Lady of Hay (49 page)

Judy held her breath as she watched them. Slowly Nick’s face became reanimated and suddenly he was looking straight at her.

“Judy? When did you arrive?”

She forced herself to smile. “Only a few minutes ago. I wanted to get out of the storm.”

Nick turned to the window, puzzled, then he put his hand to his head. “What happened? Was I asleep?”

Sam grinned. “You asked me to hypnotize you, remember? I was hard at it when Judy arrived.”

Nick groaned. “Did I say anything odd?”

Judy looked away. “Of course not.”

She looked up into his face. For a long moment they stared at each other, then Judy smiled. “I’m very good at keeping secrets. Sam,” she said, “tell me, who was I in this past life you are all living so cozily together? I’d like to know.”

He shook his head. “I don’t run sideshows, and I’m not a therapist.”

“But you regressed Nick!” She colored indignantly.

“For a reason. And because he is my brother. I’m sorry, Judy. It would not be ethical for me to do it to you. But, for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t bother.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t believe you’ve lived before.”

Judy laughed. “I see. Keep it in the family, eh? All nice and cozy. How convenient. Just like the way you’ve been priming Nick!”

“What do you mean?” Nick sat up suddenly.

“I mean the whole thing is a great hoax! You weren’t regressed. He told you who you were and then he told you what to do! Some past life!”

“Judy.” Sam’s voice was low and threatening. “You heard and saw nothing but the end of our session.”

“What does she mean, Sam?” Nick stood up.

“She means I was telling you to forget your worries and relax. For some reason she found that sinister.”

“You told him—”

“I told him nothing.” Sam interrupted forcefully. “
Nothing
, Judy, that need be of the least concern. But in one thing you were right. It was not a proper regression. As I told Nick before, he is too tense yet to attempt it.”

The ringing of the phone punctuated the end of his sentence. Sam, who was standing right beside it, picked it up. For a moment he stood listening, a frown on his face, then suddenly he was smiling.

“Why, Jo! How nice to hear from you. How are you?” He waved Nick away as the latter tried to reach for the phone. “No, he hasn’t, as a matter of fact. He’s not going until the second now…I see. Poor Jo, where are you, then?…No, I won’t tell him. Of course I won’t.” He smiled sweetly at Nick. “Yes. Yes, I’m glad you called. Keep in touch.”

He put the receiver down gently. “That was Jo,” he said unnecessarily. “She’s at the Black Lamb Hotel near a place called Talgarth.”

Judy’s eyes blazed. “You bastard!” she said. “I distinctly heard you promise Jo you wouldn’t tell Nick where she was!”

***

Tim had caught a taxi from Paddington back to Covent Garden. He walked heavily up the stairs to the studio and stared around. The place was blazing with lights, the small dais surrounded by floods and spots, a wind machine playing on the girl who stood there dressed only in the finest wisps of chiffon amid a litter of straw bales.

George Chippen, his assistant, was busy with his camera, snapping the laughing girl, but he stopped as Tim appeared and walked over toward them. Tim altered the position of one of the spotlights a little and winked at George. “I’ll get hay fever if I hang around here,” he commented with a heavy attempt at a smile. “You carry on, George, you’re doing a great job.
Ciao
, kids. I’ll see you all later.” After humping his heavy bag into the corner of the studio he dropped it, then he climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, oblivious of the glances of curiosity that followed him from the studio floor. He locked the door, then flung himself on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It had been his idea to leave. She had not argued. Subdued, scarcely speaking, she had driven him to Newport Station. There she had kissed him once, a long wistful kiss, full of kindness, but without passion.

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” she whispered. “I wish it could have been for real.”

“So do I, honey.” He had stroked her hair lightly, trying to memorize the touch of it beneath his hand. “So do I.”

With a groan he turned his face to the pillows to hide the wetness on his cheeks and he began to sob quietly, like a child.

