Page 88 of Secret Paths

“Her car’s here.”

Another voice says something I cannot make out. Male. Polite.

Old cottages are romantic until you are trapped half-dressed upstairs and discover they have the acoustic privacy of a biscuit tin.

Mandy looks at me.

I look at her.

Downstairs, Alexandra says, “I’ll try her again.”

Mandy jabs the screen before it can ring a third time. “Hi.”

Her voice is light.

Too light.

The voice of a woman trying to sound as if she has not been horizontal beneath my body less than a minute ago.

Alexandra’s reply is loud enough for me to hear the shape of it even through the phone. “I’m outside your house.”

“Yes,” Mandy says. “I gathered.”

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“You did not answer the door.”

“I was upstairs.”

I put a hand over my mouth.

This is not the time to laugh.

It is absolutely not the time to laugh.

“I brought Mark,” Alexandra says.

Mandy’s gaze cuts to mine.

I shake my head, as if I have any authority over this situation.

“Mark,” she repeats.

“For the cooking lesson.”

“Cooking lesson.”

“The one I told you about.”

“You mentioned the possibility.”

“I said Sunday morning.”

Mandy closes her eyes again. “Did you?”

“Yes.”