15

       Monday evening

      ‘No!’ Piers was white with anger. ‘I will not see it. I will not talk about it. And I will not – ever – go there. If you go ahead with this, as far as I’m concerned we’re finished. For good!’

      Emma was leaning on the rail, staring down across the rooftops towards the distant trees of the garden square. A misty pearlescent light was deepening into darkness around them. She said nothing.

      ‘Emma?’ Piers’s voice softened. ‘Please, darling. Think. I love you. I don’t want to – I can’t – live without you.’

      Wordlessly she turned towards him and he saw that she was crying. He put his arms around her and gently kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ Her face was buried in his shirt-front, but he felt her nod and he tightened his arms. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t we arrange a holiday in the autumn? Go somewhere really exciting. Your choice.’

      Still silent, she released herself from his grasp. She bent to pick up a cat. ‘Have you fed them?’ She sniffed into the dark, silky fur.

      ‘Of course I have. Did Peggy not want to come in?’

      ‘No. She was tired. It was a long drive.’ Kissing Max’s ear, she set him down on the ground again. ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’

      ‘OK. Why don’t I bring you a hot drink in bed later?’

      She gave him a faint smile. ‘That would be nice. Thanks.’

      It was dark when he went inside and closed the French doors behind him. He wandered into the kitchen, wondering what would cheer her up. Tea. Cocoa. Soup. A stiff whisky. ‘Em?’ he called. The sound of bath water running away had finished ages before. ‘Em? What would you like to drink?’

      The bedroom was in darkness. ‘Emma? Are you awake?’ He turned on the lamp in the corner. Emma was lying across the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She was wearing grey silk pyjamas. ‘Em?’ he whispered. He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you asleep?’

      There was no answer.

      ‘Would you like me to bring you something?’ He waited for several seconds, then with a sigh he turned off the light and crept out of the room.

      On the bed Emma stirred. Hugging the pillow she turned over, her dark hair fanned out across the sheets and, in her sleep, she began once more to cry.

      She was late into the office and within seconds of sitting down at her desk, she stood up again. Her hands were shaking and she had the worst headache she could remember.

       Emma!

      The voice was in her head again.

       Emma! Buy it! You’ve got to, Emma. You have to come back, Emma!

      She had awoken late, drenched in perspiration, her bedclothes tied in knots, but her dreams, if she had had any, were gone beyond recall. Piers had already left, after presumably sleeping on the sofa.

      ‘You OK, Emma?’ A colleague passing her desk stopped, concerned. ‘You look as though you tied one on last night with a vengeance!’ He laughed.

      She glared at him and turned back to her desk, rifling through a drawer for some paracetamol. Then she picked up the phone. ‘Mr Fortingale? It’s Emma Dickson. Are you better?’ She only remembered just in time to ask. ‘I wondered if you had heard back from the Simpsons yet about my offer?’ Grasping the receiver with both hands, she stared unseeing at the computer monitor on her desk as she listened to the muffled voice the other end. She nodded slowly. ‘Good. Thank you. No, I told you, I don’t need a survey. I am instructing my solicitors this morning and as I said, I have nothing to sell. It’s a cash transaction and as the house is empty, hopefully it can all go through very fast indeed.’ She stood for a long time, listening to the whine on the phone after he had hung up, then gently she tipped the receiver back onto its base.

      David Spencer looked up from the report he was studying as Emma appeared in the doorway of his office. She had tapped on the open door then hovered, staring in without seeming to see him.

      ‘Emma?’ He rose to his feet. ‘Is there a problem?’

      She frowned, visibly trying to pull herself together and came in, closing the door behind her. ‘I’m giving in my notice, David.’ She stood in front of his desk, not meeting his eye. ‘I’m leaving London.’

      ‘You are joking!’ David ran his hand through thin, greying hair so that the carefully arranged strands rose in disarray around his head. ‘You can’t – what’s happened? For God’s sake, sit down. You don’t mean it.’

      She obeyed him, pulling up a chair, and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, her head in her hands. ‘I do mean it, David. I’m sorry. I’ll work out my notice, of course.’

      ‘But why?’ He resumed his own seat opposite her. His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘Are you ill?’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Mad, perhaps.’ She gave a small, helpless laugh. ‘I’m buying a house in the country and I’m going to work there. I need a break from the City.’

       You have to come back, Emma!

      The words echoed in her mind for a moment. What was she saying? What was she doing? She was throwing away her career, her relationship, her home, her life. She looked up at David and he noted her pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

      ‘Is this something to do with Piers? Have you two split up?’

      ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, yes, I suppose we have. We will. He thinks I’m mad.’

      ‘You are. Look,’ he stood up again, ‘don’t say any more, Emma. Go home. You don’t look at all well, if I may say so. Think about this. Take a few days off. Don’t do anything you might regret. Please.’ He leaned forward across the desk and put his hands over hers. ‘You’re good at your job, Emma. Don’t throw it away.’

      He watched her go back to her desk through the glass wall of his office. She picked up her bag and her briefcase, stood for a moment staring down at her desk, then left without a word to either of her colleagues, both of whom looked up and spoke to her as she passed. He frowned. There was something very wrong. He stood for several seconds staring down at his phone, then he picked up the receiver and dialled Piers’s direct line.