The warehouse had been burning all night. Smoke rolled into the sky, a darker cloud in an overcast morning. The bonfire smell of it thickened the air, giving the spring day a premature flavour of autumn. The rush-hour faces outside King’s Cross were turned to the dark column as Kate came up the steps from the Underground. The smoke rose above the rooftops in front of her, then the buildings closed in and blocked it from view. Kate barely noticed. A tension headache was creeping up her neck. She had just started chewing an aspirin, grimacing at the bitter tang, when she turned a corner and found the fire dead ahead. She halted, startled to find it so close, but carried on when she saw the street wasn’t cut off. The roar and crackle of the blaze grew as she approached. Set back from the road, the warehouse was surrounded by a confusion of uniforms and yellow helmets, white cars and red engines. Hoses snaked across the ground, flinging streamers of water into the smoke. The flames licked out in random snatches of colour, indifferent to them. A hot breath of wind brushed her face, dusting it with ashes. She turned away, eyes stinging, and realised with surprise that she had slowed to a standstill. Irritated with herself for gawking, she walked on, skirting the small crowd that had gathered by the police cordon. The warehouse was left behind. By the time she reached the Georgian terrace, several streets away, Kate had forgotten it. Most of the buildings in the terrace were run down, but one, cleanly painted, stood out like a raised hand in a classroom. Embossed in gold letters on its downstairs window were the words, “Powell PR & Marketing”. Kate went in. Three desks were fitted into the small office, angled to face each other. Standing behind one of them, a tall West Indian man with a shaved head was pouring water into a coffee filter. He gave her a grin. “Morning, Kate.”
“Hi, Clive.”
The filter machine hissed and gurgled. He tipped the last of the water into it and set down the jug. “Well. The big day.”
His voice had a faint Geordie lilt. Kate went to one of the two big filing cabinets and slid out a drawer. “Don’t remind me.”
“Nervous?”
“Let’s say I’ll be glad to find out one way or the other.”
The coffee filter had subsided to low hisses. Clive poured two cups and handed her one. He had worked for her almost since she had started the agency, nearly three years earlier, and if ever she made anyone a partner, it would be him.
“Did you pass the fire on your way in?”
“Mm.” Kate was flicking through the folders inside the cabinet.
“Been burning half the night, apparently. Bad about the kid, wasn’t it?”
She looked at him. “What kid?”
“The baby. A group of squatters were living there. They all got out, except for the baby. It said on the news the mother got burned trying to go back for it. Two months old.”
Kate put down her coffee cup. She was aware of the stink of smoke still clinging to her, and looked down to see tiny flecks of grey ash dotting her clothes. She remembered its feathery touch on her face, the tickle as she had breathed it in. She felt the sting of it again. She closed the filing cabinet without taking anything out. “I’ll be upstairs.”
Her office was on the first floor. Kate closed the door and batted the grey specks from her navy blue skirt and jacket. She knew she wouldn’t feel comfortable in the suit again until she’d had it cleaned. Hanging her jacket behind the door, she went to the room’s single window. Her reflection showed faintly in the glass as she looked out. Beyond it, the smoke was a spreading stain on the sky, against which her dark hair was invisible. Only her face was clear; a pale oval hanging in space. She turned away and went to her desk. Downstairs, she could hear voices as the others arrived. The front office was too small for Clive and the two girls, but the only other spare room needed redecorating and a new ceiling before anyone could work in it. It wouldn’t be cheap. Kate sighed and reached for a file. As she opened it there was a tap on her door. “Come in.”
A girl entered, carrying a Cellophane-wrapped bunch of red roses. Her plump face was openly curious as she handed them to Kate. “These have just been delivered.”
A small envelope was tucked into the stems. Kate opened it and slid out the plain white card. A short note was written on it in swooping, forward-slanting script. She read it, then replaced the card in the envelope. She handed the roses back to the girl. “Thanks, Caroline. Take these outside and give them to the first old lady you see, will you?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “What shall I say?”
“Anything. Just say they’re with our compliments.” Kate gave a tight smile. “And the nearer to ninety she is, the better.”
She stopped smiling as soon as the door closed. She took out the card and read it again. “Commiserations in advance. Love, Paul.”
