Lifting her head, she drew in a deep, steadying breath and brushed a stray drop of moisture from her eye. At least today she would not have to lie to her mother. Her dad was tied up with business.
Five minutes later, forcing a smile to her face, Sally breezed into her mother’s room with a cheerful hello.
She was sitting in her wheelchair, an expectant smile on her face—a still lovely face, although now it was deeply lined with pain. Her hair was no longer the soft red Sally remembered. After her chemo it had grown back a mousy brown, and was now streaked with grey.
Yet her mum had not given up, Sally thought as she walked towards her. She had still applied her make-up—and even if the foundation was a bit streaky and the lipstick not perfect she had tried…Probably because she expected her husband. But she was destined to be disappointed yet again.
Sally swallowed the lump that formed in her throat, and dropped a soft kiss on her lined cheek.
The nurse had dressed her mum in the pretty summer frock Sally had bought for her the week before. She always brought a gift when she visited—sometimes simply a box of chocolates. This week she had book on Greek Mythology she had found in a secondhand bookstore. It was a real find as it was a very old copy, printed in 1850, with wonderful illustrations.
She gave her mum the book, and she was delighted, but her smile faded a little when Sally told her her husband was not coming. Sally tried to make it better by explaining about his new boss, saying that she had actually met him at her dad’s office, and that seemed to satisfy her.
Later Sally suggested they take a walk in the garden as it was such a perfect afternoon. Her mum agreed, and she spent a pleasant hour pushing the wheelchair around the extensive grounds.
Sally sighed as she entered the studio apartment gifted to her by her parents and closed the door behind her. She sagged against it. It had been another beautiful summer day, but she felt hot, sticky and tired.
The weekend had been bittersweet. She had not left her mum until late last night. The outing in the garden had tired her, and Sally had helped the nurse put her to bed and then sat with her for the rest of the afternoon and Saturday evening. She had done the same on Sunday, and it had been after midnight when she’d finally arrived back in London, exhausted. But worry over her mother and the images of a tall dark man had fractured her sleep, and she had had to drag herself out of bed this morning to go to work.
She felt totally worn out, both mentally and physically, and for a moment hadn’t the strength to move. Shoulders slumped, she glanced around the room with jaundiced eyes. She hated the place.
It had been her father’s studio apartment for years, but after her mum’s accident he had sold the family home in Bournemouth and bought a three-bedroomed apartment in fashionable Notting Hill.
How he had persuaded her mother to sell the house in Bournemouth—the house her mum had inherited from her parents—Sally had had no idea, but she had reluctantly agreed to go and see the new apartment, supposedly the new family home. It was a top-floor conversion of a large Georgian house, and she’d swiftly realised it was unsuitable for a wheelchair—which to her mind simply confirmed that her father had no intention of ever living with his wife again.
His excuse for selling the house was the cost of keeping his wife in the nursing home. As it was he who had put her there, it did not cut much ice with Sally, but she could not deny he did pay the fees.
Then, to her dismay, she had found herself the recipient of his studio apartment. Her mother had been delighted, and told her it was time she had a place of her own. When she’d tried to refuse her mother had insisted, and told her to listen to her father—he was the accountant, and the property was a good investment. Apparently, giving the studio to Sally was a great way of avoiding death duties in the future!
Sally had then realised how he had persuaded her mum to sell, and it had confirmed in her mind what a greedy low-life he really was…
She had reluctantly moved in ten months ago, when the lease on her old apartment ran out, mainly because her mother had kept asking her when she was going to move.
But to Sally this apartment didn’t feel like her home, and she knew it never could—because in her head she would always think of it as her dad’s sleazy love-nest. A fact that had been brought home to her the first week she’d moved in, when she’d fielded quite a few calls from present and previously discarded mistresses. She had changed the telephone number, but she could not change the fact that a string of women other than his wife had shared the king-size bed.
As a studio apartment it was a superior example, with natural wooden floors, and it was larger than most. The kitchen and bathroom were off the small entrance hall, separate from the main living area which was split-level, with a mini-staircase leading to the bedroom area. She had thrown out every piece of furniture her father had left, including his king-size bed and the mirror over it, and bought a queen-size bed for herself.
She had redecorated completely, in neutral tones, and bought the minimum of new furniture: a sofa, an occasional table, and a television for the living area. In the bedroom she had fitted interlocking beechwood units along one wall, which included drawers and shelves where she could house her books, plus a desktop that stretched the length of one unit. It held her computer and doubled as a dressing table. The other wall had a built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. The bed had a beechwood headboard, and all her bedlinen was plain white—easily interchangeable. She didn’t need anything else, and she probably would not be there much longer.
She had mentioned to her mother a month ago that she was thinking of trying to sell the studio, telling her she would really prefer a separate bedroom. Her mum had said that would be nice, and the subject had not been mentioned again. But Sally had placed it with a local estate agent the next Monday. She had stipulated that she wanted no sign outside, as she was at work all day and away every weekend and a sign tended to encourage burglars.
She need not have bothered, as she no longer cared whether she sold it or not. Since hearing the doctor’s prognosis for her mother last week she’d recognised there were a lot worse things in life than living in an apartment one didn’t like.
She straightened up and headed for the kitchen, dropping her purse on the sofa on the way. A cup of coffee, a sandwich and a shower, in that order, and then bed.
Checking the water level in the kettle, she switched it on, and, opening a cupboard, reached for a jar of instant coffee just as the wall-mounted telephone rang.
Her heart leapt in panic. It must be the nursing home about her mother, was her first thought, and, lifting the receiver from the rest, she said quickly, ‘Sally here—what is it?’
‘Not what—who,’ a deep voice corrected her with a chuckle, before continuing, unnecessarily identifying himself. ‘Zac.’ And she nearly dropped the phone.
‘How did you get my number?’ she demanded.
‘Easy. Your father told me you lived in Kensington. I wasn’t so obvious as to ask him for your number, but you are in the telephone book.’
Of course she was. Hadn’t she changed the number and registered it under her own name? ‘You looked through all the Paxtons in the book? You must have had to ring dozens to find me.’ She couldn’t believe a man of his wealth and stature would go to so much trouble.
‘No. Surprisingly there are only a few, and yours was the first number I tried. I am just naturally lucky, Sally.’
He was naturally arrogant as well—and what was she doing, bothering to talk to him?
‘Now, about tonight,’ he continued. ‘I’ve booked a table for eight.’ He mentioned a famous Mayfair restaurant.
‘Wait a damn minute,’ Sally cut in angrily. ‘I never agreed to go out to dinner with you. So thanks, but