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and Helen’s mother arrived, almost at the same time, and then she had to get back to the office, which had been closed all this time.

      She rang the hospital later that day, but there was no further news, other than that Helen was in no danger, was conscious again, and would be in hospital for some days. Clare sent her flowers and a get-well card. She visited her the next afternoon and found her sitting up against banked pillows, still pale, still listless.

      ‘They say I can go home at the weekend,’ Helen said. ‘After these tests. They think I’m anaemic. I’ll have to drink blood, like Dracula!’ She laughed.

      Clare didn’t. She was too horrified by how ill Helen looked; by the dark shadows under Helen’s eyes and the thin, restless, frail fingers. It was a relief to find that the illness was nothing worse than anaemia—no doubt that would be a huge weight off Mrs Storr’s mind—but Clare kept remembering Helen’s look of pain as she talked about Denzil Black and his sexy actress. That man had a lot to answer for! ‘You’re beginning to look better,’ she lied.

      Helen brightened. ‘Do you think so? They say I mustn’t go back to work, I must rest for a few weeks, and I’m going to my brother’s place, to stay with him. Paul thinks I should go abroad after Christmas; he’s going to Majorca to the apartment we owned over there, and he suggested I came too.’ A faint flush crept up her cheeks. She gave Clare a defiant look, looked away quickly. ‘Well, we were married for years. Nobody will think anything odd about that.’

      ‘Of course not,’ said Clare. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

      She smiled at Helen warmly. If Paul took her away she would soon forget Denzil Black, and maybe Helen and Paul might even get together again for good, not just for a holiday?

      Very flushed, Helen said, ‘Oh, and Johnny Pritchard is dealing with Dark Tarn, by the way.’

      ‘I wasn’t worried about it,’ Clare said coolly. ‘It can wait.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Helen said, sounding shocked. ‘Denzil is in a hurry.’

      ‘Never mind him,’ said Clare. ‘You just look after yourself.’

      Over the next few weeks she seemed to be busier than usual. This was usually a dead time of year. People didn’t buy and sell houses in winter; spring was when their minds turned to moving home. But that winter Clare was very busy. A firm had recently built a large block of luxury apartments overlooking the harbour, and, failing to sell half of them, was eager to rent them out rather than leave them empty. They gave Clare the job of finding tenants, and for a while she was constantly driving possible clients out to the apartment building, showing them round, and dealing with their rental agreements.

      As she was out of the office so much her father came in to help part-time, but she still had a lot of extra paperwork to do.

      One evening in late November she was working at her desk after all the other shops had closed when the phone rang.

      Grimacing, she answered. ‘Hello?’

      ‘You sound bad-tempered.’

      A jab of shock went through her, but she pretended she hadn’t recognised his voice. ‘Who’s speaking?’ she asked distantly.

      He laughed. She flushed.

      ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I need to have a team of men look over Dark Tarn to recommend how it can be modernised without losing its atmosphere. Will you see that they have the keys for a day? My architect is Bernard Atkins. He’ll be in touch this week.’

      ‘Very well, but nothing can be done until you actually own the house, of course!’

      ‘I realise that. How long do you think it will be before the contract is ready for signature?’

      ‘A week or two.’ She paused, then, her voice chilling even more, asked, ‘I presume you know Helen is very ill?’

      ‘Yes, I had a letter from her, explaining. If I’m back in time before she goes off to Majorca, I’ll go and see her.’

      ‘I shouldn’t,’ Clare said quickly. ‘She needs complete rest; she isn’t having visitors.’

      ‘She’ll want to see me,’ he said with a soft inflexion that made Clare shiver.

      ‘Maybe she would,’ she bit back. ‘But it wouldn’t be good for her!’

      His voice even softer, he said, ‘You don’t like me much, do you, Miss Summer?’

      ‘I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion one way or another!’

      ‘When I get back, we must do something about that!’ he murmured, and she bit her lip.

      ‘I must go, Mr Black—I’m very busy, I’m afraid. I’ll make sure your architect gets the keys. Goodbye.’

      Clare put the phone down hurriedly before he could say anything else and sat there staring out into the dark, empty street, feeling a hot pulse beating in her throat. She put a nervous hand up to it, pressed down into her flesh and felt the leap of blood under her fingertip.

      Snatching her hand down, she angrily told herself not to let the man get to her. He was on the other side of the Atlantic, and she hoped he would stay there for a very long time, but when he did get back Clare had no intention of getting to know him any better!

      She went home an hour later and wasn’t surprised to find that nobody had cooked the evening meal yet. They were all supposed to do it in turn, but in practice it was more often than not Clare who ended up doing the cooking. Clare’s father did the shopping most days, but cooking wasn’t something he enjoyed or was good at, nor were any of the others. Robin and Jamie thought cooking was ‘for girls’ and Lucy, although always willing to do it, often drifted off into daydreams and forgot.

      That evening she wasn’t even home yet, and only walked in halfway through the meal. ‘Oh, terrific! Sausages and onions,’ she said happily, sitting down in her usual chair, and helping herself from the large dish in the centre of the table.

      ‘You were supposed to cook tonight, Lucy!’ her father reproached her.

      Lucy gave a groan. ‘Oh, no, I knew there was something I’d forgotten! Who cooked it, then?’

      ‘Who do you think?’ enquired their father wryly, and Lucy gave Clare a guilty look.

      ‘I’m sorry, Clare, I honestly forgot! It went clean out of my head! I’ll do it next time it’s your turn; when’s that?’

      ‘Tomorrow.’

      ‘Right, I won’t forget.’ Lucy looked down at her food. ‘There wasn’t a letter from Mike again today. That’s nearly ten days. I hope he isn’t sick.’

      ‘It’s probably the post,’ Clare said quickly, watching her sister anxiously.

      Lucy was delicate and sensitive, and easily hurt, and it had been a relief to her family when she met Mike Duncan a year ago, while she was still at college. Mike had been doing postgraduate research at the same college; he was four years older than Lucy, and had had some work experience before returning to do his postgraduate work.

      Quiet, steady, friendly—the whole family had liked Mike at once, and been delighted when Lucy got engaged to him, but then Mike had taken a job in Africa for a year in a teacher-training college there. He had insisted that he and Lucy postpone their marriage until he returned, and again the whole family had agreed with him, although from time to time Clare had her doubts. It had been the sensible decision. Lucy was very young, and a year wasn’t an eternity, but Clare realised that Mike’s absence was making Lucy restless.

      He had been away now for six months; he would be back in the spring, for their wedding. He wrote all the time, and sent recorded audio tapes of messages too; but it wasn’t the same as having him there and Lucy was lonely and often bored.

      ‘As long as he hasn’t met someone else!’ Lucy said, pretending to laugh,

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