February the fourteenth.
The headlines in the morning
paper read:
A Well-deserved Valentine for
Well-known Author.
For the second year running,
Michael Denver, who, according to some of the top literary
critics, is unsurpassed in the field of psychological
thrillers, has won the prestigious Quentin Penman Literary
Award, this time for his new book, Withershins.
This makes him one of the most celebrated authors of
his day, with five award-winning novels to his
credit.
In spite of this, Michael Denver, after
hitting the headlines with a high-profile divorce from top
model Claire Falconer, and subsequent rumours of a
reconciliation, guards his privacy fiercely and refuses to
be either interviewed or photographed.
His four
previous books have been snapped up by Hollywood and three
of them have already become major box-office successes.
Having been widely acclaimed, and quoted as being 'his best
so far,' Withershins seems likely to follow
suit.
Michael replaced the receiver and ran his
fingers through his thick dark hair. The phone call from his
long-time friend, Paul Levens, had finally served to make up
his mind.
Well, almost.
He could do with a PA,
and if Paul was right and this girl was the treasure he
claimed she was, she might be just what he
wanted.
No, not wanted. Needed.
For
quite a while, hating the idea of working with another
person rather than on his own, as he was used to, Michael
had put off the evil moment. But now, of necessity, he was
having to think again.
When Paul, who had just
reached the position of Associate Director at Global
Enterprises, had casually mentioned that he knew of the
ideal woman to fill the position, Michael had raised various
objections, all of which—unusually for him— were anything
but logical.
'Look,' Paul said, his blue eyes
serious, 'I'm well aware that after the way women threw
themselves at you following your divorce the entire female
sex are anathema to you, but it isn't like you to let
emotions, especially such destructive ones, overrule your
common sense.
'You need a good PA. And I'm
offering you the chance of a really first-class one. Believe
me, Jennifer Mansell is as good as you're going to
get.'
With devastating logic, Michael demanded, 'If
she's that good, why are you letting her
go?'
'Because I have little option. The powers that
be have decided that in the present economic climate we
have to trim staff wherever
possible.
'Arthur Jenkins, the departmental boss
she's worked for for more than three years, recently
suffered a heart attack and is retiring on doctors'
orders.'
As Michael was about to interrupt he hurried
on, 'If it had been simply a matter of replacing Jenkins,
that would have more or less kept the status quo. But it
isn't.
'Home Sales are being amalgamated with Export,
and Cutcliff, who's run Export for over ten years, already
has a good PA.'
A gleam of amusement in his
forest-green eyes, Michael suggested dryly, 'So you're
trying to palm this Jennifer Mansell off on
me?'
Paul, a fair-haired, beefy rugby forward,
sighed. 'I'm trying to help you. Though God alone knows
why.'
Michael grunted. 'Well, I'll think about
it.'
Raising his eyes to heaven, Paul said with some
exasperation, 'Don't overdo the gratitude, whatever you
do.'
Grinning, Michael clapped his friend on the
shoulder. 'Thanks.'
But, for him, agreeing to have a
woman in his office, under his feet, was a drastic
step.
Perhaps if Paul's protégée had been a man… But
even then, he wasn't sure if he could tolerate the presence
of anyone else.
After almost a week, though he really
needed to be at his rural retreat, Slinterwood, and starting
on his latest book, he had still been undecided.
Then
he had received a phone call from his ex-wife, Claire,
telling him how badly she missed him and how much she wanted
him back in her life, which had done nothing to improve his
mood.
Her apparent conviction that she just had to
snap her fingers to get him back had made him bitterly
angry, and only served to reinforce his present dislike of
women. Especially the ones who used sex as a weapon, as she
had.
That same morning, Paul had rung and informed
him flatly, 'Well, this is your last chance. On Friday
evening Miss Mansell will be hostess at Jenkins's retirement
party. After that, she'll be leaving.'
Getting no
immediate response, he suggested, 'Tell you what, why don't
you take a quick look at her, see what you think? She's easy
on the eye without being too distracting. And I'm quite sure
that she's not the kind to throw herself at you.
'If
you want to actually meet her, I can introduce you simply as
a friend of mine. If not, you can stay in the background, do
the whole thing discreetly.'
In no mood for a party,
Michael chose the latter course.
'In the meantime,'
Paul promised, 'I'll find out as much as I can about
her.'
