Sirocco - Anne Mather

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time? The usual thing?'

      ‘Mmm.’ Rachel lifted her teacup and took a gulp of the strong sweet liquid, wondering as she did so why she felt so guilty. It was true. She and Roger had had previous rows about their anticipated wedding, almost always concerning his mother's role in it, and just because that had not been the reason for her restless night it didn't mean she owed Jane any other explanation.

      ‘But surely he's realised by now that you're not about to let Mrs Harrington take charge of the arrangements,’ Jane exclaimed, moving about the room, drawing back the curtains and lifting a discarded pair of tights from the floor where Rachel had dropped them. ‘I mean, it's not as if you don't have any family, is it?'

      ‘No.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘But with my parents being divorced, she sees her opportunity to take control. Besides which, she doesn't consider my mother as a likely contender, and you know she disapproves of my father.'

      ‘Well ...’ Jane was reluctantly candid, ‘your father hasn't exactly endeared himself to your future in-laws, has he?'

      ‘No.’ Remembering the night of her engagement party, Rachel had to be honest, too. ‘But paying for a staff of caterers isn't exactly beyond his abilities, and I can handle all the details.'

      ‘I suppose she wants a terribly swish affair,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘To be charitable, she's probably only wanting to save you the trouble. After all, you have a job; she doesn't. Which reminds me, it's a quarter to eight.'

      ‘Quarter to eight?’ Rachel's eyes turned in horror to the clock on the bedside table, and swallowing the rest of her tea in a gulp she thrust her legs out of bed. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

      ‘I did,’ Jane pointed out wryly, leaving the room. ‘Don't panic! I'll go and make the coffee while you get dressed. Do you want some toast?'

      ‘I won't have time,’ exclaimed Rachel, throwing off her cotton nightgown and grabbing a clean pair of panties from the drawer. ‘Mr Black is leaving for Chelmsford at half-past nine, and I promised I'd go in early so we could deal with his mail before he left.'

      ‘Oh, well,’ Jane was philosophical, ‘it's not as if he's likely to fire you. I sometimes wonder what he'd do without you.'

      Rachel grimaced. ‘So do I, but I'd rather not find out,’ she retorted as she disappeared into the bathroom.

      Fifteen minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen of the flat, and Jane looked up from the morning paper with a faintly admiring smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you made it. And with five minutes to spare.'

      Rachel shook her head. ‘Do I look all right?'

      ‘Don't you always?’ Jane's comment was not without a trace of envy. ‘Next time I come into this world, I'm going to be a blue-eyed brunette!'

      Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

      ‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

      ‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

      ‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

      ‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

      Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

      It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

      Recalling how she had stormed out of Roger's apartment the night before, Rachel was reluctantly reminded of what had happened after. She had not found it easy to dismiss the incident from her thoughts the night before, and even now she felt herself tensing at the memory. Of course, she had soon recovered from the sense of panic that had gripped her at the time. Her unwilling interest in the man had been the natural sequel to the row she had had with Roger, and after all, their meeting had been highly unconventional. It was natural that she should have felt some curiosity about him, particularly bearing in mind his unquestionable good looks. Not that he had been handsome, as Roger was handsome, of course. The stranger's features had been much more irregular, harder, possessed of a harsh beauty that was more distinctively masculine. He had, she supposed, what was commonly known as sex-appeal, and that dominated his dark-skinned appearance ...

      Irritated at the trend of her thoughts, Rachel joined the queue at the bus stop, her burst of lightheartedness evaporating. For heaven's sake, she thought impatiently, what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she forget about what happened the night before? It wasn't as if she was ever likely to see the man again. He was a stranger and he was not English, and she didn't know why she hadn't told Jane, so that they could have a giggle about it.

      The solicitor she worked for, Arthur Black, was waiting for her when she arrived at the firm's offices in Fetter Lane, and his bustling presence succeeded in driving all other thoughts out of Rachel's head.

      ‘You're late,’ he remarked dourly, massaging the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘I did ask you to get here by a quarter to nine, Miss Fleming. It's now five minutes past, which leaves us only twenty-five minutes before my departure.'

      ‘I'm sorry,’ Rachel took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ‘but the traffic was——'

      ‘—hectic, I know,’ he interrupted her shortly, disappearing into his own office. ‘It always is,’ he called, as she extracted her shorthand note pad from a drawer and gathered up several pencils. ‘I should have thought you could have anticipated that by now.'

      ‘Yes, Mr Black.'

      Rachel grimaced and followed him into his office, shivering a little as the gas fire sputtered to reluctant life. The old building badly needed renovating, but the firm of Hector, Hollis and Black was unlikely to undertake it. They seemed to thrive on its sagging floors and dusty corridors, and even the offices of the principals were like Mr Black's office: poorly lit and shabby. Nevertheless, they were never short of briefs, and Rachel could only assume their clients imagined the exorbitant fees they paid were all swallowed up in their defence. Certainly they employed some of the best brains in the legal profession, and when Rachel first joined the firm as a junior typist she had been excited at the prospect of meeting such people. Now, however, the initial spark of enthusiasm had been somewhat doused. Working as Arthur Black's secretary for the past two years had helped her get things into perspective, and she no longer viewed the profession through rose-coloured spectacles. A law practice was not particularly exciting or romantic, as she had first imagined. It was mostly dull and repetitive, and only occasionally did she meet one of those charismatic characters, whose advocatory skills had made their names famous.

      ‘I

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