Death's Door - Meryl Sawyer Mills & Boon M&B

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the last of the coffee, which, as expected, had deteriorated as it had cooled.

      ‘Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you had finished or not,’ Tiffany said, appearing beside her. She nodded at Nicola’s plate.

      ‘Had to quickly phone my boss.’

      ‘So do you want it or should I take the plate?’

      Nicola looked at the toast. She hated cold toast, but didn’t want to add to her already poor standing with Tiffany by wasting it.

      She picked up her knife, tore open the packet of butter she’d collected earlier, and started buttering.

      ‘Don’t suppose you’d like another crap coffee?’

      ‘Another coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ Nicola said, smiling broadly up at her. ‘Tiffany, look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot – too many late nights …’

      ‘Whatever.’ Tiffany shrugged, collected the mug and left.

      ‘Well that went well,’ Nicola mumbled to her toast.

      After a few moments alone, she looked around to find Tiffany had returned. She put the mug down but remained standing beside Nicola.

      ‘Um … er,’ Tiffany stammered awkwardly, her face reddening. ‘Yes?’ What now? Is she going to tell me where to stick my coffee?

      ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped,’ Tiffany blurted. The glower was a dead giveaway that the apology was being issued under duress.

      ‘No, I deserved it,’ Nicola sighed. ‘Bloody hangover,’ she muttered, taking a swig of coffee and cringing.

      ‘I’m not surprised,’ Tiffany grinned, sitting. ‘You enjoyed yourself last night.’

      Nicola raised her eyebrows.

      ‘I never expected you to be so … so relaxed. I mean here, of all places. I think Alex was quite … Sorry, I’m rambling.’

      Nicola wished she’d keep going. She hadn’t been that drunk; certainly not drunk enough not to notice the mattress springs poking her in the back and the bathroom tap dripping all night – almost, but not quite.

      ‘Bugger, I must have made a bloody fool of myself,’ she groaned and laid her head on the table.

      ‘Nah, everyone loved you,’ Tiffany enthused. ‘The blokes never thought you’d be so normal. You were great. Pretty pissed, but you were great,’ she added, grinning shyly.

      ‘Do I want to know details?’

      ‘Probably not,’ Tiffany laughed.

      Nicola shot her a quizzical frown. She was actually beginning to like this girl; the cheeky forthrightness. ‘Just kidding, nothing to worry about.’ ‘You’d tell me, right?’

      ‘Promise – cross my heart. So,’ Tiffany said, banging the table, ‘last night you mentioned you’re here to cover the drought. Maybe I can help. There’s practically no one in town I don’t know. You just have to ask.’

      ‘Well, I think I’d like to start with the editor of the local paper. Can you point me in the right direction?’

      ‘Easy – I’ll mark his office on a map,’ Tiffany said proudly, leaping up.

      ‘Thanks,’ Nicola said, smiling warmly at her new friend.

      ‘Be hard to get lost around here,’ Nicola muttered to herself while scanning the map. Doesn’t even look big enough to have its own paper.

      ‘Quaint,’ she said, stopping in front of a row of five pale limestone shops with red brick quoins. Large terracotta planters overflowing with masses of deep red camellia blooms completed a scene worthy of a tourist brochure. Nicola pulled the compact digital camera from her coat pocket and stood back and took a few shots. ‘Post Office, Police Station, Newspaper, and District Council – must be the CBD.’

      She approached the shopfront marked Nowhere Else Echo. In the window was a large old printing press, a number of ancient manual typewriters, and wooden boxes filled with pieces of large and small lettering. Black and white action shots of newspapermen hard at work and a yellowed example of a broadsheet headline page encased in Perspex hung from the ceiling, completing the display.

      Nicola took a few moments to marvel at how far the world of newspaper printing, and technology generally, had come.

      The door had a small bell that jingled when it opened. She smiled. It was like something out of a museum village.

      Actually, as she looked around the small reception, which doubled as a stationery shop, it was more like a 1950s movie.

      A sea of black and white chequered lino stopped at an imposing timber counter. Pale yellow light barely lit the narrow hallway beyond.

      The place smelled strongly of printing: the warm plastic scent of a photocopier, and the unmistakeable earthy and tangy odours of ink, worn metal and industrial oil that belonged to a printing press – probably the one in the window.

      To the left were three small white melamine study hutches with a printed sign above them: Public Internet $3 for 30 Minutes.

      To the right, a Stationery sign hung over a set of shelving. She wandered over for a closer look, half expecting to see 1950s advertising on the boxes, and was surprised to find a small but wide array of pens, pencils, refills, copier paper, lined pads, printer cartridges, calculator rolls and batteries.

      There was a nice looking pen in a hard clear plastic display box she wouldn’t have minded taking a closer look at, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself or the newspaper manager by having a sneezing fit – there was a fine layer of dust over everything. Obviously not a huge turnover.

      At home she kept her allergies under control with a daily antihistamine and weekly visits from the cleaner, but out here anything could happen.

      ‘Hello?’ she called, leaning over the counter towards the hall. Waiting for a response, she traced the dark scars in its worn surface and wondered at the stories the furniture held.

      A gruff voice echoed down the passage. ‘Sorry, we’re not open until ten.’

      Heavy leather soles clack-clacked on the lino, as a figure emerged slowly from the gloom.

      Nicola’s jaw dropped and she felt the colour drain slightly from her face. ‘Richard? Richard Watkins?’

      ‘Nicola Harvey, what the hell are you doing here?’ The lanky man had a pair of reading glasses on his forehead, beneath a dark tousled mop streaked with white pepper. He threw back the hinged timber barrier and pulled her into a tight hug.

      ‘Visiting an old friend, apparently,’ Nicola muttered. It was nice to be hugged, but she was distracted. Why was Richard Watkins out here, of all places? And why was he hugging her like a long lost friend when he’d been the one who’d left all those years ago? She shook the questions aside; it was nice to see him, even if it had come as a shock.

      ‘Seriously, what’s a journo of your calibre doing way out here?’ Richard asked when they broke apart.

      ‘I could ask you the same question – you topped our year and you end up out here?’

      ‘Hey, it’s not a bad little rag. I’m in charge, remember.’

      ‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting it was – it’s just … well … why out here? Last time I saw you you were off to London. Didn’t you have a job with The Times?’

      ‘Things changed,’ Richard shrugged, obviously keen to change the subject. ‘So, Gold Walkley. Well done. But I’m sorry about your parents – they were a lovely couple.’

      Nicola found

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