘Hard. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer until I slapped his face too. He isn’t very bright, you know, or a very good actor. Too wooden. And typically he thinks he’s God’s gift. He has no idea he’s second-rate. When he finally took on board that I would not get involved with him he started sulking. ’
‘Hmm.’ Connel Hillier was eying her dryly. ‘Hal’s version of this story is somewhat different. In fact, he says it was the other way round—he wasn’t interested in you and you resented it.’
Zoe shrugged, unsurprised. ‘Well, you can make your own mind up which of us you believe! And, by the way, I’ve no intention of getting involved with you, either, Mr Hillier. I asked if you were married because it’s obvious you’re used to looking after yourself—you know how a washing machine works, and you can do your own cooking. If you were married, your wife would probably do all that.’
‘These days most men can take care of themselves, married or not.’
‘Some men can! Some men don’t see why they should bother, once they’re married!’
‘A few, maybe. But my brother, for instance, is as capable of cooking a three-course meal as his wife, because Cherry is a high-powered executive who often doesn’t get home until midnight, so Declan has to take care of himself when she’s busy.’
‘They don’t have children, presumably?’
He shook his head. ‘Cherry’s on the fast track at work; she doesn’t plan on having kids for years yet. But she’s only twenty-six; she has plenty of time.’
‘And your brother’s happy with that?’
‘He wants children one day, but he’s in no hurry. He and Cherry only got married a few months ago; they lead a pretty hectic social life: dinner parties, first nights, clubbing. They’re rarely at home in the evening unless they’re giving a party.’
Zoe was listening intently, but her eyelids were drooping wearily and she couldn’t stop yawning, hiding it behind her hand.
The washing machine was going into a spin now. Connel Hillier took the plastic washing basket down from the top of the machine, his back to her while he waited for the washing to come to a halt, but he went on talking about his brother, his voice low and soft. ‘De-clan isn’t ready for the responsibility of kids yet, anyway. He’s far too keen on his social life. I sometimes wonder why he and Cherry got married at all. They’re both so independent and busy, so involved with their own lives, they don’t seem like a pair, more like flat-mates. But then who knows what goes on inside a relationship? I often think...’
The quiet murmur of his voice was soothing. It blurred into the background, became soporific; Zoe yawned, listening to it, couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, she let them close, her head so heavy on her neck that she slowly bowed it on to her arms on the table in front of her.
She never knew when exactly she fell asleep.
The next she knew was when light flickered across her eyelids. Yawning, she stretched her arms above her head—then realised the light was sunlight. What time was it?
Usually when she woke up it was still dark, even in summer. Film-making began with first light and only ended when the light went. She should have been up hours ago. Sharply turning her head to look at her alarm clock, she saw it was eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock?
Horrified, she sat up—why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Surely she couldn’t have slept through it?
At the same instant her memory rushed in with images of what had happened last night, and she stiffened, her eyes flashing round the bedroom. How had she got here? For a second or two her head swam with bewilderment.
The last thing she remembered was sitting with her head on her arms, while behind her Connel Hillier talked about his brother.
She must have drifted off to sleep. Yes, but how had she got up here, into bed? Panic flooded her. Her heart beat like a steam hammer in her chest, behind her ribs. She couldn’t breathe. What had happened last night? After she fell asleep? She couldn’t remember coming upstairs; she hadn’t set her alarm. How had she got here?
She had been fully dressed, wearing that old grey sweater and her shabbiest pair of jeans—she lifted the sheet and looked down at herself, turned scarlet. She wasn’t wearing them now! All she had on was her bra and panties.
‘Oh, my God,’ she groaned aloud. He must have carried her up here, stripped her...and then...? What had happened then?
Heat burned in her face. She didn’t want to think about it. She flung back the covers and jumped out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown from her wardrobe and put it on, then crept out on to the landing, listening for sounds.
Where was he?
The house was silent; the familiar sounds were all she could hear: a Victorian clock she had bought in a junk shop ticking sonorously from her sitting room, the hum of electricity from the kitchen, and from the trees in the garden a whispering of autumn leaves, the sound of birds.
On tiptoe she went from room to room upstairs, but there was no sign of him, so she stole downstairs and began to search there, but he was nowhere in the house, and nothing seemed to be missing. She didn’t have anything very valuable in the way of antiques, of course, but her electrical equipment was all still in place—TV, video player, stereo equipment—none of it had gone.
