Off the Record by Dolores Gordon-Smith Read Free Book Online

smile as she felt the warm strength of his hands. ‘My word, I’m tired,’ he added inconsequentially and, for the first time, she noticed the shadows under his eyes. ‘I wish I hadn’t said we’d go out tonight, but we can’t ignore the neighbours. You need to make some new friends, Molly. You’ve spent too long brooding.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘You’ve seemed very distant, these past few weeks.’
    She said nothing, but relaxed her head against his chest, enjoying the sensation of his hand on her cheek.
    ‘I’ve invited Gerry round for dinner tomorrow,’ he said after a while.
    She broke away. She couldn’t help it. ‘Gerry?’
    ‘Yes.’ He drew her back to him. ‘Molly, what on earth’s the matter? Don’t you like Gerry? I’ve noticed you stiffen up before when I’ve mentioned his name.’
    ‘It’s silly, really, Steve.’ She swallowed and plunged on. ‘I can’t think of Gerry without thinking of that dreadful day.’ That was partly the truth; true enough that she had clung to it as an explanation to herself. But – and she hardly wanted to acknowledge it – the other reason she winced at the thought of Gerry was guilt. Steve’s hand stroked her neck gently. For some reason that made the guilt worse. She liked Gerry; liked him a great deal and, what’s more, was well aware that he liked her. Their only time alone had been that shared coffee in the conservatory but those few minutes blazed in her memory.
    ‘So that’s it,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I had wondered if . . .’
    She looked up in sharp, startled wariness. ‘What?’
    He kissed her again. ‘I was being stupid, I suppose,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Imagining things. I have imagined them, haven’t I?’ he asked with sudden anxiety. ‘It’d . . . Well, it’d hurt like the dickens if things went wrong between us, Molly.’ His hands trembled on her skin. He was very strong and very sturdy and very good-looking in a solid, Anglo-Saxon way, but he seemed so suddenly vulnerable that she felt tears prick the back of her eyes.
    ‘Oh, Steve,’ said quietly, getting to her feet.
    ‘Molly! Don’t cry.’ He reached out a finger and wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I couldn’t manage without you, you know. You’re my wife,’ he said with a surge of feeling. ‘Mine. I love you. You . . . you do love me, don’t you?’
    With her head on his chest, hearing his quick breathing and the rapid beat of his heart, his arms encircled her. He kissed her once more, very tenderly, then with growing passion. ‘Shall we,’ he murmured, ‘be late for dinner?’
    At six o’clock on a glorious evening in early July, eight weeks after what the newspapers called the Double Tragedy at Stoke Horam , Jack Haldean sat in the smoking-room of the Young Services Club watching Hector Ferguson pick out a tune with one finger on the piano.
    This was not how Jack had planned to spend the evening. After being stuck in the office of On The Town all day, he had dived into the club for something to eat and was heading for the park, with warm and affectionate thoughts of a pint of bitter on the way, when he was buttonholed in the lobby by Ferguson.
    ‘Haldean! The very man!’ Ferguson dropped his voice. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’ He lowered his voice further. ‘It’s confidential, you understand? I’ve been worrying away for weeks now. I couldn’t think what to do or who to ask, and then I saw you.’
    Although he didn’t know Ferguson well, Jack liked the earnest, red-headed young Scot. Ferguson had a passion and a talent for jazz, both as a composer and a pianist. Jack had hardly ever heard him mention the shipping office where he worked but he could talk enthusiastically for hours about jazz.
    At the moment, however, Ferguson wasn’t talking at all. He stood by the smoking-room piano, picking out notes in an embarrassed way. ‘I’m sorry, Haldean,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best. When I saw