CHAPTER EIGHT

CORNWALL in December. Not the best time to visit this part of the world, Campion reflected grimly—not for the first time—as she stared out of her hotel bedroom window.

Almost a week since they had left Wales, and not a word from Guy. But what had she expected? That he would somehow discover in her absence that he couldn’t live without her? Hardly. She had been a temporary obsession, like one of the jigsaw puzzles he had felt compelled to solve; once the picture lay clear before him, he could go back to his normal way of life. She closed her eyes in anguish, remembering. To Guy, she had represented a challenge, that was all. He had meant to make sure she finished her book, and if making her fall in love with him was what it took… Well, he was a professional, and he had certainly managed to make her inject some real emotion into the story.

That last day they had had together, he had deliberately talked about her future in terms that made it clear he intended to play no part in it, mentioned her forthcoming tour, but sidestepping any mention of Christmas, giving her no indication of where he would be or how he would be spending his time. There had been no mention of him seeing her again. In fact, his conversation with her about this tour had been purely practical: questions about where she would be staying and for how long, and in which shops her signing sessions were being undertaken. Questions, surely, that any concerned agent might ask an author, but hardly those of a lover.

In fact, the only person who had seemed concerned about her was Lucy, who had been in touch to confirm their Christmas arrangement before the tour started. Campion had promised to arrive early, so that she could help her friend prepare for the onslaught of expected guests.

Campion shivered. Lucy had noticed the change in her immediately, commenting on her unconfined hair and searching her face closely. ‘It must be a man,’ she had said at last. ‘Do I know him?’

‘No,’ Campion lied, not denying the first charge.

‘Am I going to?’ Lucy asked in a more gentle voice.

Campion knew what she was really saying. She managed a wry smile, hoping it successfully masked her inner pain. ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said as lightly as she could. ‘It wasn’t that sort of relationship.’

‘Married?’ Lucy guessed, plainly rather disconcerted.

‘No.’ Campion drew a deep breath. ‘I decided I’d let Craig spoil enough of my life. The—the man I was with—made me realise that I’d been alone too long, that’s all.’

It sounded plausible enough, and perhaps her tone warned Lucy not to press any harder. Lucy smiled and said lightly, ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s certainly transformed you. I’m going to have to keep an eye on Howard while you’re around from now on, that’s for sure.’

Yes, Guy had transformed her, inwardly as well as outwardly. Campion levered herself away from the window. This tour was giving her too much time to think, to remember. She was reduced to poring over the past, looking for significant details that she’d missed in the joy of Guy’s company. And suddenly the memory of Craig, whose very existence she had forgotten until she needed an excuse to give Lucy, began to nag like a toothache. Craig had come from a poor family, just like Guy, and had got rid of all the traces of his past. He had seemed charming, attentive, caring…just like Guy. And Craig had never seen her as a person, only as a means to an end. If he hadn’t wanted something Campion could give him, he would never have come near her. Craig hadn’t got what he wanted, but it was beginning to look as though Guy had.

She would be better off working, she thought with sudden savagery, turning her talent of invention into a new book. Guy had promised to let her know what the publishers thought of her changed manuscript, but as yet she had heard nothing. He would have to contact her at some point, she thought wryly, or else she would be looking for a new agent.

All she could do was to try to live each day at a time, and to hope that somehow the pain would ease. Already she had lost the weight she had gained; already her face had a fragile quality of vulnerability about it, a yearning, lost loneliness that people saw and wondered about, but dared not question for fear of trespassing.

Tonight, she was having dinner with the owner of a local bookshop; tomorrow, there was a radio interview and a signing session. Once, the publicity might have unnerved her—now it was a way of filling in time before she heard from Guy French.

She looked at the dress she had hung up, ready to wear. It was the dress she had bought for Guy, the dress she had worn on their last night together… A quiver of emotion darted through her, and she fought to keep it at bay. She had known there would be pain, but she had never imagined it could be like this. When Craig had left her she had been hurt, but much of it, she now recognised, had been shock and the spiteful destruction of her self-confidence…Craig’s retaliation for not getting his way. But this pain was different in quality. So intense, so overwhelming, that nothing else mattered…nothing.

It amazed Campion that she could feel so unhappy, and yet at the same time look so—so blooming. Her skin glowed, her hair shone, and she couldn’t help but be aware of the interested and approving looks that men now gave her.

