LITMIR.BIZ

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her own counsel. She wanted to analyse the situation before making any moves and enlisting Nelson’s help. And if she did resort to the latter, it would be with the understanding that the only action to be taken was the suppression of the story.

      Francesca brought her gaze back to the selection of cosmetics in front of her. She picked up a pot of silver eyeshadow and smoothed the merest trace of it on her lids, added several layers of brown mascara to her lashes, and then outlined her mouth with soft peach lipstick. She sat back, looking in the mirror with a critical eye and decided Val was right; she did seem peaked. Rectifying her pallor with a light stroking of rouge on her high cheekbones, she then lifted the silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair several times, and finally completed her toilet with a few sprays of Joy perfume. As she rose the intercom buzzed. It was Val, announcing the arrival of the car.

      ‘Thank you, Val. Tell Dayson I’ll be down shortly. I’m not quite ready.’

      Having selected her clothes for the evening earlier in the day, Francesca was dressed within seconds, and she added the two strands of opera-length pearls she invariably wore, along with the other jewellery she had taken out of the safe that morning. As with the necklace, none of these pieces was ostentatious or elaborate, just plain pearl studs for her ears, a simple pearl bracelet with a coral clasp, and a coral-and-pearl ring she slipped on next to her platinum wedding band. A peach silk evening bag, identically matched to her high-heeled silk pumps, lay on the dressing table. She put in her keys and a few items she required for the evening, picked it up and moved towards the door.

      On an impulse she turned, and walked back to the far end of the dressing room. Here it widened into a more spacious area and became a deep, relatively large alcove. This was lined with closets running from the floor to the ceiling on all three walls, and they were entirely sheathed with mirrors that created a glittering cocoon of shimmering light and reflections, this effect intensified by hidden spots in the ceiling.

      Francesca paused in the centre of the alcove to view herself full length. After a moment’s consideration she frowned and shook her head, suddenly dissatisfied with the way she looked, although she was not quite certain why. Unless it was the dress which was new and had never been worn before. Like all her clothes this was understated and simple, a rippling column of peach-coloured panné velvet, cut like a Roman tunic and falling to the floor in straight fluid lines. The long wide sleeves helped to soften its basic severity, the square-shaped neckline beautifully emphasized her slender stem-like neck, and the off-centre slit in the skirt revealed enough of her right leg to lend a dash of sophistication. There was no question in her mind that the dress was elegant, and perfectly suitable for Nelson’s intimate dinner party. And yet there was something she was not sure about, something which troubled her, and she wondered whether to change into another gown, even though she was running late.

      She turned from side to side, looking at herself appraisingly from all angles, and finally made a long slow turn. It was then that Francesca saw her reflection doubled, tripled and quadrupled. An infinity of images in an infinity of mirrors assaulted her eyes, and she was confronted by a dizzying number of Francescas encased in a sliver of supple peach velvet. Peach from head to toe. Peach. She caught her breath and drew closer to the central mirror, staring intently, and a look of surprise mixed with dawning comprehension spread across her face. It was not the style of the dress that disturbed her, but the colour. Of course that was it. She had not worn peach for years, over twenty years to be exact.

      And as she continued to gaze at herself, mesmerized by the peach dress, up from the inner recesses of her mind there was dredged a memory, a memory so carefully, so deliberately and so deeply buried it had lain dormant for years.

      A scene enacted two decades before leapt out of her mind, was projected onto the mirror with such blinding accuracy and clarity that Francesca was propelled instantly backwards into the past. And she saw herself from a long distance, as she had once been.

      A night sky. Smooth. Still. Flashed with brilliant stars. A perfect Mediterranean sky. A balmy breeze. The brinish smell of the sea mingling with the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus. Candlelight glowing. Francesca sitting on the long white marble terrace of the Villa Zamir, on the promontory at Cap Martin. Francesca weeping. Katharine hovering solicitously. Katharine apologizing over and over again for being clumsy. Katharine doing nothing to help, but hovering, always hovering. Francesca barely listening. Francesca gazing in stupefied horror at the wine Katharine had spilled on her. Watching the stain seep down from the bodice on to the skirt, a red and violent stain, like fresh blood on the peach organza evening frock. A floating, romantic, dreamlike frock her father could scarcely afford. Ruined before the dance had even begun. Kim, handsome in his dinner jacket, hurrying to her with salt and soda water. And Nick Latimer arriving. Nicky mopping up Francesca’s tears, trying to be jocular and making a bad joke about tragic heroines. Her father. Sweet, consoling, concerned, but quite helpless. Doris Asternan. Her face cold with anger. Doris camouflaging the damage with a trailing spray of honeysuckle entwined with roses quickly picked from the garden. The flowers. Hardly covering the stain and wilting too soon. Francesca’s tears. Dripping on to the dress to mingle with the stain. Francesca weeping inconsolably because she had wanted to be beautiful for Victor. Francesca waiting. Waiting for Vic, who did not come. Francesca’s heart breaking …

      Francesca snapped her eyes tightly shut to block out the scene, not wanting to remember any more about the past. The past was irrelevant, it no longer mattered to her. An instant later she opened her eyes and stepped swiftly away from the mirror, and she saw again a woman of forty-two, the woman she had become in the intervening years. Attractive, elegant and coolly poised. And infinitely wiser than she had been then.

      She turned on her heel and left for Nelson’s dinner party.

      Sleep eluded her.

      Since her return from Nelson’s house several hours ago she had restlessly tossed around in the bed, unable to find repose, her eyes wide open and staring into the filtered greyness of the room. Finally, in exasperation, she sat up, turned on the light and got out of bed. Slipping into her robe, she went downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot milk and carried it back upstairs to the bedroom, where she sat drinking it, huddled in a chair near the fireplace, enveloped in introspection, unaware of the time or the chill in the air.

      Slowly, and with some deliberation, Francesca reviewed the events of the afternoon, carefully weighing and analysing all that had happened, all that had been said. And inevitably her mind came to rest on Katharine Tempest, for she had begun to realize, during these long dawn hours, that she had over-reacted to the news of the woman’s impending return to New York and request for a meeting.

      She did not want anything to disrupt or threaten her orderly and contented life. The life she had so painstakingly created with Harrison and his family. A life she enjoyed, and was comfortable living, and one she was determined to protect at all cost. Nelson was correct in his assessment of her former friend. Wherever Katharine Tempest went she dragged trouble in her wake. No, Katharine could not be permitted to enter her life again.

      A sigh of deep sadness broke the heavy silence in the shadow-filled room. She and Katharine had been so very close once, inseparable for years, until that ugly denouement when everything had erupted so explosively and the loving friendship had ended abruptly, and with acrimony. They had not seen each other since that day, over ten years ago, and during this time Francesca had schooled herself not to think of Katharine, and eventually, as the years passed, she had succeeded in achieving her goal. And she had forgiven Katharine long ago, forgiven her for so many things, in the wisdom of her own growing maturity. But seemingly she had not forgotten. She understood that now.

      Memories began to assail her. Memories of other times, other places, other people. She endeavoured to push them aside, clearly recognizing that memories were ineluctably treacherous. Particularly memories of Katharine, for they were shrouded in a web of turbulent emotions and raw feelings, and they evoked pain, the pain of Katharine’s own treachery and betrayal of her. But Katharine had not always been like that. Not in the beginning. She had been different then. They had all been different at that point in time.

      At that point in time. Francesca repeated the phrase to herself, and she

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