No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
legs broken.’
Since he looked perfectly capable of carrying out his threat—they weren’t to know what a complete pussycat he was—the two men retreated strategically towards the door. ‘This your boyfriend, is it, Lacey?’ the one with the tape-recorder enquired intrusively.
‘I’m not answering any more of your questions,’ she raged.
‘OK, OK—just one last picture, eh, Roger?’
The flashbulb exploded again—catching Lacey still clutching at her loose dressing-gown, Hugo’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Hugo bellowed in rage, and pounced after them, trying to grab the camera, but they were very nimble—no doubt through long practice—and were gone before he could catch them. He chased them down the steps, but they had a car waiting, and all that happened was that they got more pictures of him hurling the egg at the car and yelling wild threats as it swerved away.
He came back up to the flat to find Lacey in tears. He wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. ‘Hey, don’t let the bastards upset you, love,’ he coaxed as she sobbed her heart out against his chest. ‘It isn’t worth it.’
‘They made me feel so dirty, and I haven’t even done anything wrong,’ she protested brokenly. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, my lord, I ought to ring Clive and warn him...’
‘I should imagine he knows all about it by now,’ Hugo advised her acidly. ‘And he’ll be thinking only of how to save his own skin—he won’t give a damn about you. Now come on, stop crying—you’ll make your eyes all red and puffy.’
Lacey sniffed, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper and tearing off a piece to wipe her eyes. ‘You were right,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I should have listened to you. But I never thought the papers would really be interested, even if they found out about us.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how they did find out?’
Hugo shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much—politics is a very dirty game. A bit of rivalry inside the party, or someone out to take a dig at the government... They’re just using you, I’m afraid—you happened to be convenient.’
Lacey stared up at him, shocked. ‘Do you really think so? But that’s awful!’
He laughed, hugging her affectionately. ‘Dear old Lacey—how have you managed to live in this world for twenty-two years and remain so innocent? Most people would... Damn, what’s the matter with that stupid hound now?’
‘Oh, dear—I shut him in the bathroom. I was afraid he’d get out and chase Mrs Potter’s dog, and she’s already threatened to report him to the police as dangerous.’
She hurried to open the bathroom door. Four and a half stone of half-grown Afghan hound launched himself past her, scampering round in a circle in the middle of the hall and then diving into the living-room to leap on to the sofa, his brown eyes liquid and appealing, accusing her of the most ruthless cruelty for shutting him up for so long.
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You rascal—you know you’re not supposed to be on there,’ she scolded him fondly.
From the bathroom came an angry roar. ‘That damned dog! He’s had my shaving-brush now! I swear one day I’ll strangle him!’
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER that unpleasant experience, Lacey would have liked nothing better than to be able to shut herself in her room and hide. But if there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her troubles, it was the youngsters at the day centre where she worked part-time as a drama therapist. All of them had been classified as having severe learning difficulties, but their enthusiasm for the Christmas play they were preparing was enormous.
‘It’s really coming on,’ remarked Hilary, the centre manager, watching as some of the cast earnestly rehearsed a scene. ‘And they really seem to be enjoying themselves.’
Lacey nodded. ‘They wrote most of the script themselves, by improvising,’ she explained quietly. ‘It’s about Jesus coming back in the present day, as one of the homeless in London.’
Hilary looked impressed. ‘Who thought of that?’
‘They did,’ Lacey responded proudly.
‘Very good. Let me know what you’re going to need in the way of props and scenery, and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks,’ Lacey whispered. ‘That was very good, Tom,’ she added, raising her voice to the characters on the makeshift stage. ‘Maria, I like the way you’re sitting, but could you just turn a little this way, so we can see your face properly?’
‘Was I really good, Lacey?’ Tom queried excitedly, his eyes alight with pride.
‘You were very good,’ she asserted with emphasis. ‘And you’ve learned your lines really well. Well done.’
‘I know my lines too, Lacey,’ Maria put in eagerly, coming over to take her hand.
Lacey smiled down at her with warm affection. ‘Do you? You have been working hard. We’ll come to your bit in a minute. I want you all to practise your song first, OK? Come on, gather round the piano.’
It made her feel warm inside to see all their bright, happy faces as they clustered around her. Sometimes it made her really angry that life seemed so unfair to them, but when she thought about the way that people who apparently had so much more could be so arrogant and rude, she was inclined to the conclusion that they were the ones to be envied.
The day centre was only a short distance from the flat she shared with Hugo, and with a speculative glance at the grey November sky she decided to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. It took her rather longer than she had expected—she had lived in this part of south London all her life, and it was inevitable that she would keep bumping into people she knew. By the time she had stopped to chat, nodding in sympathy at the story of someone’s recent spell in hospital, congratulating someone else on the birth of a new grandchild, it was beginning to rain.
She had to pop into the small supermarket on the corner to get a bottle of milk and some dog food for Khan, and then hurried the rest of the way home, struggling with her umbrella and her shopping, cursing mildly at a car that splashed her as she waited to cross the road.
As she turned the corner, she noticed with surprise that the same car was drawn into the kerb outside her block of flats. She frowned, puzzled. It was a sleek dark blue Aston Martin—who on earth could be visiting around here, driving a car like that? At least she could be fairly sure it wasn’t another reporter.
The driver was still at the wheel, and as she drew closer an uncomfortable suspicion began to dawn in her brain. A glimpse of a dark head and a pair of wide shoulders in an immaculately cut jacket confirmed it; it couldn’t be anyone else but Jon Parrish.
Well, he needn’t think she was going to stop and speak to him, after the way he had behaved last night! Ignoring him completely, she climbed the flight of steps to her front door on the first floor, irritated at her own uncharacteristic clumsiness as she struggled with her umbrella and her shopping and fumbled for her keys.
She heard him open the car door. ‘Miss Tyrell?’
Her umbrella was slipping, and instinctively she tried to catch it, succeeding only in dropping the bottle of milk. It smashed on the step, spilling broken glass and milk in the rain. ‘Oh...drat!’ she muttered, juggling with the tins of dog food as they too began to slip out of her hands.
He came quickly up the steps and took them from her before she dropped them.
‘Oh...Thank you,’ she responded, automatically polite, but instantly jumped back on to the defensive before he could think she was making any concessions. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded, glowering up at him in undisguised suspicion.
Those dark eyes glinted, warning that he hadn’t come to apologise. ‘We need to