She had Guy to thank for that, for the almost visible patina of womanliness that now clung so alluringly to her. She hadn’t gone back to wearing her hair up; instead, she had had it trimmed to accentuate its thick curl, and she had even started experimenting cautiously with make-up. She used some now, wondering what it was that Antony Polroon, the bookshop owner, wanted to discuss with her.

He was a thin, dark man in his mid-thirties, wiry and slightly intense, and very Cornish.

Normally, he was the kind of man she would have avoided on sight, but her new-found confidence had helped her to see him as a fellow human being, and not another man who was bound to condemn her as unworthy of his attention.

They were dining at the hotel. Campion arrived downstairs several minutes late and found him waiting there for her.

His admiring glance told her that he approved of her dress, and she tried desperately not to remember another man’s attention focusing on it, another man removing it from her body and caressing her until…

She realised that Antony was watching her curiously.

‘I’m sorry… This tour has been something of a strain, and I’m beginning to feel it. What was it you just said?’

‘Nothing important. Only that you’re a very beautiful woman,’ he told her wryly.

A very beautiful woman. Two men had told her that now. Funny how meaningless the words were. She didn’t want compliments, adulation, attention; she wanted Guy. She wanted his presence at her side, his smile, his warmth in bed, she wanted his love.

‘Shall we go into dinner?’ Antony suggested.

He was an entertaining companion and, in other circumstances, Campion would probably have enjoyed the evening. As it was…

As it was the ache of missing Guy had become a physical pain inside her, a pain so intense, in fact, that half-way through the main course she had to excuse herself and rush to the ladies’ cloakroom.

When she came back, looking slightly green and very apologetic, Antony got to his feet.

‘I’m sorry. Will you excuse me? I must have picked up a bug of some kind. I’m afraid we’re going to have to call it a day.’

‘I’ll see you to your room.’

Campion demurred, but Antony insisted and, if she was honest, she was feeling slightly dizzy, as well as very queasy.

Too many hours spent travelling, too many new faces, or simply too much heartache over Guy.

Riding in the lift increased her feeling of nausea, and she was glad to lean on Antony when it rocked to a standstill and he helped her out. She had never fainted in her life, but now she was desperately afraid that she was about to do so.

Her room wasn’t very far from the lift, and she nodded weakly when Antony asked if she had her key.

‘It’s here in my bag,’ she told him, passing the small evening purse over to him. While he opened it and removed the key, she leaned weakly against the wall.

She felt terrible, even worse than she had done one year when she had had ‘flu.

She heard the sound of the lift doors closing; it seemed to fill her head like a dull roar.

Antony opened the door of her room and held it open with his foot while he supported the sagging weight of her body in his arms.

‘Would you like me to find a doctor?’

Even to take those few steps that would get her inside her room was an appalling effort. She shook her head, unable to speak. Several yards away from them, down the corridor, the lift door opened.

‘I’ll be all right in a few minutes…’ All she wanted was to be left alone. She felt terrible, but if she said as much she suspected that Antony would insist on informing the hotel, and then they would fuss, when all that was really wrong with her was that she was missing Guy. Missing him? She almost laughed aloud. Without him, her life was an empty desert, a wasteland, a landscape scoured and ravished and left for dead.

‘Come on. You should be in bed.’

As Antony helped her inside, she was dimly conscious of a man walking down the corridor.

‘That’s odd,’ Antony commented as he closed the door behind them. ‘He must have got the wrong floor or something. He got as far as your door and then he turned back. Looked furious about something as well.’

Campion’s head was pounding, her mouth felt dry and sour, and the last thing she was interested in was her fellow guests.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Antony pressed. ‘You…’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I spoiled our evening.’

‘I’ll ring you in the morning.’ Antony walked back to the door and opened it.

In the morning she was leaving for Falmouth, but Campion didn’t have the energy to tell him so. She heard the door click locked as he left, and she didn’t even have the strength to get undressed, but instead fell asleep as she was.

She woke up in the early hours, stiff and cold, her muscles cramped. She undressed and had a bath before crawling into bed. She could never remember feeling so exhausted. Her stomach felt hollow and empty, and she tried to remember when she had last eaten before last night.

She was appalled to discover that her last proper meal had been the breakfast she had shared with Guy. She had only picked at food since then. No wonder she was feeling ill.

