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Fran’s smile widened of its own accord. ‘Not that kind of bleach, stupid! I meant the kind that cleans floors!’
‘Oh, that!’ said Rosie gloomily, and went off to find some.
By the time Sam Lockhart rang her a week later, Fran had established a London base she could use whenever she needed. One of her mother’s many cousins was visiting her daughter in Australia for the winter, leaving a high-ceilinged flat vacant in Hampstead village—in a road which was apparently a burglar’s paradise.
‘She’d be delighted to have you keeping your eye on the place,’ Fran’s mother had said. ‘But I’d like to see you myself, darling. When are you coming up to Scotland?’
Fran prodded a neglected-looking plant which was badly in need of a gallon or two of water, and frowned. ‘I promise I’ll be there for Christmas.’
‘What—not until then?’
‘Mum, it’s only weeks away.’ Fran kept her voice patient.
‘Is Rosie any better?’
‘A bit. Still misses this man Sam Lockhart.’
‘Didn’t that all finish ages ago?’
‘Uh-huh. I guess some broken hearts just take longer to heal than others.’ But Fran deliberately omitted to mention the fact that Sam was one of her new clients. The information would be bound to set her mother thinking, and for some strange reason Fran was convinced that she would try to talk her out of getting involved in some kind of vendetta.
There was a long and loaded pause followed by a question which was studiedly casual. ‘So how’s Sholto?’
The pause from Fran’s end was equally loaded. ‘How should I know, Mum? I don’t have anything to do with Sholto anymore. Why would I, when we’re divorced now? Apparently, he’s got a new girlfriend—’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me—’
‘Er, yes. Listen, Mum, I have to go now.’ And Fran abruptly ended the conversation.
It was funny. When people heard that you were divorcing, or divorced, they always asked whether you had any children. And when Fran said that no, they didn’t, the response was always the same. ‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’ As though a marriage didn’t matter if there weren’t any offspring involved.
But it did matter. Divorce left a stubborn stain behind which you could never quite shift. And it affected people’s attitudes towards you. Fran could read it in her mother’s disappointed voice. She had read it the other day in Sam’s rather disdainful reaction. What had he said? ‘There’s a lot of it around.’ As though it was some kind of nasty infectious disease! And he was right. The world was full of divorced people, and however amicable the agreement, it marked you out like a leper….
Fran’s mobile phone shrilled into life early one morning, exactly a week after Sam Lockhart had dropped her off at the train station.
The deep voice was instantly recognizable—it was just that Fran, emerging from a restless night’s sleep, was not at her sharpest. She had spent the previous evening at the cinema with Rosie, who had insisted they leave halfway through the film, because apparently the leading actor in it had reminded her of Sam. Fran hadn’t been able to see it herself. True, he had Sam’s startling blue eyes, but not their intensity, and the face had been much softer….
So the two of them had gone to eat an indulgent supper instead, which had ended up with Rosie drinking far too much and sobbing into her bread and butter pudding that her life was a vacuum, and it was all Sam’s fault. Listening to a different version of the same story Fran felt as though she was on a fast train to nowhere….
Fran opened bleary eyes and picked up the phone. ‘Hel-lo?’ she yawned sleepily.
‘It’s Sam Lockhart.’
She sat bolt upright in bed. ‘Oh, my goodness!’
‘Sam Lockhart,’ he repeated impatiently.
‘Yes, I know it is! I heard you the first time.’
‘Then you should try improving your telephone technique,’ he said caustically. ‘I’m back in England for a few days. Can you meet for lunch?’
‘When?’
‘Well, I was thinking of today,’ he responded.
‘Nice of you to give me so much notice.’ Again!
‘So you’re busy today, are you?’
