Shifting Sands (5 page)

Some way down the fork, a light showed in one of the huts, throwing a pale patch on to the grass outside, and, drawn to it like a moth to a flame, Anna started towards it. Perhaps, if she knocked on the door, someone could lend her a torch to light her to her own hut.

She'd just reached it when a voice spoke suddenly from behind the curtains of the open window. Startled, she came to an abrupt stop, before, seconds later, recognizing it as Lewis's. With a wave of relief, she'd raised her hand to knock when something in his tone made her pause.

‘God, that's awful!' he was saying. ‘What happened?' There was a brief silence, and she realized he must be speaking on the phone. ‘Just like that? It's . . . unbelievable.' A longer pause, then his voice sharpened. ‘What the
hell
do you mean by that? Of
course
there's no connection! God, what are you thinking? . . . This
is
confined to the two of you, I trust? . . . You're positive? Then make damn sure it stays that way . . . Yes, yes, I know. You did right to phone me, but— All right. Yes. Yes, I will. Goodbye.'

Motionless by the door, Anna gave a little shiver, then, abandoning her intention, turned quietly back the way she had come. As she regained the fork, still puzzling over his words, she saw a wavering light coming towards her.

‘Anna?' It was Harry's voice, and she released her breath. ‘Is that you?'

‘Oh, Harry, yes! My torch gave out, and I must have taken a wrong turning.'

He loomed up beside her, the planes of his face grotesquely lit by the upward light from his torch. ‘I thought that might have happened. I was watching out for you and, when you didn't reappear, thought I'd better come and investigate.'

‘That's very kind of you,' she said shakily.

‘So what's your hut number?'

‘Seventeen.'

‘We're twenty. You're not far off – it's just along here.'

Minutes later, they reached her hut, and Harry waited while she opened the door and put on the light.

‘OK?'

‘Yes. I can't thank you enough for coming to look for me. I might have ended up as something's supper!'

He laughed. ‘Any time! Sleep well.'

And, locking the door, Anna leant against it and drew a deep breath. She was safely back in her own space, but she couldn't help wishing she'd not overheard Lewis's oddly disturbing phone call.

THREE

W
hile, across the world, Anna was standing on ostrich eggs and stroking cheetahs, her daughter's life back in London was considerably more prosaic.

Sophie Craig ran down the steps of the tube escalator and through the train doors just as they were closing, collapsing on to a seat with a sigh of relief. She was already late for her lunch date; there'd been a series of hold-ups at the studio, which were still unresolved.

Sophie ran a designer knitwear business, and while most garments were made to order and sold direct to the public, they also supplied a couple of boutiques who, at the beginning of each season, liked to order a small stock. This morning, there'd been some doubt as to whether the quantity requested could be delivered in the time required.

To be honest, she could have done without this lunch. Fond though she was of Imogen – they'd been friends since schooldays – at recent meetings there'd been hints of marital discord, which, since Roger was also a friend, Sophie found uncomfortable hearing.

Reaching her station, she threaded her way through the crowded underground and along the pavement to the restaurant. Imogen, of course, was already there and raised a hand to attract her attention.

‘Sorry I'm late. A hiccup with an order.'

Imogen nodded. ‘They're bringing wine. I know you don't normally drink at lunchtime, but I'm in dire need of it, so I hope you'll make an exception.'

‘One glass, then; I must keep a clear head.' Sophie sat back, steeling herself for the latest diatribe. ‘So why the need for alcohol?'

Imogen's eyes filled with tears, and Sophie leant quickly forward, taking her hand. ‘Imo, what is it?'

‘Aunt Em died suddenly at the weekend.'

‘Oh, no! I
am
sorry – what happened?'

‘We don't know – that's the awful part. We went to dinner last week, and she was fine. In fact, she was looking better than she had for years. Then –' she gave a hiccuping little gasp – ‘Uncle found her dead in bed yesterday morning. There . . . has to be a post-mortem.'