She was woken by the alarm call she had booked, and got up feeling lethargic and drained. She ordered a room-service breakfast, but when it arrived she could only pick at it, her stomach rebelling at the sight of food. She packed her case and rang down for a porter, and then went down stairs to meet the publishers’ agent who was accompanying her on the tour, as previously arranged.

Kyla Harris was a plump, efficient girl in her mid-twenties, with a mass of dark curls and a warm smile.

‘Are you all right?’ she frowned when she saw Campion’s pale face.

‘I think I’ve picked up a bug.’

‘Oh dear, and just before Christmas as well.’

Campion realised that Kyla was looking anxiously at her, probably dreading hearing her say that she wanted to cancel the tour, but what was the point? She could be sick just as easily here in Cornwall as she could in London, she told herself sardonically.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Kyla asked, when their cases were stowed in the back of her car, ‘someone was looking for you last night. Did he find you?’

‘Someone?’ Campion felt her heart leap. ‘Who?’

Kyla shrugged. ‘I don’t know. One of the girls on reception said that someone came in, asking for us. She gave him your room number. Local press, I expect…’

‘Oh, yes,’ Campion agreed dully. ‘Press, of course.’

For a moment, she had been stupid enough to hope that her visitor might have been Guy.

If Guy wanted to speak to her, he was hardly likely to come rushing down to Cornwall. He knew where she was. All he had to do was to lift the telephone…

* * *

In Falmouth, she did a radio interview and then a signing session. By five o’clock in the afternoon she was exhausted. One day left and then back home; and she still had all her Christmas shopping to do.

Lucy and Howard always made a big event of Christmas, with lavish presents, and she always liked to repay their generosity with carefully chosen gifts.

A display in a shop window caught her eye as she and Kyla made their way back to the car, and she stopped to glance at it.

An old-fashioned polished crib was hung with hand-made appliquéd quilts and matching bolsters, some brightly coloured, others delicately pastel.

One in particular caught her eye; she knew that Lucy would love it, but might it not be tempting fate to buy it for her for a Christmas present, especially in view of her past problems?

She could buy it and keep it until the baby was born, she told herself and, asking Kyla to wait, she went inside.

When they reached their hotel, she apologised to Kyla, and asked her if she would mind if she ate in her room.

‘No, you go ahead. You look washed out. Are you sure you want to go on?’

‘There’s only one more day,’ Campion reminded her.

One more day, and then it would be a week since she had last heard from Guy. A week. She shivered, huddling deeper into her coat.

* * *

The tour was over, successfully, so Kyla said. Somehow or other, Campion had smiled and talked her way through a succession of interviews and chat shows. Somehow, she had managed to sign books and answer questions, and now at last it was over.

Like her relationship with Guy, she thought, as Kyla saw her safely on to the London train.

Her bloom had gone; it had been a brief flowering indeed, before shrivelling in the forest of loneliness and pain. Lynsey’s story had carried her away into fantasy, making her believe that she could be what she was not—a woman for loving. Now she had to face the rest of her life without Guy, because she couldn’t bear to hear the words of rejection on his lips, as they had once been on Craig’s rejection had crippled her; Guy’s, she knew, could kill her. Better to go back to the old, cold life and never see him again. Try to ride out the hurt. Perhaps one day she’d be able to put it into a book, she thought hollowly.

The journey seemed to take forever. London was cold and wet, and when she let herself into her flat all she wanted to do was to fall into bed.

The phone woke her, and for one crazy moment she thought it must be Guy. She picked up the receiver, her hand shaking.

‘Campion, are you all right?’

The incisive tones of her agent’s voice made her heart drop.

‘Helena, I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ve been given the all clear now, and I’m raring to get back to work. In fact, I am back. That’s why I’m ringing you. How did the tour go?’

‘Quite well.’

There was a small silence, as though something in her colourless tone had reached the other woman.

‘Well, I’ve got some good news for you. The publishers are thrilled with your last manuscript. Guy’s left me a note saying that they want to get it into production as quickly as possible…Campion, are you there?’

She was gripping the receiver so hard, her bones hurt.

‘Yes…yes…I am. Guy’s away, then, is he?’

Oh, God, what was she doing to herself? If he wanted her to know his movements, he would have told her himself. Was this what love did to you, reducing you to begging for scraps of information, destroying all your pride and integrity?

