Dying to Write by Judith Cutler Read Free Book Online Page B

the man. Like. I’m fond of him. Fond enough not to want to cause him pain. Because what he felt for me last time we met wasn’t liking, but love.
    I thought I’d rather meet him among other people. That way there’d be no opportunity for personal displays from either of us. A hug, a kiss, can’t be neutral. Not in our circumstances.
    It was time to return to the house. It was unfair of me to leave Shazia to deal with all the problems of breaking the news and deciding how much of the show would go on. But Shazia had Matt and Kate to call on. I was only a student, not a responsible, reliable member of staff. Not here. At college, maybe, but not here.
    I took the long way back into the house – along the terrace, on to the gravel path at the side, and then via the drive. Through the umbilical corridor. Over the top, Sophie, I told myself grimly.
    In the corridor outside the lounge the two girls were in half-resentful tears. They had each other. I looked into the library; the science-fiction student might never have heard of sudden death. One of the ladies – we still hadn’t sorted out the menu for tomorrow, of course – was hurrying downstairs with an asthma spray like mine.
    â€˜I’ve got Thea to lie down,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘This is for Agnes.’
    Time for you to be responsible, Sophie.
    Then I heard the door from reception whoosh. Without thinking, I turned back. If I could deal with any problem without bothering Shazia I might as well.
    This visitor was oriental, but not Japanese.
    I’m not very good on racial types. Japanese people I’m generally OK with, and I even have a misleading amount of the language. I can greet people convincingly and I can call in a rabbit and swear when it messes the carpet, a form of specialised communication which would have been no use at all in yesterday’s encounter with Brontë-man. This is a result of a live-in relationship with an angora rabbit and his associate, a serious-minded man called Kenji, now long departed to write a doctorate on the dietary habits of sumo wrestlers.
    I smiled at our visitor. He nodded.
    â€˜I want to see Mrs Compton immediately,’ he said, in accented but excellent English.
    â€˜Mrs Compton?’ Who the hell was that? It’d been first-name terms all round, hadn’t it? And it seemed a long time since I’d typed that list.
    â€˜Now.’
    This was clearly a job for Shazia. I’d still no idea who Mrs Compton might be.
    I produced a smile my dentist’s receptionist would have been proud of. ‘If you’d care to wait here, sir, I’ll see what I can do.’
    He started to follow me.
    â€˜Would you be kind enough to wait here, please.’
    He continued to follow me.
    I stopped; he tried to push past.
    â€˜I will go and ask Mrs Compton if she wishes to see you. Wait here, please.’ This was the formula – and the frigid tone – I use with unwelcome visitors at college. I’d at last placed the name. Mrs Compton was Nyree.
    He tried to push past again. Then he heard the sounds of feet on gravel, turned and, with all the doors whooshing in sympathy, dashed through the front door, colliding violently with the new arrival as he did so.
    So Chris Groom and I were absolutely alone for our first meeting for five months.
    I had the advantage of him; I’d seen him first, spinning on his heel to yell at our departing visitor. I’d taken in how thin he was, how the sun had dried his skin into a dull red with no hint of a tan. There was the start of a stoop about his neck and shoulders that might have been fatigue but was more likely in his case to be stress.
    Then he saw me: heavy-eyed, certainly. And Shazia had been so distressed when she woke me I’d had no time to apply make-up or brush my hair. The T-shirt and jeans he’d expect.
    I wonder how much he noticed after all. Perhaps he was too busy controlling his own face