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  She gave him an odd look. ‘Door at the end. Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘OK.’ That would keep her occupied for a few minutes.

  He opened the furthest door as wide as possible to let in the light from the living room and did a quick stock take. Double bed, fitted wardrobes, laundry basket; under the window, a desk with a laptop and a comfortable-looking armchair. He couldn’t imagine having a computer in his bedroom – too much a reminder of work when he wanted to focus on sex or sleep; but, from what Lou had said, Anna had one less competing priority. There was certainly no evidence here of a man’s presence – occasional or permanent. No clothes or toiletries or magazines – nothing obvious, anyway.

  Another steadying breath. Now that this strange urge to see her bedroom was satisfied, what next? Bathroom inspection? Kitchen survey? Or a cosy post-mortem of their previous relationship over coffee?

  He put the case down and made to leave, then caught sight of a book lying on the desk. Recalled Lou’s comment about Anna preferring her men to stay between the covers of a nineteenth-century Russian novel. Listened for sounds from the kitchen – and, reassured, stole across the floor.

  On the book’s cover a single word in large Cyrillic letters, presumably the title, jumped out at him: Идиот. He fixed it in his memory for further investigation; it would be interesting to know which hero she was fantasising about at this precise moment.

  But right now he’d better get out of this room before she wondered what he was doing.

  When Anna came out of the kitchen, Rick was pacing the living-room floor.

  She handed him the mug of coffee, on edge in case their fingers touched again; he made sure they didn’t. ‘Black, no sugar – is that still how you take it?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘What about something to eat?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  He stopped his pacing, but didn’t sit down; just stared silently at the floor. She wondered why he’d come in if he had nothing to say. Maybe he wanted her to tell him that everything would be all right? But she couldn’t do that; she wasn’t one for empty promises, whatever he might think.

  So she sank on to the sofa and made conversation, while he drank his coffee. Talked about her work and her students, dwelling on the highs rather than the lows. About her friends and her social life, which sounded more exciting than it actually was. About Bath and its many attractions, as if she was after a job at the bloody Tourist Information Office.

  At last he put down his mug. ‘Thanks.’

  If he said ‘thanks’ one more time, she’d scream. ‘Henrietta’s right, you know. You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened – Lou’s very single-minded.’ There – she’d got that off her chest.

  ‘I know. But the fact remains that if …’ he paused, and cleared his throat, ‘if I’d behaved differently, she wouldn’t be in hospital now.’

  He looked so forlorn that she didn’t stop to think, just jumped up and slipped her arms around him. Not inside his coat – safely on top, so that she couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. And he didn’t flinch; he simply sighed, and she felt his body relax against her. It seemed perfectly natural to press her cheek to his chest – where, even through the thickness of his coat, his heart drummed in her ear.

  Except, once upon a time, it would also have been perfectly natural for him to put his arms round her. And he didn’t.

  After a moment she stepped back, turning away so that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. ‘Sorry, I thought you needed a hug.’

  Behind her, she heard him say, ‘You have no idea what I need.’

  It wasn’t just the words, it was the harshness of his tone that made her gasp. The door clicked open and shut – she spun round, but it was too late. He was nothing but the muffled clatter of steps on the stairs, the distant slam of the front door – then silence, settling like a shroud.

  He’d been here barely twenty minutes, but he’d destroyed ten years of self-preservation. She picked up the mug, still warm from his touch, and stumbled into the kitchen.

  You have no idea what I need.

  It was nothing personal, she told herself. He wasn’t getting at her; he was exhausted, and worried sick about Lou.

  But all the excuses in the world didn’t stop the tears from falling.

  He’d walked round the same circular road God knows how many times before Dave rang. And then, of course, he couldn’t tell him where he was – he’d been in a blind fury when he left her flat. Because … because he’d just realised how much he’d screwed everything up.

  As soon as he mentioned a circle, Dave said, ‘That’ll be The Circus.’ Very appropriate; he felt exactly like a caged animal.