Sometime later he heard George run up the spiral stairs and tap on the door. “Tim? Tim, can I come in?” The boy sounded excited and cheerful.

Tim did not answer. He pulled the pillows over his head and after a while he heard the patter of running shoes on the wrought-iron steps as George went down once more. Tim sighed. Sitting up, he blew his nose loudly, then he reached for the phone.

“Mrs. Griffiths? It’s Tim Heacham. Tell me, did Miss Clifford get back safely?”

At the other end of the line Margiad Griffiths untied her apron with her free hand and stretched to hang it on the back of the kitchen door. “Why, Mr. Heacham, I’m so sorry, but I wasn’t here when she came back. It was my daughter who saw her. Miss Clifford never said she’d be wanting the room again, you see, and it had gone. So sorry, I was. I’m afraid I don’t know where she went. And I had another message here to give her too…”

Tim closed his eyes wearily. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Thanks anyway. I’ll hope to see you again one day.” He hung up and threw himself back on the bed as, far below, the clang of the street door closing echoed up through the empty studio. George had gone.

Tim lay for a couple of hours staring out of the high windows that showed nothing but rooftops silhouetted against the purple storm clouds. At least it had stopped raining. His head ached and his throat was sore. He felt unbearably lonely.

Slowly he sat up at last. He leaned across the bed and unlocked a drawer in the nightstand next to it then drew out a box. He sat and looked at it for a long time, then slowly he opened the lid and pulled out the hypodermic, the narrow tourniquet, and a packet of powder.

To lose a woman twice, be it to destiny or to another man—what kind of man did that make him? What was it she had said once? That he reminded her of an Afghan hound! He laughed out loud, the bitter sound ringing around the empty room. At least he had one night to remember, one night she could never take away from him.

Methodically he went about his preparations, meticulously sterilizing the needle. It wasn’t often he resorted to this; not yet. Snorting was usually enough; that and the cigarettes. Anything to keep the shadows at bay. But tonight he wanted to crash out all the way. Out into the whirling spaces beyond his mind.

***

The office was full of strange noises at night. Nick lay on the long, elegant couch, staring at the Venetian blind drawn down across the curtainless window. The streetlamps outside sent weird horizontal shadows tumbling through the slats and across the white carpet toward him like the rungs of a ladder. For the fiftieth time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His head was spinning, but Judy’s words kept coming back to him.
It’s all a hoax…He told you who you were…He told you what to do…
Judy and her stupid redheaded temper! She had stormed at Sam and then at him, angry with them both for some reason, then she had grabbed her wet coat and run out into the rain.

When she had gone, he and Sam had had a furious argument.

Nick sighed and sat up slowly. It hadn’t just been Judy. In this very room his mother had warned him; his gentle, loving mother, who worshiped Sam, had tried to tell him something; as good as said that Sam was dangerous. Nick shook his head wearily. Why should Sam want to harm him? It didn’t make sense.

What had their quarrel been about? He couldn’t even remember that now. He had asked Sam about the hypnosis but his brother had refused to be drawn, saying Judy was neurotic and sex-starved, and it was then that Nick had decided to go out for a walk. He had strolled slowly down Constitution Hill, staring up at the harsh light of the electric lanterns in the streaking rain, smelling the wet flowers and earth beyond the high walls of Buckingham Palace, then on around the Victoria Memorial, the palace huge and dark behind him, down Birdcage Walk, conscious of the lightning flickering now in the distance behind Big Ben. The roads were empty; Horseguards, bare and swept with rain, the lighted windows in the Haymarket, eerie in the empty street. He made his way slowly back up Piccadilly, and then, unable to face speaking to Sam again that night, he had come back to Berkeley Street and opened the locked office.

He paced up and down the carpet. Bet had told him that Jo was in Wales with Tim Heacham. The last person on earth she would want to see was him, but now that he had her address he knew he had to go to her.

With a sigh he switched on the light, and, reaching for the percolator, he gave it an experimental shake. There was still some coffee in it and he plugged it in.