‘Yes. He hasn’t had a proper break this year, and he suddenly decided that he wanted to get away. He’s gone to visit his sister, apparently. Look, when can we meet? The publishers are keen for you to do something else for them. A family saga this time, perhaps—historical again, of course—’

She had wronged Guy, Campion thought numbly. His absence was nothing so personal as a snub, nothing to do with Craig’s kind of petty revenge. She had simply been put back into her proper perspective as a very small part of a successful man’s life; a professional challenge that had had some importance for as long as the job lasted, but now just one more name on his agency’s list, another writer whose work he had an interest in selling.

Work…the universal panacea. Campion closed her eyes.

‘I seem to have picked up some sort of bug, Helena. Can we leave it until after Christmas?’

She could tell from the small silence that Helena was surprised, and no wonder. In the past, she had allowed nothing to interfere with her work.

‘Well, yes, of course. You’ll be spending Christmas with Lucy and Howard as usual, I expect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I had hoped to tempt you out to a celebratory lunch…’

A celebratory lunch. Campion’s stomach heaved, and she felt guilty at her lack of enthusiasm.

‘I’d love to,’ she lied, ‘but this tour has left me rather behind. I’ll have a think about another book over Christmas and get in touch with you after the New Year,’ she added as a conciliatory gesture.

When she hung up, she sat and hugged her arms around herself, as though by so doing she could contain the fiery spread of her pain.

Surely Guy could have given the good news himself? Or was this his way of underlining the fact that their relationship was over, that she was now in his past and that that was where he wanted her to stay? Was that how these things were done? He wasn’t an unkind man, far from it, and she did not have the experience to judge how a man was likely to react when he wanted to end an emotional involvement.

Emotional? For her, perhaps, but for him?

Don’t think about it. Don’t brood, she chastened herself. All she really wanted to do was to pull the bedcovers round her body and lie there and mourn, but she couldn’t do that. She had to find a way of going on with her life without him, of finding a purpose—a reason for going on.

In the meantime, she had promised Lucy her help, and she had also virtually promised Helena a new book.

She dialled the number of Lucy’s London home. Her housekeeper answered and then put her through to Lucy.

‘This is ridiculous! Neither Mrs Timmins nor Howard will let me lift a finger. I keep telling them that pregnancy is a perfectly natural state. How did the tour go?’

‘Fine. Do you still want my help with your Christmas preparations?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve had the most wonderful idea for the drawing-room. I think this year we’ll go all traditional. Real fir branches, a huge tree, Victorian decorations…’

Campion did her best to sound enthusiastic.

Lucy wanted to leave for Dorset on Tuesday, she told her, and before then she had heaps of shopping to do.

‘Howard is insisting that I take Paul and the Rolls wherever I go. Isn’t it ridiculous? He won’t so much as let me carry one parcel,’ she complained.

They agreed to meet mid-morning. She found she tired easily, Lucy told her, and often had to have a rest in the afternoon.

‘And you should see me! I’m huge… enormous…and only four months…’

As she hung up, Campion found that her eyes were stinging with tears. Lucy was so lucky. A husband she loved, his child to look forward to…

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, she derided. Compared with millions of women, she was lucky. Maybe, but she didn’t feel it.

* * *

Despite her claim that she was taking things easy, Lucy managed to fit in an exhausting amount of shopping. Or was it simply that, because she herself could not get into the spirit of Christmas, she found it exhausting? Campion wondered late one afternoon, after Paul, the chauffeur, had dropped her off.

‘Heavens!’ Lucy had exclaimed in concern when they finally left Harrods. ‘You look ready to drop, and Campion, you’re losing far too much weight. Are you sure you’re all right?’

All right? Physically, there could be nothing much wrong with her; but emotionally…that was a different story.

Somehow or other, she had managed to fit her own shopping in between helping Lucy. She had seen the nursery being planned for the new baby, and had heard all about the one being designed for the Dorset house, and she had listened as attentively as she could, but all the time it was as though her real attention was turned inwards, waiting to hear a voice she suspected she would probably never hear again.

She had to accept it. Guy was not going to get in touch with her.

It was over. Finito. Finished.

But that didn’t stop her from thinking about him, from wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, whether he ever spared a thought for her.

Why should he? His self-imposed task to ensure that she finished her book on time and successfully was over. If he did think about her, it could only be to congratulate himself on having achieved his aim, she thought bitterly. No doubt now all his time and attention was given to another writer’s problems.