  By the time Dave picked him up, he didn’t feel in the mood for small talk. So he avoided the passenger seat and got into the back of the car, at the side where she’d sat. Huh, it was as though he couldn’t keep away from her; just why had he gone up to her flat, snooped round her bedroom, drunk her coffee?

  But all that was as nothing compared to the moment when she’d held him close. He’d been a breath away from taking her in his arms and pouring it all out – every detail of his irresponsible behaviour towards Lou, the overwhelming sense of guilt and obligation, this bewildering need to be here, with her, in her little flat, away from the real world.

  Thank God he hadn’t. She’d hugged him because she was a caring person, simple as that. And she’d also made it clear that she was completely content with her life, a constant stream of lectures and tutorials and evenings out with her arty-farty friends – God, he felt like he’d been on a tour of every bookshop, bistro and theatre in Bath.

  But, unexpectedly, something in her flat – that stark reflection of a life without him – had disturbed a distant memory. He closed his eyes and concentrated on what he’d seen. The bedroom? No, nothing familiar there. The living room, then? He visualised it – the sofa, the rug, the bookcase in the corner – maybe they shared the same tastes in reading, assuming she ever got beyond her security blanket of Russian literature? Above the bookcase, slightly to the left, there’d been that large abstract painting, oils on canvas. An oblong of cyan, split horizontally by a string of angular shapes in white and orange and brown, with splashes of red and yellow and green; and, across the bottom right-hand corner, a thin curving silver-grey line. As he stood drinking his coffee, listening intently to her words without appearing to, he’d focused on that painting, trying to make sense of it – and of so much else.

  Now, in the car, the pieces slotted into place. The cyan was both sea and sky. With a bit of imagination, the string of shapes became a coastline of cliffs and sandy beaches and hotels and houses, ending in a small harbour and a white lighthouse with a distinctive green band. The curving grey line looked very like the handrail of a boat.

  He could have left it there, as a nice little exercise in art appreciation.

  Except that this was a view he’d actually seen.

  And so he found himself sucked under by a riptide of emotions. He recalled the exhilaration of borrowing the Jeanneau and sailing south towards the Côte d’Amour. The first night, he’d dropped anchor opposite a resort called Pornichet. Oh, that first night he hadn’t noticed the view at all … But early the next morning he’d stood on the deck and gazed out at this very place, framed by a cyan sea and a cyan sky, each of its colours burnished by the sun, like the dawn of a new world.

  Then he’d turned to the girl beside him, kissed her wonderingly on her soft red lips and said, ‘Anna, I think I’m in heaven.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The following Friday morning, Anna stood by the window in her room at the Department of Russian Studies, staring out at the scene below. Bronze leaves stuck to wet paths like a child’s collage. Black umbrellas – lecturers and a few of the more organised students, from the look of it – scuttled beetle-like between buildings. Cars swished along the road, not a single black Jaguar among them. And even if there was,
it wouldn’t be the one she had in mind. That was no doubt parked outside Southampton General Hospital, where Lou had been taken last Sunday with a suspected skull fracture.

  A knock at the door made her jump, even though she was expecting it.

  ‘Only me.’ Jenny came in, put two mugs of coffee on the desk, slumped on to the nearest chair and smothered a yawn. ‘Am I glad this week’s almost over! Arranging next year’s placements in Russia is stressing me out – I don’t want to see another student ever again.’ A rueful smile. ‘Well, not until Monday, the little darlings.’

  ‘It’s certainly been a long week.’ Anna sat down at her desk and cradled one of the mugs in her hands. ‘Thanks, this’ll warm me up before I head off. My afternoon tutorial’s cancelled so I thought I’d work from home, especially as Barbara said she might ring and I don’t seem to have my mobile with me.’

  Jenny gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Any more news of Lou?’

  ‘Nothing since Wednesday.’

