No More Lonely Nights (15 page)

She had only just sat down at her desk when she got a phone call. ‘A person-to-person call for you,’ the operator on the newspaper switchboard said in her flat, bored voice. ‘Will you take it?’

Sian’s heart beat fast and hard. Dry-mouthed, she asked, ‘Who’s calling?’

‘A Mrs Jennifer Bush from a Poole exchange.’

Sian’s traitorous heart slowed again. ‘Oh,’ she said, then, ‘Yes, put her through, will you?’

Jenny sounded breathless. ‘Hello, Sian.’

‘Hi, Jen—how are you? Anything wrong?’

‘My neighbour just showed me yesterday’s paper,’ Jenny said, and Sian pulled a face.

‘Oh.’

‘Sian, what’s going on?’

‘Nothing, Jen—don’t get excited. Its all nonsense, honestly.’

‘But you never even mentioned him!’

‘Look, take no notice of anything you read in the papers. I barely know the man—they’re making it all up.’

Jen wasn’t easy to convince, and Sian asked her urgently, ‘You won’t mention this to anyone else, will you? I mean, if my parents should get in touch, or anyone from the family? If they hear about it and ring you, tell them what I said, it’s all invention.’

Her parents were in New Zealand, visiting her elder brother, and had been there for months, but Sian was used to them being away for long periods because her father had been in the Air Force, often based overseas, and Sian had gone to school in England, boarding for months at a time and only seeing her parents during the long summer vacations. She had learnt to be independent very early; she had learnt how to be tough and think for herself, and those lessons had stood her in good stead when she became a reporter.

Sian knew that her parents wouldn’t worry about her if they heard that she was seeing William Cassidy, but she didn’t want to face probing questions from anyone, and her family might be made curious by the newspaper gossip.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Sian worked in the office, or was sent out on stories, mostly around London, although once she got as far as Brighton, and spent a wistful afternoon by the sea. When she phoned in her copy, she strolled around the town, admired the Prince Regent’s palace with its domes and cupolas glittering in the sun, like something out of an Arabian Nights’ fairy-tale, but didn’t go in because she preferred to walk by the sea. A veil of mist hung far out over the milky horizon; the sky held all shades of gentle colour from lavender and grey, and the light was tremulous, shifting; now in sun, now overcast, matching Sian’s low-key mood.

She knew something irrevocable had happened to her. She might joke with friends as usual, argue and swap professional chitchat, manage her working day with her old efficiency, but she wasn’t the same person she had been a week ago. Her world had spun helplessly into a new orbit, she was in hiatus, waiting—but for what?

She couldn’t bear even to think about it. It was irrational, but she kept hoping that, if she ignored it, it would go away, this strange, drifting, volatile mood. She had been quite happy with her life. She didn’t want anything to change. Why was this happening to her?

On the Friday, the pulse of time altered and she found herself watching the clock, nervously anticipating, wondering if Cass would get back, working out the route by which she would drive to his aunt’s house in Buckinghamshire. She had had a note from Mrs Cassidy, confirming the invitation and suggesting when she should arrive. A hand-drawn map had been helpfully included, and Sian thought she shouldn’t have much trouble finding the house.

She promised Leo that she would phone in some copy that weekend; at least giving a story about the garden party, which, as it was for charity, was presumably very much a public event. Since Mrs Cassidy had cheerfully stressed that the press would be there, Sian saw no reason why she shouldn’t do a piece on that.

She left London at five-thirty and took some time to disentangle herself from the usual homeward-bound traffic jam, heavier than usual since it was the start of the weekend. Eventually, though, she was out of the suburbs and driving through the green belt surrounding London: a half-rural, half-suburban landscape. Sian much preferred the Hampshire countryside in which Cass lived.

At last, though, she began to drive through a richer landscape: green and fertile, softly folded meadows and wheatfields, round hills and gentle valleys in which lay old cottages of faded red brick or black and white Tudor timbering, set in cottage gardens of peonies and red rambling roses climbing round the door, gold and white sweet-scented honeysuckle flung everywhere over wall and fences. The colours assaulted the senses: delphiniums in deep blue spikes, clove-smelling double pinks, huge white cabbage roses, glorious, glowing orange marigolds. Summer hung there in delirious riot, and as twilight began to descend birds flew calling across the deep-sunk lanes through which she drove; there was a heavy, damp sweetness from the woods— grass and wild garlic, hogweed and woodbine.