She remembered how, on first seeing him, she had automatically pictured him in expensive, exclusive surroundings, wining and dining high-powered publishing executives, while he sought the best possible deal for his clients. She had seen him as smooth and sophisticated, as the kind of man it would be impossible to trust. She had seen him as being without depth, all plausible surface charm hiding instincts as rapacious as those of a shark; a man whose loyalty to his writers only went as far as their last successful book; but she had been wrong, as he had proved to her.

But she wasn’t wrong about his lack of desire to pursue their relationship. Over and over again she had reflected on everything he had said to her, on every nuance of every word. Never once had he mentioned them having a future together, and so perhaps it had been naïve of her to hope that he would want to get in touch with her. Face it, she told herself brutally, you aren’t the first woman he’s made love to. And yet there had been times when he had touched her when she had felt so sure that he was experiencing exactly the same deep intensity of feeling as she was herself.

Wishful thinking, she told herself acidly. Foolish daydreams that had nothing to do with reality.

* * *

Tuesday dawned, icy cold with grey clouds. Snow was forecast, Lucy told her excitedly when she joined her in the car.

A dull inertia possessed Campion, an inability to do anything other than simply be. She felt like an animal wanting desperately to go into hibernation. She felt…she felt as though there was no meaning, no purpose in her life any more.

‘Tell me about the new book,’ Lucy commanded, once Paul had stowed Campion’s cases in the boot of the Rolls, with her own parcels. ‘I bumped into Helena the other day. She was raving about it. She says it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. And all with Guy French’s help, so I understand.’

Campion’s mouth went dry. She knew that her very silence was causing Lucy to look at her speculatively, but she wasn’t ready to talk about Guy yet, not even to her best friend.

She turned her head away.

‘Oh, Campion—it’s Guy, isn’t it? You’re in love with him. I’m sorry.’ Lucy’s hand touched hers. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

How easily she had betrayed herself. So easily, that surely Guy himself must have known how she felt about him. Maybe that knowledge had contributed towards his decision not to see her again. He didn’t want the burden of her emotional hunger for him.

Stop thinking about him, she told herself. It won’t do any good.

‘I felt the baby move this morning. It was the most wonderful sensation. Howard’s like a dog with two tails!’

‘Everything’s OK, then?’ Campion roused herself enough to ask.

‘Yes, thank God. I couldn’t have borne to lose this baby. The specialist thinks I should be safe now, although he warned me to take things easy…’ She laughed, a clear, trilling sound that stirred envy in Campion’s normally unenvious heart. ‘I don’t get much opportunity to be anything else. Howard and Mrs Timmins between them have me wrapped in cotton wool.’

Lucy’s housekeeper had left for the house ahead of them, and when the Rolls turned in between the stone gate-posts they could see smoke curling from the house’s many chimneys, and lights glimmering in the windows.

‘Mmm—you know what I’m looking forward to now? Some of Mrs T’s home-made scones, dripping with butter, and a huge, hot fire…’ groaned Lucy.

Lucy’s grandfather had removed all the original fireplaces, bricking them up in the bedrooms, but, although he had installed central heating, Howard had scoured architectural salvage depots for period replacements, and Campion had to admit that it had been worth while.

All the guest rooms had their own fires, and Lucy was fortunate in having a devoted and extremely well-paid staff who kept them cleaned and lit.

It was one of the pleasures of Christmas with Howard and Lucy to go up to one’s room and bask in front of the luxury of a real fire. A luxury indeed, when combined with the discreet central heating the house also boasted.

The house had once been the hub of a small country estate. Virtually all the land had been sold off in the past, although Howard had bought back a few fields.

Howard was a traditionalist, and one of the traditions he had revived, and which Campion suspected he thoroughly enjoyed, was playing Father Christmas for the local children at a party which they always gave the Sunday before Christmas.

As Mrs Timmins opened the door to welcome them in, Campion saw that a huge fir tree was already in place in the hall. Clucking and fussing, Mrs Timmins hurried them into the sitting-room. This room was particularly Lucy’s own. A half-finished tapestry she enjoyed working on when she stayed at the house stood to one side of the fire. The colour scheme of soft peaches with touches of blue was essentially feminine and light. Lucy had a gift for décor, Campion acknowledged, admiring the carefully chosen antiques and the bowls of winter greenery which highlighted their soft sheen.

This house, for all its elegance, was very much home, and it was easy to picture children sitting in this room, playing.

‘George says we’re going to have snow tonight,’ Mrs Timmins warned them.

