‘No idea. We were both soaked to the skin, and I didn’t have my contacts in, so one way and another my powers of observation were on the blink.’ Sarah eyed the rain streaming down the window. ‘Good thing I don’t have to drive through this to collect Davy today.’
‘But you’re going to the theatre tonight,’ Margaret reminded her.
‘Heavens, so I am.’ Sarah groaned, then shook her head wearily. ‘I just can’t face it tonight, peeved though Brian will be. If I ring him now I’ll catch him before he leaves the office.’
‘Surely you’ll feel better by this evening?’ said her grandmother disapprovingly. ‘Brian won’t be happy if you let him down at the last minute.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand if I explain.’ Sarah heaved herself up from the table to peer through the window. ‘The storm’s moving away a bit, so I think I’ll soak my wounds in a hot bath. I feel a bit shivery.’
‘Reaction. It will soon wear off. Was the man hurt, by the way?’
‘No idea. But serve him right if he was!’
Margaret raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were to blame?’
‘I was.’ Sarah smiled wryly. ‘Which is so aggravating. I want someone else to blame. Preferably him.’
When Sarah rang Brian Collins his reaction was just as predicted.
‘Sarah, you do realise that I had the devil of a job to get tickets?’ he demanded irritably, then climbed down a little. ‘Though I’m sorry you’re feeling unwell, of course.’
‘And I’m sorry to cancel at the last minute. But there must be someone else you can take, Brian?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Since Davina’s not there for once I could just return the tickets and spend the evening at home with you.’
Sarah blenched. ‘No—no, don’t do that, Brian. I’d hate you to miss the play on my account. I know you were looking forward to it.’
‘Very well, then,’ he said, resigned. ‘I’ll ring you next week.’
Sarah rang off, her eyes thoughtful. Her association with Brian Collins, undemanding in most ways though it was, had definitely run its course. He was a nice, conventional man, pleasant enough company for an occasional evening out, but there were two major drawbacks to their relationship. One was an ongoing argument due to Sarah’s refusal to become physically involved. The other was that in theory Brian felt he should get on with children, but in practice found it so difficult Davy couldn’t stand him.
Not, thought Sarah, as she lay in a blissfully hot bath later, that Brian sees very much of her. Nor can I let Davy rule my life for ever. One day she’ll be up and away and I’ll be free to do as I like. Chilled by the idea of Davy grown up and independent, Sarah pulled the bathplug and concentrated on the episode in the storm instead. But, hard as she tried to bring her rescuer’s face into focus, it remained a dark, rainwashed blur. He’d been a lot taller than her, and strong, by the way he’d manhandled her. But otherwise she had only a general impression of broad shoulders outlined by a soaked white shirt, dark hair and eyes, and a face so haggard with shock that if she met him again in the street she probably wouldn’t recognise him. Which, all things considered, was probably just as well.
By the time Sarah was dressed the sky was clear, and she began to relax at last. And, though it was strange to be without Davy on a Friday evening, she wasn’t sorry to have this particular one to herself after her scary little adventure.
On her way out for her bridge evening Margaret Parker came down from her apartment upstairs to hand over a supermarket bag. ‘I forgot this in all the excitement—the shopping I did for you this morning.’
Sarah thanked her, handed over the money, then groaned as the buzzer sounded on the outer door. ‘I hope that’s not Brian on a flying visit before the theatre.’
‘Sarah, really!’ remonstrated her grandmother.
But when Sarah spoke into her receiver she found it was a florist’s delivery. ‘Are you sure it’s for Tracy?’ she asked, surprised.
‘No name, just the number of the house,’ said the disembodied voice.
Sarah hurried to open the front door, taken aback when she was handed an enormous bouquet of fragrant lilies.
‘How thoughtful,’ said her grandmother in approval. ‘Brian, of course?’
‘Actually no,’ said Sarah, not without satisfaction, and handed over a card which read, ‘With sincere apologies, J. Hogan.’
‘A courteous gesture,’ conceded Margaret reluctantly.
Sarah shrugged. ‘Just salving his conscience.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Hogan. The name’s familiar. I wonder if he’s on our firm’s database?’
‘Did he look familiar?’
‘Couldn’t tell. I doubt if I’d even know him again.’
Later, taking pleasure in having the entire house to herself, Sarah made herself some supper and settled down to enjoy it on the sofa in her sitting room, with the glass doors open to the garden at the back of the house.
‘Nice move,’ she told the striking arrangement of lilies.
During the evening a very excited Davina rang up to ask if they were doing anything special the next day.
‘No, darling. Why?’ asked Sarah.
‘Because Polly’s mummy says can I go bowling with them tomorrow and stay the night again? Can I? Please? Here’s Mrs Rogers,’ she added, before Sarah, astonished, could say another word.
Alison Rogers gave assurances that they would be delighted to keep Davy for another day. Sarah expressed grateful, rather bemused thanks, and, after a few instructions on behaviour to an ecstatic Davy, arranged to collect her on Sunday instead of the next day.
Sarah’s feelings were mixed when she returned to her book. It was the first time Davy had spent a night away from her, apart from school, and the child was obviously having such a good time with Polly she was even happy to skip part of her weekend at home. Suppressing a wry little pang at the thought, Sarah felt pleased that Davy was beginning to spread her wings at last. At nearly nine years old Davina Tracy was tall for her age, but an endearing mixture of maturity and little-girl dependence. To want to spend her precious weekend away from Sarah was a first in Davy Tracy’s young life.
Next morning Sarah felt no ill effects after her adventure in the storm, other than the discovery that Mr J. Hogan’s car had left a spectacular bruise on her thigh. Hoping she’d left a corresponding dent somewhere on its chassis, she went off to load the washing machine, then took her breakfast out to the table in the sunlit courtyard outside the sitting room windows. Sarah went through the Saturday morning paper while she ate, and had read it from cover to cover by the time her grandmother came outside in her gardening clothes.
‘You look fully recovered this morning, Sarah,’ Margaret commented.
‘I’m fine now. It seems funny without Davy on a Saturday morning, but I did enjoy the extra hour in bed. And I’ve read all my favourite bits of the paper in one go for once. By the way,’ Sarah added, pulling up the leg of her shorts, ‘take a look. My souvenir of yesterday’s adventure.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only if I bump into something.’ Sarah stretched luxuriously. ‘It’s a lovely day. Once I’ve hung out my laundry I’m off into town for some shopping. Can I fetch you anything?’
Sarah’s Saturdays were always given over to Davy. And, much as she looked forward to spending them with her child, it was a pleasant change to be on her own for once, free to browse as long as she liked in the numerous bookshops in the town. After treating herself to a cut-price bestseller she made