Never Tell. Claire Seeber

never saw again. I resigned myself to the fact that the party was an amazing experience, but a one-off. I told myself that if she had been in any way unhappy about it, she would have come forward by now and I was content to leave it at that.

       Chapter Four GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

      As we rounded the bend in the long snaking drive, the floodlit manor house finally came into view between the great oak trees.

      ‘Christ.’ James stopped the car and, for a moment, we simply stared in awe.

      For all my doubts about the Cotswolds, my own butter-coloured house was undeniably beautiful, the stone warm and inviting, a much-loved well-lived-in home. The great mansion that stood before us was not in the least inviting; majestic maybe, but somehow unsettling. Its dark stone spoke of antique grandeur rather than home and hearth. Gargoyles screeched wordlessly from the roof as we neared, the huge front door lit by flaming torches on either side, a line of expensive-looking cars parked neatly on the right.

      ‘I like the flames. Nice idea for the club,’ James said, driving up to the gatehouse, where a man with a clipboard stepped from the shadows.

      James had only agreed to come because he thought there might be something in it for him. He always had an eye on the main chance, my loving husband, and I’d understood in the last few days that although the record label was still doing well, and his properties in New York and Europe were still ticking over nicely, the London club had just lost a major investor, meaning its relaunch was hanging in the balance. James was on the prowl for more backing, and fast.

      At the top of the huge stone stairs we were handed champagne and shown through the dark-panelled hall, hung with tapestries of archers and deer, into a great drawing room, humming with polite conversation, the décor a peculiar clash of Gothic splendour and Arabic glamour. Small tables inlaid with gold sat between a leather three-piece suite and huge marble ashtrays festooned the antique sideboards, whilst the mantelpiece groaned with expensively framed photographs of family, a few of a grinning polo team and a huge white yacht in glittering blue seas.

      The walls were hung with exquisite art that looked like it would be wasted on the majority of the guests, a mixture of portly middle-aged men and impeccable women with skinny ankles and expensive hair who basked in the heat of a great log fire.

      ‘Fuck,’ James muttered, downing his drink in two gulps. ‘Wake me up when the party begins. I thought you said this would be fun.’

      ‘Shh, J,’ I warned. ‘Be nice, please.’ My heart sank as I spotted the local MP, Eddie Johnson, in the corner. Thankfully Johnson’s wife was nowhere to be seen.

      Tina and her bespectacled husband approached us now and they began to discuss the last series of The Wire with James whilst I eyed the photographs behind them. I’d just picked up a heavy gold frame housing the picture of a dark-haired doe-eyed teenage girl when a low voice made me jump.

      ‘Mrs Miller, I presume?’

      ‘Yes.’ I replaced the photograph quickly and turned, composing my face as my brain caught up with fact. ‘You must be Mr Kattan?’

      ‘Indeed.’ The elegant dark-haired man inclined his head politely. ‘Charmed to meet you.’

      Involuntarily I looked back at the picture of the girl. The waterlogged girl from the petrol station, the girl from the protest in the newspaper. Kattan followed my eyes.

      ‘I believe you met my daughter the other night.’

      ‘Ah.’ The all-seeing eye. ‘Yes, I think I did.’

      ‘She was having a very bad day.’

      ‘A bad day.’ You could say that again. ‘She seemed a little – confused.’

      ‘Yes. She was taken ill on her way home from London. A bad oyster, I believe.’

      ‘Poor thing. Is she all right now?’

      ‘Yes, thank God. Salmonella can make you quite delirious, her doctor tells me.’

      ‘Sounds horrible. Is she here?’

      He sighed. ‘I was sincerely hoping that she would be, Mrs Miller, but …’ His Middle Eastern accent was almost imperceptible. ‘The party would help her, I think. Meet some local people, make some new friends. But I am afraid she has gone – how do you say it? – walkabout?’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ The image of her wailing face spun through my head; the contorted face in the newspaper. ‘Doesn’t she like parties?’

      ‘Usually. But she has had some … some trouble recently with a young man.’

      ‘What kind of trouble?’ I was intrigued.

      ‘Oh, the usual, you know.’ He inspected his fingernails briefly. ‘I think the boyfriend is what the films might term a “heart-breaker.”‘

      ‘Poor girl.’ I was genuinely sympathetic. ‘There’s nothing more painful than love.’

      He caught my eye. He had a neat intelligent face, dark hooded eyes. Not handsome but rather noble. ‘That, my dear Mrs Miller, is undoubtedly true.’

      ‘I hope she feels better soon. It’s a lovely party.’ I smiled again.

      ‘Thank you so much for inviting us. I’m looking forward to meeting your son.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He bowed again. ‘I’m afraid he is not here yet. I hope he will arrive soon.’ Dressed in a grey suit, Kattan was the epitome of elegance, with a presence that pervaded the party, that drew the guests’ eyes to him. His gestures were almost courtly, and his immaculate teeth, when he smiled, were a startling white against his olive skin. He might be renowned, but there was no doubt the man was also something of a mystery.

      The heat of the room hit me and I fought a strange urge to sigh.

      ‘It is wonderful to see so many people in my home,’ Kattan said, beckoning a waiter. ‘I fear it is often a little empty. And I believe you are not alone tonight?’

      I shook my head. ‘No. I must introduce my husband.’ I caught James’s eye across the room, he raised a hand in greeting.

      ‘I hope you do not mind me saying, Mrs Miller, this colour red, it compliments you well.’ His voice was like a caress, and I flushed, reminding myself I was here to do a job.

      ‘That’s a Stubbs, isn’t it, Mr Kattan?’ I indicated an old painting of a glossy racehorse on the wall behind him. ‘It’s beautiful.’

      ‘It is indeed. One of my favourites for the line and realisation.’ Kattan stood beside me now. ‘I have some marvellous hunters here on the estate. I fear they do not get enough usage.’

      ‘That’s a shame.’

      ‘Do you ride? You could borrow one if you so desire.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I shuddered involuntarily. ‘But I don’t really.’ I would never ride again, I knew that much. ‘Do you?’

      A flicker of something indecipherable crossed his face. ‘No. Maya does, occasionally, but it seems infrequent now.’

      I had a sudden image of this man’s hand on my bare arm. It was incredibly warm in here; the drink was obviously going to my head. James finally wandered over to shake hands.

      ‘Great picture.’ My husband helped himself to a canapé from a tray, pointing at a Picasso next to an Emin. ‘Think I prefer his earlier stuff, though. Not sure about all those weird-shaped women, personally.’ He shoved the shiny caviar in his mouth inelegantly. ‘Bit spiky for me. I like a boob or two.’

      ‘James!’ I reproved softly, embarrassed.

      He rolled his eyes. ‘So what exactly brought you to our neck of the woods, Mr Kattan?’

      ‘This