The kitchen was spotless, the dishes he had used washed up and put away, the sink cleaned, the hob as clean as if he had never been there, and there was no sign of his clothes in the tumble dryer. He must have waited for them to dry properly, then put them on and gone.
Her car! she thought, hurrying to open the front door, but it still stood there, on the drive, where she had left it; the rain was drying on the glossy surface now, the chrome flashing in the sunlight.
She shut the front door again. He had gone, leaving no trace. She might almost have imagined the whole incident. She wished she could believe she had.
But the phone was still unplugged; she hadn’t invented him pulling it out of the wall! She bent to plug it back in, then went back upstairs and showered, got dressed, like a zombie, moving automatically in her usual routine before leaving for work, but with brow furrowed, eyes blank in deep thought.
He had carried her upstairs, taken her clothes off and put her into her bed. Was that all he had done?
Had he got in bed with her? Had he...?
No! she told herself fiercely. She would have woken up if he had tried to have sex with her. Of course she would!
She hadn’t woken up while he was carrying her upstairs, or taking off her jeans, though. It couldn’t have been easy to get her jeans off without disturbing her, could it?
Maybe he had woken her up, though? Maybe she had stirred, becoming aware, woken up? But... if she had, she would remember, wouldn’t she? And she didn’t recall a thing after she’d put her head on her arms and drifted off to sleep.
She didn’t want to think about it. Angrily she ran downstairs, made herself black coffee but didn’t eat anything. Her appetite had gone. In fact, she felt sick.
She stood by the window, drinking her hot coffee, staring out at the bright, autumn morning, making herself observe what she saw instead of thinking about last night. In her job that was vital, the act of observing, seeing, far more important than words, and it helped her to forget herself.
After all that torrential rain the sky was blue and cloudless; the sun shone as brilliantly as if it was summer again. Leaves blew across the damp grass of her lawns; orange, bronze, gold, dark brown, they heaped up behind her garden wall. She must get out there and rake them up on her next day off. There were few flowers around now: a bush of dark blood-red fuchsia, the bells drooping, still heavy with yesterday’s rain, pale blue and pink lace-capped hydrangeas, a few white winter roses. But autumn had other pleasures; she stared at spiders’ webs glittering on bushes, delicate, complex patterns filmed with dew, as bright as diamonds in this sunlight, and fluttering in the wind like ancient flags.
But however hard she tried to think about other things she kept coming back to last night. How was she going to work today? How could she concentrate when somewhere at the edge of her mind was a vague memory, like a dream, half remembered. Warm hands touching her, softly caressing...
Groaning again, she shook her head. No, she didn’t remember that. She didn’t remember anything.
Her nerves jumped as the telephone began to ring. She slowly went to pick it up, her fingers slippery with perspiration.
‘Hello?’ She couldn’t quite make her voice steady. It wouldn’t be him—why should he ring her? Yet somehow she didn’t feel she had seen the last of him. He had left her off balance, nervous, with this worrying feeling that something had happened last night that wasn’t going to be easy to forget.
‘Zoe?’ The voice at the other end was uncertain, but very familiar, and she relaxed. ‘Is that you? Are you okay?’ It was her production runner, Barbara, a lively, eager, hard-working girl in her early twenties, who was normally full of bounce, but this morning sounded faintly anxious.
Pulling herself together, Zoe huskily reassured her. ‘Of course I am—what do you mean?’
‘You sounded breathless. Did I wake you up? Had you forgotten you called an early start, for five-thirty? Or did you oversleep?’
‘Yes, sorry, my alarm didn’t go off.’ They must all be cursing her, getting them there so early and then not turning up, and she couldn’t blame them; she would feel just the same in their shoes. ‘I’m just leaving, Barbara. I should be there in half an hour. Has Will started work? Is he setting up the cameras?’
‘Yes, he’s more or less ready, I think. He just broke to have some breakfast, and there’s a crowd of extras milling around eating sausage baps.’
‘Okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
Zoe hung up, locked the cottage, got behind the wheel of her car and started the engine, pushing away the memory of what had—or hadn’t—happened last night.
She would think about that some other time. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything, or anyone, until this film was finished.