At eight o'clock that Friday evening, partly
concealed by the luxurious foliage of one of the decorative
plants, Michael was standing on the balcony that encircled
the Mayfair Hotel's sumptuous ballroom, where Arthur
Jenkins's retirement party was taking place.
Already
he was half regretting coming. Admittedly he needed a good
PA, but a good PA didn't have to be a woman. Still,
to pacify Paul, he would stay long enough to hear what he
had to say, and take a look at this Miss
Mansell.
From the vantage point he had chosen almost
opposite the raised dais, where later a presentation was to
be made, he was able to get a commanding view over the
assembled company.
An orchestra at present occupying
the dais was playing dance music, and quite a lot of couples
were circling the floor, while the remainder of the guests
were standing in groups laughing and talking as the waiters
dispensed champagne.
It was a truly glittering
occasion. Arthur Jenkins had been with Global Enterprises
for over thirty years, so in spite of the threatened
economical slow-down no expense had been spared.
The
woman Michael had come specifically to see wasn't in
evidence. So far he'd only glimpsed her from a distance.
Tall and slim with dark hair taken up in an elegant swirl,
she was wearing an ankle-length chiffon dress in muted,
south-sea-colour shades of aquamarine, lapis lazuli and
gold.
Paul, the only other person who knew he was
there, had pointed her and Arthur Jenkins out to
him.
'What did you manage to find out about her?'
Michael asked quietly.
'Not a great deal,' Paul
answered. 'The only information Personnel could give me was
that she's twenty-four years old, quiet, efficient, and came
to Global straight from a London business
college.
'The people she worked with say she did her
job well, and described her as having a friendly manner, but
tending to keep herself to herself.'
'Anything
else?'
'Very little's known about her private life
but I did manage to pick up, from the grapevine, that for
some time she wore an engagement ring.
'After she
stopped wearing it, a few months ago, it appears that
several of the men in the office tried their luck, but all
of them were given a very cool reception, not to say the
cold shoulder. It seems she's gone off men.'
Michael
frowned thoughtfully. From that brief report, Jennifer
Mansell sounded ideal.
However, reluctant to admit as
much, he merely said, 'Thanks for the
information.'
Paul shrugged heavy shoulders. 'Such as
it is. Well, I'd better go and circulate. I take it you
don't want to meet her now?'
Shaking his head,
Michael answered, 'No.'
'Well, when you've managed to
get a good look at her, if you do change your mind, just let
me know.' Paul sketched a brief salute before heading for
the stairs.
Michael was waiting only a minute or so
when Arthur Jenkins and Jennifer Mansell came into view once
again.
With no unseemly display of thigh or bosom,
the simply cut dress she was wearing showed off her slender,
graceful figure to perfection.
As she got closer he
noticed that on her right wrist she was wearing a small
watch on a plain black strap, and, on her right hand, a gold
ring.
Her dark head was turned away from him as she
conversed with her portly companion.
For some strange
reason—a kind of premonition, perhaps— Michael found himself
oddly impatient to see her face.
When she did turn
towards him she was smiling, and he caught his breath. He
knew that face, and not just because something
about her reminded him of a young Julia
Roberts.
Though they had never actually met, he had
seen her before. But where and when?
And then he
remembered, and he found his heart beating faster as he
relived the little scene that had taken place at the castle,
was it five years ago or six?
It had been late
afternoon and, the only visitor still remaining, she had
been standing in the cobbled courtyard, bright with its tubs
of flowers.
Head tilted back, a coolish breeze
ruffling her long dark hair, she had been watching some
early swallows wheeling overhead, smiling then, as she was
smiling now. He had been standing on the battlements,
looking down. Still smiling, she had glanced in his
direction. For a long moment their eyes had met and held,
until, as though shy, she had looked away.
Though he
hadn't had the faintest idea why, even then she had seemed
familiar to him, as if he had always known
her.
Seeing her start to head towards the main gate,
he had turned to hurry after her. But by the time he had
descended the spiral stone stairway of the north tower she
had vanished from sight.
Impelled by a sudden
urgency, he had moved swiftly across the courtyard and
beneath the portcullis. At the bottom of the steep, cobbled
path that led up to the castle gate, a car had been just
pulling away.
He had tried to attract her attention,
to no avail. As he had stood there the car had bumped down
the uneven dirt road, turned right, and disappeared round
the curve of the rocky hill.
