Forget-Me-Not

by Emma Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Following her husband's death, Minna runs a small boarding house in Torquay and brings up her son, Tim. Tim becomes a journalist for the local paper, struggling to get by-lines and hoping to make it to a national some day. However, the outbreak of the Great War disrupts his life. Tim resists volunteering for the sake of his mother who can't bear to see her only son go to war, but eventually his guilt at not helping his country makes him sign up for the Royal Flying Corps. For two years he escapes death and injury but finally has a breakdown and is sent home. Elyse Davenport, an actress just past her prime, introduces him to the joys of lovemaking, but his true love is Katherine whose mother pressurises her to marry the wealthy and eminently suitable Miles. Following his death in action, Katherine becomes a VAD in France, but Tim and Katherine don't meet up again until peace is declared.

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 512

Sample

‘An actress!’

Minna Wilson smiled at the horrified expression on her son’s face. He was outraged. ‘She’s quite a respectable woman, Tim, even if she is in the theatre. She comes highly recommended.’

‘By whom?’ he queried harshly.

‘Do you remember the Goodchilds, who were here several years ago? Well, she’s a relative of theirs.’

Tim could remember the Goodchilds very well. A pleasant enough couple, as he recalled. Certainly no trouble of any kind.

‘Besides which,’ Minna went on, ‘I have a vacant room needing filling, actress or no.’

Despite his initial reaction, Tim was beginning to warm to the idea. An actress at The Berkeley – how exotic! Certainly different from the usual clientele who stayed at the small boarding house, which was their main source of income since his father died, the other being his salary from the Torquay Times, where he worked as a junior reporter. ‘What’s her name then?’

‘Mrs Davenport.’

He wondered what she was like. Young, old? Good-looking, plain, downright ugly? He doubted it was the latter. ‘It’ll certainly make a change,’ he conceded.

Minna’s eyes twinkled with amusement. It would that all right. Their regular guests, those in residence all year round, were all elderly, living out the remainder of their days in a climate far more favourable than wherever they’d come from.

‘She’s arriving tomorrow,’ Minna declared, ‘and is apparently engaged to be playing the season at the Pavilion.’ The Pavilion was a brand-new theatre that had only recently opened.

‘Is she indeed,’ Tim mused.

‘I’ve to expect her in the afternoon off the London train.’

At that moment their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Major Sillitoe en route for his daily stroll, during which he would undoubtedly be calling into several of the many pubs that the town boasted. The major, now retired, had fought with great distinction in the Boer War, and could be something of a bore himself when he got started on the subject. He was someone Tim tended to avoid if possible.

‘Ah, good morning, Major,’ Minna beamed.

Sillitoe, a small man with a very large moustache and a florid complexion, doffed his hat. ‘Good morning to you too, Mrs Wilson. And a lovely one it is.’

‘Off for your walk, I take it?’

‘Quite so. I shall head in the direction of Torre Abbey Sands, I think. I haven’t been that way for some while now.’

‘Well, enjoy yourself, Major.’

He gave a small, courteous bow. ‘Thank you very much. And how are you, young Tim?’

Tim loathed being called young. Twenty years old, he didn’t consider himself that at all. Why, he was the male head of the household and a wage earner in a highly respectable profession. Young indeed! He forced a smile to his face. Paying guests were paying guests after all. ‘Fine thank you, Major. It’s kind of you to ask.’

‘Now don’t you be late for supper,’ Minna declared after the major had taken his leave. ‘That’s happened too often of late.’

‘Can’t help it, Ma. Blame the job, not me. I can only get away when I’m finished. You know that.’

Minna sniffed her disapproval. ‘Your editor, Mr Ricketts, is a slave-driver and no mistake. I don’t suppose it matters what hours he keeps, being a bachelor with no family obligations or responsibilities.’

‘That’s how it is, Ma, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Anyway, I love my job. Surely that’s all that counts. The hours are irrelevant.’

‘Not when your meal is spoilt, they’re not.’

He laughed. ‘My meals are never spoilt, and you know it. Cook always sees to that.’

‘If anything it’s you who’s spoilt, and that’s the truth of it. Now I’d better be getting on, I’ve lots to do.’

Tim was at the door when an idea struck him. The forthcoming repertory season at the Pavilion had been mentioned in the paper of course, but only in general. Perhaps Ricketts might be interested in a feature on one of the cast – Mrs Davenport, for example: what she’d previously done, who she’d worked with, and so on. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Ricketts would fall for the idea.

He decided to mention it at the next day’s morning meeting where suggestions were put forward and discussed.

