Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton

He clicked his fingers in front of her glazed eyes.

      She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Jack, did you say something?’

      ‘I said you need a rest, a holiday.’

      ‘Try telling Rod Franks that!’

      Jack made no comment, and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. It was a habit she was positive he was unaware of, but that did not stop her irritation.

      ‘I’ve got to go to Singapore in a few weeks’ time … Why don’t I extend my stay and we’ll do a bit of island-hopping: Phuket, Ko Samui, Bali. Only yesterday I heard about a wonderful tented hotel, somewhere in Indonesia. How about it?’ Jack urged, taking a sip of gin and tonic.

      ‘I’m not sure if I can get the time off work. We’re just about to start a new series for Channel Four, and you know what a stickler Rod is …’

      ‘Tell Rod you need a break. I’ll buy you your own bloody production company if he sacks you.’

      There was no doubt in Kathryn’s mind that Jack meant what he said. If she didn’t stop him, he would be buying her expensive gifts constantly. Gently she said, ‘That’s not the answer, Jack; you can’t go through life buying everything and everybody.’

      ‘Why not? It’s worked so far!’ He lifted his glass. His pupils were like tiny black icebergs, gleaming over the rim. He winked and grinned.

      She inclined her head a little, a soft blush colouring her skin. Under the sophisticated façade Kathryn wore so easily, there was a fragile vulnerability. Jack found it highly provocative, and would have liked to make love to her there and then. His mind ran riot with erotic imaginings in which her long dress bunched up around her waist, and one full breast lay exposed – his tongue tracing the nipple, erect and puckered; her naked backside, rounded and hard, pressed against the rain-spattered window. He felt an erection stirring, and marvelled afresh at how Kathryn had managed to revitalize his flagging libido. Nothing like a surge of testosterone to make a man feel good, he thought with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

      ‘What are you thinking, Jack? All of a sudden you look very pleased with yourself.’

      ‘I was thinking how lucky I am to have a woman like you, and how easy it would be for that same woman to make an old man very happy. Two weeks in the Far East, not too much to ask is it?’

      ‘No, Jack, it’s not too much to ask, and it’s a lovely thought. I know I would have a wonderful time, and you would spoil me rotten, but not right now. I’ve got a lot on at the moment. Later in the year perhaps.’

      Shrewdly Jack detected that her voice held no promise, yet it did not deter him from saying, ‘I could never spoil you enough, Kathryn, well certainly not sufficiently to make you rotten. The offer is open, think about it; I won’t be asking anyone else.’

      ‘OK, Jack, thanks.’

      ‘Talking about asking someone else, have you spoken to your father about this weekend?’

      Reluctantly she lied. ‘Yes I have, he can’t get down to London until Saturday. He’s been working with a doctor from America who’s developed a cancer vaccine. The doctor is over here from California and my father has to entertain him.’ With pangs of regret and resentment, Kathryn thought back to all the times she had needed her father and he had been too busy working to be there for her. ‘His work is very important, all consuming you might say.’

      Jack detected the bitterness in this last sentence, and felt a surge of sympathy. He had enjoyed a rare closeness with his own father, and had looked forward to a loving intimate relationship with his only daughter. It still hurt like hell to think about Laraine. Jack stared hard at Kathryn but it was his daughter’s face he saw. She was laughing, she had laughed a lot as a child and he missed that more than anything else. She had worn her hair swept back in a long ponytail from her petite pretty face. Yes, she had been pretty and he wanted to remember her like that; not the way she’d looked at the end. Had she lived she would have been two years younger than Kathryn was now. How could Richard de Moubray neglect his beautiful daughter? Jack surmised that the man was not only a fool, but also a bloody selfish one.

      ‘I’m sorry about the wedding, Jack.’

      His face fell. ‘I’m sorry too.’

      Feeling guilty, and slightly rattled, she gave his arm a pinch. ‘Come on, cheer up, there’ll be other weekends.’

      Jack did not reply but she noticed a subtle change in his body language; he stiffened and his free hand clenched tight.

      Kathryn felt bad about lying to him, and even more so about not wanting to spend the weekend with him. Jack was so good to her, too good; his doting indulgence she sometimes found claustrophobic.

      ‘Listen, Jack, I’ve said I’m sorry. Let’s not make a big deal of this. I’m sure you’ll have a better time than me anyway. I’ve got to listen to that dreadful Emily all evening. Believe me it’s a fate worse than death.’ She decided to make amends by saying, ‘How about you come over to my place for brunch on Sunday? Scrambled eggs and salmon; you can bring the champagne?’

      This suggestion seemed to cheer him up, it produced a smile at least. ‘I’d love to. I’ll need cheering up after the Foster-Ward wedding. I’ll drive back to London first thing Sunday morning.’

      She stepped up to him, playfully pinching his arm. ‘That’s settled then, and now don’t you think we should go … The Buchanans’ party’s going to be over before we get there.’

      The envelope from Brinkforths was the first thing Kathryn saw when she padded downstairs the following morning. It contained four letters, and a compliment slip. There was a reply to an application her mother had made about an advanced floristry course, plus an electricity bill, and a telephone bill. She scanned the list of charges, astonished by three overseas calls amounting to over three hundred and fifty pounds. Kathryn was certain British Telecom must have made a mistake: Freda had hardly ever used the phone, she’d had very few people to call. She made a mental note to call BT when she got to the office.

      The last letter was addressed to ‘FREDA’ in capital letters with no surname. The big looped scrawl almost filled the entire front of the small blue envelope, and part of the address had been spelt incorrectly. Tearing it open, Kathryn felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that it was written in German. Struggling with her schoolgirl grasp of the language, she began to read.

      My dearest child,

      I cannot begin to express how much your letter has meant to me. After all these years, to know you are alive has brought great joy and a sense of purpose that I believed was lost from my life. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent looking at your photographs. It fills me with … Kathryn could not read the next few words and made a mental note to buy a German dictionary, but she surprised herself by translating the next paragraph easily … How I wish things could have been different, Freda, but we are all mere victims of fate. Mine dictated by circumstances and history, as you know only too well. I lost faith with that madman who wasted so many lives and brought our beloved country to her knees.

      The memory of your face I will take with me to my death, which I know will not be long; months, weeks, who can be sure with cancer. I have … she had to skip the next word … my welcome on this earth and await my end with no fear, only a mixture of profound relief and anticipation. I will be with your mother once more. If I don’t write again, you will know why. Don’t forget what I told you, and your promise to me, Freda. It is all up to you now. I love you, have always loved you, and always will.

      Kathryn shuddered, recalling the voice in her nightmares. The letter was not signed, and she couldn’t make out the postmark. Riffling through her kitchen drawers, she eventually found a tiny magnifying glass that had come out of a Christmas cracker the previous year. Using one eye, she read the postmark again: 2nd June, St Lucia, West Indies.