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‘Well, just see that you don’t,’ grumbled Julian.
Perversely, Erin was enjoying his jealousy. It was a new experience for her – and she liked it. The room was dark, lit only by the candle, which gave it a sepia glow. Erin’s head was fuzzy with claret and happiness.
‘So, how are the plans coming along for Belvedere Road?’ she asked.
He reached over and stroked her hair. ‘Hey, don’t spoil a nice night talking about work.’
Erin knew he was right, she really needed to unwind, but, still, she was feeling more than a little anxious about the development. She’d had a phone call from the site manager that afternoon, who had told her that he had six men pencilled in to start in eight weeks’ time and there was still no sign of the plans.
‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘but I’m new to all this and I need your help. If you’re not confident about getting planning permission by then we’ll have to delay it. I don’t want men sitting around doing nothing.’
Julian moved closer to her and his lips brushed hers, sending a shiver of desire up her spine. ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow, eh?’ he whispered, ‘I’ve got other plans for right now.’
She felt his hand on her thigh, pushing up the thin red jersey dress until it was ruched up over her tummy. He bent down to kiss her navel and along the top of her panties, grazing her skin with his teeth, tickling her thighs with his lips. Impatient, Erin reached over her head to pull off her dress and Julian unclipped her bra so that her full breasts sprang out. Julian picked her up, giggling, naked except for her white panties, and carried her into the bedroom, ready to explore every inch of her body with his tongue.
Exhausted and happy, Erin fell into a deep, blissful sleep almost immediately after sex. She did not hear Julian creep out of the bed and into the other room.
Silently he crossed to her desk and sat naked in front of Erin’s laptop with the Midas logo on its titanium lid. Accessing Erin’s work files would now be easy, if only he had the password. He thought for a moment, then typed in ‘ADAM’. Women could be so predictable, he thought to himself. The screen flickered to life. He was in. He smiled and got to work.
37
Five o’clock. It was time. She was never late, he thought, as he gazed out of his bedroom window, a smile briefly lighting up his thin, pallid face. He watched as she jogged past his house and down the street until she disappeared out of view. He knew the route she would take. Towards Hyde Park. He had followed her once on his bicycle and watched as her personal trainer had put his hands all over her while she had stretched, touching her warm body as she rotated her hips, her hair swinging from side to side gloriously like a thick, dark waterfall.
For those few seconds when she ran past his window his life was complete, filling his day-to-day nothingness, giving him a purpose, a reason for being. She was perfect. Lean and fit, strong and sexy like a comic book heroine. She was a drug, a drug that had to be consumed again, and again and again. But those few seconds each day were not enough. Not now. Now he wanted more, much more. It was time to get to know her better. Because they were destined to be together. She would see that. She would see that soon.
38
Sitting in the first-class carriage of the 10.45 to Newcastle, Molly rested her head against the glass, seeing the blur of embankments, tunnels, hedges and ponds, but taking in nothing in particular. She closed her eyes and tried to work out how long it had been since she had been home. She snorted. Home? That place had never been home. Besides, it was all so long ago that it was as if that life had belonged to somebody else. But, over the past few days, that old life had begun to leak back into her thoughts. Since her conversation with Janet, at night her mind would drift to their tiny terraced house; the small living room that came straight off the street and smelt of chip fat and furniture polish, the bathroom with its pink suite and crocheted doilies over the toilet rolls, the beds covered with candlewick eiderdowns. Some home, thought Molly with derision, but still she felt its pull. At night, staring into the darkness, it was all she saw.
Guilt was not usually a sentiment in Molly’s emotional spectrum, but now it was choking her. Guilt at never having told Summer she had a grandfather. Guilt at all the stories she had told about Kenneth Sinclair being a work-shy, bullying monster, about her stepmother ignoring her and demeaning her, day after day. Yes, Molly had painted a vivid picture, of a poor, dirty, violent past she had clawed her way out of, becoming strong and successful against the odds. Molly, the survivor.
But Molly’s stories were a long way from the truth. Kenneth Sinclair was not a wife-beater; he had never hit Molly or deprived her of what little he could afford. No, Kenneth Sinclair’s crime was that he was poor. Poor and proud. He was nothing more than a painter and decorator, a family man, a regular in the Crown, a decent working man. Nothing more, nothing less. And Molly had hated him for it.
Newcastle was bright and sunny, the water glinting in slivers as the train crossed the Tyne. Molly strode up the platform and fought for a taxi at the front of the station, asking the driver to take her to Newcastle Infirmary. The hospital was a soulless building, despite the warm weather and a cheerful banner announcing a summer fair the following Saturday. She had last been there when she was thirteen and she had fallen off a wall outside the off-licence, cracking her head. Molly had been hysterical, inconsolable. Not from the pain of the fall but from the fear of the stitches leaving a scar.
She climbed out of the taxi, tipping heavily, and walked into the reception, looking completely out of place in her silk T-shirt, white jeans and Gucci sunglasses. Glancing at a big information board she found that that the Cardiac Unit was in the Orange Zone, wherever that might be. She walked down the long peach-painted corridor, hearing the sound of her heels tapping on the lino. Her steps got slower and slower as she got closer, dreading the moment. She had no idea what she was going to say; over the past few hours she had tried to think of something, but nothing had come. Finally, a sign above a pair of tatty double doors announced that she had reached the Cardiac Unit. She noticed a few private rooms and hoped her father was in one of those. It was bad enough meeting your family again after twenty-odd years; it would be worse if you had to do it in front of dozens of other ill people.
What would he look like now, she thought as she put a hand on the door. Thinner? Greyer? Maybe his hair would be white. Would there be tubes coming out of his chest? One of those air pumps? She shivered.
‘Can I help you?’
A nurse no more than Summer’s age was standing in front of her with a serious expression.
‘I’m looking for Kenneth Sinclair. I’m his daughter.’
She saw a look of awkwardness and sympathy on the young woman’s face, as she put a hand on Molly’s shoulder and ushered her into a small room off the main ward.
‘I’m so sorry. I thought you might have heard. Mr Sinclair – your dad – passed away about two hours ago. There were severe complications after the operation. The doctors did their best, but he was a very ill man. But I’m sure you knew that.’
Passed away? Molly tried to take a breath but her lungs seemed to suddenly shrink and close.
‘He’s dead?’ she whispered.
‘Can I get you a drink. A tea?’ asked the nurse.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’ She repeated it over and over again and again, trying to understand the words.
‘We do have a bereavement counsellor on site,’ said the nurse kindly.
