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‘It looks as good as new. I hope it didn’t cost too much to have it repaired.’
‘It had some bumps hammered out, but it didn’t cost the earth.’ He opened the passenger door and helped her into it, walked round and slid in beside her, behind the wheel.
The journey took nearly an hour. Traffic was heavy at this time of day through the city; they kept getting trapped in crowded streets with lines of other vehicles. Randal didn’t say much. She tried not to look at him, but was deeply conscious of him beside her, those long slim legs stretched out, his elegant hands moving on the wheel. Pippa had to shrink down into her own seat to avoid any contact with him; the car was small and he was very close.
Eventually, though, they emerged in flat Essex countryside and through the open window beside her she felt cool, fresh air on her hot face, blowing her chestnut hair about. She stared out at the hedges of hawthorn, just coming into leaf, which in a month or so would be thick with white flowers, at the green fields and trees, the villages through which they passed, some with ancient timbered cottages or white-frame wooden churches in tidy churchyards where old yew trees stood, bearing testimony to the long-forgotten tradition of planting yew in churchyards so that bows could be made from it, at old pubs with swinging signs.
Everything looked so normal and familiar. Only she was altered; she did not know herself. Deep inside her panic surged. Her life was in confusion, like a landscape after an earthquake, the earth blown apart, wrecked, destroyed.
‘Which road do I take now?’ Randal asked and, pulling herself together, she gave him directions.
‘It isn’t far; we should be there in ten minutes.’
‘Do you like living in the country?’
‘I love it.’
He was driving slowly as they passed the junction where the accident had happened the other night. His sideways glance told her he remembered the place.
‘Where had you been?’ she asked. ‘That night?’
‘I had been having dinner with a business associate. I got lost; I don’t know this part of the country.’
They drove on and a few moments later were parking outside her cottage. He turned his head to stare at it.
‘Well, thank you for driving me home,’ she huskily said, opening the passenger door.
He got out and came round to help her, his hand firmly gripping her arm. ‘It’s a pretty place. Have you redecorated since you bou
ght it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Afraid her neighbours might see him, be curious about him.
‘I’d love a guided tour.’
In agitation she shook her head. ‘I’d rather not ask you in! I expect Tom will call in on his way home from work; he’ll be anxious about why I came home early. I usually come home with him. He lives quite nearby.’
Randal locked his car with a remote control, still holding her arm, then guided her towards the cottage. ‘It’s only half past four. He won’t arrive yet, will he? He looked the type to keep long hours at work. You’ve got time to show me round.’
‘Why are you so maddening?’ she fumed. ‘Why do you always have to turn everything into a battle, and win?’
He laughed softly. ‘Why do you? What is your problem? Whatever I ask you to do, you argue!’
She unlocked her front door, choked with irritation. ‘I just want you to go away! You know that!’ Samson appeared from the flowerbeds and brushed past both of them, heading for the kitchen and, he hoped, food.
Randal smiled an amused taunt. ‘Oh, I know that, but I’m not going, Pippa. I intend to save you from yourself.’
She swallowed, face disturbed. She didn’t like the sound of that. What was he plotting? There was a brightness, a mischief in his eyes, that made her feel threatened. Did he intend to stay here, confront Tom, perhaps tell Tom…? Tell him what, though? They had never been lovers. There was nothing to tell. A kiss or two, that was all. She had fled before any affair could start.
And of course that was an admission in itself, because if she had not been afraid of what might develop between them she would never have been driven to flight. Would Tom realise that?
He would if Randal drew him pictures, she grimly admitted, and no doubt that was precisely what Randal intended to do. Would Tom be shocked when he discovered she had been in love before they met?
She had never lied to him, yet she had never told him anything about Randal; she had never even mentioned his name.
He looked around at the black wood beams. ‘How old is the cottage?’
‘The deeds date form the eighteenth century, but there was a dwelling here before that, judging by old maps of the area.’ She looked at the green glass clock on the mantelpiece which she had bought in a local antiques shop. ‘Tom will be here before long. Would you mind going? I want to have a shower and change before Tom gets here.’