Carefully, Kate tore it in half, then in half again before throwing it into her waste bin. Her entire body had tensed. She forced herself to relax. She turned to the file again, but the sudden beep of her telephone stopped her. She picked it up. “Yes?”
It was Clive. “Paul Sutherland from CNB Marketing’s on the line.” His tone was neutral. “Do you want me to tell him you’re busy?”
Kate hesitated. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take it.”
There was a series of clicks. She closed her eyes, briefly. A second later she heard the familiar voice. “Hi, Kate. Thought I’d ring and see if you’d got the flowers.”
“Yes. A little bit premature, though, I think.” She was pleased to hear her voice was steady.
“Oh, come on. You don’t seriously think you’re still in with a chance, do you?”
“Let’s just wait and see what happens, shall we?”
She heard him sigh. “Kate, Kate, Kate. You know what’s going to happen. You’ve done well to get this far, but don’t kid yourself.”
“Is that all you wanted to say? Because if it is, I’ve got work to do.”
There was a chuckle. “Now don’t be like that. I’m just giving you some friendly advice, that’s all. For old times sake.”
Kate clenched her jaw.
“Kate? You still there?”
“You’ve not changed, Paul. You always were a prick.”
She regretted the words immediately. The amused laugh came down the line again, this time unmistakably pleased with itself. “And didn’t you just love it? But I can see I’m wasting my time trying to talk sense to you. Poor little Kate’s got to do things her way, even if it means getting her fingers burned. Just try not to be too disappointed.”
The line went dead. Her knuckles were white as she banged down the receiver. The bastard. Kate fumbled in her bag, came up with a disposable lighter and a battered packet of Camels. Her hand shook as she put one in her mouth. She flicked a flame from the lighter and held it close to the cigarette without lighting it. The taste of stale tobacco was cold on her tongue when she inhaled. The flame quivered, but did not quite touch the cigarette. She held it there and counted to ten, then to ten again.
The second time it was easier. Grimacing, she clicked off the lighter and dropped the unlit cigarette into the bin. The packet and lighter went back in her bag. She put a sugar-free mint into her mouth to take away the taste. The shakes had gone, but her headache was back, fingering its way across her scalp. Kate wished she’d not tied her hair back so tightly that morning. She kneaded her temples, gently. Is it worth it?
When the invitation to tender for the Parker Trust account had landed on her desk six weeks earlier, she had gone into the pitch without any real expectation. The Trust specialised in the low-profile handling of investments for wealthy clients, funding just enough Worthy Causes (the words had been capitalised in their brief) to qualify as a charity. She had been surprised that they had even heard of Powell PR, let alone were prepared to consider them for a long-term, expensive campaign.
Then, amazingly, she had been short-listed. The shock of that still hadn’t worn off when she discovered who the other short-listed company was, and who she would be pitching against.
From then on, the pitch had ballooned until it filled her entire horizon. Clive joked that she might as well install a bed at the office, to save going home at all. You’re not happy unless you’re working, he’d said. She had smiled, but behind it had been a dark stirring of panic. Happy? That night at the gym she had strained until her muscles screamed, trying to burn off her restlessness like calories.
Now the waiting had concertinaed into the final hours. Redwood, the chairman of the board of trustees, had told her he would let her know the Trust’s decision before noon.
Winning would mean financial security, perhaps eventually bigger premises. It would establish the agency’s reputation, opening the way to bigger and better accounts. Kate didn’t let herself consider what losing would be like.
She found she was clicking her ball-point pen aimlessly in and out. She stopped, put it down, and determinedly reached for the file she had opened earlier. She began to read it and make notes, haltingly at first, then more fluidly.
But every few minutes her eyes would stray to the clock on the wall. The morning passed slowly. Each time a call came through she stiffened, expecting it to be from the Trust. None were. At five to twelve she gave up even the pretence of trying to work. She sat in the silence of her office, looking at the clock and waiting for the phone to ring. The second hand crept round the dial, bringing the noon deadline closer. She watched as it converged with the other two. The three formed a single, vertical finger, poised for a moment, and then the second hand ticked indifferently into its downward sweep.