It was later that afternoon when Tim stopped to stare admiringly at the motorbike parked by the kerb. What a beauty, he thought. An absolute cracker. He noted the machine was a Royal Enfield operated by a chain drive, the latest thing. A small inscription on the green-coloured petrol tank informed him it had a 325cc capacity.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tim breathed, eyes gleaming. ‘Very much so.’

‘Sit on it, if you care to.’

‘May I!’

The man standing alongside made a gesture with his hand. ‘Go ahead.’

Tim swung himself onto the leather seat and then let his weight settle. ‘I suppose it goes fast?’

‘Like the wind.’

That was music to Tim’s ears. He could just imagine himself roaring along the country lanes. What a glorious sensation that must be.

‘Can you ride a bike?’

Tim reluctantly shook his head. ‘I’ve never had the opportunity, I’m afraid. But it wouldn’t take me long to learn. I know how everything works and what to do.’ Reaching down, he lovingly caressed the chassis.

‘Sadly, I’m going to have to sell it,’ the man stated softly.

‘Sell?’

‘Have to. My wife, bless her, thinks it’s far too dangerous. Stuff and nonsense of course, but that’s what she believes. She’s been nagging me for months now and I don’t suppose I’ll get any peace till it’s gone.’ He heaved a sigh of resignation.

‘How . . . how much are you asking?’ Tim hesitatingly inquired, dreading the answer, which was bound to be far more than he could afford.

‘Why, are you interested?’

Tim nodded.

The man’s brow furrowed. ‘I haven’t really thought of a price yet. I’d have to give that some consideration.’

Tim fumbled for his wallet, from which he produced a business card. ‘Would you telephone me there when you’ve decided. Give me first refusal?’

The man studied Tim’s card. ‘The Times, eh?’

‘That’s correct, Mr . . .?’

‘Oh, Coates, Jeremiah Coates. Well, Mr Wilson, telephone you I shall, when I’ve made up my mind.’

‘If I’m not there, leave a message. I can either telephone back or call round and see you.’

‘Fine then. I’ll be in touch. You have my word.’

Tim reluctantly dismounted from the bike. Although he’d been astride it for only a few minutes, getting off again was like losing a limb. He just had to have that machine. He had to. He coveted it more than anything he’d ever coveted in his life before.

Coates slipped on a pair of goggles and sat where Tim had just been. How Tim envied him. He envied Coates with every fibre of his being.

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Coates.’

And Tim watched the bike and its rider disappear into the distance.

‘Have you got the account of the Women’s Institute meeting?’ Ricketts snapped as Tim entered the office.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything of note?’

Tim shook his head. ‘Just the usual stuff.’

Ricketts grunted. ‘Get it written up all the same. And be quick about it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ricketts glared at Tim. ‘Are you being impertinent? I don’t think I like your tone.’

Tim feigned innocence. ‘Not at all, sir. I didn’t mean anything by my tone. I wasn’t aware it was different from usual.’

Ricketts regarded Tim dyspeptically. Cheeky whelp, he thought. There was no respect nowadays. The lad was far too much of a smart aleck for his own good. He’d better watch it. ‘Get on with it then.’

Tim hurried over to the long desk that he shared with the other reporters and hastily busied himself.

‘He’s in a right old mood today,’ Harry Nutbeam, their sports reporter, who was sitting alongside Tim, whispered a few minutes later when Ricketts’ attention was elsewhere.

‘You can say that again.’

‘He was fine to start off with, and then suddenly, bam! His ulcer must be playing up again.’

‘I just wish he wouldn’t take it out on us, that’s all.’

Harry nodded his agreement. ‘Fancy a pint later?’

‘If I’ve got time.’

Their conversation ceased abruptly when they realised that Ricketts was staring at them. Tim’s fingers flew over the keys of the battered Imperial typewriter, one of a number they all shared, as he recounted what had occurred at the WI meeting. He did his best to make something that had been tedious in the extreme sound at least vaguely interesting.

The train swung round a bend and Elyse Davenport glimpsed what she presumed must be Torquay. Thank God the journey was almost over. She’d never been one to enjoy travelling. Arriving and departing, yes, but not the actual journey.

She lit a cigarette, her umpteenth since leaving Paddington, and wondered what Torquay was going to be like. At least it would be a change from London, and the doctor had assured her that the mild climate, combined with the sea air, could only do her persistent cough the world of good.

She should give up cigarettes of course, that was the sensible thing to do, but then she’d never been exactly the most sensible of people. She smiled. Sensible people didn’t become actors – sense was the last thing they required.

