19

Sleet Hall

WEDNESDAY 31ST DECEMBER 2008

Blaze was facing pressure from Ayesha to accept an invitation to Sir Thomlinson and Lady Sleet’s New Year’s Eve party.

“The papers say that it will be the party to end all parties,” Ayesha said. “I can’t believe that you’d put a little work issue before my happiness.”

“The man is trying to ruin my business and my reputation.”

“So hold your head high, put on your best frock and show the world that you are bigger than his idle, unfounded taunts.”

“If only it were just vibes, but he’s run a campaign against me in the press and is using every trick, including bribery, to persuade my most important clients to move their funds.”

“Then treat the party as a platform to refute and as a stalking ground to find more clients. By skulking in corners, being invisible, you are letting him win.”

Eventually Blaze conceded and, at 8 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, a chauffeur-driven car arrived to collect the two women from Moonshot Wharf. Ayesha came out of her room swathed in one of Blaze’s floor-length shearling coats. Her eyes were ringed with kohl and her lips were stained a deep pink. Her long auburn hair was pinned around her face like a burnished halo. The effect of the black coat and the fine pale face reminded Blaze of a Renaissance Madonna.

“You look extraordinarily beautiful,” she told her niece.

Ayesha smiled graciously. “Your costume suits you.” She had found Blaze a fitted deep-red camisole and matching voluminous trousers that tied tightly at the ankles. The colour showed off Blaze’s creamy skin. “Try these on too.” Ayesha clipped two snake-shaped bangles on to her aunt’s upper arms and fitted a cobra-style pendant around her throat.

“Where did you find these?” Blaze laughed.

“Southall Market. It’s Little India—you can find anything there.”

“How did you get my size?”

“I took one of your shirts with me. The tailor copied the measurements but I made him take them in a few inches. What’s the point of all that running if you don’t show off your body?”

“Can I see what you’re wearing?”

“When we get there.”

Blaze’s phone beeped.

“Another text from him?” Ayesha teased. “And you thought that was it.”

“We should go,” Blaze said, wanting to change the subject. Wolfe was in regular contact and recently she had started returning his texts.

“To think how mortified you were after the first date,” Ayesha continued, remembering finding her aunt curled up on the sofa after a sleepless night.

“It was a disaster.” Blaze couldn’t tell Ayesha what had happened.

“So why did he send flowers?”

Pulling on her coat, Blaze wanted to read Wolfe’s text but was embarrassed to appear keen.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

Blaze looked at her phone. My New Year’s resolution is to spend more time with you, JW. She tried not to smile or blush and failed on both counts.

Ayesha laughed and clapped her hands together. “You’ve gone as pink as a newborn rat.”

Blaze read the text again. “He didn’t put an X at the bottom.”

Ayesha snorted. She opened the door of the apartment and pressed the button for the lift. Blaze double-locked the front door and set the alarms behind her. In the lift, she stared at her telephone.

“Yesterday he used an X,” Blaze said, scrolling through Joshua’s texts as the two women rode down to the ground floor. Then she laughed at herself. “Imagine if he could see me now. A middle-aged woman panicking about an X.”

The air outside was biting. Ayesha shivered and buttoned up her coat. Their chauffeur jumped out of the car and opened the rear door. Ayesha nodded imperiously and settled herself into the back seat.

“Destination as advised?” the driver asked.

“Yes, please,” said Blaze, sitting next to her niece.

“I think you’re in love,” Ayesha teased.

“I hardly know him! We’ve had one dinner, two letters, eight phone conversations and eleven texts.” Blaze stopped and said quickly, “Not that I’m counting.”

“If Mark doesn’t text me every day, I feel sick,” Ayesha replied. “I don’t care if the others fall off a cliff.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Blaze asked. Mark spent a lot of time at the apartment but he never stayed the night.

“He is my true love,” Ayesha said softly. “Aunty, whoever this man is, you look ten years younger and fifty times happier than when I arrived in London. I have a whole car journey to get information out of you.”

