No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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to be burned on to her mouth like a physical scar—and she wasn’t sure that it would ever go away.
But she had no time to pull herself together—she was due back on stage. Pausing only to repair the worst ravages to her make-up, she hurried down the stairs, crossing her fingers that he had meant it about not staying for the second half; she didn’t like the idea of him sitting out there in the darkened auditorium, watching her, unseen...
Lacey sat at the kitchen table, idly toying with her breakfast. She had slept little, and now she seemed to have lost her appetite. Disturbing images of what had happened last night were still troubling her brain. How on earth could she have let him kiss her like that? It had been stupid of her to taunt him—like baiting a wild tiger.
The yellow gingham curtains at the window gave the illusion of bright sunlight streaming into the room, though in fact it was a dull November morning, drizzling with rain. The kitchen was spotless; it had been Hugo’s turn to clean it up yesterday, and he always tackled the chore with a thoroughness that amused her—it was just a pity he couldn’t be more tidy in between.
She glanced around, sighing a little wistfully as she let her chin rest in her cupped hand. Their mother would have been pleased to see that they were keeping the little flat the way she would have wanted it. She had always been very houseproud, though it hadn’t been easy for her, a widow with two children, working long hours in the kitchen at the local hospital.
It was almost three years now since she had died; Lacey often thought that Hugo had taken it harder than she had, though he didn’t say much. But every time she visited the neat little cemetery where their parents were buried side by side, there were fresh flowers on the grave, and she knew that he had been the one who had put them there.
‘Morning, sis.’ Hugo himself, clad in a pair of hip-hugging denim jeans, his magnificently muscled torso bronzed and bare, strolled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his head with his hand. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’ he teased her cheerfully, looking askance at the contents of her cereal bowl. ‘It looks like wet cardboard.’
‘It’s muesli,’ she informed him with dignity. ‘You should try it—it’s good for you.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t call that a proper breakfast,’ he insisted. ‘Let me see...’ He opened the fridge, scanning the contents. ‘It’s full of your damned live yoghurt! Haven’t we got any bacon?’
‘Bottom shelf.’
‘Oh, yes—thanks...’ He took the packet out, tossing it on to the worktop beside the cooker, and reached into the cupboard to find the frying pan. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night,’ he remarked. ‘It was pretty late.’
‘Oh... No, I was fast asleep,’ she lied a little selfconsciously. ‘Did you have a nice time?’
He shrugged. ‘So-so. I reckon I’m going to cool that one off a bit. She’s starting to get... Hey, you damned mutt! He’s got the bacon!’
He threw himself across the room, trying to rugby-tackle a spring-loaded bundle of yellow fur that darted nimbly out of his way and dashed off down the hall, triumphantly bearing his prize.
‘Khan! Bad dog—give me that!’ Lacey scolded, the effect of her stern words somewhat mitigated by the laughter in her voice. The overgrown pup peeped out from beneath his shaggy yellow fringe, weighing up his chances of escaping a second time as Hugo closed in on him.
The ensuing tussle had them all landing in a heap on the floor, Khan barking excitedly and trying to lick them both, his tail flailing wildly. Hugo pushed him off, struggling to sit up.
‘Damned animal! Look at that—three rashers, and he’s eaten the lot! Call him an Afghan? He’s a greedy pig, that’s what he is!’
‘Ah, don’t hurt his feelings!’ Lacey protested, hugging the dog and letting him shower slobbery kisses over her cheek. ‘He can’t help it—he had a disturbed childhood.’
Hugo laughed, pushing himself to his feet. ‘He saw you coming! You’re nothing but a soft touch for any waif and stray that crosses your path.’
‘Well, but I couldn’t let them have him put down, just because they couldn’t cope with him any more,’ she argued. ‘I know he’s a handful, but he’ll grow up one day, and then he’ll be beautiful.’
‘When?’ enquired Hugo with a touch of asperity. ‘I don’t see much sign of it so far. He doesn’t even look like an Afghan, with that silly fringe—in fact he’s the stupidest-looking dog I’ve ever seen.’
‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Lacey advised the dog earnestly. ‘He’s only jealous ’cos you’re better-looking than he is. Want a cup of tea?’ she added to her brother. ‘I was just going to——’ A loud ring at the doorbell interrupted her. ‘Oh, it’s probably the postman—I’ll get it.’
The scuffle with the dog had loosened her dressing-gown a little, and she held it together with one hand as she went to open the door. Unfortunately Khan had come along to see who it was, and at that exact moment Mrs Potter, who lived in the flat opposite, came out with her little West Highland terrier on its lead.
Khan gave a bark of fury at spying his mortal enemy, and Lacey had to grab his collar swiftly to restrain him from his murderous intentions. Her dressing-gown fell open, revealing her softly curvaceous figure, clad only in the skimpy baby-doll nightdress she wore in bed. But it wasn’t the postman at the door—it was a photographer.
‘Hey!’ She gasped in shock as a flashbulb dazzled her eyes. ‘What the hell do you... ? Khan, get in!’ Wrestling with the dog prevented her from covering herself, and the photographer managed to get several more very revealing shots before she could do anything about it. By the time she had got the dog under control, the man was inside the door, along with another carrying a small tape-recorder.
‘Miss Tyrell? John Brennan, Sunday Beacon—this is my colleague, Roger Williams. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is it true that you’re a friend of Sir Clive Fielding, the MP? When did you meet him? How well do you know him?’
She stared at them in bewilderment. ‘Yes, I know him,’ she responded, managing at last to bundle Khan into the nearest room and shut the door on him—causing him to howl as if he had been cast out into the uttermost darkness. ‘But it’s none of your business...’
‘Did you know he was married, Miss Tyrell?’
Her violet-blue eyes flashed in icy indignation. ‘Yes, of course I knew—he told me so the first time we met. But there’s nothing wrong in it—we’re just friends... Hey, where do you think you’re going?’
The reporter had spied the bouquet of roses on the hall table—she hadn’t yet got around to putting them in a vase. Dodging past her, he snatched up the card that had come with them. ‘What’s this? “Wish I could be with you tonight. Fondest love. Clive”,’ he read in a mocking tone. ‘Just friends, eh?’
‘Give me that!’ she protested, lunging for the card, but he held it out of her reach.
‘We’re going to publish, Lacey,’ he taunted, his manner sneeringly over-familiar. ‘But you could be on to a nice little earner here if you’re a sensible girl. We’re willing to offer you fifty grand for the exclusive.’
Lacey almost exploded in fury. ‘How dare you come in here asking your filthy questions?’ she spat at him, a hectic flush colouring her cheeks as she realised her dressing-gown was still gaping open, revealing rather too many of her charms. She clutched it around her body, putting up her arm to shield her face as the photographer raised his camera again. ‘Get out of here.’
‘You want more money? Sure—sixty wouldn’t be too much.’
‘I’m not going to talk to you! Now get out of here, before I call the police.’
‘Lacey... ?’ Hugo