Kate felt the anticipation leak out of her. In its wake was a heavy residue of disappointment. The Parker Trust were almost obsessively punctual. If she’d won the pitch she would have heard by now. She didn’t move as the fact of failure sank in, no longer a possibility but a reality to be faced. Abruptly, she shook herself. So you didn’t get it. It’s only a pitch. There’ll be others. She sat straighter in her chair, doggedly re-opened the file she’d been working on.
The phone beeped. Kate started. It beeped again. She picked it up. “Yes?”
Caroline answered. “It’s Mr Redwood from the Parker Trust.”
Even though she knew what he was going to say, Kate felt her heart bump. She cleared her throat. “Put him through.”
There seemed to be more clicks than usual as the transfer was made. The line hummed, hollowly. “Miss Powell?”
“Good afternoon, Mr Redwood.” She allowed a faint emphasis to creep into the “afternoon”.
“I apologise for the tardiness of the call. I realise you would have been expecting to hear sooner.” The voice gave an accurate picture of the man. Scottish. Thin, dry and humourless. Clive had called him anal, and Kate hadn’t been able to argue.
“Yes,” she said, simply.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.” He didn’t sound it. Kate felt a flash of antagonism. “It’s our policy to inform the unsuccessful tender first,” he went on, “to put them out of their misery, as it were, and it took a little longer than we anticipated.”
It took a moment for the implication to register. Suddenly confused, Kate floundered. “I’m sorry … You’ve spoken to CNB?”
She heard Redwood give an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps I’d better start again. I’m pleased to tell you that your tender has been successful. The board of trustees has decided to invite your agency to handle our campaign.”
Kate felt an almost out-of-body detachment. Outside, a siren Dopplered in and out of existence.
“Miss Powell? Is there a problem?”
“No! No, I …” She made an effort. “I’m delighted. Thank you.”
“Again, I apologise for the delay.” His voice became tinged with disapproval. “I’m afraid CNB were reluctant to accept our decision. The person we were dealing with became quite … insistent.” Redwood brought himself up short. “Well. Congratulations, Miss Powell. We look forward to working with your agency.”
Kate said something, she wasn’t sure what. They agreed to meet later in the week. He rang off. She listened to the purr of the dialling tone before setting the receiver back in its cradle. From downstairs she could hear the drone of a photocopier, the peal of someone’s laughter. She stared blankly out of the window. For a moment she thought the patch of darkness outside was a raincloud. Then she remembered. After a while she got up to tell the others.
The bus stopped outside the shops near her flat in Fulham. As Kate stepped off, it occurred to her, belatedly, that she could probably afford to get a taxi from the tube station now. Old habits died hard. She went into the Asian supermarket and bought a pint of milk and a packet of rice. After a moment of indecision she added a bottle of white Rioja to the wire basket.
There was a chill in the air as Kate left the shop, a reminder that spring had yet to reach further than the calendar. A drizzle had started, and she began walking faster, hoping to get home before it grew heavy enough to merit an umbrella. She almost trod on the child’s mitten lying at the edge of a puddle. It formed a vivid splash of red against the dirty brown pavement, and couldn’t have been there long because it still looked new and clean.
Kate picked it up, glancing up and down the street for the pram or buggy it must have dropped from. No one was in sight, so she cast around for a wall or window-ledge to put it on. There was nowhere, except back on the muddy pavement. Reluctant simply to discard it, she looked at the forlorn little object in her hand. The mitten was no bigger than her palm, and suddenly the memory of the warehouse fire came back to her. Kate felt her throat constrict, and before she knew what she was doing she had tucked the mitten into her pocket and walked on.
The drizzle had stopped by the time she reached her flat. The wrought-iron gate in front of the Victorian terraced house was open, as it always was since the hinges had dropped and wedged it against the path. The tiny garden, no bigger than a large rug, had been flagged over by a previous occupant, but a gap had been left in the centre for a thorny huddle of rose bushes. They needed pruning, Kate noticed absently. She went into the small open porch and unlocked the front door.