Her smile vanished as she thought of her husband Benny, currently playing a small part in the West End. What a mistake she’d made in marrying him, taken in completely by his dashing good looks and boundless charm. She’d fallen hook, line and sinker. More fool her!

Where had their dreams gone, their plans? She was damned if she knew. They’d somehow dissipated – not overnight, but a little at a time, until one day they’d all vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness in their place.

How she’d ached with love for Benny, idolised the man. And now? They barely tolerated one another. When he wasn’t onstage it was an endless round of pubs and late-night supper clubs, spending what money they had, and often money they didn’t. It was a relief to be away from him for a while. Another good reason to accept the job in Torquay.

She coughed and reached for her handkerchief. Amazingly she never coughed when performing. But perhaps that was not so unusual when you thought about it. Any actor would tell you that onstage all ills and pains simply disappeared. As did the need for all bodily functions.

When she’d finished her cigarette she ground it out in the ashtray. Not long now, she told herself. She couldn’t wait to stretch her legs.

Minna came bustling through when Daisy, the maid, informed her that Mrs Davenport had arrived. She found the actress standing just inside the doorway.

‘Mrs Davenport, welcome to The Berkeley,’ she beamed.

‘Why, thank you.’

Elyse gazed about her. It was hardly The Savoy, but then what had she expected?

‘How was your journey down?’ Minna inquired politely.

‘Long.’

Minna gave a low laugh, immediately warming to Elyse. ‘I’m sure that’s an apt description. Went to London myself once and it seemed to take for ever and a day. There and back.’

What an elegant woman, Minna was thinking. And beautifully dressed, in what she took to be the height of fashion. The suit that Elyse had on was in a shepherd check and the skirt ankle-length. It boasted a fancy overcollar, with silk braid trimming on the sleeves. Round the waist was a matching belt and deep side-pockets below were also trimmed with silk. The wide-brimmed hat was of straw and boasted a posy of artificial pansies at the front.

‘I imagine you could use a cup of tea before you go on up,’ Minna said. ‘I thought we might share a pot and some cake in the dining room.’

‘That’s a wonderful suggestion,’ Elyse replied. ‘I’m quite parched and, dare I say it, just a trifle hungry.’

‘Then let me show you the way,’ Minna declared and instructed Daisy to take Elyse’s cases up to her room.

‘You should see that Mrs Davenport who arrived earlier. She’s quite a bobby-dazzler,’ Daisy confided to Tim when he arrived home.

‘Really?’ He had to admit he was curious about the lady, whom he now hoped to interview, as Ricketts had approved his idea.

‘Major Sillitoe just gaped when he saw her.’ Daisy giggled. ‘I swear he was like a fish on a slab. All poppy eyes and mouth wide open.’

That vision made Tim smile. ‘Where’s Ma?’

‘I don’t know, Master Tim. Around somewheres. And ’ee’s late again. You’ve missed the staff supper.’ It was the custom for Minna and Tim to eat with the staff, the evening meal taking place in the kitchen after the guests had finished in the dining room.

Daisy suddenly pressed closer to him. ‘Here, have you been drinking? I swears I can smell beer.’

He placed a finger across his lips. ‘Don’t tell on me, but that’s why I’m late. I stopped off for a few with my colleague Harry.’ A few was what he’d intended, but it had ended up being considerably more than that. The time had somehow flown and now he wasn’t at all hungry, but he knew he’d have to have something or there’d be hell to pay. From Cook as well as his mother.

‘Here,’ said Daisy, digging in her apron pocket. ‘Have a peppermint. That’ll disguise the pong.’

He gratefully accepted the offered sweet, deciding that if Minna did accuse him of drinking, he’d say he’d only had one in the line of duty, which did occasionally happen. ‘Is Mrs Davenport about? I want to meet her and have a word.’

Daisy shook her head. ‘She went straight up to her room after dinner, saying she was having an early night. She’s no doubt worn out by the journey here from London.’

Tim swore under his breath at having missed her. His own fault really for having stayed out so long. It had never crossed his mind that she might want an early night. Oh well, he’d just have to collar her in the morning. There was nothing else for it.

Cook wasn’t best pleased when he turned up in the kitchen, but it didn’t take him long to get back in her good books again. Since he was a tiny lad he’d always been able to wind her round his little finger. Cook adored him.

The peppermint had done the trick, for neither Cook nor Minna detected alcohol on his breath.

