Where There's Smoke

With Miss Willoughby staring after her, she hurried upstairs into the lounge. Keeping to the side of the window, she edged forward until she could look down onto the path. Paul was standing by the gate, rubbing the back of his head and glaring into the porch. He glanced up at the window. Kate jerked back, but he gave no sign of having seen her. Finally, with a last black look, he turned and walked slowly away.

Kate watched until she could no longer see him in the dusk. Then she sagged. Her legs felt weak, and it was all she could do to make it to a chair before they gave way. She shook as she wrapped the bathrobe tight across her chest and hugged herself.

The sudden clamour of the doorbell made her jump. God! Now what? Cautiously, she went back to the window and peered out. Whoever it was, they were out of sight on the porch. She hesitated, then crept back downstairs. The doorbell rang again when she was half-way down, almost making her miss a step. Mouth dry, she unlocked the door at the bottom. In the fading light, the figure framed in the stained-glass panel was even more indistinct than before.

Her voice cracked a little as she asked. “Who is it?”

“Cab for Powell.” The voice was Cockney, nothing like Paul’s, and she rested her head against the wall. She almost told the driver she had changed her mind: the urge to lock herself inside and crawl into bed was overwhelming.

“Give me ten minutes,” she called instead, and ran back upstairs to get dressed.

Chapter 2

The little girl was losing the fight to stay awake. Her eyelids drooped, flicked open, then drooped again. This time they stayed shut. Kate waited until she was sure Emily was asleep before softly closing the book and standing up. Disturbed by the slight shift of the mattress, the little girl turned on her side and burrowed under the sheets until only a tuft of pale hair was visible. Kate quietly slid the book onto the shelf. In the other bed Emily’s brother, younger by almost two years, lay on his back, sturdy arms and legs thrown out with eighteen-month-old abandon. Angus had kicked off most of the covers. Kate pulled them over him again. She turned down the dimmer switch on the wall until the light from the Mickey Mouse lamp faded to a dull glow. The sound of the two children’s breathing was a soft sibilance in the half-light. Kate had been absurdly flattered when they had both wanted her to take them to bed, Angus first, then his sister half an hour later. A wave of affection constricted her throat as she looked at the two of them sleeping. Gently, she closed the bedroom door and made her way downstairs. The house was a decaying, detached villa in Finchley, with high moulded ceilings, a mahogany-banistered staircase, and a small walled garden that Lucy called “the jungle”. The ceilings were flaking and the banister cracked, but it was better than the cramped and cold apartment where Lucy and Jack had lived before. The house had been left to them several years earlier by an aunt, and they still didn’t seem to have unpacked properly. Toys, papers and clothes were scattered on chairs, on the floor and over the backs of radiators. It was the sort of house Kate wished she’d been brought up in. She stepped over a red tricycle lying on its side at the bottom of the stairs and squeezed round a pile of boxes stacked untidily against the wall. Jack ran his desktop publishing business from the converted cellar, and the over-spill from it cluttered the entire house. Lucy was putting more coal onto the fire as Kate went into the lounge. It tumbled out of the scuttle with a clatter, covering the flames completely. A damp smell came from it. Lucy set down the scuttle and wiped her hands on a rag. Her eyes were a vivid, almost violet blue as she looked up at Kate. “She get off okay?”

“Out like a light.”

“You should come more often. They’re always on their best behaviour when you’re here.” Kate smiled and sat on the floor. The coal had smothered the heat from the fire, but already smoke was beginning to rise like steam from the black chunks. The lounge was big and draughty, and Lucy and Jack kept a fire going on all but the hottest nights. Kate curled her legs under her and leaned back against the settee. In front of her, the coffee table was littered with the wreckage of a Chinese takeaway, fried rice and noodles congealing in foil containers. A half-empty bottle of white wine stood among them. Lucy pushed a blonde curl out of her eyes and sat down on the floor near Kate. She picked out a cold prawn. “I knew I should have cleared this lot away,” she said, chewing. “I’ll have put on half a stone by tomorrow.”

“You could always come to the gym with me.”

“No, thanks. If God had meant women to be slim he wouldn’t have invented chocolate.” She popped another prawn into her mouth. “Anyway, look what happened the last time I went to a gym. I met Jack.”