Envelopes were splashed on the black and white tiles in the cramped hallway. She bent and picked them up, shuffling through for those addressed to her. There were only two; one a bill, the other a bank statement. The rest was junk mail. She divided it up and put half on her ground-floor neighbour’s coconut-fibre welcome mat. As she straightened, the door opened and the old lady who lived there beamed out at her.
“I thought I heard someone.”
Kate mustered a smile. “Hello, Miss Willoughby, how are you?”
Her heart sank as the woman emerged further, leaning heavily on her walking stick. The dark green woollen dress was immaculately pressed, as usual, and the blue-grey wig sat incongruously on top of the wizened face, like a hat.
“Very well, thank you.” She looked down at the circulars on her mat. “Are they for me? “Kate picked them up again and handed them to her, resigned to seeing the routine through.
“Nothing exciting, I don’t think.”
As far as she could tell, Miss Willoughby never received any letters. But she always came out to check when Kate arrived home. Kate knew she was only using the post as an excuse, and usually didn’t mind chatting to her for a few minutes. That evening, though, it was an unwelcome effort.
Miss Willoughby peered through her gold-rimmed spectacles at the fliers and special offers, and for a moment Kate thought she might escape easily. She started drifting towards her door, but then the old lady looked up again. “No, nothing there for me. Still, you never know, do you?”
Kate forced a smile of agreement as Miss Willoughby leaned both hands on her walking stick, a sure sign that she was settling herself for a lengthy conversation. But before she could say anything else, a grey shape emerged with a clatter through the cat flap in the front door. The tom cat miaowed and rubbed around Kate’s legs, then darted towards the old lady’s doorway.
“No, you don’t, Dougal,” Kate said, grabbing it. The cat, a big tabby, squirmed to be put down. “I’d better take him in. If he gets in your flat we’ll never get him out,” she said, seizing the opportunity.
Miss Willoughby’s smile never wavered. “Oh, that’s all right. But I won’t keep you. I expect you’ll both be hungry.”
With a final goodnight, she went back inside as Kate unlocked her own door. There was a cat flap in that as well, but Dougal saw no reason to use it when Kate was there to let him in. She closed the door behind her before letting the cat jump down. His miaows receded towards the kitchen as he ran up the carpeted stairs. Kate followed more slowly, feeling churlish now for dodging the old lady. Sighing, she took off her jacket, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell of smoke. She put it on a coat-hanger, ready to take to the cleaners, and it was only when she saw the bulge in one pocket that she remembered the mitten. The irrationality of the impulse that had made her keep it disturbed her. Decisively, she took it out and went to the bin in the kitchen. The lid sprang open when she stamped on the foot pedal, releasing a faint, sweet smell of rot. Kate looked at the hash of egg shells and vegetable peelings, holding the mitten poised above them. But she was no more able to throw it away now than before. She took her foot from the pedal, letting the lid slap down, and went back into her bedroom. Pulling open a drawer, she thrust the mitten far into the back under a pile of clean towels, then pushed the drawer firmly shut.
Kate went back into the hall, untying her hair with a little sigh of relief. The message light was flashing on the answerphone. She played back the tape, but whoever it had been had hung up without speaking.
Barefoot, she went into the lounge. Like the rest of the flat, its walls were plain white, partly because she preferred the simplicity of such a colour scheme, and partly because the house faced away from the sun and was quite dark. Even now, when it was still light outside, the white walls did little to lift the gloomy twilight.
Kate switched on a table lamp. The furniture in the room was clean-lined and modern, except for an old pine seaman’s trunk that served as a coffee table. On the wall was an abstract oil she’d bought from an exhibition, the only splash of colour on the otherwise blank backdrop. The flat was much cosier in winter, when the long nights came and she could draw the curtains and fill the corners with artificial light. Now, though, dark as the flat was, there was something not quite right about having a lamp on when it was still daylight outside. She turned it off again and switched on the TV instead. Idly, she flicked through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her, but it illuminated the room a little, and the sound of voices gave the flat a less empty feel.