He had to see Jo; he had to make things all right with her somehow. He stared down at the glass of the pot with a frown, watching the condensation forming on its sides as the coffee began to warm. He was being torn apart. Half of him wanted to see Jo, to hold her, to comfort her and beg her to forgive him for ever hurting her. He didn’t understand even now why he had done it, or what had made him so angry. But he was angry still, and part of him still seethed quietly inside; part of him was still fanatically jealous. Part of him wanted to hurt her again.

He paced up and down the carpet a few times, listening to the occasional car roaring up the street outside, then he glanced at his watch. It was nearly three. Sitting down at his desk, he flicked on the desk light and pulled out a map. It would do no harm to work out the route to Wales. In the morning he would make the final decision as to what he should do.

***

When Jim walked into the office at eight, Nick was hard at work.

“Good God, Nick! Now you’re making me feel doubly guilty! What time did you get here, for chrissake?” Jim said, flinging down his briefcase.

Nick glanced up. “I’ve been here all night.” Giving a wry smile, he stretched his arms above his head. “But don’t go on with the martyr act, you’ve done your penance—and I came here for peace as much as anything else. Look, Jim, I want to be here for the meeting with Mike Desmond, then I have to go away for a couple of days.”

Jim groaned. “Nick, for God’s sake. You’re needed in the office!”

“Not if you’re here. You can handle things.”

“You still believe that?” Jim’s tone was bitter.

“We’ve all screwed things up once in a while.” Nick stood up and picked up the coffeepot. It was empty. “The secret is to get back out there fighting. Otherwise you’re dead.” He turned back to Jim. “I have a feeling you’ll handle this meeting like a master, that’s why I want to sit in on it. And, let’s face it, we’ve got nothing to lose. In fact, if we get Desco back and I win the New York accounts we’ll have to expand!” He walked to the window and pulled up the blind, then he turned to Jim and grinned. “And I’m just in the mood to build an empire at the moment, so you’ve been warned!”

***

It was seven-twenty that evening when at last he walked into the bar of the Black Lamb near Talgarth. He glanced around. It was empty.

“What can I get you, sir?” The bartender appeared through a bead curtain at the back as Nick hauled himself wearily onto a stool. He ordered a Scotch and soda, looking around with some curiosity. There was no sign of Jo. “You seem very quiet, landlord.”

The man shrugged. “They’ll all be in later. Friday, see. Tarting themselves up, they are, then come eight, they’ll all be here.” He pushed the glass across the bar.

“Have something yourself.” Nick flipped a five-pound note onto the counter. “Tell me, do you still have a Miss Clifford staying here?” He picked up his glass.

The man grinned. “Thank you very much. One more night, she said. She’s out now though—going to Radnor, I think she said she was, this morning.” He drew himself a pint before opening the till to look for the change. “Friend of hers, are you?”

Nick nodded. “You haven’t another room, I suppose?”

“Just for the one night is it?”

“Just the one.”

“Well, if you don’t mind somewhere a bit shabby like, maybe I could fit you in. It’s bad time of the year, see, with all the visitors.”

“I don’t mind as long as I can sleep.” Nick finished his drink and pushed the glass back toward the man. “Tell me, do you expect Jo—Miss Clifford—back for dinner?”

“Well, now, we don’t exactly serve dinner, sir. Chicken in a basket we can do you, or a nice scampi.” He leaned forward suddenly, staring past Nick out of the window. “Isn’t that her car now?”

Nick swung around. His jaw tightened as he watched Jo back the MG into the corner of the parking lot behind the pub. She climbed out of her car and he saw her stand for a moment staring at his Porsche, then she glanced over her shoulder toward the pub. Even from that distance he could see the sudden anxiety on her face. She was wearing a deep rose-color blouse with jeans, and he found himself staring at her hungrily as she stooped into the car to find her bag, then she slammed the door and walked almost reluctantly toward them.