Heading For Trouble!. Linda Miles

the ‘in’ group at school—seemed to glare at her in mute reproach as she tore off her wet, muddy clothes, but at least it was better than hearing Elaine’s views of her carelessness at first hand.

      She showered at breakneck speed, dried her hair, managed to French-braid it on only the fifth attempt, and at last slipped into the cherry-coloured silk tunic that she had bought a few days earlier. ‘Make an effort,’ Elaine had said, so she’d allowed herself to be seduced by the blaze of embroidery, by the way the superficial demureness of the princess collar, long, close-fitting sleeves and knee-length hem was undercut by long slits up the sides of the skirt. Next she put on tights, new high-heeled shoes—must remember not to fall over, she thought—and then was ready for the coup de grâce.

      Morgan examined rather nervously the collection of cosmetics that she’d bought, egged on by the mother of one of her pupils.

      ‘Make the most of yourself,’ Razna had urged, and had shown her how to apply lipstick and kohl, mascara and eyeshadow in a glamorous style which matched the dress.

      Hastily Morgan did her best to follow the precepts she’d been given, lining her eyes with black, colouring her lips a brilliant crimson. At last she stood back and gazed doubtfully at her reflection. Striking, yes. Perhaps even beautiful. But the natural look it was not. Was this really what Elaine meant by making an effort?

      Morgan hesitated, wondering whether she should just scrub it all off—she could imagine how her family would tease her. But in the mirror her eyes were great misty pools within their black rims, her mouth had a lovely bitter-sweet curve—how could you be too beautiful? She’d been enchanted by this unfamiliar image when Razna had first conjured it up, and surely a susceptible TV executive couldn’t fail to be impressed?

      Don’t be such a coward, she told herself sternly. With an involuntary squaring of the shoulders she left the room and made her way precariously down the stairs and into the sitting room.

      As the door opened a confusion of phrases burst upon her—‘massive great tyre’, ‘dead easy’, ‘all afternoon’, ‘thought it was safe!’ Her father and stepmother were nowhere to be seen. The room held the three children and Elaine, who sat on the sofa, one gleaming, silk-encased leg crossed over the other. Her suit of brilliant aquamarine raw silk, with its microscopic skirt, made her look at once sexy and formidably self-assured.

      As Morgan came in Elaine pushed back the glossy blonde hair which fell to her jaw in a sophisticated cut. She shot Morgan a look which managed to convey both exasperation over the afternoon’s peccadillo and unenthusiastic assessment of her sister’s clothes and make-up.

      Morgan suppressed a sigh. She should have known that she couldn’t carry it off. Well, at least the children didn’t know about Richard Kavanagh.

      ‘You get more like Mother every day,’ Elaine remarked irritably. ‘You know, the other day I saw a piece in the paper—BRITISH TOURIST SETS OFF AVALANCHE, ALPINE VILLAGE DESTROYED—and the first thing I thought was, I didn’t know Mother could ski.’

      ‘I think she’s in the Himalayas,’ Morgan said non-committally, fighting down an impulse to spring to her mother’s defence. Since their parents’ divorce their mother had been happily wandering remote corners of the globe with little more than a pair of jeans and a rucksack; twelve years later Morgan still sometimes felt as if she’d lost her only ally.

      ‘Well, God help Nepal,’ Elaine said offhandedly.

      Morgan changed the subject abruptly. ‘Where’s your guest?’ she asked, for there was no sign of the TV executive who was to fall victim to her charms.

      ‘I can’t imagine,’ said Elaine. ‘He started well ahead of me; I don’t know what can be keeping him—Oh, wait, that must be him now!’

      From outside came the crunch of tyres on gravel. A vague uneasiness plucked at Morgan; surely it was impossible...?

      They heard a door slam, footsteps. The doorbell rang. Elaine fractionally adjusted her sleek, gleaming legs and waited.

      They heard their father hurrying up from the kitchen, a door opening, muffled exclamations. Morgan could feel her heart pounding, as if it had slowed down while she’d held her breath.

      A disjointed murmur grew gradually louder as Mr Roberts and his companion approached the door of the sitting room.

      ‘The girls will look after you. You will forgive me, won’t you? The Béarnaise sauce is at a frightfully delicate stage—’

      Hasty footsteps retreated down the corridor, and the door opened on a tall, black-browed, sardonic man who bore not the faintest resemblance to the fat, cigar-smoking executive of Morgan’s fond imagination.

      For the second time that day Morgan’s heart plummeted, and a voice in her head said, You idiot, you idiot, you idiot, you idiot.

      ‘Richard, what on earth happened to you?’ exclaimed Elaine. The newcomer also didn’t look much like the cool, laid-back presenter of Firing Line. His hair was streaked with sweat, one black lock falling forward in his face, and, while he had taken off his jacket, his shirt and trousers were plastered with mud, as was the lower half of what had once probably been a nice tie.

      ‘Had a spot of bother with a tyre,’ he said offhandedly, with a crooked grin. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’d better dash upstairs and change.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Elaine. ‘I’ll just introduce you quickly and then show you where we’ve put you. Let’s see...this is Ben, Sarah, Jenny... Where’s Morgan? Oh, there you are; and this is my sister Morgan. And, of course, this is Richard Kavanagh.’

      He stared, eyes narrowed, at the brilliant creature who lurked in the corner.

      ‘Well, look who’s here!’ he said. ‘What a delightful surprise.’

      Morgan looked at him dubiously, her black-rimmed grey eyes wary. There was an odd little flutter in her stomach which made it hard to think straight—and she needed all her wits about her. She glanced nervously at Elaine.

      ‘Do you two know each other, then?’ asked Elaine. ‘Oh, I suppose you must have met at one of my parties. What a memory you’ve got, Richard.’

      Morgan remembered the brief, chilling glimpse she’d had of Richard Kavanagh at one of Elaine’s parties and shuddered. All she needed was for him to remember it too...

      ‘Is that where we ran into each other?’ he asked her mockingly. Just for a moment Morgan felt a shameful, overwhelming relief—at least Elaine didn’t know how badly she’d behaved. But then on the heels of relief came suspicion. He didn’t miss much—he’d worked out that she didn’t want Elaine to know about this afternoon. But he didn’t owe her any favours. What kind of game was he playing?

      ‘Oh, there are always so many people at Elaine’s parties,’ Morgan said vaguely. ‘Lovely to see you again, anyway.’ She gave him a bright, meaningless smile. ‘Come on, kids; let’s go and have dinner.’

      Elaine looked surprised but not displeased. She’d bargained with Leah to have the children eat separately; the subtraction of Morgan from the grown-up table could only increase her chances of impressing her guest.

      ‘Aren’t you eating with us?’ Morgan wasn’t a bit surprised by his look of incredulity—he probably didn’t think any female under the age of eighty would willingly forgo his company. She was surprised to see that he looked distinctly put out. He hadn’t seemed all that anxious for her conversation an hour or so ago!

      ‘Oh, it can be rather chaotic with this lot around; Leah thought you might prefer rational conversation,’ Morgan said airily. ‘And I hardly ever get to see the children.’

      ‘Why on earth should they be segregated just because of me?’ he said, with an apparent modesty which made Morgan want to throw something—preferably at him. ‘I know they must be starving, but I’ll be back in half a tick—and then maybe we can work out where we met.’

      Morgan