There was a miaow as the cat wrapped himself around her legs, butting his head against her ankles. “You hungry, Dougal?” She picked him up. He was big, even for a tom, with close-set eyes that gave him a stupid, perpetually surprised expression. He had come with the flat, an extra that hadn’t been mentioned by the estate agent when she’d bought it. The middle-aged couple who’d lived there before hadn’t bothered to take their pet with them when they’d left. Kate hadn’t wanted a cat, but Dougal had been either too stupid or too determined to accept that. He wriggled free and jumped onto the floor, miaowing. “All right, I know it’s dinnertime.” Kate went into the kitchen and took a tin of cat food from the wall cupboard.
The cat jumped up onto the work surface and tried to eat the meat as she was forking it into the dish. She pushed him back down. “Just wait, gutbucket.
“Kate set the dish on the floor and watched as the cat began to gulp at the food. She considered getting something to eat herself. She opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again. A bray of false laughter came from the lounge. Kate went back in. A sitcom was on the TV, noisy and colourful. She switched it off. The hysterical images disappeared as the screen went blank, the laughter abruptly severed. Silence crowded into the room. It seemed darker than ever, but she made no move to turn on the lamp. From the kitchen she heard the faint sound of the cat’s dish softly scraping on the kitchen floor. What’s wrong with me? Winning the Parker Trust account was the biggest coup of her career. She should have been euphoric. Instead she felt nothing. There was no satisfaction, no sense of having achieved anything. Nothing, after all, had changed. She looked around the darkening lounge. Is this it? Is this all there’s going to be. The sound of the cat-flap slapping shut came from the hallway. Dougal had eaten his fill and gone out again. She was alone. All at once the darkness, the quiet was oppressive. She turned on the lamp and quickly set the CD playing without caring what was in it. The sound of Tom Jones belting out “It’s Not Unusual filled the room. Kate went into the hallway and picked up the phone. She had made no arrangements to go out that evening, knowing that if she had lost the pitch she wouldn’t want to. Now, though, the thought of staying in by herself appalled her. The phone rang only twice at the other end before a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Lucy, it’s Kate.”
“Oh, Kate, hi! Hang on.” There was a hollow clunk as the receiver went down. Kate heard Lucy raising her voice in the background. There was a childish objection that she overruled, then she was back. “Sorry about that. Slight disagreement over which programme we want to watch.”
“Who won?”
“I did. I told her she could either watch EastEnders with me or go to bed. So she’s suddenly an EastEnders fan. Anyway, how did it go?”
“We got it.”
“Oh, Kate, that’s fantastic. You must be over the moon!”
“Well, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”
“It will! So you’re off out celebrating tonight, then?”
Kate transferred the receiver to her other ear so she could hear better over the noise from the CD. “Er, no. Look, I wondered if you fancied going out somewhere? My treat, so long as Jack doesn’t mind babysitting.”
“Tonight? Oh, Kate, I can’t! Jack’s not going to be in till later.”
Kate kept the disappointment from her voice. “It doesn’t matter. It was pretty short notice.”
“I know, but we’ve not been out together for ages! Tell you what, why don’t you come over? Bring a couple of bottles of wine, and with a bit of luck we can be pissed by the time Jack gets home.”
Kate felt her spirits lift. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. So long as you don’t mind playing aunty again if the kids aren’t in bed.”
Kate smiled at the thought of Lucy’s children. “I’d love to.” She told Lucy she’d be over in an hour and hung up, her melancholy gone. She was busy again, with somewhere to go and something to do. She would laugh and play with Emily and Angus, get a little drunk with Lucy, and kick herself out of any self-indulgent blues. She did a hip-twitching dance as Tom went into overdrive. She phoned for a cab, then poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. “Cheers,” she toasted herself. She took the glass into the bathroom and put it on the edge of the bath while she undressed. She studied herself briefly in the mirror as she waited for the water to run hot, wishing as usual that she was tall and elegant instead of small and trim. But, on a high now, she didn’t let it worry her. She showered quickly, humming as the stinging water sluiced away the day’s events. She had dried herself and was just beginning to dress when the doorbell rang. The cab was early. Damn. Kate hesitated, debating whether to throw on more clothes before going to answer it. A second, longer ring decided her. Pulling on a towelling robe, she ran downstairs. The blurred silhouette of a man was visible through the coloured diamonds of the stained-glass panel. Kate unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Sorry, you’re too — ” she began, and stopped. Paul was standing in the porch. He grinned at her. “Too what?”