With any luck she would never set eyes on Connel Hillier again, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
THE following Saturday Zoe wasn’t working—she often worked seven days a week, but officially it was six days. The film unions wouldn’t permit their members to work all week without a day off, not that that applied to a director, who could work whenever she chose, planning, rewriting, working out shots in a model of the set. Without her film crew, of course. They usually crashed out for hours, so sleep-starved after working long hours every other day that they rarely surfaced again until the evening when they headed for bright lights and some fun.
Zoe got up at eleven that Saturday, had a real breakfast for once, a bowl of fresh fruit and a boiled egg with toast, listening to local radio. Someone had rung her a couple of times without leaving a message on her answer-machine. Who had that been? she wondered, and hoped it hadn’t been Larry again. He was becoming a nuisance.
Her sister’s voice came on next. ‘Aren’t you ever at home? Look, tonight, six o’clock, don’t forget, or else! Oh, and bring a bottle, preferably red wine. It goes so well with steak.’
After tidying the kitchen and making her bed, Zoe went to the hairdresser, then ate lunch in the local pub, which did a wonderful mushroom risotto, played a concentrated game of dominoes with friends. At two-thirty she drove to the local supermarket and did her weekend shopping, then went home to put it all away before doing an hour’s housework. She enjoyed Saturday; it was peaceful and restful not to have to tell anyone else what to do, and to be able to sleep as late as she liked and be as lazy as she chose.
At four she stripped down to her bra and panties and went back to bed for an hour, setting her alarm to make sure she woke up in time to go to her sister’s barbecue.
The alarm going off was a shock to her system. She was dragged out of a dream, her nerves jangling, but that was normal to her. Eyes still shut, she groped her way to the clock, to push down the button, then swung her legs out of bed to make sure she didn’t fall asleep again.
Yawning and flushed, she stretched, stood up, opened her eyes and made her way to the bathroom to shower before getting dressed. The lukewarm water was refreshing, cooling down her skin, waking her properly. Standing by the window later, she saw that the wind and rain had passed. The weather had warmed up, the late-evening sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. It could be summer instead of autumn. A perfect evening for a barbecue.
She put on her favourite casual outfit, a jade-green-trouser suit. Under the jacket she wore a bronze silk sleeveless tunic so fine it could be drawn through the exactly matching bronze Celtic bracelet she wore on one arm. She had bought this replica at the British Museum shop; it was inscribed with runic writing.
It was nearly six-thirty by the time she got to her sister’s house and the barbecue was already crowded and noisy, mostly with children, Zoe was sorry to see. Her nephews rushed at her, pink and excited.
‘A balloon landed on the barbie and blew up!’
‘Dad went crazy!’
‘You should have heard him shouting!’
They both giggled, looking at each other. ‘It really made him jump!’
Zoe eyed them shrewdly. ‘It wouldn’t have been you two who lobbed the balloon on to the barbie, by any chance?’
‘Us?’ The eldest, seven-year-old Felix, said innocently, his eyes reminding her of his father. You could see already what Felix would look like when he was Mark’s age—he was going to be tall, dark, bony, very attractive.
‘It just blew down from a tree, honestly!’ six-year-old Charlie said, but a dimple in his cheek and a chuckle in his voice gave him away. He wasn’t yet quite out of babyhood, face and body still soft and downy, but he tumbled in his big brother’s wake everywhere, falling over, bruising himself, but determined to do everything Felix did. He wasn’t as much like his father. Zoe saw her sister in him, Sancha’s warmth, her tenderness, her sensitivity. No need to worry about Felix; he was as tough as a tree and full of confidence. But Charlie was different. Zoe knew Sancha worried about him.
‘Oh, there you are! I said six, not half past!’ Sancha gave her a quick hug, then looked her up and down, making a face. ‘You look as if you’re dressed for a nightclub. I suppose you bought that outfit in Paris when you went there last month?’
‘No, London, and it’s a year old! Sorry I’m late. I had so much to do. My one day off! I’ve been rushing about, shopping, doing housework. Here, my contribution to the bar!’ Zoe handed her sister the two bottles of red Chianti she was carrying.
‘Chianti! Lovely. Thanks. It will remind us of our wonderful Tuscan holiday—it was quite a wrench to come back. We loved it, didn’t we, boys?’