  ‘So they’re still saying that the operation to drain the blood from her brain was a success?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s amazing, she can walk – with help – and talk, although her mouth’s droopy and her speech is slurred. They’re giving her intensive physio and speech therapy.’ A pause. ‘Henrietta says she’s not her normal self, too quiet, but it could have been so much worse.’ Anna forced a brighter note into her voice. ‘I told you that Charles and Mona were due to go home yesterday, didn’t I? Now that Barbara’s at the hospital, there didn’t seem much point in them all staying. Anyway, Henrietta and Roger are too busy with the stables and the estate to look after the boys properly.’

  ‘And Rick Wentworth’s in Southampton too?’

  ‘He visits whenever he can, apparently.’

  ‘What about his book signings?’

  ‘Henrietta said he nearly fell out with his publisher because he wanted to cancel them all.’ When she’d heard this, Anna had wondered what to make of it; did it indicate the depth of his feelings for Lou, or simply his current state of mind? She added briskly, ‘In the end, though, he only missed two.’

  ‘So he’s still coming to Bath next Friday evening?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Was that couldn’t-care-less tone convincing?

  ‘All this waiting must have been awful for him as well as the family.’ Jenny sipped her coffee thoughtfully. ‘And then he’s had the press to contend with. One paper even implied he might have pushed Lou – where could they have got that idea?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Anna said, making a mental note to find out exactly who Mona had been talking to.

  Jenny frowned. ‘It’s weird to think that her personality may have changed. I’ve read about that sort of thing, of course, but never actually known anyone affected by it.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘It’s too early to tell if it’s permanent. Perhaps being quiet is a natural part of the recovery process.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is – if I had Rick Wentworth waiting at my bedside, I’d do my damnedest to recover as quickly as possible.’ Jenny’s voice hardened. ‘And how’s your delightful father?’

  ‘As delightful as ever.’ Anna finished her coffee and started packing her briefcase. ‘I’ve just been summoned to dinner tomorrow night at The Royal Crescent Hotel. He’s got someone special coming.’

  ‘You mean other than you?’

  ‘Very funny. Anyway, I’ve said I’ll go. After all, I’ve managed to avoid actually seeing him since he came to Bath – the phone calls have been bad enough.’ A sigh as she recalled the one earlier in the week, when she’d turned down drinks with Lady Dalrymple. She’d explained that she’d already arranged a night out with Jenny and Tom and their crowd; that had made him splutter something about her needing to get her priorities right.

  ‘And you’ve no idea who the “someone special” is? You could be in for an even worse evening than usual.’

  ‘Probably.’ Anna crammed another folder into the already bulging briefcase. Apart from dinner on Saturday night, she planned to spend the entire weekend working; far more productive than wondering what was happening in Southampton. ‘It’ll be Lady Dalrymple, he’s been bleating on and on about her ever since he got here. They fell out years ago, but she’s staying at the hotel – practically lives there – so they’re back on speaking terms.’

  Jenny stared. ‘Lady What? Dalrymple? Never heard of her. Am I meant to be impressed?’

  ‘Definitely. She’s a viscountess – a dowager viscountess, of course, now that her husband’s dead – so Walter’s in ecstasies.’

  ‘If you’re not careful, he’ll be living at that hotel too. Keeping up with the Dalrymples, whatever it costs.’

  ‘Not if Minty can help it,’ Anna said. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that she’s always poking her nose in our affairs, whether we like it or not.’ And, with thoughts of one particular example of her godmother’s interference uppermost in her mind, she continued haltingly, ‘I never told you about the only time Minty and I really fell out … I was just eighteen and, until then, I didn’t even think to question her – we’d always been so close, especially after Mummy died … But I’d met this guy when I was staying at my cousin’s in France, and things got serious, and he was going off to – somewhere, and he wanted me to go with him. Which meant shelving Oxford and all that Mummy had planned for me … And, although that’s a decision I’d never have made lightly, it was taken out of my hands when Walter and Minty turned up unexpectedly. Walter ranted on and on – which wouldn’t have made the slightest difference – but then Minty weighed in … By the time she’d finished, my whole perspective had changed. I’d been the victim of nothing more than a holiday romance – those were her exact words – and no reasonable man would expect me to give up my place at Oxford. And then the killer blow – what would my mother have thought?’ She turned away and stared out of the rain-streaked window.