The sight of him froze her. She tried to kick-start herself over the shock. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to offer my congratulations.”
He lifted up the bottle of champagne he was gripping by the neck. Kate could smell the beer on his breath, sour and mingled with a waft of cigarette. There was something about his smile that she didn’t like. She kept hold of the door, barring him. “I’m going out.”
His grin broadened as he slid his gaze down her body. She resisted the impulse to clutch the robe tighter. “The taxi’ll be here any minute. I’ve got to finish getting dressed.”
He moved his eyes from her breasts. “Don’t mind me. Won’t be anything I’ve not seen before, will it?”
He stepped forward as she began to protest, and she instinctively moved away from him. That was all the space he needed to wedge his shoulders in the doorway, levering the door open against her pressure. He forced her back another pace, and then he was inside.
“Paul!” she began, but he brushed past her. “Come on, Kate, I thought you were in a hurry?”
He went heavily up the stairs, bumping off the wall as he stumbled against it. Kate stood in the small hallway as his footsteps clumped into the lounge. Don’t go up, leave him, don’t go up! a small voice shrilled. But she didn’t know what else she could do. Closing the front door, but not the one to her flat at the bottom of the stairs, she ran after him. Paul was sprawled on the sofa, arms spread across its back. His face was flushed. He hadn’t changed much since the last time she had seen him. His dark-blond hair was a little longer, and she noticed the slight tightness of shirt against gut. But the condescending arrogance with which he greeted the world was still the same. He smirked at her. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“How did you find out where I live?”
“If you wanted to keep it a secret, you should go ex-directory. And I’d change the message on your answerphone, if I were you. You sound really bored on it.”
Kate stood by the doorway. “I want you to leave.”
“Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink?” He waggled the champagne. “No?” He let the bottle drop onto the sofa. “So much for congratulations.”
“Why’ve you come, Paul?”
A look of uncertainty touched his face, as though he didn’t know himself. Then it was gone. “To see you. What’s the matter — too good to talk to me now?”
“There’s nothing to say. And I’ve told you, I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“To Lucy’s.” The reflex to tell him came before she could stop it. She hated herself for the automatic surrender. The unpleasant smile was back on Paul’s mouth. “So you’re still seeing that cow?”
“She isn’t a cow, and who I see isn’t any of your business anyway.”
His smile died. “I’d forgotten how fucking smug you are.”
Kate didn’t say anything.
“Oh, spare me the injured look!” Paul regarded her sourly. “Christ, you haven’t changed, have you? St Kate, still acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”
He sat forward, suddenly. “Come on, don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this! You did it! You beat me! You can crow about it, I don’t mind.”
“I just want you to go.”
“What, just like that?” He looked at her with mock surprise. “This is your big chance! You finally gave that bastard Paul Sutherland his comeuppance! Don’t you want to rub my face in it?”
Kate felt the old guilt working. Beating him hadn’t given her the lift she’d expected, but she couldn’t deny it had been an incentive. The strength of her desire to apologise, to say he was right, maddened her. “What makes you think you’re important enough for me to be bothered?”
He grinned, pleased to have provoked her. “Because I know you. I know what you’re like. Christ, I should do, I lived with you long enough.” The thin veneer over his anger was beginning to crack. “God, look at you. Miss Superior. You think you’re it, don’t you? Well, you’re not. You’re nothing. If not for me you’d still be peddling shitty little accounts!”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“No? Who gave you your first fucking break, then?”
The retort came before she could stop it. “And that wasn’t all you gave me, was it?”
He stared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kate looked away. “Look, Paul, this is pointless. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but — “
“Disappointed? Why the fuck should I be disappointed? Just because some conniving bitch screws me out of an account I’ve been working my balls off for?”
“I didn’t screw you out of anything.”
“No? Who did you screw, then? Was it the whole board, or just Redwood?”
She held open the door. “I want you to go. Now.”
He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Come on, Kate, you can tell me. Did he touch your spot like I used to?”
“Get out! Now!”
He was up off the sofa before she could move. He grabbed her around the throat with one hand. The other pressed against her chin, forcing her head back.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!”
