When he’d gone up to the bar, she’d followed. Touched his sleeve …
‘Hello, Jeremy. I don’t expect you remember me …’
He turned, brows lifting in sudden hauteur, which disappeared like the sun breaking through clouds as he registered her presence.
‘Livvy Butler—by all that’s wonderful. I don’t believe it. How long has it been?’
Too long, she thought, bathed in the warmth of that smile. Basking, for once, in his undivided attention.
‘You look terrific.’ His blue eyes took in everything, from the streaked brown hair enhanced by a fortnight in the Greek sun, to the pink enamel on the toenails peeping from her chic, high-heeled sandals. He glanced round. ‘Are you with someone, or can we talk?’
‘I was just leaving …’
‘No, don’t do that. Look, those people in the corner are going. Grab their table while I get us a drink. Is Chardonnay all right?’
She’d have drunk wolfsbane if he’d offered it to her.
Moments later, they were sitting at the corner table, and he was pouring wine into her glass.
‘Are you sure your friends won’t mind?’ she asked doubtfully.
Jeremy shrugged. ‘I’ve done my duty. The way things are going, my absence won’t even be noticed.’ He handed over her glass. Raised his own in a toast. ‘Happy meetings, Livvy. Tell me, what are you doing in Bristol?’
Waiting for you, she thought, as she raised her glass in turn. But I never knew it until this moment …
The taxi queue shuffled up, and Olivia shuffled with it, impatience building inside her. Why couldn’t all these people wanting Harrods or Selfridges share each other’s cabs, and save their money and her precious time?
Now that she was here, she wanted to be with Jeremy. Needed to see his face light up with incredulity and delight, and his arms opening wide to enfold her.
When it had started, it had been purely platonic. Just two old friends meeting for the odd drink—the occasional meal. Jeremy had made no secret of the fact that he was married, and she’d respected him for that.
She couldn’t remember the moment when she first registered that all might not be well in his marriage. Jeremy always spoke with pride of his wife’s career achievements, but was reticent—even tight-lipped—about their personal relationship, and gradually she’d found herself wondering.
Then, one day, he’d rung her at work and asked almost abruptly if she’d have dinner with him that evening. When she’d arrived at the restaurant, she’d found a candlelit table for two, and champagne waiting on ice.
‘It’s my birthday,’ he’d told her quietly. ‘Unfortunately, my wife is too busy preparing a major case for the Crown Court to come out with me. Thanks for making time for me, Livvy.’
Over the evening, Jeremy had spoken openly about his marriage for the first time.
‘With Maria, the job comes first, second and third,’ he’d said bitterly. ‘I’m not even sure I end up a poor fourth.’
‘That can’t be true.’ She’d put her hand over his. ‘You’ve been married such a short time. You have to talk it out—reach some kind of compromise …’
‘How can you talk to someone who won’t admit there’s a problem?’ He’d shaken his head. ‘I’m not certain we’ve ever had a marriage at all.’ His fingers had closed round hers. ‘I should have waited, Livvy,’ he’d said huskily. ‘Waited for you. I know that now. Tell me it’s not too late.’
‘Wake up, love.’ The taxi driver’s strident voice broke impatiently into her reverie. ‘Do you want a cab or not?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Red-faced, Olivia gave him her destination and heaved her case on board, collapsing back on to the seat as the cab moved off.
She hardly knew London at all, she reflected. Her only previous visits had been brief sightseeing trips when she was much younger. Living here would be a totally different matter.
She was used to heavy traffic in Bristol, but it didn’t compare with the sheer volume confronting her now. The cab was crawling along, hemmed in by other vehicles, only occasionally diving through some tiny gap, as if making a bid for freedom.
Selling her car had been the right decision, she acknowledged ruefully. She couldn’t envisage a time when she would dare drive through this mayhem.
The noise seemed to batter at her eardrums, and the air which reached her through the half-open window was stale and fume-laden.
She turned her gaze resolutely to the shops on either side of the street. She supposed there would come a time when they’d be as familiar to her as those in her own village, but just at the moment it didn’t seem likely.
She wanted to ask the cabbie where they were, but her sole remark about the weather had been greeted with a monosyllable, so she stayed silent.
The shops gave way to houses, big and solid, with impressive porticoes and an unmistakable air of affluence.
Olivia felt her throat tighten. It couldn’t be far now, she thought, casting an anxious eye at the cab’s meter.
Eventually, the taxi turned left into a long curved terrace of tall white houses, each approached by a short flight of stone steps and fronted by railings.
‘Did you say number sixteen?’ the cabbie called back to her.
‘Yes,’ she said, dry-mouthed, as they drew to a halt. Leaning forward, she saw smart dark blue paintwork, and a window box still bright with flowers in the September sunlight.
She stood on the pavement, and watched the departing cab as if it was her last link with reality. Then she turned, and looked back at the house. The curtains were half closed, but a ground-floor window was open at the top, and she could hear the faint sound of music.
So Jeremy was at home, she thought, relief flooding over her.
Slowly, she carried her case up the steps. There were two brass bells beside the front door, with one marked ‘B’. She pressed the unmarked one, and waited.
For an eternity, nothing happened, and she was just about to ring again when she heard the sound of locks being unfastened inside the house.
She took a deep breath, feeling her mouth shape itself into a nervous rictus of a smile.
The door opened, and Olivia found herself confronted by a complete stranger. Or was he? Although she knew they’d never met, his face seemed oddly familiar just the same.
He was tall, with untidy dark hair falling across his forehead, a beak of a nose, and a shadow of stubble on a determined chin. His eyes were a strange shade between blue and grey that seemed almost silvery, and fringed with long lashes. The deep lines beside his firm-lipped mouth had clearly been scored there by cynical amusement.
Although he wasn’t showing much evidence of a sense of humour at the moment. On the contrary, he looked profoundly and wearily irritated.
He was wearing a navy silk dressing gown, which hung open to the waist, revealing a strong, hair-shadowed chest. This garment, which only reached to mid-thigh on his lean, muscular legs, was obviously his only covering, and secured haphazardly by a sash at his waist, Olivia realised with sudden discomfort.
His bored gaze assessed her dismissively, taking in the brief denim skirt, the white shirt and black blazer. Olivia returned his disparaging glance with energy and interest, and saw his mouth tighten.
‘Yes?’
Did all Londoners deal in discouraging monosyllables? Olivia wondered.
She lifted her chin. ‘I’d like to see Jeremy Attwood, please. He—he’s expecting me,’ she added, into the