Once Blaze started talking about Wolfe, she couldn’t stop; facts and feelings tumbled out in no apparent order. Her mind, normally incisive and orderly, was scrambled by reawakened emotions. She felt idiotic and elated as she told Ayesha about their phone calls. Most of the time their conversation hovered around neutral subjects like investments, market fluctuations and political events, until the tension became too much and they’d lapse into silence, both caught up in longing for more intimacy.

“Why hasn’t he made another move?” Ayesha asked.

Blaze wriggled in her seat. “I’m not ready.” How could she explain that her desire to see him was swamped by a paralysing fear of losing control and of being rejected.

“What is it you like most about him?”

Blaze thought for a while before answering. “He’s so clear about who he is and what he stands for. Joshua doesn’t try to prove anything or seek confirmation. It sounds arrogant, but I find it reassuring.”

“His parents must have adored him. That kind of confidence only comes with unconditional love,” Ayesha said wistfully.

Blaze leaned over and took her niece’s hand. “You must miss your mother.”

“Of course.”

“And your stepfather and half-brother?”

“My stepfather tolerated me because he loved my mother. My brother, as the youngest, was horribly spoiled, mostly by me.” Her face contorted. “He’s only twelve. When I get my own house and husband, Sachan will live with me.” She hesitated. “That’s why I am in such a hurry to sort out my life and create a home. I want Sachan to have the best of everything.”

“And what do you want?” Blaze asked.

Ayesha laughed. “Power.” Then she grinned widely. “And I intend to get it.”

Blaze didn’t doubt her.

The car made its way through West London and out onto the M4 towards Newbury. Ayesha broke the silence.

“Who is this Thomlinson Sleet?” she asked.

“He used to follow your mother around at Oxford. Once he climbed up the drainpipe and through a window to give her a rose.”

“Oh, one of those,” Ayesha said dismissively.

“There were so many climbing suitors that the dean moved her to a ground floor in an inner courtyard.”

“She was lucky to have the opportunity to drive men mad.”

At the gates to Sleet Towers, two full-grown elephants stood guard, ridden by frozen-looking mahouts. The elephants’ heads and trunks were intricately painted and the animals swayed restlessly from foot to foot.

“I didn’t come all the way to England for this,” Ayesha said crossly. “Every wedding in India has an elephant.”

They gave their names and invitations to a young man who handed them each a small parcel with their initials inscribed in italics on the front. Ayesha tore the wrapping off hers immediately, to find a map of the party, a dance card and a gold pencil. Opening up the dance card, she laughed.

“Sleet has reserved the first dance with me already! How charming.” She smiled knowingly.

Blaze grimaced, hoping his interest in Anastasia’s daughter would quickly wane. Her own dance card was empty and, she suspected, would remain so the whole evening.

Their car joined a long line of chauffeur-driven vehicles. After a quarter of a mile the cars stopped and guests were asked to climb aboard a golden train. Inside they found mini bottles of champagne and hand-peeled gulls’ eggs. There were two other couples in their carriage: a well-known American senator and her husband and a pop star whose last great hit was in the 1970s. They made hesitant introductions to one another, but their small talk was abruptly ended by a loud whistle. Outside a heavy fog descended and the windows were lashed with violent waves. The carriage rocked from side to side and Blaze grabbed hold of the edge of her seat.

“We’re at sea!” Ayesha called out.

“We’re in Berkshire!” But, looking out of the window, Blaze saw that they were indeed bobbing around on a huge ocean. To the left was a great whale, held down by tree roots, and, striding across its back, a young man wearing golden trousers brandishing a cutlass. Nearby a boat tossed on frothing waves until it came close enough for the young man to jump aboard.

