Not that Simon even seemed to realise that he was getting special treatment. ‘I’ll be here when you’re ready,’ he said to Clara. Taking a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs, he unfolded the Financial Times and proceeded to ignore everyone else.
By the time she emerged with a plaster cast up to her elbow and her arm in a sling, Clara was tired and sore and feeling faintly sick. She wanted Matt. Usually she was very good at persuading herself that she was fine, but at times like this, when her defences were down and she just needed him to put his arms round her and tell her that everything would be all right, his absence sharpened from a dull ache to a spearing pain.
Matt wasn’t there for her any more. There was no one there for her.
Except Simon Valentine, who was sitting exactly where she had left him, and the rush of relief she felt at the sight of him made her screw up her face in case she burst into tears or did something equally humiliating.
‘The sister said your wrist is broken,’ he said, folding his newspaper and getting to his feet as she appeared. ‘I’m sorry, it must be very painful.’
Clara put on a bright smile. She wasn’t going to be a cry-baby in front of Simon Valentine.
‘It’s not too bad.’ She moved her arm in its sling gingerly. ‘I have to come back to the fracture clinic in a week, and they’ll put a lightweight cast on it then.’
‘My mother rang while you were being X-rayed,’ he told her. ‘It seems she picked up your bag when you dropped it to go after that mugger.’
Clara clapped her good hand to her head. ‘Thank goodness for that! I forgot all about it in all the kerfuffle.’
‘We’ll go and pick it up, and then I’ll take you home.’
‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘I can get a cab.’
‘You might as well resign yourself,’ he said. ‘My life wouldn’t be worth living if my mother got wind of the fact that I let you go home in a taxi!’
His suit was still immaculate, and she was horribly aware all at once of her scuffed knees and mud-splattered clothes where she had fallen. His hand was strong and steadying through her jacket as he took her good arm and steered her out through the doors to the car park, and she was guiltily grateful to his mother for insisting that he go with her to the hospital.
Being driven was a luxury too, she thought, sinking into the comfortable leather seat. It certainly beat the tube, or squeezing onto a bus with everyone else, coats steaming and breath misting the windows.
‘You don’t strike me as a man who’s scared of his mother,’ she said, turning slightly to look at him as he got in beside her.
‘She has her own ways of getting what she wants,’ said Simon in a dry voice. ‘I’ve learnt it’s easier just to do what she says.’
Throwing his arm over the back of her seat, he reversed out of the narrow parking slot. Clara sat very still, afraid to move her head in case she brushed against him. All at once it felt as if there wasn’t quite enough oxygen in the car.
‘I thought she was charming,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Oh, yes, she’s charming,’ he said with a sigh and, to Clara’s relief, he brought his arm back to put the car into forward gear once more. ‘Great fun, wonderful company and completely irresponsible, but she gets away with it. She can be utterly infuriating, but if you try and reason with her, she just smiles and pats your cheek and, before you know where you are, you’re doing exactly what she wants.’
Now why hadn’t she thought of patting his cheek? Clara wondered. Somehow she felt it wouldn’t have worked for her.
She liked the sound of Frances, though. She seemed a most unlikely mother for Simon.
‘You must take after your father,’ she said.
It was a throwaway comment, but Simon’s face closed and his mouth set in a compressed line.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘I don’t resemble him at all.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WOW.’ A-glitter with lights, London lay spread out below Simon’s apartment. Across the Thames, the bridges were illuminated as if strung with fairy lights, and Clara could see right down to the Houses of Parliament and the huge circle of the London Eye. In the darkness, the streets seemed to be shimmering with energy.
‘Wow,’ she said again. ‘What a fabulous view! It feels like you’re on top of the world, doesn’t it?’
She turned back to admire the rest of the apartment, which was stark and stylish, and somehow not at all what she had expected of someone as conventional as Simon Valentine. ‘What an amazing place.’
Simon shrugged as he pocketed his car keys. ‘It’s a convenient location for the City, and these properties make sound investments.’
‘Right,’ said Clara, who had never invested in property in her life.
‘I think it’s ghastly!’ said Frances. She had changed and was looking remarkably relaxed and elegant for someone who had been mugged hours earlier. ‘I keep telling him that he should at least put up some curtains.’
She looked around her disparagingly. ‘Soulless is the only word for it. What this place needs is a woman’s touch,’ she said as Simon blew out an exasperated breath, having clearly heard it all before. ‘Don’t you agree, Clara?’
Clara thought of the cluttered flat she shared with Allegra. It was cosier than Simon’s apartment, that was for sure, but she couldn’t see Simon wanting cushions and throws and magazines scattered on the sofa. He wouldn’t like cold mugs of tea left lying around, shoes discarded on the floor or bras and tights drying over the radiators. That coffee table would never be buried under nail polishes and phone chargers and old newspapers and empty crisp packets and menus from the Indian takeaway round the corner.
In fact, the woman’s touch was probably the last thing Simon needed.
‘It’s very spacious,’ she said diplomatically.
Frances sniffed. ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t buy a nice house in Chelsea or somewhere. It would be so much nicer for me to visit.’ She heaved an exaggerated sigh but, when Simon remained unmoved, turned back to Clara.
‘Anyway, come and sit down.’ Without giving Clara an opportunity to protest, she drew her over towards one of the cream sofas and spoke over her shoulder to her son.
‘Darling, do get Clara a drink. You must be gasping for a G&T,’ she told Clara. ‘I know I am! Or I suppose Simon could make tea,’ she added doubtfully.
‘Mother—’ Simon’s teeth were audibly gritted ‘—Clara’s anxious to get home. She might not want a drink.’
‘Nonsense, of course she does. Don’t you, Clara?’
Clara was torn. Simon was clearly desperate to get rid of her, but it had been a long day and now that Frances had mentioned gin …
‘I’d love a gin and tonic,’ she confessed.
‘There you are!’ Frances turned triumphantly to her son. ‘And I’ll have one too, darling, to keep her company.’
Simon sucked in a breath. ‘Of course,’ he said tightly and disappeared to what Clara presumed was a kitchen.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Frances said with a sunny smile. ‘He likes to disapprove, but it’s good for him to relax a bit. He works so hard, poor darling, and now he’s on his own again …’ She leant towards Clara confidentially. ‘Well, I always thought Astrid was a bit of