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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.