“The Seven Voyages of Sinbad,” Ayesha said, her eyes wide with amazement. Around them, in tableaux vivants, scenes from Sinbad’s life were re-enacted as their carriage moved on. The sea calmed and they passed a huge egg which cracked open to reveal hundreds of writhing, slivering snakes; across a spit of land, a mermaid rose from the depths of a lagoon and diamonds rained from the sky. For the entire train ride—neither could tell how far they went or for how long it lasted—Blaze and Ayesha were transfixed. How was it done? Theatre, trickery or technology?

The train stopped. A young woman swathed in a gauze-like material shot with gold thread introduced herself as Scheherazade and led them along a tunnel lined with fresh rosebuds. To the left and right actors performed scenes from 1001 Arabian Nights.

“Are they having real sex?” Ayesha exclaimed. “Look at those two—I think they are.” Blaze looked straight ahead; she didn’t need any more reminders of Sleet’s vulgarity.

The tunnel ended and the guests found themselves in front of Sleet Towers, a low-slung, red-brick, Queen Anne-style mansion. Projected on to its vast façade were more scenes from the Arabian Nights while classical music blared out from huge speakers. Protected from the cold by a domed glass entrance stood hundreds of dwarves, painted gold and holding flaming torches.

“This is revolting. Complete exploitation,” Blaze said.

“It is magnificent,” Ayesha corrected her.

From out of the darkness stepped more young women, their faces hidden by delicate veils of chiffon, to take Blaze’s and Ayesha’s coats. Blaze gasped when she saw Ayesha’s “costume.” The top half of her niece’s body was bare, hand-painted with snakes, ghouls, djinns, wild horses and various couples in states of erotica. Two heart-shaped discs covered her nipples. Her breasts, though small, were perfectly rounded and pert; her figure lithe and curvaceous. Slung low over her hips were diaphanous trousers made from the softest silk that shimmered around her bottom and legs.

“What do you think?” Ayesha asked, whipping around.

Blaze didn’t know what to say so she simply nodded, speechless. It was simultaneously erotic and audacious, and yet far too delicate to be considered vulgar.

“I went to Covent Garden and made friends with the set designers at the Royal Opera House. The company was supposed to be doing the scene painting for a new production of Giselle but preferred the challenge of my body. They’ve done a good job, haven’t they?” Ayesha shimmied in front of Blaze. Around them fellow guests and helpers stopped and stared, stunned by her nakedness, frozen by the beauty of the apparition. Blaze recognised the look of horror on other women’s faces; their weeks of preparation rendered insignificant, their efforts eclipsed.

“Fuck me sideways,” a voice boomed. Blaze turned to see Sleet striding towards them.

“You’ve got a nerve coming here, Blaze,” he said. “Walking out of my company, stealing my clients and now eating my food.”

“Supping at the devil’s table,” Blaze agreed, with a fixed, disingenuous smile.

“Pity you can’t find anything to invest in,” he sneered. “I hear your clients are getting restless.” As he spoke, he jabbed his fat finger in her face.

Blaze burned with rage and was about to answer when Ayesha, unseen until then, came to stand between her aunt and Sleet. The tycoon’s mouth opened and closed; his finger dropped, his eyes widened.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Anastasia’s daughter, Ayesha? Ayesha, this is Thomlinson Sleet.”

Ayesha looked him straight in the eyes and said in a low, husky voice, “You’re not someone I’d forget.”

Blaze could hardly believe what she was seeing and hearing; Ayesha had inherited her mother’s wiles. The past flashed through her mind: memories of Anastasia using a combination of coquettishness and beauty to fell admirers, condemning Jane and Blaze to the status of permanent wallflowers.

“You are not leaving my side all evening,” Sleet said, recovering his senses.

“What will your wife have to say about that?” Ayesha asked.

“Lady Sleet just walked out on me! Said I worked too hard and only the chef understood her needs.”

“Are you devastated?” Ayesha opened her eyes wide.

“I certainly am: a good chef is harder to find than a wife.”

