Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.

      ‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.

      ‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.

      Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower.

      ‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.

      He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’

      ‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’

      ‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.

      She smiled. ‘Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.’

      ‘I’m not?’

      ‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’

      ‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’

      She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘About?’

      ‘Jo.’

      She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.

      ‘Does Jo need any favours from me?’ she asked.

      ‘She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.’

      He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. ‘I think you’d better explain, Nick.’

      ‘She’s planning a series of articles which she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.’

      ‘And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?’ Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face.

      A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. ‘I care about her, Bet.’

      Bet stood up. ‘Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.’ She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. ‘Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?’

      Nick rose to his feet. ‘I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.’ He was pacing up and down the carpet. ‘She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly …’ He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.

      ‘And why shouldn’t she?’ Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.

      He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. ‘If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.’

      ‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.’

      He shrugged. ‘You’re a hard bitch, Bet. OK. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject – that means if she gets hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical programme. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it – they did that business of “you won’t remember when you wake up” on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.’

      Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘Are you serious?’

      ‘Never more so.’

      ‘But that’s fantastic, Nick! Think of the article she’ll produce!’

      ‘Christ, Bet!’ Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. ‘Can’t you see, she mustn’t do it?’

      ‘No I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows –’

      ‘But she doesn’t know.’ His voice had risen angrily. ‘I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing. Nothing. I’ve told her I think it’s dangerous to meddle with hypnosis – which it is – but she laughs at me. Being her, if she thinks I’m against it she’s keener to do it than ever. She thinks everything I say is hokum. Please, Bet. Just this once, take my word for it. When she brings the idea to you, squash it.’

      ‘I’ll think about it.’ Bet reached for another cigarette. ‘Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition this week, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it so the publicity should be good.’

      He glared at her. ‘It’s a damn good exhibition.’ He reached out for the doorknob. ‘Bet –’

      ‘I said I’d think about it, Nick.’

      She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag which lay on the carpet at her feet, and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it.

       2

      As Jo let herself into her flat she automatically stopped and listened. Then, throwing down her bag, she turned and closed the door behind her, slipping the deadlock into place; she had not really thought Nick might be there.

      She went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. It was only for those few minutes when she first came in that she missed him: the clutter of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes and the endlessly playing radio that surrounded him. She shook her head, reaching into the fridge for the coffee beans. ‘No way, Nicholas,’ she said out loud. ‘You just get out from under my skin!’

      On the table in the living room was a heap of books and papers. She pushed them aside to make room for her coffee cup and went to throw open the tall French windows that led onto the balcony which overlooked Cornwall Gardens. The scent of honeysuckle flooded the room from the plant, which trailed over the stone balustrade.

      When the phone rang