George lived in the village and looked after the gardens; he was also famous for his weather predictions.

‘I know, isn’t it exciting!’

Mrs Timmins gave Lucy an indulgent look, which changed to a slight frown as Campion took off her coat.

‘Why, miss, you have lost weight,’ she exclaimed disapprovingly. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

Mrs Timmins, herself a comfortably padded woman in her fifties, had strong ideas about diets and what she termed ‘faddy eating’.

‘Be warned, she’ll do her best to feed you up while you’re here,’ Lucy prophesied when the older woman left the room. ‘Actually, she’s right, Campion. You are too thin.’

The sympathetic look that accompanied the words told her that her old friend suspected the reason for her rapid weight loss.

‘You look tired as well. Would you prefer to go straight up to your room? Howard won’t be back in time for dinner, but I was hoping we could get most of the decorating done tomorrow, so that means an early start…’

‘I am tired,’ Campion admitted. ‘In fact, I feel tired all the time.’

‘Well, I can sympathise, that’s exactly how I felt the first weeks I was pregnant. I think Howard thought I’d got sleeping sickness!’

Pregnant. Campion stood up jerkily. Oh, God, no! She couldn’t be, coud she? Guy had always been so careful. Apart from the first time and the last.

‘Campion, are you all right?’

‘Fine. I think I will go and lie down, if you don’t mind.’

* * *

Pregnant. Of coure she couldn’t be. Campion lay on the bed, staring up at the pleated silk ceiling of the four-poster. She would know, surely? There would be unmistakable signs.

Like being sick and feeling tired, a traitorous voice whispered.

No, she was panicking over nothing. It was true that her body cycles were normally very reliable, but there had been odd occasions when she had experienced the odd hiccup, the odd missed period, and this time… Well, she had put it down to the fact that she was so emotionally upset.

One missed period, a little nausea, oppressive tiredness. What did they add up to, after all?

Nothing…

Guy’s child.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. That frantic desire she had experienced to conceive his child had been a momentary madness. She was not of the valiant breed of women able to support and rear a child on her own.

Financially, yes, she could do it, but there were other and, to her mind, more important considerations. She and her child would be completely alone. She had no family, no support network to help her to teach her child the reality of family life, the kind of life she would want her child to have. And she did not have the reserves within herself to be both mother and father. Oh, God, what was she going to do?

Don’t panic. You could be wrong.

Could be? She must pray that she was. How soon could one tell positively? If she had conceived on that last night…

It was pointless doing anything yet. She could wait until after Christmas. Until she was back in London.

Guy’s child.

When Lucy looked in on her half an hour later, she found her fully dressed and fast asleep, a small smile curling her mouth.

Lucy sighed and didn’t wake her, and then thought guiltily of the telephone call she had just made.

Never interfere in other people’s lives was Howard’s motto. Lucy would just have to hope that on this occasion he was wrong.

* * *

‘If you could just move the star a little to the left, Paul. There, how do you think that looks?’ Lucy appealed to Campion as they both stood back to admire the tree.

‘Wonderful,’ Campion told her, and it was true.

Dark, glossy greenery, rich red candles, and the sparkle of crystal candle-holders were reflected in the Venetian mirror above the fireplace.

In the window, the tree gleamed and sparkled, the red satin bows she and Lucy had spent most of the afternoon making, shimmering against the branches. Baubles painted with Victorian scenes hung on red loops, and the tree lights were tiny darts of white fire illuminating the whole scene.

‘Well, we should just about be ready in time for the children’s party, and then it’s Christmas Eve, and everyone else will be arriving.’

The last thing Campion really wanted was to be part of a noisy house party, but what was the alternative? A Christmas spent alone, moping in her flat, with Lucy offended because she wasn’t joining them.

She refused to allow herself to think about the cottage; about snow piled high outside the windows, and a fire burning warmly in the sitting-room grate. They couldn’t have had a tree like this one, of course, but there could have been a small one; decorated with old-fashioned candles in case the electricity went off. They could have hung stockings from the mantelpiece, and the turkey could have cooked slowly and succulently in the Rayburn.

It took the prick of salt tears behind her eyelids to bring her back to reality. What was she doing to herself? Guy had never once indicated that they should spend Christmas together, and in her heart of hearts Campion had not expected him to; he would have commitments with his own family, she was sure, but they could perhaps have met, have shared one day together… Stop it! she warned herself fiercely. All she was doing was adding to her own torment. The only time she and Guy had discussed Christmas, she remembered telling him she would be staying with Lucy, as she had done for the last few years, explaining to him how far their friendship went back. However, if he had even indicated that he wanted to see her, she knew that Lucy would have generously accepted her excuses and encouraged her to be with the man she loved.