Blaze took her niece’s arm and dragged her away from Sleet. “The man is an absolute creep. You mustn’t have anything to do with him,” she whispered.

Ayesha looked at her condescendingly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not this one, Ayesha, please.” Blaze glanced over at Sleet who was grinning lasciviously at the young woman.

Extracting herself from Blaze’s grip, Ayesha went back across to Sleet. “I don’t know how anyone could leave you,” she said, raising her beautiful eyes and gazing into his. “Will you show me your house?” she asked. They walked away, leaving Blaze on her own.

Entering the first marquee, Blaze looked up to see acrobats flying above the guests on trapezes made from brightly coloured ribbons. Scanning around, she recognised four captains of industry, three newspaper editors and their proprietors, two former cabinet ministers, a clutch of rock stars, a bevy of A-list film stars and even a Nobel prizewinner (chemistry). I am, she thought, the only person here who is not famous.

Standing alone by the bar was a well-known misanthropic hedge-fund manager, Christof Kempey, whom Blaze had met at various conferences.

“Who knew that Sleet had this kind of address book?” she said.

“He doesn’t—the guests are either for hire or here on business.”

“What about the politicians?” Blaze asked.

“Sleet makes significant donations to all parties, guaranteeing access to the PM and the Cabinet, as well as Leaders of the Opposition, 24/7. The film stars are less expensive and the hacks can be bought for a free glass of anything.”

“I feel naive.”

“These events are useful. You might pick up a deal or a tip on the way to the bathroom.”

“On that note, how have you fared in the recent turmoil?” Rumours abounded that Kempey Capital Partners, his eponymous hedge fund, had been heavily invested in UBS and HBOS.

“The shittiest year of my life. I’m down 45 per cent and am haemorrhaging clients.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You seem to have all the answers, Blaze—you tell me. I take my hat off to you for predicting all this.”

A waiter appeared, offering Château Lafite 1961 or vintage champagne. Blaze took the former, Kempey asked for a vodka.

“I called it right, but don’t seem to be capitalising on the results. Everything looks precarious; things can go much lower.” She took a sip of wine; it was like liquid silk. The claret made the drive worthwhile.

“There’s the Governor of the Bank of England talking to the Chancellor—shall we go and ask what they’re planning next?”

Blaze followed Kempey over to a small banquette where the two men sat deep in conversation.

“Are you going to drop interest rates?” Kempey asked without any introduction.

The Governor smiled tersely. “I can’t divulge information like that.”

“Throw a desperate man a bone, why don’t you?” Small beads of sweat broke out on the hedge-funder’s forehead.

The Governor and the Chancellor didn’t react.

“You’ve got to do something,” Kempey said, his voice rising.

“One of the things this crisis has shown us,” Blaze chipped in, “is how little governments and central banks can actually do. Your only options are to print money to try and stimulate the economy, or lower interest rates even further, but what will that achieve in the long run?”

“You’re Blaze Scott?” the Chancellor asked.

She nodded.

“Next time you see a crisis approaching, please can you let us all know?” He laughed half-heartedly.

“I tried but no one would listen. You wrote me off as a mad doomster.”

“What do you think’s going to happen next?”

Blaze could hardly believe it: the Chancellor of the Exchequer was asking her opinion on the economy. “I don’t see anything positive in the short term. Banking systems are teetering. I hear bad news from Bank of America and Anglo Irish, and the consequences following the collapse of Lehman’s will be long and painful. House prices are falling, unemployment rising.”

The Governor and the Chancellor exchanged weary looks. They were interrupted by a waiter riding a prancing white stallion, expertly balancing a tray of shots. The horse danced on the spot but not a drop of vodka was spilt. Kempey took one, downed it in a gulp and then helped himself to two more. The horse trotted off and behind it came a troop of barely dressed harem dancers offering canapés.

The Chancellor shook his head. “This is surreal.”

“Where have you put your money?” the Governor asked Blaze.