  ‘What do you think now?’ Jenny said softly. ‘Did you do the right thing?’

  Anna shrugged, still unable to speak. After a while, she felt firm hands on her shoulders and heard Jenny say, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I guess you don’t want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head miserably.

  ‘But you know where I am if you ever want to.’

  The clunk of the mugs as Jenny picked them up, the click of the door as she left the room – and Anna was alone with her thoughts once again.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It had been a long hard week and, Rick suspected, it was about to get worse.

  He and Guy were having lunch in Brighton with Duncan Taylor, a freelance journalist. Apparently Guy owed him a favour and the payback involved Rick giving Duncan an exclusive interview. So here they were, going through the charade of a ‘frank and revealing conversation’; but Rick had no intention of making it easy.

  ‘What’s Sex in the Sea about?’ was Duncan’s first question.

  Rick scowled at him. ‘Haven’t you done your research and read it?’

  ‘Of course, but the readers like it summed up in your own words.’

  ‘Just use the blurb on the back of the book.’

  Duncan paused, then changed tack. ‘What are you writing next?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t want to write this sort of stuff any more.’

  The other man pounced. ‘Why is that, do you think?’ he said, stroking his unkempt beard. ‘Scarred by the experience of becoming a coffee-table celebrity?’

  Silence, while Rick carried on eating his lunch.

  Guy put down his fork with an exasperated sigh. ‘To answer your first question, Duncan, Rick would say that the book’s a powerful statement about how far some creatures go in order to procreate, and a timely reminder of what we humans take for granted in that department. Rick’s other key message is that life under the sea is precarious enough – but, when you add to this our generally irresponsible attitude to fishing and pollution, you have an ecological disaster waiting to happen. As for what he�
��s writing next, sales of Sex in the Sea have been so fantastic that we’re already in discussions about a sequel. It’s called “Parents of the Deep” and it’ll show the extraordinary ways in which some sea creatures rear their young. Put Rick on the cover again, this time holding a child’s hand, and it’ll sell like the proverbial hot cakes.’

  Rick let this bullshit flow uninterrupted. He wasn’t contracted for a second book and Guy was exaggerating when he said that they were in discussions. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to return to writing scientific papers and presenting them in the rarefied air of academic conferences – only if and when he felt like it. But he had to admit that ‘Parents of the Deep’ could be an interesting project.

  His mind wandered to Barbara and Roger and the loving concern for their daughter that he’d seen on their faces – God, no, he couldn’t bear to revisit the past week. He let himself dwell instead on Ollie and Harry Musgrove, back in the care of a self-absorbed, manipulative mother and a father who wouldn’t stand up to her. Huh, they could certainly feature in ‘Parents of the Deep’. Mona would be Vampyroteuthis infernalis, literally the vampire squid from hell, a blue-blooded cephalopod living in the deepest parts of the ocean; or, in her case, a twilight world of her own making. And Charles? Ah, yes – Osedax, the zombie sea worm; enough said.

  No! That was grossly unfair. Even when Rick was thinking the worst of him, Charles had been unfailingly pleasant. He deserved sympathy, not sarcasm; especially as he’d lost the woman he’d really loved.

  And inevitably, like the pull of the tide, Rick’s thoughts turned to Anna. She’d captivated him right from the start – even though physically she wasn’t his usual type. Of course, he hadn’t bargained for her other attractions, such as a tender heart, quicksilver mind and quiet sense of humour; and he’d completely underestimated the sexual chemistry …

  He remembered that moment of pure irony, after it was all over between them, when he’d finally understood her physical appeal. Diving at Kangaroo Island, off Australia’s south coast, he’d caught his first glimpse of a sea dragon in the wild. Small, delicate, exquisitely beautiful, moving with measured grace, it reminded him of Anna. For some time afterwards, he felt a tightness in his chest every time he studied the creatures, as if she was haunting – or taunting – him.