Tim pulled a face when the clock in the hallway bonged the hour. Mrs Davenport still hadn’t put in an appearance and now he’d have to leave, as he had to report to the office before going out on a story that had already been set up.

He’d return later, he decided, and hope to catch her then.

Elyse stared at the Pavilion theatre, which she found pleasing to the eye. She’d never played a brand-new theatre before so the prospect was exciting.

She sucked in a deep breath of sea air, thinking how wonderful it was. Already she felt better for being by the seaside. Such a contrast to the noise and smell of London, where the air at this time of year hung like a thick, damp blanket.

She toyed with the idea of going inside and introducing herself, then decided against it. She’d turn up for rehearsals on Monday morning as instructed and all the introductions could be made then. It wouldn’t do to appear overeager. She was an older, established actress after all, and it was best to be seen in that light.

She recalled the Café Addison, which she’d passed a few minutes earlier. Time for a coffee, she decided, after which she’d find her way back to The Berkeley, where she’d study the script of the first play they were doing, Trelawny of the ‘Wells’ by Sir Arthur Wing Pinero. She had the part of Imogen Parrott, an experienced and rather flamboyant actress. Rather like herself, really. So she didn’t anticipate having any trouble with that. All she’d really have to do was learn the lines and moves. The rest would come naturally.

‘There’s a telephone call for you, Tim,’ Harry Nutbeam declared, hurrying by on some errand or other.

‘Who is it?’

‘Don’t know. Didn’t say,’ Harry called back over his shoulder.

Tim rose from the desk and made his way down the office to the pair of wooden telephone booths at the rear. He went into the one with the receiver off the hook.

‘Hello? Tim Wilson speaking.’

‘Ah, Mr Wilson, it’s Jeremiah Coates here. I promised to ring.’

Instantly a vision of the Royal Enfield flashed before Tim’s eyes and his heart started to race at the thought of owning it. ‘Have you decided on a price then?’

‘I have.’

Tim found himself holding his breath as he waited to hear.

‘I think thirty pounds would be about right. That’s five less than I paid for her.’

Tim’s spirits slumped. Just as he’d expected. Way beyond his pocket. He’d been stupid to dare hope.

‘Mr Wilson, are you still there?’

‘I am sorry. I’m afraid that’s too much for me, Mr Coates. You’ll have to find another buyer.’

‘I see.’

‘I wish . . . well, I truly wish I did have that kind of money, but I simply don’t. Nor is there any way I can get it. I apologise for wasting your time.’

Coates understood, having watched Tim’s face when he’d been astride the bike. ‘I’m sorry too. I’m sure the bike would have given you a great deal of pleasure.’

‘I know it would have, but there we are. Unfortunately it’s not to be.’ Pie in the sky, Tim thought bitterly.

There was a pause, then Coates said, ‘Can you come anywhere near the figure?’

‘No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t. It’s well beyond me. Again, I apologise. I should have known better.’

Coates smiled wryly to himself. He’d been young once too. ‘Well, if you do come up with it, let me know. I’ll give you my number.’

Tim hastily scribbled down the telephone number on the top sheaf of the pad and ripped it off. In his mind’s eye he was still seeing the bike, and himself on it riding through the lanes around Torquay.

When he emerged from the booth he carefully folded the paper and placed it into his pocket. A useless gesture really, as he was well aware, but he just couldn’t bring himself to throw the number away.

‘Here, you should see the clothes that Mrs Davenport has hanging in her wardrobe,’ Daisy enthused to Euphemia, the other maid of the household. ‘I just been up there doing out her room.’

Euphemia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Nice, is thae?’

‘A lot more than nice. They’s as grand as I’s seen. Fit for a queen to wear, they be.’

‘Oh!’ Euphemia breathed. ‘That so?’

‘As true as I’m standing here. All colours of the rainbow too. Pink, cream, blue – you name it. Suits, dresses, everything you can think of, and all the very best quality. Bought in Bond Street every last item, I should imagine.’

‘Can I go look?’

Daisy quickly shook her head. ‘We don’t knows when she’ll be back. And Mrs Wilson would have a fit if she thought you’d gone in there to pry. No, you’ll just have to wait till it’s your turn to do her room and then you can have a peek.’

Euphemia sighed. ‘Imagine having clothes like that. You’d be able to turn any man’s head.’

‘Well, that’s something you and I will never know about. Neither of us is ever likely to own a dress like one of thae. God knows what they cost each. An absolute fortune, I’ll be bound.’