“Mostly in cash or gold. I’ve made some investments in India. Long-term, things will pick up.”

The Chancellor, a veteran of many governments, smoothed his trousers. “Memories are short. We’ve been here before in 1973 and 1987, to name a few.”

“Don’t forget the dot-com crash of 2000,” Blaze added.

“How can you be so blasé?” The sweat ran down Kempey’s face; he looked on the verge of tears.

The Governor rose slowly to his feet. “I’m going to find my wife.” He walked off towards the bar.

“I ought to seek out the Leader of the Opposition,” the Chancellor said.

Kempey went in search of a bar, leaving Blaze on her own.

Taking another drink from an acrobat perched on the back of a black horse, she walked into the next-door tent, which was lined in midnight-blue velvet. The ceiling had been made to look like the night sky—she identified Orion’s Belt, the Little Bear and Perseus—while the walls mimicked an Islamic palace under moonlight. Guests stared in wonder, faces upturned. There was another doorway, and Blaze stepped through it into a colourful bazaar serving food from all corners of the globe. She saw the newspaper editor Leo Seville deep in conversation with a well-known African dictator, and a perennially perky soap star talking to the leader of UKIP. Blaze knew all by name, but none well enough to approach, and she decided to keep going, hoping to find Ayesha.

The next room had been transformed into a frozen cave, the floor covered with shaggy sheepskin rugs. In the centre there was a huge, naked sleeping woman carved from ice and her pudenda was a trough of caviar. Vodka spurted from both of her breasts in perfect continuous arcs. A minor member of the royal family stood on his own, shovelling spoonfuls of caviar into his mouth.

“Might as well,” he said to Blaze. “Don’t want this stuff to go to waste.”

“We’re making music while Rome burns,” Blaze said.

The Royal looked at her blankly.

“Suetonius told the story of Emperor Nero playing a violin while his city was on fire.”

“Can’t follow what you’re saying,” the man said, stuffing his mouth. “Have some.” He offered Blaze a soup spoon of black shiny eggs.

Blaze shook her head. The festival of excess, the sheer waste and opulence, was sickening and she felt partially responsible. Sleet had made money from her predictions and those ludicrous profits were on full, appalling display.

“If I were you, I’d just get on and enjoy it. The world might end tomorrow,” the Royal said.

Blaze had to get out, and quickly. First, she had to find Ayesha. Hurrying through tent after tent, she saw a famous rock band, perhaps the world’s most famous, was playing live. Below the stage there was a dance floor and in the centre, moving like a flame in a gentle wind, was Ayesha. Next to her, Sleet stamped and gyrated, rolls of fat undulating, sweat pouring from his face and under his armpits.

Blaze marched across and shouted into Ayesha’s ear. “Let’s go home.”

Ayesha shook her head.

“I need to get out of here,” Blaze said desperately.

“Take the car. I’ll find my own way.” She threw a look in Sleet’s direction and winked.

“Ayesha, you are better than this.”

Ayesha threw back her head and laughed. Turning away from her aunt, she shimmied towards Sleet.

Blaze, smarting, walked out of the marquee and through the other tents towards the exit, where she found her coat and bag. Reaching into her pockets, she searched for the card with her driver’s number. She found nothing. She looked in her bag. Her heart sank. There was an attendant with a walkie-talkie and Blaze asked him to radio for the driver of a black Mercedes.

“Do you know how many black Mercs there are out there?” he laughed. “What name might it be under?”

“Scott,” Blaze said, fighting feelings of desperation, unable to face one more minute at the party.

The attendant shrugged unhelpfully. “I’ll put it out on the radio but most of the drivers are asleep in their cars.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find him.” Blaze headed outside into gusts of snow, now falling heavily. Flakes landed like cold slaps on her nose and cheeks. Her heels sank into the wet ground and within a few steps the bottoms of her silk pantaloons were drenched. The waiting cars were on the other side of the park, some quarter of a mile distant. Flinging off her gold-strapped shoes and hitching up her long coat, she set off down the driveway, gravel cutting into the soles of her feet. The physical pain paled next to the memory of Ayesha dancing with Sleet; Blaze tried to ignore a deep sense of foreboding.