Kate felt his spittle fleck her face. His breath was thick with alcohol. She tried to prise his hands from her, but he was too strong. His face worked.
“You bitch! You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”
He jammed her back against the door. The handle dug painfully into her spine. Then she saw the expression in his eyes alter, and suddenly she knew what was going to happen next. As though the thought had prompted the action, he dropped one of his hands and wrenched aside the bathrobe, ignoring her struggles as he grabbed her breast. He dug his fingers into her.
“Paul — No!”
The hand on her throat choked her, stopping her from screaming. His leg went between hers, forcing them apart, pinning her. There was no space to kick or knee him. She tore at his wrist. Tiny points of light began to spark her vision. She felt his hand at her waist, yanking at the belt that still held the robe closed. No! God, no! Abruptly, she stopped struggling. Feeling the lack of resistance, Paul looked up. She forced herself to smile at him over his hand.
“Bedroom …” she croaked.
For a moment he didn’t move, and she thought he was too far gone to listen to her. Then a grin touched his mouth. He stepped back, and as the pressure on her throat relaxed and his leg slid from between hers, she shot her knee up at his groin and pushed out as hard as she could.
It was too soon. Her knee skidded off his thigh, and even as he reeled away, he was already grabbing for her again.
She lunged through the doorway, feeling him close behind her as she stumbled down the hall. He caught hold of her bathrobe as she reached the top of the stairs, checking her, dragging her back in an unequal tug of war. She could see the door standing open at the bottom, and in desperation spun round and wrenched the robe from his fingers.
She pitched back against the wall as it ripped free, her teeth snapping together painfully. Paul toppled the opposite way, into the open stairwell. He caromed off the banister and tumbled untidily to the bottom, crashing into the door and knocking it back against the wall before sprawling onto the black and white tiles of the entrance hall.
Breathless, Kate ran down after him. His eyes were screwed shut, mouth frozen in a pained “O” as she stepped over his legs and opened the front door. Dazed, he didn’t resist as she tucked her hands under his arms and began dragging him backwards. He was heavy, but there wasn’t far to go.
It was only when his hips bumped down off the porch that he seemed to realise what was happening. “Whoa — ” he said, stiffening, and Kate let him drop.
His head cracked onto the concrete path, but even as the “Ow/” was forced from him, she was already running back inside. She banged the front door shut and leaned against it, panting. Her back and shoulders ached from the effort.
For a few seconds there was silence outside, then she heard him grunt and curse as he scraped to his feet. “Fuck!” Another groan. “Bitch!”
She heard him take a step towards the porch. “If you’re still there when I get upstairs, I’m calling the police!” she shouted. She turned to find Miss Willoughby standing in the doorway behind her. Below the wig the old lady’s face was shocked.
“Is everything all right?”
Kate saw her bathrobe was flapping open. She pulled it around her, trying to compose herself. “Yes. I’m sorry, it’s …” An explanation defeated her. “Everything’s fine.”
With Miss Willoughby staring after her, she hurried upstairs into the lounge. Keeping to the side of the window, she edged forward until she could look down onto the path. Paul was standing by the gate, rubbing the back of his head and glaring into the porch. He glanced up at the window. Kate jerked back, but he gave no sign of having seen her. Finally, with a last black look, he turned and walked slowly away.
Kate watched until she could no longer see him in the dusk. Then she sagged. Her legs felt weak, and it was all she could do to make it to a chair before they gave way. She shook as she wrapped the bathrobe tight across her chest and hugged herself.
The sudden clamour of the doorbell made her jump. God! Now what? Cautiously, she went back to the window and peered out. Whoever it was, they were out of sight on the porch. She hesitated, then crept back downstairs. The doorbell rang again when she was halfway down, almost making her miss a step. Mouth dry, she unlocked the door at the bottom. In the fading light, the figure framed in the stained-glass panel was even more indistinct than before.
Her voice cracked a little as she asked. “Who is it?”
“Cab for Powell.” The voice was Cockney, nothing like Paul’s, and she rested her head against the wall. She almost told the driver she had changed her mind: the urge to lock herself inside and crawl into bed was overwhelming.
“Give me ten minutes,” she called instead, and ran back upstairs to get dressed.