‘Oh, Imo!' Sophie had known Imogen's Aunt Em and her husband for most of her life, and also called them Aunt and Uncle. The couple were childless and had frequently taken the two girls on weekends away or, when they were younger, to the annual pantomime. ‘How's Uncle Ted?'

‘Distraught, as you can imagine. Unbelieving might be a better word – he can't seem to take it in. Mum and Dad are staying there for the moment.'

‘I must write to him.'

The wine waiter was approaching, and Imogen hastily dried her eyes.

‘Sorry to spring that on you,' she apologized as, having filled their glasses, he moved away. ‘Particularly as it'll bring back your own loss.'

After a moment, Sophie said quietly, ‘You'll let us know when the funeral is?'

‘Of course; though what with the inquest and post-mortem, it won't be for a while.'

‘It was probably something she's had for some time and not known about,' Sophie suggested, wondering, as she spoke, whether that would make it better or worse. ‘She was younger than your mother, wasn't she?'

‘Yes.' Imogen's voice rocked. ‘Fifty-two last week. That's why we went to dinner.'

‘Oh God, Imo, I'm so, so sorry.'

Imogen fished in her bag for a handkerchief. ‘Let's change the subject, before we both end up in tears.' She drew a deep breath. ‘So – how's my god-daughter?'

‘Fine. We spoke about a week ago, and she told me she'd texted Ma. Which reminded me that I hadn't, so I hastily did so.'

‘Of course – she's in South Africa, isn't she? How's it going?'

‘Fine, as far as we know. You heard Beatrice Hardy had to drop out, after breaking her arm?'

‘No! Your mother's never gone by herself?'

‘No option. Jon and I were really worried, but she insisted she'd be all right, so she's not likely to admit it if she's not.' Sophie paused, then, crossing mental fingers, added, ‘Apart from Aunt Em, how are things with you?'

‘Much the same. Daisy's nagging to go on a school trip, and Roger's digging his heels in, pointing out she's already had one this year, and it's Jack's turn.' She flicked a glance at Sophie. ‘Believe me, there are advantages in having only one: it halves your problems.'

Sophie smiled without commenting. Having become engaged, and then married, in the same year, she and Imogen had gone on to have their first (and, in Sophie's case, only) child within a month of each other. They'd confidently expected their daughters to become friends and follow the family tradition, but unfortunately the girls had disliked each other from babyhood, and after being sent to the same prep school with disastrous results, were now at separate boarding schools.

‘So, of course,' Imogen continued tiredly, ‘Daisy's in a strop and refusing to answer texts, and Jack's going round looking smug.'

‘Were we so bolshie at thirteen?' Sophie asked.

‘Very probably. What about Jonathan? Any developments there?'

Sophie shrugged. ‘I think for two pins he'd go home, if Vicky'd have him.'

Imogen looked surprised. ‘And won't she?'

‘The last I heard, he was screwing up his courage to ask her.' She sipped her wine. ‘Which reminds me, I said I'd invite him for a meal. I must do that. Like to come along?'

Imogen brightened. ‘Thanks; it would be good to see him again.'

‘I'll phone this evening and fix a date.'

The dinner was arranged for Thursday, and Angus Craig made the requested detour to the off-licence on his way home. Though normally he enjoyed hosting dinner parties, basking in the reflected glory of his wife's culinary skills, he had reservations about this one. The death of Imogen's aunt, not to mention the apparently difficult patch she and Roger were going through, did not augur for a light-hearted evening, even without Jonathan's agonizing over his wife and family.

Pity about Roger and Imo, though; he hoped they'd sort things out. Strange, now, to think that fifteen years ago, he'd met Sophie and Imogen the same evening and debated which to ask to dance. Perhaps because of that, he'd always had a soft spot for Imogen. With her large eyes and silky, caramel-coloured hair, she brought out his protective instincts; whereas Sophie, then as now, had little need of anyone's protection.

Roger had come on the scene soon after, and the four had remained close friends, though to the casual observer it might seem the Fates had their wires crossed; Roger, tall, blue-eyed and supremely confident, at first glance seemed more suited to Sophie, and Angus himself, sandy-haired, shorter and stockier, to Imogen.