In the distance, the bright lights of a car came towards her. It was moving fast, but slowed and came to a stop about ten feet away. Blinded, she put her hands in front of her eyes. The driver got out and approached, his silhouette made fuzzy in the falling snow. Blaze tried to get out of the way by stepping off the road into the verge, but her feet slipped and she fell to her knees, suctioned to the ground by wet mud. The man held out his hand; she took it and, with his help, stood upright.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

The voice was unmistakable. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question all evening.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I searched all over for you.”

Blaze, bedraggled, snow- and mud-spattered, was glad that her coat hid the fancy-dress outfit. What bad luck had led to this chance encounter with him of all people? She wiped her face and ran her hands through her hair to try and straighten it. “I’m not at my best.”

“You must be cold.”

Her teeth were chattering.

“The car’s warm.” Walking over to the Land Rover, he opened the passenger door and helped her climb in. From the front seat, he leaned into the back, found a blanket and placed it over her legs, then turned the heater up high.

“Where would you like to go?”

“If I could find my driver, I was going to ask him to take me to the nearest station. My niece will need the car later,” Blaze said in hope.

“A train at nearly midnight on New Year’s Eve?” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Blaze said nothing, aware how ridiculous she must appear. “I’ll drive you back to London,” he said.

“It’s out of your way.”

“I came tonight in the hope of seeing you.” He put the car into gear and headed towards the exit.

They drove in silence for about half an hour; the only noise was the slapping of wipers on the windscreen and the hum of the radiator above the engine. In a small village they saw the lights of a pub and outside a few hardy people huddled under a makeshift awning smoking cigarettes.

“I have an overnight bag in the back with a clean set of clothes,” he said. “Why don’t we stop for a whisky and you can get changed?”

“I would like that,” Blaze stuttered, feeling the wet silk of her trousers clinging to her thighs and stomach. Every part of her was cold.

He stopped the car a little way up the road from the pub and, leaning over the seat behind him, took out a small holdall. Blaze opened the door and, stepping into the snow, gave an involuntary yelp.

“Put your arms around me,” he said, getting out and coming to her side of the car.

She clasped her fingers around the back of his neck and let him scoop her up in his arms. His jacket smelled of hay, with a slight tang of mothballs. His face was roughly shaven and she felt the bristles against her cheek.

The pub was full of revellers and the walls were covered with Christmas decorations. The landlord stepped out from behind the bar. Blaze’s companion let her down gently.

“It’s past closing time; we’re only allowed to serve residents,” the landlord explained.

“Do you have any rooms left?” the man asked.

“Only one. It’s small and at the back. £50.”

“I’ll take it.”

“What’s your name?” the landlord enquired.

“Wolfe—Joshua Wolfe.”

By the time Blaze had changed into Wolfe’s jeans and jumper and returned to the bar, her hair roughly towel-dried and face free of make-up, he was sitting on a small sofa by the open fire. On the table there were two tumblers, a bottle of whisky, a pot of freshly brewed coffee and many packets of salted peanuts.

