Escape Me Never. Sara Craven

wondered why Mrs Barrett should be talking about her to her in that odd way, and fell almost at once into a profound and dreamless sleep.

      Or thought she did. But the next time she opened her eyes, it seemed that Rohan Grant was there, sitting in the old armchair by the window, and she turned over, burying her flushed face in the pillow to dispel him, and muttering peevishly to herself.

      Wasn’t having ’flu bad enough? Did it have to be accompanied by more nightmares?

      The next time she woke, he had gone, and she breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out aching limbs and muscles, and discovering wonderingly that she actually felt a little better, and might be persuaded to live, after all.

      And when Mrs Barrett appeared, with a tray holding a cup of home-made vegetable soup, and a few wafer thin slices of brown bread and butter, Cass began to think that living might even be enjoyable again. She drank the soup to the last drop, while Mrs Barrett beamed at her.

      ‘Slept the clock round, you have, dear,’ she said. She looked slightly roguish. ‘I don’t think you even woke up for your visitor.’

      Cass put down the bowl. ‘Visitor?’ she asked, trying to sound casual, but aware that her heart was hammering uncomfortably.

      ‘From your work.’ Mrs Barrett gave an unmistakable wink. ‘Said they were worried about you, so I let him in for a while, although I kept popping in, just in case,’ she added. ‘I hope I did right, dear?’

      Cass tried to assemble coherent thought. ‘What was he like?’ she enquired apprehensively.

      Mrs Barrett’s smile widened. ‘Tall,’ she said wistfully. ‘A real dish.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And sexy with it. Made me wish I was thirty years younger, I can tell you.’

      ‘How odd,’ Cass said pallidly. ‘He makes me wish I was thirty years older.’

      Mrs Barrett didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I thought to myself—well that explains the pretty dress, and the way of doing your hair, and I was so pleased for you. Jodie liked him too,’ she added.

      ‘She met him?’ Cass’s head felt hollow.

      ‘When I came up—to make sure everything was all right—she came with me, and they had a nice little chat.’ Mrs Barrett gave her an anxious look. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it, Mrs Linton? When I looked in, he was sitting in that chair over there, and he said you’d been restless so he’d given you a drink, and made your pillows more comfortable. I’m sure no one could have been more concerned, that’s why I thought …’ her voice tailed off lamely.

      Cass was burning again, but this time with embarrassment, not delirium. She managed a taut smile. ‘No, he isn’t a boyfriend,’ she said quietly. ‘Just—a colleague of sorts, and I can’t imagine why he should have gone to all this trouble.’

      ‘Flowers he brought too,’ said Mrs Barrett. ‘I left them in your living room, because my mother used to say flowers in a sick room could be funny. I’ll get them for you, now you’re awake.’ She bustled off to return a moment later with about a ton of freesias arranged in an ornamental basket. ‘Don’t they smell lovely,’ she said ecstatically. ‘I’ll put them on the chest of drawers where you can see them.’

      She was right about that, Cass thought wearily later. Wherever she looked in the room, the freesias seemed to be there, in the corner of her eye. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she carried them back into the living room, and put them in the middle of the small dining table. She didn’t want them in her bedroom, reminding her constantly of him—the interloper who’d been there. Not a dream, not delirium, but reality. And how dared he? she thought, trying to work herself up into a rage, but finding she was still too listless to make the effort. All she really wanted to do was cry weakly, but she couldn’t do that. She’d shed her last tear a long time ago.

      When evening came, she felt well enough to get up. She ate the supper which Mrs Barrett provided—a fluffy omelette flanked by grilled tomatoes—by the fire, then switched on the television. Some commercials which she and Roger had designed for a client were scheduled for their first showing, and Cass hadn’t been entirely happy about the filming. The client, a fitted kitchen manufacturer, had insisted on having a particular actress feature in the commercials for reasons, Cass gathered, of a sexual rather than an artistic nature. Roger had roared with laughter about it, but Cass hadn’t been so amused, watching take after take being ruined. And the girl was still wooden, she thought, viewing the finished product critically. If the fitted kitchen industry collapsed, she would probably never work again. Or if the client’s wife found out, Cass thought drily.

      As she switched off the set, she heard her front door buzzer. Mrs Barrett, she thought, returning for the tray.

      ‘Come in,’ she called. ‘It isn’t locked.’

      She sank gratefully back on to the sofa, curling her legs under her.

      He said, ‘Don’t you think you should keep it locked. I might have been a burglar.’

      Cass jumped, every nerve ending jangling, as she stared at him, leaning against the door jamb.

      She said, stammering, ‘What—what are you doing here?’

      ‘Checking the invalid’s progress,’ he said pleasantly, and strolled forward.

      She said hurriedly, ‘I’m fine,’ aware as she spoke, that she was involuntarily tucking the folds of her dressing gown further around her feet and legs, and that the hazel eyes had taken sardonic note of her action.

      ‘Yes, I’d like to sit down,’ he said mockingly. ‘And, no, I won’t have any coffee, thank you.’

      Cass flushed. ‘Well, I’m not offering,’ she said grittily. ‘Perhaps you’d leave.’

      ‘Not when I’ve only just got here.’ He shrugged off the supple suede car coat he was wearing, and dropped it across the arm of the sofa, then sat down opposite her, stretching out long legs. He was more casually dressed this evening, she couldn’t help noticing, with dark brown pants moulding themselves to his body, and topped by a matching roll neck cashmere sweater. She looked away hurriedly, fiddling with the sash of her robe. ‘Besides, I want to talk to you, and you were in no fit state for conversation when I called yesterday.’

      ‘Why did you?’ She glared at him.

      ‘To see if your sudden illness was genuine, or just a convenient excuse for avoiding me.’

      ‘You flatter yourself, Mr Grant,’ Cass said defiantly. ‘I’m hardly concerned enough about you and your boundless male egotism to go to those lengths.’

      He raised eyebrows. ‘You never miss a chance, do you, Cass? I’ll bet you’re the pride of the local sisterhood. Even when you’re struggling back from the ‘flu, you’re punching your weight. Actually, I thought I should reassure you.’

      ‘About what?’ She gave him a wary look.

      ‘The Eve cosmetics account.’ He paused. ‘You seemed to think there might be—strings attached. You’re wrong.’ He gave her a long look. ‘And you’re also wrong if you thought I’d tell Finiston about your unique method of turning down dinner invitations.’ His smile was thin. ‘So if you were expecting repercussions, there’s no need.’

      Cass bit her lip. She couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t a relief. ‘Thank you,’ she acknowledged stiltedly.

      ‘Please don’t mention it,’ he said, too courteously. ‘Now the next item on the agenda. Why the hell did you hand me all that “I’m a married woman” garbage, when you’ve been a widow for at least four years?’

      Cass lifted her head defiantly. ‘To try and convince you that I wasn’t interested in you or your invitations. You didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer.’ She paused. ‘How did you find out?’

      ‘A few casual questions at Finiston Webber. It