"THANK YOU for coming in. I'll be in touch." Georgia
closed the door firmly behind the latest applicant for the
post of senior photographer on the Askerby and District
Gazette and let the bright, polite smile drop from her
face.
Mentally she began to compose a letter for Rose to type up
and send to all five of the hopefuls who had responded to
the advertisement.
Dear X, Thank you so much for coming in and wasting my
time today. While admiring your nerve in applying for a
job for which you have no experience and absolutely no
talent, I am afraid that I am unable to offer you the
post. I am desperate for a photographer, but not that des-
perate. Yours sincerely, Georgia Maitland, Editor.
What a shame you couldn't tell it how it was, instead of
wrapping it in meaningless phrases, thought Georgia, al-
ready resigned to drafting a letter that would make her
sound kind and encouraging instead of cross and impatient,
which was how she really felt.
As if she didn't have enough to do. Taking off her
glasses, she dropped them on to her desk and threw herself
into the battered executive chair with a gusty sigh,
spinning round to face the window behind. The view over
the rooftops of the town to the hills beyond was one of
the few bonuses of the Gazette"s location on the third
floor of a bleak Victorian warehouse which had been badly
converted in the Seventies.
On this March afternoon, a weak winter sun was strug-
gling to stay above the horizon and the hills, still
dusted with snow from a cold snap earlier in the week,
were re- flecting a pinkish glow. It would make a nice
picture, thought Georgia morosely.
If only she could find a photographer capable of taking it.
Behind her, she heard the door to her office open. This
would be Rose, still struggling to learn the ropes as the
Gazette"s secretary, and almost as anxious as Georgia to
find a new photographer. She would be wanting to know how
the last interview had gone.
"He seems terribly nice," she had whispered to Georgia
confidentially before ushering the last candidate in.
Nice he might have been, a talented photographer he most
certainly wasn't.
"Please tell me that guy wasn't the best photographer
Askerby can come up with," Georgia said without turning
round.
"I could tell you that if you want, but then I'd be lying,
and you know I've never lied to you, Georgia."
The voice that answered her was far from her secretary's
cut-glass tones. Instead it was warm and amused, with a
Scottish lilt that was more a softening of the hard edges
than a full-blown accent.
It was a voice Georgia hadn't heard for four long years. A
voice so unexpected and so bizarrely out of place in her
dull provincial office that she froze for a moment,
certain that she must be imagining things.
Then, very, very slowly, she swivelled her chair round to
face her husband.
"Hello, Georgia," he said.
Georgia's heart, which had lurched into her throat at the
sound of his voice, did a series of spectacular
somersaults before landing with a sickening thud that left
her reeling and breathless.
Mac Henderson, the love of her life. The man she had
married. The man who had broken her heart.
The first instinctive surge of joy at the sight of him was
rapidly succeeded, much to Georgia's relief, by a welcome
rush of therapeutic anger. It was typical of Mac to turn
up when she was least expecting him!
Just when she had managed to convince herself that she was
over him.
How dared he come here looking just the same, with the
same heart-shaking smile and the same unsettling humour
gleaming in his navy-blue eyes, making her senses
pirouette and her bones dissolve exactly the same way they
always had?
It wasn't fair.
Georgia took a deep breath and wished she could remem- ber
some of those calming yoga exercises she had once tried.
"Mac," she said, hating the way shock had made her voice
husky, although, to be fair, it was a miracle she was able
to speak at all given the way her heart was carrying on,
ca- vorting around her ribcage like a red setter out of
control. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
Mac looked as if he would have liked to have strolled
around, but her office simply wasn't big enough for him to
do more than take a couple of steps in any direction.
There you go, Georgia told herself. Another bonus to add
to the view.
In the end, Mac sat down uninvited in the chair recently
vacated by the would-be photographer. "It took me a little
while to track you down," he said. "You didn't tell me
that you'd left London." 'Is there any reason why I should
have done?" asked Georgia coolly.
"We are married," he pointed out. "Technically, perhaps,"
she conceded, "but we've been separated for nearly four
years and, since you haven't made any other attempt to
contact me in that time, it didn't occur to me to keep you
informed of my movements."
Hey, who would have thought she would have been able to
come up with a coherent sentence like that? Georgia mar-
velled. Who needed yoga anyway? She could do this. She
could deal with her soon-to-be ex-husband without falling
apart or letting the frantic churning get the better of
her. Ha!
"I don't recall you letting me know whenever you went off
to the Middle East or Angola or Liberia or all the other
trouble spots you've been to over the last few years," she
added, feeling more confident now.
"You've been keeping track of me?" The undercurrent of
amusement in Mac's voice made Georgia grit her teeth. He
had never really taken her seri- ously, and it looked as
if nothing had changed.
"I read the papers," she said, managing a careless
shrug. "I see your name under the pictures so I know where
you've been, that's all."
And every time it had been like a knife turning in her
heart, knowing that he was in danger, never getting a
phone call to say that he was safe, knowing only that he
had sur- vived one conflict the next time his photographs
of another appeared in the paper.
Of course, Mac had always thrived on risk. His was an odd
mixture of recklessness and competence, a confidence
bordering on arrogance that he could deal with any
obstacle that stood between him and a good picture.
