The Other Woman by Jill McGown Read Free Book Online Page A

left as Lloyd was getting into his stride. She had learned to do that, at least. Not to let the row get to a stage where Lloyd could and would do real damage. She had had to do one or two major repair jobs on her feelings in her time with Lloyd, and opening old wounds hurt more than first time round; he knew that, and when he was angry with her, he had no use for ethics. She had learned to live with that. The really worrying part was that she had believed they had put the promotion business behind them. Evidently not.
    She shifted up a gear, and drove away from the hazy, street-lamp lit scene at the side of the road, deciding against seeing if her colleagues had a problem; quite frankly, she didn’t give a damn whether they had or not.
    Melissa was at the hotel, just one of the sudden crop of buildings which had sprung up on land once owned by the now defunct Mitchell Engineering works, whose existence had brought the new town into being, and which had now vanished. She had a male companion; this was not altogether unpleasant, she had decided, after a much-needed intake of alcohol.
    She had arrived at the hotel, disturbed by her near-miss with the motorbike, and had sat sipping a calming whisky and soda in the long lounge and dining-room, regulation pink and grey, and quite empty. She had had two more drinks before another customer entered.
    He had grey hair, and a face that she recognised, but to which she had been unable to put a name. ‘I think the barman may have died,’ she had said. ‘I haven’t seen him for half an hour.’
    â€˜Hello,’ he had said, smiling, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘It’s Melissa Fletcher, isn’t it?’
    He had met her at The Chronicle ; Fletcher was her pen-name. But she hadn’t had the faintest idea who he was.
    â€˜Mac,’ he had said, and she had remembered then. He wrote a column for the Saturday edition.
    He was a lot older than Simon, but not as old as the grey hair would suggest. He had blue eyes; she hadn’t noticed that when they had met before.
    After some moments, the youth who looked too young to be serving behind a bar had almost sidled out, clearly finding two customers a bit on the hectic side.
    Now, she was on her fourth drink. Mac drank soft drinks. They sat side by side on a wall seat, the huge leather bag in which she carried her tape-recorder and half the contents of her files between them, until Mac found its presence uncomfortable.
    â€˜I’ll put it up here,’ he said, picking it up and sliding it on to a shelf above his head. He hadn’t expected the weight; the bag slipped a little, and as he righted it a loose tape slid out and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, reading the label. ‘Sharon Smith?’ he asked. She felt her cheeks go pink, and he looked at her when she didn’t
    answer.
She snatched the tape from him. ‘Just work,’ she said, standing
    up and pushing it back into the bag. She sat down again, hoping
    she hadn’t reacted too obviously.
Mac knelt one knee on the imitation pink velvet to push the
    bag further back, and his hand rested lightly on her shoulder as
    he righted himself again. ‘There we are,’ he said, sitting beside her.
    â€˜So – what brings you out on a night like this?’
Melissa took a fortifying sip before she spoke. ‘ I was working
    late,’ she said.
‘Winding down?’ He looked at her drink.
‘Something like that.’
He looked at her seriously. ‘Take it from one who knows,’ he
    said. ‘Tiredness, whisky and cars don’t mix very well.’
‘I don’t intend driving any more tonight,’ she said.
He frowned, puzzled.
‘I’m staying here,’ she said.
‘I see.’ He made himself more comfortable, moving closer to her
    as he did. ‘ You … you don’t live in Stansfield, then?’
She coloured slightly, and he noticed. ‘Yes – but