‘It must be a wonderful thing to be an actress,’ Euphemia mused. ‘Though I couldn’t stand up in front of others as they do, meself. I’d be far too embarrassed.’

‘Me too,’ Daisy agreed. ‘All thae folk gawping and staring at you. And how do you remember all thae words? ’Tis beyond me.’

Daisy glanced around to ensure Minna wasn’t about. They’d have been told off if they were discovered gossiping. Minna might be a fair employer but there were limits. Time-wasting was most definitely frowned upon.

‘That ain’t all,’ Daisy went on, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘She’s got a box crammed full of jewellery.’

Euphemia’s eyes went wide again. ‘Is that a fact?’

‘Emeralds, rubies, diamonds – they was all there. A box full of treasure and no mistake.’

‘Crikey!’ Euphemia exclaimed softly, thoroughly impressed.

‘The top of the box was lying open so I could hardly miss what was inside. Fair took my breath away, it did. ’Twas like gazing into Aladdin’s cave.’

‘She must be really rich.’

‘Stinking, I’d say. Though what baffles me is – if she’s so wealthy, what’s she doing here instead of staying at The Imperial?’ The latter was Torquay’s foremost and most exclusive hotel.

Euphemia shook her head in bewilderment. She couldn’t understand that, either. The Berkeley was only a run-of-the-mill boarding house after all. Hardly the place for nobs to come.

‘There was a diamond bracelet, which I just couldn’t stop meself trying on. It was gorgeous, Euphemia. Absolutely gorgeous. All sparkly and shiny-like. It must have cost hundreds.’

‘I’d like to try that on too.’

Daisy winked. ‘Take your chance when you does her room. Make sure you put everything back as it was, mind. We don’t want her complaining to Mrs Wilson. That would mean the sack.’

‘Oh, I’d be careful. She’d never know.’

‘A box full of treasure,’ Daisy repeated. ‘Life just ain’t fair sometimes. It could make you spit.’

Euphemia heard the sound of approaching feet and recognised the tread. ‘Mrs Wilson, get on,’ she warned.

They both hurried about their business.

Tim glanced up from the article he was writing as the presses started to roll. As always, the floor began to shake. The latest edition of the Torquay Times, a weekly paper, would hit the streets the following morning.

Tim loved to hear the presses. There was something immensely satisfying about listening to the sound – din, more like – that they made. It never failed to give him a thrill.

‘Fancy a drink again tonight?’ Harry asked, coming over and sitting on the desk. ‘Patsy’s coming.’ Patsy was John Pattrick, by far the oldest of the reporters and an imbiber of legend. No-one knew how old Patsy was, not even the management, it was claimed.

‘I can’t, Harry. I’ve got someone to see.’

‘A girl?’ Harry teased, his eyes twinkling.

‘No, a lady. It’s about a story I intend doing. I want to interview her.’

‘Oh?’

‘She’s an actress who’s come to stay with us for a while. She’ll be appearing at the Pavilion.’

Harry was intrigued. ‘An actress! Sounds interesting.’ The latter full of innuendo. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Haven’t a clue. I’ve still to meet her.’

‘Is she famous?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, but I’ll find out.’

‘Lucky old you,’ Harry teased. ‘I wouldn’t mind interviewing an actress. Is she from London?’

Tim nodded.

‘Better still.’

Tim laughed at his friend’s lustful expression. Harry was well known as something of a womaniser, although Tim suspected that a lot of it was sheer blarney made up by Harry himself.

‘Why don’t you bring her to the pub after the interview, then I can meet her too?’ Harry suggested hopefully.

‘Don’t be daft. A woman like her doesn’t go into a pub, you should know that.’

‘She’s an actress – they do all sorts, I’m told. Break the rules. They are Bohemians, don’t forget.’

‘Well, I shan’t be asking her and that’s that. Besides, she might be old enough to be my mother.’

Harry’s eyes twinkled again. ‘But you do have an awfully attractive mother, Tim. I’ve always said that.’

Tim blushed bright red. He simply couldn’t envisage anyone seeing Minna in a sexual context. The whole idea was disgusting.

‘Well, she is,’ Harry protested.

‘If you’re not careful you’ll get a smack.’

Harry hastily removed himself from where he was sitting. ‘Don’t be so touchy. It was a compliment.’

Tim had had enough of this conversation. The reference to his mother had annoyed him. ‘Go away. I’ve work to do.’

‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on.’

Tim couldn’t resist the jibe. ‘Which is more than you’ll be able to do in a few years.’

That infuriated Harry, who was extremely sensitive about his receding hairline. ‘Bastard!’ he muttered so that only Tim could hear.