Climbing up to the
battlements again, with a strange sense of loss he had
watched the silver dot take the picturesque coastal road
that skirted the island, and head in the direction of the
causeway.
To all intents and purposes the little
incident was over, finished, but he had thought about her,
wondered about her, and her face had stayed etched indelibly
in his memory.
He had tried to play his
disappointment down, to tell himself that he couldn't
possibly feel so strongly about a woman he had only
glimpsed, and never actually met. But wherever he went he
had found himself scanning the faces of people passing by,
unconsciously looking for her.
Over time, the impact
she had had on him had gradually faded into the recesses of
his mind, but he had never totally forgotten.
Now
here she was again, as though fate had decreed it, and he
was strangely shaken to see her once more.
In spite
of his present aversion to women, he was tempted to go down,
to see her at close quarters, to speak to her and hear her
voice.
But common sense held him
back.
Everything had changed. Instead of being a
twenty-two year old with romantic ideals, he was older and
wiser, not to say battle-scarred and bitter, with a newly
acquired mistrust of women. And though her face was
poignantly familiar, he didn't know what kind of woman she
really was.
As he stood watching a tall, balding man
detached her from Arthur Jenkins's side and led her onto the
dance floor, where they were immediately swallowed up in the
crowd.
Michael ran thoughtful fingers over his smooth
chin. His inclination was to get to know her better, but,
with all his previous reservations still intact, he didn't
feel inclined to rush things…
He was standing staring
blindly over the throng of dancers when Paul reappeared and
remarked, 'So you're still here? I wasn't sure how long you
intended to stay.'
'I was planning to leave shortly,'
Michael told him, 'but I wanted another word with you
first.'
'You've had a look at her, I take it? So what
do you think?'
'From what I've seen so far, your
recommendation appears to have been a good one,
but—'
An expression of resignation on his face, Paul
broke in, 'But you're not going to do anything about it! Oh,
well, it's up to you, of course. But I personally believe it
would be a mistake to let her slip through your fingers
without at least taking things a step further.'
'I
have every intention of taking things a step further,'
Michael said quietly. 'But as this is neither the time nor
the place, I'd like you to have a quick word with her and
tell her…'
A group of chattering, laughing people
paused nearby, and he lowered his voice even more to finish
what he was saying.
'Will do,' Paul promised crisply
as Michael clapped him on the shoulder before striding
away.
Hearing a car turn into the quiet square lined
with skeletal trees, Laura went to the window and peeped
through a chink in the curtains.
She was just in time
to see a taxi draw up in front of the block of flats, and
Jenny climb out and cross the frosty pavement.
'Hi,'
Laura greeted her flatmate laconically as she came into the
living-room.
'Hi.' Tossing aside her evening wrap,
and glancing at Laura's pink fluffy dressing gown and
feathery mules, Jenny observed, 'I thought you'd be tucked
up in bed by now.'
Her round, baby-face shiny with
night cream, and the long blonde hair that earlier in the
evening she had spent ages straightening once again starting
to curl rebelliously, Laura agreed. 'I would have been, but
Tom and I went out to Whistlers, and we had to wait ages for
a taxi back.
'How did the party go?'
'Very
well,' Jenny answered sedately.
Noting her flatmate's
sparkling eyes and her barely concealed air of excitement,
Laura asked, 'What is it? Did Prince Charming turn up and
sweep you off your feet?'
'No, nothing like
that.'
'So what's happened to make you look like the
fifth of November? Come on, do tell.'
'I could do
with a cup of tea first,' Jenny suggested
hopefully.
'You drive a hard bargain,' Laura
complained as she disappeared kitchenwards. 'But as I could
do with a cup myself…'
Slipping off her evening
sandals, Jenny settled herself on the settee in front of the
glowing gasfire, stretched her feet towards the warmth, and
hugged the bubbling excitement to her.
After starting
the evening in low spirits, knowing that she no longer had a
job, Jenny was now on top of the world, with the hope of new
things opening up.
She hadn't felt so happy since
Andy's perfidy had torn her world apart, making her feel
betrayed and unwanted, worthless even.
Laura returned
quite quickly carrying two steaming mugs. Handing one to
Jenny, she plonked herself down and urged, 'Right. Spill
it.'
'You know Michael Denver?'
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