Sian drove slowly, her eyes darting everywhere. She didn’t know this part of England and had to keep consulting the map she had open on the passenger seat beside her.

Drawing up at a crossroads in the middle of a village she tried to read the ancient signpost. A white-flannelled cricket game was still in progress. Across the smooth green the pale figures ran to and from the wickets. Sian sat listening to those archetypal English sounds—so much a part of summer— the little thud of the ball hitting the bat, the running feet, the sleepy desultory clapping, the voice raised in protest, the clatter of teacups from the little wooden pavilion where the women were washing up during these closing stages of the lazy ritual.

Sian was in no hurry to reach the end of her journey. That might mean facing Cass. Worse, it might mean facing herself, and she was reluctant to do that, but at last she drove on, as the signpost directed, along the left-hand lane, narrow, deserted, the hawthorn hedges on each side, and below them ditches and wild flowers for which so far the bureaucrats had not given orders of extinction. No doubt weedkillers would spray them soon, but as yet they blew softly in the warm summer breeze— creamy white sprays of wild parsley, pink campion, scarlet poppy, spotted foxglove and tall yellow toadflax. Sian was delighted to see them, and kept looking aside at them, fascinated.

That was why she didn’t see the other car come racing round the corner. One minute she was alone in the lane; the next a long, white sports car flashed past with a screech of tyres, shaving the side of her car so closely that, in panic, she wrenched the wheel and her car slewed sideways into the ditch.

As the car crashed down into the ditch there was a rending, splintering noise; she thought it sounded as if the end of the world had come. Her windscreen shattered. Glass sprayed everywhere; she instinctively covered her face with her arms, crouching down in the seat. Luckily, she had been wearing her seat-belt, or she might have gone head first through the windscreen and her face would have been cut to ribbons.

The car rocked wildly, and then settled into the long grass and weeds. Through her shaking fingers, Sian saw a splash of red and thought, poppies!— only to realise after a moment that it was blood on the steering wheel.

My blood! she thought with sick shock. Undoing her seat-belt, she scrambled out on to the road in case there had been a leakage of petrol and an explosion followed. There was no smell of petrol, but she was in a state of panic and wanted to get as far from the car as possible.

The other car hadn’t stopped; either the driver hadn’t seen her go into the ditch or simply hadn’t cared. The lane was empty again; she couldn’t hear a sound except the rustle of wild parsley and the melancholy call of birds.

Grabbing her handbag, she set off to walk in search of help. From the map Mrs Cassidy had sent her, the house couldn’t be far, indeed, just five minutes away, she came to the high, black, ornately designed ironwork gates set between tall stone posts topped with carved stone gryphons, each bearing a shield.

Shield House. Sian made a face—a pun, she thought grimly, in no mood to be amused by such trifles. The gates stood wide, and at the far end of a meandering drive she saw the large, timbered house with its red-tiled roof. She still had quite a walk ahead of her and she was limping now. Blood was trickling wetly down her face from a cut on her forehead; from flying glass, no doubt. She hadn’t bothered to do anything about it—she felt too sick and dizzy, but she set her teeth and doggedly walked on towards the house.

She was almost there when she saw the white sports car again, parked on the drive outside the house. It was empty, but Sian eyed it angrily, trying to hurry because she was afraid she was going to pass out any minute. Who had been driving it just now? It couldn’t have been Cass—but it had to be either a member of the family or another guest. Sian had a few things to say to whoever it was, anyway!

A moment later, the front door opened and Cass walked out, tall and lean and casually dressed in an open-necked shirt and cream linen summer trousers. Sian stopped dead and felt odder than ever. He went over to the white sports car and opened the driver’s door. It was his car! He must have been driving, after all! How could he drive like a lunatic, force her into a ditch and drive on without even looking back? She was incredulous and appalled; she would have taken bets that it Couldn’t have been Cass. She had to be wrong about him. What had made her think she knew him well enough to predict how he would behave in any situation?

Serves you right for being so stupid, she told herself, taking another shaky step, and Cass suddenly caught sight of her in his driving-mirror. She saw the flash of those grey eyes in the glass. A second later he was out of the car and running towards her.

