Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
round to look at her, only to find her sitting staring out of the window, not for the first time that day.
‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’ he demanded. ‘Are you in a trance, or what?’
Cory started guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I guess I’m a bit tired.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was out on the town last night.’
‘Quite right, too.’ Arnold surveyed her, narrow-eyed. ‘Although one night shouldn’t put those shadows under your eyes. You look as if you haven’t slept for a week. No stamina, you young ones.’ He paused. ‘So—who were you out with? Do I know him?’
Cory sighed. ‘Yes, Gramps, you do indeed know her.’ She stressed the pronoun. ‘Shelley and I went to the cinema, then had a meal in a Chinese restaurant. I really enjoyed it.’
Which was pitching it a bit high, she silently admitted. The film had been good, the food delicious and Shelley great company, but Cory had been on tenterhooks in case her friend brought Rome d’Angelo into the conversation again, which had rather taken the edge off the evening.
I’m being thoroughly paranoid, she thought.
Arnold snorted. ‘Well, you don’t look or sound as if you had a wonderful time. You’ve been quiet all week, girl. Not your usual self at all.’
‘In other words, I’m boring, and you’re going to replace me with a glamorous blonde,’ Cory teased.
‘God forbid,’ Arnold said devoutly. ‘And you’re not boring, child. Just—different.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘Is it man trouble?’
‘No,’ Cory said, her throat tightening. ‘No, of course not.’
It wasn’t really a lie, she defended silently. Because there was no man to cause trouble—not any more.
She hadn’t heard from Rome, or set eyes on him, all through this endless week.
She’d filled her days with activity—work, food-shopping, cooking, cleaning the flat to a pristine shine.
But the nights had been a different matter. Sleep had proved elusive, and she’d spent hours staring into an all-pervading blackness, longing for oblivion.
She’d used her answering machine to screen her calls, but she could have saved herself the effort because none of them had been from him.
On the street, her senses felt stretched to snapping point as she scanned the passers-by, looking for him. As she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find him there.
Only, he never had been.
So that particular episode was clearly over and done with almost before it had begun, she told herself determinedly. Rome had found someone else to pursue—metal more attractive. And, in the long term, that was the best—the safest thing.
It was the short term she was having trouble handling.
‘Money, then?’ Arnold persisted. ‘Are those sharks of landlords giving you trouble? Do you want my lawyers to deal with them?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Cory protested. ‘They’re a very reputable property company.’
‘Hmm.’ Arnold was silent for a moment. Then, ‘If you’ve got yourself into debt, child, you can tell me. I could always raise your salary.’
‘Heavens, no.’ Cory was aghast. ‘I don’t earn half what you pay me as it is.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ her grandfather said gruffly. ‘So what’s the problem?’
Cory shrugged. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ she prevaricated. ‘It’s probably all the wet weather we’ve had. I may be one of these people who needs the sun. I’m just feeling in a bit of a rut—not too sure where my life is going. That’s all.’
It was his turn to sigh, his face set in serious lines. ‘Ah, child. You need to go to parties. Meet more people. If my Beth hadn’t been taken, she’d have seen to it. Arranged a social life for you. Made sure you enjoyed yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m no good at that sort of thing. I’ve let you down.’
‘Oh, Gramps.’ Cory’s tone was remorseful. ‘That’s not true. And I hate parties.’
‘Nevertheless, you need a change of air—a change of scenery,’ Arnold said with decision. ‘I’m going down to Dorset this evening, to spend the weekend with the Harwoods. Why don’t you come with me? They’re always asking about you. And that nephew of theirs will be there, too, on leave from the Army,’ he added blandly. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’
Yes, Cory remembered Peter Harwood. Good-looking in a florid way, and very knowledgeable about tank manoeuvres. Keen to share his expertise, too, for hours on end. Not an experience she was anxious to repeat.
She said gently, ‘It’s a kind thought, Gramps, but I don’t think so. I—I have plans of my own.’
And now he would ask what they were, and she would be floundering, she thought, bracing herself mentally.
But, blessedly, the phone rang, diverting his attention, and the awkward moment passed.
As she was preparing to leave that evening, Arnold halted her with a hand on her arm. ‘Sure you won’t come to Dorset?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said firmly.
He nodded glumly. ‘Any message for young Peter?’
Her swift smile was impish. ‘Give my regards to his tank.’
But she would do something positive this weekend, she determined. She wasn’t going to waste any more time phone-watching.
Rome had appeared in her life, and now he had gone again, and she should be feeling thankful, instead of this odd hollowness, as if the core of her being had been scooped out with a blunt knife.
But I’ll get over it, she told herself resolutely. I did before. I can again.
And as a first step, she didn’t go to the health club in the morning. Just in case Rome had decided to use it after all and she ran into him there—literally as well as figuratively, she thought, remembering their previous encounter with a grimace.
Instead she’d go to Knightsbridge and indulge in some serious window shopping. Maybe have lunch at Harvey Nicks, and spend the afternoon at the cinema, or a theatre matinée.
Or she might go to a travel agency and book herself some winter sunshine.
Except that she already knew what she was going to do. What she always did when she was at a loose end, or troubled. Although she had no real reason to feel like that, she reminded herself. Not any more. Because, with luck, that particular trouble was past and gone.
Nevertheless, she would go to the National Gallery and look at the Renaissance paintings. It might be a very public place, but it was her private sanctuary, too. Her comfort zone.
And that was what her life needed at this particular moment, she thought. Not shopping, or long-haul holidays, but tranquillity and beauty.
She would let those exquisite forms and colours work their magic on her, and then, when she was calm and in control, with her life drawn securely round her once more, she would plan the rest of her day.
She dressed swiftly in a simple grey skirt with a matching round-necked sweater in thin wool, tied a scarf patterned in grey, ivory and coral at her throat, and thrust her feet into loafers. Then she grabbed her raincoat and an umbrella and set off for Trafalgar Square.
The Gallery was having a busy morning. Cory threaded her way between the school parties and guided groups of tourists until she reached the section she wanted. Thankfully, it was quieter here, as most of the crowds seemed to have been siphoned off to some special exhibition, and she wandered slowly from room to room until she found the Mystic Nativity by Botticelli and a seat on a bench facing it.
It