Tim laughed and resumed typing. After Harry had gone he thought of Mrs Davenport. He’d nipped home earlier hoping to catch her, but she’d been out. He hoped she was going to be easy to interview and that her story would make good copy.

Elyse glanced around the dining room as she sipped her coffee. What a motley collection, she mused. Why, the average age must be in the seventies. And there was that dreadful Major Sillitoe smiling at her again, the old goat. She’d thought earlier that he was going to suggest she share a table with him, but thankfully had been spared having to make a polite refusal.

The Misses Ward seemed quite sweet, she thought after having had a brief chat with them on the way in when they’d introduced themselves. Originally from Exeter, they’d said. Thin-faced and beaky-nosed, they were like a couple of birds nattering away to one another.

She wondered about Benny and what he was doing. Another hour till his curtain up, so he could be anywhere. She’d drop him a line over the weekend, she decided. Just to let him know she’d arrived safely and that everything was going well. A common courtesy, that was all.

‘Mrs Davenport?’ a male voice inquired a few minutes later as she was heading back to her room.

The speaker was a pleasant-faced young man. ‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Tim Wilson. My mother’s the owner.’

He’d make a good juvenile lead, she thought. He had the right sort of looks. ‘I see.’

‘I also work for the Torquay Times, one of the local rags.’ Other guests were coming out of the dining room now. ‘Would you care to step into our private parlour so that I can have a word with you? I’d be terribly obliged.’

She guessed what this was about. ‘Are you a reporter?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Ah, she was right. ‘You want an interview, I presume?’

‘If you’d be so kind. I intend doing a feature.’

Elyse was quite used to this kind of thing. She’d been interviewed on countless occasions in the past. ‘Perhaps you’d lead the way,’ she consented.

The parlour that Tim led her into was a rather gloomy room with a large aspidistra by the window. She’d always loathed aspidistras. She noted that the wallpaper and furnishings had seen better days, although the genteel shabbiness did have a comfortable feel about it.

‘Perhaps you’d care to sit.’ He gestured towards the biggest and best of the armchairs.

‘Thank you.’

Not a beautiful woman, Tim was thinking, but definitely handsome, if somewhat past her prime. She also had an air about her, a sort of charisma that he found a little disturbing. In a crowd she would have stood out. A prerequisite for an actor, he supposed, knowing nothing about the breed.

‘Are you enjoying Torquay so far?’ he inquired politely, settling himself into an armchair facing hers.

‘Very much so.’

‘Have you been here before?’

She shook her head. ‘This is my first visit.’

He flipped open the notebook he’d brought along and quickly glanced at the questions he’d prepared. For some reason he found himself quite nervous.

Elyse picked up on this and it amused her. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem a trifle young to be a reporter,’ she teased.

Tim coloured.

‘Oh dear, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.’ She was rather enjoying this.

‘Not at all,’ he lied.

‘Did you go straight into the job from school?’

Young! School! Did the wretched woman have to bring these things up? ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, squirming inwardly. ‘I did.’

‘Really.’

Now what did she mean by that? He wished now that he hadn’t thought of interviewing her.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

He blinked, caught offguard. ‘Please, go ahead.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll find you an ashtray.’

She lit up while watching him through slitted eyes. Good figure, she thought and wondered if he had any experience at all with women. Probably not, she decided. Nothing more than hand-holding and the occasional kiss. She’d have bet a week’s wage he was a virgin.

‘Lovely,’ she said, accepting the ashtray and placing it on the arm of her chair.

‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘That would be nice,’ she smiled. ‘Do you have any Scotch?’

Again he was thrown. ‘Do you mean whisky?’

‘I believe that’s what Scotch is.’

He cursed himself for being such a gauche fool. ‘I think there’s some in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it.’

‘I hope you’ll be joining me.’

‘Of course.’ That was only good manners.

She smiled again as he hurried from the room. Behave yourself, Elyse, you’re being quite naughty. The poor lad doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. Still, it was amusing.

Tim returned with a tray on which there was a half-empty bottle of whisky, two glasses and a jug of water, which he set on a table covered with a heavy, green embroidered cloth. ‘Shall I pour?’

She nodded.

He wasn’t at all sure how much to give her. ‘How’s that?’ he queried, holding up a glass.

‘Fine. The same again of water.’ She preferred soda but doubted whether that was available. She continued to watch him through ribbons of smoke curling their way ceiling-wards. ‘Thank you,’ she said when he handed her the glass.

She noted that he poured himsel