‘Sian! Sian, my God, what’s happened to you?’

He seemed genuinely surprised—she scowled, pushing him away as he tried to put his arms round her. ‘You did, damn you!’

‘I did?’ His face looked almost as bloodless as hers felt. He was staring at her fixedly, and she gave him a defiant glare.

‘Just keep your hands to yourself—and stop wavering about!’

‘Wavering about? What do you mean?’ He came back too quickly for her, and she shook her head, wincing at the way that hurt. ‘There’s blood all over your head,’ Cass said in a strange, thick voice. ‘You’ve had an accident!’

‘Oh, you noticed at last,’ she bitterly flung at him, narrowing her eyes as she tried to see him clearly. ‘I can’t take two of you. One of you was bad enough, but two is beyond a joke, especially when neither of you will stand still!’

‘I’m standing still,’ he said in that strange voice, his arm going round her waist, and this time she didn’t push him away, because it was getting much harder for her to stay on her feet. Everything was going round and round as if she was in a washing-machine. No, she thought—a tumble-dryer, I’m in a tumble-dryer.

‘What do you mean, a tumble-dryer?’ Cass asked, guiding her towards the house. She hadn’t realised she was thinking aloud, and giggled.

‘I’m sick of you getting inside my head! Stop listening to me think!’ She closed her eyes because she felt so sick and it was worse with her eyes open. ‘How could you do it?’ she asked as she suddenly found herself floating about, weightless.

‘Do what?’ he asked, oddly close to her, and she frowned.

‘Are you inside my head? Is that how you know what I’m thinking?’

She felt his arms tighten, and then it dawned on her that he was carrying her and she had her head on his shoulder. That was why he sounded so close.

‘Stop talking and lie still,’ he said huskily. ‘I’m not inside your head.’

‘Why should I believe
you
?’ Her voice was scornful. ‘Hit-and-run driver!’

‘Hit-and-run driver?’

She laughed, wincing again. ‘Don’t bother to sound so bewildered! I saw the car, even if I didn’t see your face. You can’t get out of it this time. I’ll make sure you pay my garage bill; this isn’t going on my insurance, it’s going on yours.’ Talking so much was exhausting, and she stopped. She felt so strange. So weak and…

The next thing she knew was that she was lying on a bed and a strange man was bending over her. He made soothing noises when she tried to get up, push him away.

‘I’m a doctor, just lie still. Everything’s OK.’

Sian believed his eyes rather than his voice; she lay still and he lifted her lids and shone lights into her eyes, watching her wince, then he asked questions, and while she answered her eyes roved round the room until they found a familiar object. It turned out to be Cass.

She frowned, looking away. ‘I’m fine now, thanks,’ she told the doctor, but he smiled politely and shook his head.

‘Well, I think we’ll have you in hospital tonight for a few tests—you may have concussion. You were only unconscious for a moment, but with head injuries that might not mean much. An X-ray is essential, and some hourly observation. It’s lucky I was here.’ He straightened and smiled at Cass. ‘Even if I am supposed to be off duty!’

‘Sorry to find you some work for your spare time!’ Cass said lightly, but his eyes were not amused; they were grave. ‘I’ll drive her to hospital if you’ll ring and let them know we’re coming. No need for you to come with us, Piers.’

‘Well, I’m not a head man or any sort of specialist—but that’s a superficial cut on her head; flying glass, I found some in the blood. She probably fainted from shock. I’d be happy to drive her in, though, Cass, just in case I’m wrong and it’s more serious than I diagnose.’

‘Well, that’s up to you,’ said Cass.

Sian grimaced from one to the other. ‘While you’re arguing over who’s taking me to hospital, I could be dying from loss of blood.’

‘Oh, the cut isn’t serious. It just bled a lot.’ The doctor was smiling, though.

‘Oh, well, what’s a few pints of blood?’ Sian said drily and both men laughed.

‘Nowhere near that much,’ said the doctor. ‘Blood always looks much worse than it really is. One glass of water and you’ll make up for what you lost, and I’ve stopped the bleeding. There’s a bandage on your head.’

‘You look very interesting with it,’ assured Cass.

‘What a comfort!’ Sian said, her glance at him hostile. ‘While I’m in hospital, perhaps you’ll see that my car is pulled out of that ditch and taken to a good garage for repairs.’