But appearances could be deceptive, and there were no crossed wires. Both marriages – up to now, at least – had been happy, and he was inordinately proud of his wife, relishing the knowledge that men's eyes followed her wherever she went. It wasn't only that she was lovely, with her silver-gold hair and perfect bone structure; she had a – he searched for the right word – a
bearing
, a presence, that commanded attention, aided by her unerring dress sense, so necessary in her line of work.

His musings had brought him to his gate, and as he went up the path he abandoned them with a feeling of relief, readying himself for the evening ahead.

Despite his reservations, the evening was going well, Angus reflected thankfully. There'd been no sign of strain among their guests, and in fact Roger invited everyone to a supper party in a month's time.

‘Isn't that around your birthday?' Sophie asked, wrinkling her brow.

He laughed. ‘Well spotted, but strictly no presents. Honestly. If you really feel you can't come empty-handed, make it a bottle of plonk we can all enjoy.'

Jonathan, too, seemed in good form, and as they sat over coffee and brandy, intrigued them with a story about a French girl who'd arranged to meet him, then got cold feet and clammed up.

‘Anyway, she's history,' he finished. ‘Steve and I are now working on something else.'

‘Pity you'll never know her story, though,' Imogen commented.

Jonathan shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some – that's how it goes.'

‘I hear you've packed your mother off on safari,' Roger remarked, passing him the cream jug. ‘Have you heard how she's getting on?'

‘Only spasmodically. Ma finds texting somewhat laborious, bless her, partly because she insists on spelling everything out in full. Consequently her messages are brief and to the point. We gather she's with a good crowd and has met some pleasant people, but any descriptions of the veldt, charging rhinos or rogue elephants will have to wait till we see her.'

Later, as they prepared for bed, Angus asked if Jonathan had approached Vicky about his return to the fold.

‘He's not had the chance,' Sophie told him. ‘She's been out on his last couple of visits.'

‘Delaying tactics?'

‘Almost certainly. It's a pity Ma's not here, to put in a good word for him. Vicky listens to Ma.'

‘Imo and Roger seemed OK, anyway.'

‘Yes, thankfully. Perhaps Aunt Em's death put everything into perspective.'

‘Do you know what the trouble was?' A rhetorical question; he knew that Sophie, though she bossed her friend mercilessly, wouldn't betray her confidence.

‘Nothing drastic,' she said dismissively. ‘Imo's a romantic and believes in happy-ever-after. If there's a hiccup, she's inclined to panic.'

She lifted the corner of the duvet and slid into bed. ‘So you can stop speculating, and come and make love to me.'

‘Yes,
ma'am
!' he said.

Roger and Imogen did not make love that night. He fell asleep straight away, but she lay for some time, staring into the darkness.

Why couldn't she take everything in her stride, as Sophie did? She and Angus had rows, Imogen knew, but Sophie remained unruffled. There'd be a brief spat, and then it was over, whereas when things were out of kilter between herself and Roger, the world rocked on its axis. And those times had become increasingly frequent.

Listening to his even breathing, she tried to analyse them. Mostly, they concerned the children; Roger maintained she was too lenient with them, which he blamed for both Daisy's spikiness and Jack's cheek. But then Roger's father was a headmaster, and he'd been brought up with stricter discipline than was usual nowadays. Consequently, she had on occasion been guilty of shielding the children from his anger, concealing Jack's regular detention after school and Daisy's equally regular requests for money, which she secretly supplied; and when, almost inevitably, such instances came to light, Roger, also inevitably, lost his temper.

‘How are we ever going to teach them right from wrong, when you repeatedly undermine me?' he'd demand. ‘We must present a united front, or they'll continue to play us off against each other.'

She knew, of course, that he was right. It was just that she couldn't resist the children's pleading, well practised though she knew it to be. But though Tamsin was as difficult as Daisy – which was some consolation – Sophie and Angus seemed as unfazed by it as by everything else.