Waking up in the small bed, in an unfamiliar room the following morning, Blaze tried to piece together the sequence of events. Had they drunk the whole bottle of whisky? Did they really dance with strangers around the bar? Did he kiss her first or did she kiss him? She remembered the feeling of his caresses on her neck, his fingers on her thighs, the urgency of their lovemaking, but all those sensations had merged. Now she lay watching his sleeping face, the rise and fall of his chest, his mouth slightly open, his right arm thrown behind his head like a child, and was filled with a feeling of contentment; she had only known him for three months, but felt as if she’d loved him for decades. She let hope in—hope for a different kind of future and another long-lost dream: the longing to make someone else happy.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, she wriggled out of bed and went to the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleasantly surprised. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her hair was tousled beyond help, but she noticed a softness around her mouth and a rosy hue across her cheeks. Even her scar looked less vivid. Her naked body was lithe and firm, and she turned to the left and right to admire herself, thankful for the hours of training in the gym. Her reverie was broken by a loud ping and, turning around, she saw his mobile phone flashing on the cabinet. She wondered what the time was: early for someone to be messaging. The phone pinged again. Don’t look at it, she told herself, and then picked it up. You’re only checking the time, she thought reassuringly. Taking the Nokia in her hands, she saw that it was 7:40 a.m. Put the phone down now. She pushed the button and two messages flashed up. Both were from someone called Amanda. The first one read: Morning. Can’t wait to see you. XX. The second said: Really can’t wait. Blaze felt the energy drain from her body. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, cradling her thighs. Of course there was an Amanda, she thought miserably. There was bound to be a Laura and a Cassandra too. How could she have been so naive? To him, she had been nothing more than a New Year’s Eve conquest. She washed her face with cold water and tried to smooth her hair before going back into the bedroom to gather her clothes.

Wolfe opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. “Are you coming back to bed?” he asked, pulling down the sheet for her.

“I have to get going,” Blaze said coldly.

He sat up. “Has something happened?” He looked confused. “Last night was so…” he hesitated, “…so lovely.”

“Glad it was for you,” Blaze countered. “I was drunk.”

Wolfe recoiled. He’s certainly a good actor, Blaze thought, looking at his bereft expression. She pulled on her harem pants and picked up her damp, long coat. “I’m going to ask for a taxi.”

“It’s too early—I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” He got out of bed and looked for his clothes. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“Who’s Amanda?” Blaze turned to face him.

Wolfe stepped back. He looked incredulous. “Have you been reading my texts? Snooping into my private business?” His face flushed with anger. “I don’t like people who do that.”

“Your phone was in the bathroom; the messages flashed up.”

Wolfe shook his head and started getting dressed. “This is the second time you’ve seen the absolute worst in a situation and jumped to a conclusion; once again you’ve played judge and jury and found the accused wanting. And I have not even been allowed a trial, let alone the opportunity to make a statement.” He pulled on his trousers and slipped his sweater over his head.

Blaze stood by the door with her arms crossed. How typical of a man to go on the offensive; it proved her worst fears.

“I can’t be with someone who sees the negative in everything and catastrophe at every turn.” Stuffing the rest of the clothes into his overnight bag, he picked it up with one hand and held open the door for her with the other. They walked downstairs in silence. He had prepaid the bill with a credit card and stopped to hand the room key to a young girl wiping the bar. This time he didn’t carry her or open the passenger door of the Land Rover. Blaze got in beside him and he drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. After seventeen minutes they arrived at Reading Station.

“Do you have money for a ticket?” he asked.

Blaze nodded and opened the door.

“Wait.” He turned towards her. “For the record, Amanda is my ex-girlfriend. I was with her for nearly seven years. She was and is a very important and much-loved person in my life. She recently had a child on her own and asked me to spend a few days over New Year with her. I have few significant people in my life but those I love, I will die for. She is one of them.” He hesitated. “I’m not a philanderer and I don’t end up in bed with random women. I’m sorry that you have such a low opinion of me.” His face was impassive and stony. “Happy New Year, Blaze.”

Blaze slid out of the car, burning with shame and regret. Before closing the door, she looked at him. He was right; for the second time, she had assumed the worst: first with Molly and now with someone called Amanda. The first time, he’d given her a chance; now her jealousy had snuffed out any hope.

“I’m sorry.”

Wolfe didn’t answer. He put the car in first gear.

Blaze closed the door and watched the Land Rover pull away. She stood there for ten minutes, maybe more, just in case he changed his mind and drove back to find her. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, she turned and walked into the station.