But that was only fantasy. Guy did not want her.

‘Howard, what do you think?’ Lucy asked as her husband walked into the room.

Watching them together as he walked over and slid his arm round his wife’s waist, Campion was appallingly aware of her own inner pain and loneliness.

‘Wonderful,’ Howard responded, but he was looking at Lucy and not at the tree.

He bent his head to kiss her, and Lucy gave him a playful push. ‘Not in front of Campion! You’ll embarrass her.’

‘What time are the kids due to arrive?’ Howard asked, releasing her reluctantly.

‘About three. Campion and I have got all the presents wrapped and named. Your Father Christmas outfit is upstairs waiting for you. By the way, we’ve got one or two extras this year. Neighbours’ children,’ she added in an offhand manner, but, oddly, Campion had the impression that for some reason her friend was nervous.

‘Time to go and get ready,’ she added, smiling at Campion. ‘I hope you’ve brought something childproof with you.’

Experience of previous Christmas parties meant that she had, and as Campion donned the tartan dress, with its neat, white collar and silky bow, she reflected that it was just as well it was washable, because by the end of the afternoon it would probably be covered in smears from sticky fingers.

The weather forecast had been right, and they had a faint riming of snow, with more promised. The first batch of children arrived well wrapped up and pink-cheeked.

It was a rule that no presents were handed out until everyone had arrived and, to keep the younger children occupied until they did, Paul had been deputised to organise games.

The doorbell was just chiming for the umpteenth time when one small boy fell over and started to howl.

‘Oh, dear!’ Torn between rushing to his aid and opening the door in the absence of Mrs Timmins, who was setting out the tea, Lucy looked helplessly from Campion to the small, sprawled figure on the floor.

‘I’ll deal with the tears, you deal with the door,’ Campion suggested.

Despite her lack of contact with young children, she had always had a surprising affinity with them. She picked up the little boy and carried him through into Lucy’s sitting-room, where his howls gradually decreased to muffled sobs and then silence. He was crying, Campion learned, because someone had taken his car.

Promising to restore it to him, Campion dried his eyes and distracted him by asking him what he wanted from Father Christmas.

The list that was enthusiastically delivered was demoralisingly technical. What had happened to train sets and skates? Campion wondered, feeling a stab of sympathy for the parents who were expected to produce this cornucopia.

‘Shall we go back and see what everyone else is doing?’ she suggested, satisfied that the tears were forgotten.

He wanted to be carried, and she willingly obliged, opening the door and then coming to an appalled halt.

Across the width of the hall, with his back to her, talking to Lucy, stood Guy.

Campion’s heart leaped like a landed salmon. She could actually feel the physical jerk of it lifting in her body. Her arms tightened round her wriggling burden.

Oh, God, what was Guy doing here? Did he know that she was here? She suspected not. Oh, how could Lucy have done this to her? She put the little boy down, intent on escape before Guy turned his head and saw her. She couldn’t endure the humiliation of meeting him like this, or knowing that her friend had probably engineered his appearance, without suspecting that she was the very last person he would want to see.

She fled into the kitchen, and from there upstairs, using the stairs that had been used exclusively by the servants.

Two women were standing on the landing. One of them was vaguely familiar, for some reason, the other was elegant and soignée, with a cool, languid accent.

‘Poor Guy, he really didn’t want to come, did he? I wonder why?’

Campion stood transfixed. Neither of the women noticed her standing near the top of the staircase. There was a note of restraint in the brunette’s voice as she responded quietly, ‘I think he’s just tired. He’s been very busy at work recently.’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about that!’ Amused malice almost rippled from the blonde’s tongue.

‘Hart’s were amazed at the changes he managed to get that Roberts woman to make in her manuscript. Very prim and proper the original work was, not at all what Adam Hart wanted. I heard that he was ready to break the contract, but Guy promised him that he’d find a way to get her to toe the line. Rumour has it that he spent three weeks shacked up with her somewhere, helping her with the alterations.’

Campion felt sick. The acid, knowing way the blonde woman was talking about her—about the time she had spent with Guy—made her feel soiled, used.

