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Even then she hadn’t moved, just waited until her mother came, flushed and tight-mouthed, her voice brittle as she said, ‘Let’s explore our new palace.’
Holding Cilla’s hand, she trailed obediently in Rosina’s wake through the spacious sitting room, the beautiful ivory and aqua master bedroom, the sumptuous bathroom with its pink and violet tiles, and the chrome and marble kitchen, and all she could think was how much she hated it.
‘When are we going back to Lorimer Street?’ she’d asked at last.
‘We’re not,’ her mother said shortly. ‘There is no Lorimer Street. I don’t want to hear you talk about it again. Ever.’
And she meant it, thought Ginny, feeling the same little shiver drift down her spine. She made it seem as if that other life had never existed. Just as we never heard from Aunt Joy and Uncle Harry again. And I was not allowed to mention them either.
Then, one afternoon, Rosina had taken them out to tea in a big department store.
Ginny could remember how Rosina had gripped their hands as if she was nervous as they emerged from the lift, until a tall grey-haired man, at a table on his own, stood up smiling, when she’d relaxed and smiled back.
‘Darlings,’ she said. ‘This is a very special friend of mine.’
And that, thought Ginny, was our first meeting with Andrew.
Frowning, she transferred her supper tray to the bedside table and sat up, hugging her knees.
It was clear that Rosina had improved on her employment status and rented the flat to impress the new man in her life.
Not strictly ethical perhaps, she thought defensively, but hardly federal offences. Or enough to make her husband feel cheated, if he’d ever found out.
Besides, to set against all that, Rosina, in her thirties, had been and even now continued to be a beautiful woman, her hair still fair—admittedly with assistance these days—and her skin flawless.
Small wonder that Andrew had been sufficiently attracted to offer marriage.
And even if their life together hadn’t been perfect, it was surely better than a lot of marriages.
So Andre Duchard had no right to imply anything different. No right at all.
The best thing I can do, she told herself resolutely, is put the whole business—especially him—out of my mind. And concentrate instead on whatever the future holds for me.
And tried not to think how bleak that sounded.
CHAPTER FIVE
OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Ginny’s misgivings over her prospects at Miss Finn’s began to multiply, with Iris Potter talking openly about the changes she was planning.
But at least Andre Duchard had not returned, to Ginny’s relief, although she was aware that every time the bell tinkled on the café door to signal a new arrival, her heart seemed to do a kind of somersault, which made no sense at all.
For all she knew, he might be back in Burgundy and good riddance to him. The last person she needed to have around was someone who caught her so consistently off her guard. Who’d forced her to remember things much better forgotten. And, even worse, who’d made her aware of feelings she’d infinitely have preferred to have ignored. He was altogether too disturbing.
But much as she wished him gone, some instinct told her that he was still around. And still able to push her towards some unsuspected edge...
Stop it, she adjured herself, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Don’t think like that. In fact, don’t think about him at all.
Rosina was still hunting obsessively on the telephone for the legal advice she wanted to hear, and not even the start of the improvements to Keeper’s Cottage was able to divert her.
On the contrary, Ginny told herself grimly, Rosina still seemed hell-bent on staying exactly where she was.
And her attitude to Barney had not softened either.
‘Have you done anything about finding him a new owner, Virginia? If not, at the end of the week—he goes.’
‘I’ve put a card in the newsagent’s window,’ Ginny said quietly.
‘You think you’ll be inundated with replies?’ Rosina gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’d settle for one person who really wants him,’ Ginny returned. And, if it was humanly possible, that would be me, she thought now with a pang, deciding she would pop up to the shop during her meal break to check.
But it was after two o’clock before Ginny was able to hang up her apron, fling on her coat and sprint up the High Street to Betts Newsagents.
Only to meet with another disappointment.
‘It’s a bad time of year to be taking on a dog, what with Christmas bills coming in, and nasty weather for walking,’ said Mrs Betts. ‘I’d hang on for spring, Miss Mason, and try again.’