It was what made him a wonderful photographer and a
terrible husband. How many nights, Georgia wondered, had
she lain awake worrying about where he was and what he was
doing, only for him to breeze back, to laugh at her fears
and tell her that she should learn to live dangerously,
life was so much more fun that way? But it hadn't been fun
for Georgia, just waiting for him to come home. He had
never understood how hard it was for her.
She looked across the desk at him now. No, he hadn't
changed. Nobody could call Mac a handsome man, his fea-
tures were too irregular for that, but he was undeniably
at- tractive, with those dark, lean looks, and that
reckless, good- humoured assurance that gave his mobile
face its compel- ling charm.
He was a little thinner now, maybe, a little more battered
around the edges, but then, weren't they all? Georgia
thought wryly. You didn't have to spend your life in war-
torn countries to lose your sheen after you hit forty.
He had aged better than she had, she had to acknowledge,
but then men always did. Mac's lines made him look rugged
and humorous, hers just made her look tired and tense.
"Besides," she went on, abandoning that depressing line of
thought, "I am a journalist. It wouldn't have been that
hard to have found you if I'd needed to, which I haven't
until now. I sent the divorce papers care of the Picture
Desk at the paper. I presume that's why you're here?"
"Got it in one," said Mac, not feeling nearly as casual as
he sounded.
Her letter had been forwarded to him in Mozambique. He had
been sitting in a bar in Maputo, having collected the mail
that had accumulated in his post box while he'd been
covering a story up country. He had ordered a beer while
he leafed through the letters, opening anything that
seemed interesting and leaving the rest until later.
Mac remembered the moment exactly. Remembered frowning
slightly at the solicitor's stamp, turning the enve- lope
over, ripping it open with his thumb. Even at the time
he'd thought of Georgia, who would undoubtedly have used a
letter opener or a knife to open it neatly rather than
leave a jagged tear like that. It was the kind of memory
that would catch at him like barbed wire, just when he
least expected it.
He remembered shaking the thought of her aside as he'd
pulled out the papers and unfolded them, remembered the
sickening jolt as he'd read the solicitor's covering
letter and the words sank in. After all this time, Georgia
wanted a divorce.
"I appreciate the effort," she said now in a dry
voice, "but there was no need for you to come. All you had
to do was sign the papers and send them back to my
solicitor."
"But I don't want to sign," said Mac, tipping the chair
back so that he was balanced alarmingly on the back
legs. "I want to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about," said Georgia, trying to
ignore his balancing act and failing miserably. "And stop
doing that!" she snapped, succumbing to the blatant provo-
cation in spite of herself. "You're only doing it to wind
me up anyway. You know I hate it when you take stupid
risks."
"Georgia, I'm only sitting on a chair!" Mac rolled his
eyes, but let the chair legs drop back to the floor.
"You're the only person I know who can sit on a chair
dangerously," she said with a trace of resentment and he
grinned.
"That almost sounds as if you still care about me!" 'Well,
I don't," said Georgia, not quite truthfully. "It's
nothing to me if you want to break your neck. Just don't
do it in my office when I'm trying to work!"
"You're not working now," Mac pointed out. "We're just
talking." 'We're not talking," she insisted crossly. "What
is there to talk about?"
"Our marriage." 'Mac, we don't have a marriage." Georgia
sighed. "We agreed to separate four years ago. It was a
mutual decision and since neither of us has changed our
mind since then, there doesn't seem much point in carrying
on being married on paper only. Surely you can see that
it's sensible to sort everything out now?"
Sensible. There was a word to describe Georgia, thought
Mac, studying her over the desk. She looked tired, he de-
cided, and there were new lines around her smoky-grey
eyes, but her blonde hair was still drawn neatly away from
her face in a French plait, and she was as immaculately
groomed as ever, wearing one of those little suits that al-
ways made her look crisp and elegant and just a little
but- toned up.
The contrast in the two sides of Georgia had always in-
trigued him. There was the cool, controlled Georgia who
faced the world, and then there was the other, much more
alluring Georgia who shed her inhibitions with her neat
suit and her sensible shoes, whose smile as she shook her
beau- tiful hair free of its tidy plait had never failed
to send a frisson of excitement down his spine.
Look at her now, sitting at her perfectly organised desk,
crisp and capable in a scoop-necked silk top and discreet
earrings. Who could guess that behind that practical
façade was a warm, vibrant, alluring woman? Mac liked to
think that he was the only one who knew, the only who had
glimpsed the potential in the steady, sensible girl who
had escaped the confines of a small Yorkshire town for
London all those years ago, the only one to be fascinated
and in- furiated by her in equal measure.
The realisation that he might not be the only one after
all had brought him all the way back from Mozambique, jeal-
ousy churning in his gut.
The amusement evaporated from Mac's face. "The thing is,
Georgia, you said that neither of us had changed our mind,
but that's not quite true. I have."
She stared at him. "What do you mean, you've changed your
mind?"
"About being better off apart than together. I don't think
that any more." The navy-blue eyes looked directly into
hers. "I don't want a divorce."
For one long, long moment Georgia couldn't say anything at
all. She was too busy struggling to control her wayward
heart which, contrary to all its hard training over the
past four years, had done the equivalent of leaping to its
feet and punching the air with an exhilarated yes!
How pathetic was that? All those tears, all that
heartache. The pain, the confusion, the desolation...she
had got over it all. She had survived, she was over him,
and now all her body could do was thrill at the mere
suggestion that he might, after all, still want her.