Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
into the fridge. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she called.
Judy looked taken aback. ‘He said he was coming back here.’ She followed Jo into the kitchen uncertainly.
‘Well he plainly didn’t come.’ Jo reached down a large jug off the cupboard and stuffed the roses from the sink into it. ‘Aren’t these lovely? Nick’s mother brought them up from Hampshire for me yesterday.’
Judy’s jaw tightened fractionally. ‘I have never met his mother.’
‘Oh you will. She is already on your trail. Every girlfriend has to be vetted and approved and then cultivated.’ Jo leaned against the counter and looked Judy straight in the eye. ‘Have you come for a fight? Because if you have, I’m in the right mood. I haven’t slept for two nights, I’ve a foul headache and I am fed up with people coming here to look for Nick Franklyn.’
‘Do you still love him?’ Judy tried hard to hold her gaze.
Jo snorted. ‘What kind of naive question is that? Do you really think I’d tell you if I did?’ Behind her the coffee began to perk. She ignored it. ‘At this moment I wish both Sam and Nick Franklyn at the other end of the earth, and if it makes you happy I will cordially wish you there with them. But I should like to say one thing before you go there. If you decide to make any more inventive little statements to the press about my sanity or lack of it, be very careful what you say, because I shall sue you for slander and then I shall come to your happy love nest in Fulham and knot some of your oh so original and outstandingly beautiful paintings around your pretty little neck.’
Judy retreated a step. ‘There is no need to be nasty about it. I didn’t know anyone was listening. And I only repeated what Nick said –’
‘I am well aware of what Nick said,’ Jo said quietly. She turned and took two mugs out of the cupboard. ‘You’ll have to have your coffee black. I haven’t been out for milk yet.’
‘I don’t want any coffee.’ Judy backed out of the kitchen. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m not surprised Nick couldn’t wait to get away from here!’ She turned to the front door and dragged it open. Behind them the phone in the living room began to ring. Jo ignored it as she unplugged the coffee pot. ‘Shut the door behind you,’ she called over her shoulder.
Judy stopped in her tracks. ‘Sam told me you’re schizophrenic,’ she shouted, ‘did you know that? He said that you’ll be locked up one of these days. And they’ll throw away the key!’ She paused as if hoping for a response. When none came she walked out into the hall and slammed the door. Jo could hear her footsteps as she ran down the stairs outside. Moments later she heard the porch door bang.
Behind her the phone was still ringing. Dazed, Jo moved towards it and picked up the receiver. Her hands were shaking.
‘Jo? I thought you weren’t there!’ The voice on the other end was indignant. Jo swallowed. She was incapable of speaking for a moment. ‘Jo dear? Are you all right?’ The voice persisted. ‘It’s me, Ceecliff!’
Jo managed to speak at last. ‘I know, Grandma. I’m sorry. My voice is a bit husky. Is that better?’ She cleared her throat noisily. ‘How nice to hear you. How are you?’
‘I am fine as always.’ The tones were clipped and direct. Celia Clifford was a vivacious and attractive woman of seventy-six who, in spite of the alternate cajoling and threats of her town-dwelling daughter-in-law and granddaughter, lived completely alone in a rambling Tudor farmhouse in the depths of Suffolk. Jo adored her. Ceecliff was her special property; her refuge; her hidden vice; the shoulder that tough abrasive Jo Clifford could cry on and no one would ever know.
‘You sound a bit odd, dear,’ Ceecliff went on briskly. ‘You’re not smoking again, are you?’
Jo looked ruefully at the ashtray beside the phone. ‘I’m trying not to,’ she said.
‘Good. And nothing is wrong?’
Jo frowned. ‘Why should anything be wrong?’
There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘There shouldn’t. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any excuses up your sleeve. You’re coming to lunch here, Jo, so you’d better get ready to leave within half an hour.’
Jo laughed. ‘I can’t come all the way to Suffolk for lunch,’ she protested.
‘Of course you can. Take off those dreadful jeans and put on a pretty dress, then get in the car. You’ll be here by one.’
‘How did you know I had jeans on?’ Jo had begun to smile.
‘I’m psychic.’ Ceecliff’s tone was dry. ‘Now, no more talking. Just come.’
There was a click as she rang off and Jo was left staring down at the receiver in her hand.
Bet Gunning turned over in bed and ran a languid hand over Tim Heacham’s chest. ‘Much drunker, and you wouldn’t have been able to make it, my friend.’
Tim groaned. ‘If I had been much drunker, you could have been accused of necrophilia! If you have any sense of decency at all, Ms Gunning, you’ll fix me one of your magic prairie oysters in the kitchen and shut up.’
Laughing, Bet sat up and lazily pulled on Tim’s discarded shirt over her lean figure. She wrinkled her nose fastidiously. ‘My God. This stinks!’
‘Sweat, I expect.’ Tim closed his eyes. ‘Your fault for getting me so excited. Stick it under the shower and turn the tap on it. You can have special dispensation to wear my monogrammed bathrobe.’ He stretched luxuriously and grinned.
Bet gave him an old-fashioned look as she padded out to the kitchen but she said nothing. She was too content. In a few moments she was back with a tray containing two coffee mugs and a glass. She watched as Tim drank down the mixture pulling a series of agonised faces, then she held out her hand for the glass. ‘Now. Coffee and then a cold shower. That will get you compos mentis.’
‘Sadistic bitch.’ Tim patted her knee fondly as she sat down next to him. ‘Is this what makes you such a good editor? Rouse them, satisfy them, give them their medicine, kiss them better and send them away!’
She laughed. ‘So you think I sleep with my staff as well?’
‘It’s the general word. And all your ancillary acolytes – like me. But only the men, of course, as far as I know.’
Bet reached forward and tugged his hair. ‘Shut up, Tim! Now if you want to talk shop tell me how you are getting on with Jo’s pictures. Have you started on them yet?’
‘Of course. But I thought the deadline wasn’t for months.’
‘It isn’t.’ Bet inserted her legs beneath the sheet next to his and ran an exploratory finger across his solar plexus.
Tim flopped back against the pillows and pushed her hand away. ‘No go, love. Don’t even hope. I’ve had it!’ He grinned at her fondly. ‘I took some super pictures of a woman being hypnotised to think she was a nineteenth-century street girl. I’ll show you the contacts. The only trouble with that article from my point of view is that however glamorous and exciting the stories these people are telling, basically they are still just Mr and Mrs Bloggs sitting there in a chair. But it is a tremendous challenge – to catch those faces and make your readers see in them the reflection of whatever character is inhabiting the person’s mind at that moment.’
‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ Bet lay back on her elbow beside him and reached for her cup. ‘You know Jo was regressed herself once?’
‘Yes. She told me about it. It was a failure. All that guff Judy sounded off was jealous rubbish.’
Bet shook her head. ‘Not so. Nick talked to me about it a couple of weeks back. He begged me to kill the article. According to him Jo nearly died under hypnosis.’
Tim sat up. ‘For Christ’s sake –’
Bet