'Nice to have somebody to make them for,' Betty said. 'Marie eats hardly anything, and the men would demand sausage rolls.''Paul too?' Amy asked, reflecting again how little she knew of these small details of his everyday life.'They're ready in the kitchen for when he comes back,' Betty answered.The talk continued at that level, comfortable, undemanding, leaving Amy's mind free to wrestle with what she had just heard and try to make sense of it.Carol. Somewhere in Paul's life was a woman named Carol.Yet Grand'mere's absolutely positive that he likes me, she reflected. It was difficult not to draw hope and strength from the old lady's certainty, but she must be mistaken. Surely if it were true Paul would by now have shown his . . . his liking . . . one way or another?Whereas he avoids touching me, she thought, except for that one time when he was sorry for me . . .'. . .in zose days,' Grand'mere was saying, l Le Mali was French Ouest Africa. Zey were terrible, colonial times, bu

For a long time they lay like that without speaking. Then he shifted his weight off her and lay beside her, still close, still without speaking, and raised himself on one elbow. She put a finger on the hard, wonderful curve of his shoulder, and traced a line down to the swell of his biceps, which moved and rippled as his hand played some delightful game with her navel.'I thought you didn't like me,' she said at last.His hand stole from her navel to her breasts. 'I . . . like you very much.''I thought after you met Robert . . .''Amy, darling, living is making mistakes. I've made them too.''With women?'He didn't answer, but his hand left her breasts and pushed her damp hair away from her face.'Grand'mere,' Amy said, 'told me to ask you about someone called Carol.'He turned abruptly away from her and sat up against the old-fashioned mahogany bedhead. 'She was nobody. It was a long time ago.'Amy lay back, staring up at his straight, strong profile. Something had happened to her i

So he's up there, she thought, whoever he is, and wanting the place dark so as to get away without being seen.She tried the lights a third time. Nothing happened; she presumed that whoever was in the lighting booth had turned off the master switch. From now on, the studio would stay dark.How huge it felt, a whole lightless world of space. Somewhere in the vast limbo she heard a quiet click which must be the lighting booth door opening. Then came a patter of feet on the steps, and with them a weird rustling and slithering like the movements of a giant snake. The smell of mothballs and linseed oil and vinegar was suddenly overwhelming.The coat, Amy thought. He has Paul's coat.The pattering and the slithering went on, coming lower and nearer while adrenalin-fuelled ideas zigzagged across her mind like lightning flashes. She must get some light in here somehow. Apart from this main entrance where she stood, the studio had several other ways out, she must get a look at this person befo

He didn’t like her. One look told Lynne Castle that her hope for this company’s sponsorship during her articling year was about to be shot right out of the sky because Cliff Foreman, the junior partner, had taken an instant dislike to her. He stood there, tall, with an olive complexion, dark curly hair, and eyes a shade of brown verging on black, and glared at her from behind his affable partner, Grant Simpkins. Mr Simpkins, somewhere in his fifties, with a round, cherubic face and a few strands of ginger hair combed carefully across his © bald spot, smiled warmly at her. “Take a seat, Miss Castle,’ he said, waving her to a chair then sinking back into his own, which creaked. His partner remained standing, leaning against the wall, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other, body language saying, Keep away from me. ‘Cliff here and I have both read your résumé, and are impressed with the grades you’ve maintained. We did notice, though, that it took you nearly six years to attain y

“It's going to be great, guys!’ Lynne flopped back on her motel room bed following her first day at work. Her brother and sister-in-law, each of whom was on an extension phone in their home, tried to speak at once, but Lynne cut them off. ‘After I accepted the job, I had lunch with the junior partner, then spent the rest of the day getting my office organized.’ She laughed. “Though “‘office’”’ is something of an exaggeration, I have to admit. There’s room for a small desk, a computer, a visitor’s chair, and me and not much else. But at least it has a window.’ ‘With a view?’ Ann asked. In the background Lynne heard baby Mandy fussing. ‘A view of a perfectly gorgeous gray concrete wall,’ Lynne said. ‘I’m hoping some enterprising artist will paint a beautiful scene on it, but I’m not holding my breath.’ She laughed. ‘Even some graffiti would be an improvement, but unless it was so innocuous as to be totally uninteresting, I’m sure Cliff Foreman would personally paint over it. He’s as