‘That’s just gossip, Sandra,’ the brunette said sharply, ‘and I shouldn’t repeat it in front of Guy if I were you.’

‘Poor Guy! I don’t suppose he does want it known that he had to take the woman to bed to get her to change her manuscript. What’s she like? Have you met her?’ she asked idly.

‘No, I haven’t—and I think we should go downstairs now.’

The brunette’s tone was distinctly unfriendly now. She walked towards the stairs, and the blonde followed her, leaving Campion alone and shaking.

What she had heard confirmed every worst fear, including those she had forced herself to suppress. Guy had made love to her not because he wanted her, not because he desired her, even in passing…but because of her book. Oh, God, why hadn’t she followed her own instincts? They had told her clearly enough that a man like Guy French could never have found her attractive, but she had chosen to ignore them. She had chosen to go and make a fool of herself.

She buried her burning face in her hands. The thought of people discussing her relationship with Guy the way she had just heard it being discussed made her stomach heave.

She only just made it to her bedroom.

* * *

She was re-applying her make-up when Lucy knocked and walked in, looking concerned.

‘So you’re here.’

‘Yes. I wasn’t feeling very well. Lucy, would you mind if I don’t come down? I…’ To her chagrin, tears flodded her eyes.

‘Campion, what is it?’

Instantly Lucy was at her side, her arms going round her, her face concerned.

‘I don’t know. I’m just not feeling well. Perhaps I ought to go back to London…I don’t want to spoil your Christmas.’

‘You’re not going anywhere, especially if you aren’t well. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to get Dr Jamieson to come and have a look at you…’

‘No. No, that won’t be necessary. Perhaps I will come down.’

‘I shouldn’t have invited Guy, should I?’ Luch said quietly, guessing what was wrong. ‘His sister Meg is one of our neighbours. She’s married to Tait Drummond, so I knew you wouldn’t recognise the name, and I thought it might be a good way of getting the two of you together…’

Guy’s sister…the brunette who had looked so familiar!

‘I shouldn’t have interfered.’ Lucy looked upset.

‘You meant well. Has he gone?’

‘Yes.’ Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Look, if you don’t feel well, why don’t you go and sit in the library for a while until the kids have gone? I’ll get Mrs Timmins to bring you something to eat.’

Campion looked wryly at her. The library was her favourite room in the house, a wonderful, book-lined retreat.

‘All right. I’ll follow you down.’

* * *

Campion was half-way across the hall when she heard him call her name. Lucy had lied to her, after all.

She wanted to run, but how could she, with four dozen children milling around, and their mothers looking on with interested eyes? He touched her arm and her skin burned. She couldn’t bear to look at him. Where was the blonde? Where was his sister?

‘So you are here.’

‘Lucy is my friend,’ she told him without turning her head. ‘I always spend Christmas with them. Remember, I told you?’

‘Yes, yes you did, didn’t you? You don’t look well,’ he added abruptly.

‘I’m just a little tired. Excuse me, would you? I…’ She started to move away and winced as his fingers gripped her arm.

‘My God, is that all you can say to me? Campion, I…’

How could he do this to her? She could have cried out at the agony he was inflicting. Why was he continuing with this farcical display of concern? Of caring? Obviously, he didn’t know what she had overheard. Perhaps he was already looking ahead, to her next book. She literally shook with rage and anguish at the thought of his duplicity.

‘Please let me go, Guy,’ she said, as evenly as she could.

‘I want to talk to you.’

He really was a good actor, she marvelled. He sounded almost distraught, even a little frantic, and the look in his eyes… If she hadn’t known better, she could almost have mistaken it for an anguish to match her own.

‘What about?’ she asked politely, and as distantly as she might a stranger. ‘I really must go, Guy. I promised Lucy I’d help her with the food.’

‘I take it you’re not here alone?’

Not here alone? There was an odd glitter in his eyes. His mouth was tight and hard.

‘That’s right. I’m not,’ she lied, hating him, and hating herself for allowing herself to be so easily manipulated. Of course she must tell him what he wanted to hear. She must allow him to pretend that he had not hurt and discarded her, that she had quickly and easily replaced him in her life as he would do her. She must lift from his shoulders any burden of guilt or blame.

She spun away from him as he released her, not waiting to see him claimed by the blonde she could see approaching them out of the corner of her eye.

She saw them leave, though.

The brunette, with three small children, and the blonde, linking her arm through Guy’s.