Vampire Lover. CHARLOTTE LAMB
Читать онлайн книгу.
was unusual, but Denzil Black had not mentioned the idea of getting a surveyor in to look at the house.
‘No, Denzil says he’ll take it, whatever the condition. He’s going to do a lot of work on the house anyway, and he has taken that into account in the offer he made.’
‘He’s getting a very good bargain,’ said Clare, almost wishing he would make difficulties so that she could talk the client into not selling to him, although that would be cutting her nose off to spite her face, and she wasn’t usually that childish. She was surprised at herself. ‘If he’s paying cash, then it shouldn’t take long to complete the transaction.’
‘No, I’m sure it won’t,’ said Helen slowly. ‘I just have to do the land search, to prove title.’ She gave an audible sigh.
‘You sound so tired, Helen—are you working too hard?’
‘Not really, but I get so bored with work; mine isn’t exactly a thrilling job, you know. And I’m missing Denzil. He seems to have been away for months, although he only left a few days ago.’
Clare was doodling on her desk pad, frowning. ‘How long did you say he would be away?’
‘Oh, a couple of months, at least—he hopes to be back in time for Christmas, but he isn’t sure he’ll make it now, it seems.’
‘Too bad,’ Clare said indifferently. ‘Well, let me have the deposit, then, and I’ll make sure my client gets in touch with his solicitor too. Bye, Helen. Talk to you again soon, I expect.’
A couple of days later she met Helen in the High Street and was shocked by her pallor. ‘You’ve lost a lot more weight, Helen. I think you ought to see a doctor! There must be something wrong with you.’
‘Oh, don’t fuss!’ Helen snapped. ‘You sound like my mother!’
‘Sorry to do that,’ drawled Clare, laughing. ‘Was Mr Black pleased to hear his offer had been accepted?’
Helen’s face tightened. ‘Yes. Did you see the picture of him in the Sunday papers?’
‘Never read them,’ said Clare. ‘Haven’t got the energy to do anything on Sunday mornings except sleep late. Why was he in the newspapers?’
‘He got some award or other. There was a big photo of him with the star of the film, that one who was a serious actress, did a lot of plays on Broadway before going into films. She has long black hair and a fabulous figure. Deirdre something-or-other, I think; she’s half Mexican, half Irish.’
‘What a combination! I know who you mean, though,’ said Clare, frowning. ‘It wasn’t Deirdre, it was Bella something or other. I saw her last big film, the vampire film—it was pretty way out, if you ask me! The sex scenes almost burnt the celluloid they were printed on.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Helen, palely smiling. ‘That’s Denzil’s last film.’
Clare’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’re kidding? He made that?’ It gave her a new idea of Denzil Black. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sexier film.
‘And from what they said in the papers this Sunday, he and Bella what’s-her-name are having an affair!’ Helen said huskily, almost as white as paper. She turned on her heel to walk away, stopped, swayed, and crumpled up. Clare was too late to catch her. Before she understood what was happening, Helen had fallen sideways and hit her head on a lamp-post.
A crowd gathered, of course. Clare knelt down anxiously and looked at the wan, shadowed face in its frame of rich auburn hair. ‘Helen? Helen, are you OK?’
‘She’s fainted!’ someone in the crowd said.
‘Knocked herself out,’ someone else insisted. ‘I saw her do it; she hit her head on that lamp-post. Drunk, most likely; she looked drunk to me.’
‘Send for an ambulance! She needs to go to hospital; she’s out for the count,’ somebody said, and a shopkeeper leaned forward.
‘I just did. They’ll be here any minute.’
Helen’s lashes were flickering. She sighed through lips almost as white as her face. Clare almost caught the word she said. She was almost sure Helen had said, ‘Denzil...’
Clare didn’t know whether to be sorry for her, or furious with her, or just furious with Denzil Black. Any woman who let a man reduce her to this state deserved a good slap, she thought, watching the other woman bleakly.
The ambulance arrived a moment later, siren wailing. The crowd cleared enough to let the men through with their stretcher. They took a look at Helen, asked, ‘What happened?’
A babble of voices tried to answer.
Clare cut through them coldly and efficiently. ‘She fainted, and managed to hit her head on that lamp-post while she was falling.’
The voices stopped, and people stared at her. She was well-known in town; nobody argued openly, although she heard a few whispered comments from those who preferred to believe Helen had been drunk.
She went to the hospital with Helen, and rang Helen’s mother from the waiting-room. ‘They’re keeping her in here tonight; they want to do some tests on her. They think she could be anaemic; apparently her blood-count was very low, and so is her blood-pressure.’
Helen’s mother sounded terrified. She was a small, delicate woman, and very highly strung. She often seemed to Clare still to be grieving for her husband, who had died a couple of years ago. Tears came easily to her, and she wore either black or grey most of the time.
‘Oh, no; you don’t think...they don’t think...it might be...? Her father died of cancer, you know—’ She broke off, obviously close to tears now. ‘Clare, if anything happened to Helen... I’ve been so worried about her; she has been terribly pale lately, and she never has any energy. That was how it happened to her father. She used to be the life and soul of the party. Well, you remember what she was like before the divorce, Clare! I know you weren’t a close friend, but you’ve known Helen for years; she was always full of fun. But over the last couple of months she’s been fading away, and yet the doctor could never find anything wrong with her.’
Clare’s blue eyes had an icy sparkle. Well, she knew what had been wrong with Helen lately, and there was nothing the doctor could do to help that pain. ‘Will you ring Paul and let him know?’ she asked Joyce.
‘Paul? Oh, do you think I should tell him? After all, they are divorced; I expect he has someone else by now.’
‘Well, they were married for a long time. I’m sure he’ll be concerned about her.’
‘Oh...Clare, I...Clare, couldn’t you?’ gabbled Joyce. ‘If you rang him, it would be so much easier. I mean...I don’t like to interfere...Helen wouldn’t thank me; she might be furious with me for doing it.’
Clare sighed. ‘I hardly know him, Joyce!’
‘Please, Clare...would you?’
Clare gave in, her face grim. She rang Paul Sherrard at his hotel and was put through to his office. His secretary answered breathlessly, sounding very young and faintly scatty.
‘Mr Sherrard’s office. Oh, yes? Miss Summer? Was it important? Well, I don’t know if he’s...I’ll see if he’s free...’
Paul’s voice appeared on the line a second later. ‘Good morning, Clare. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Paul, but I’m ringing from the hospital—Helen is here, and they’re keeping her in overnight. She may be seriously ill; they aren’t sure yet. I thought I ought to let you know.’
‘What do you mean, seriously ill?’ Paul asked curtly. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’ve no idea, Paul, but she looks terrible. I just thought I should let you know. I’ve rung her mother; she was very upset. I wish I could get the doctors here