No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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Sunday papers were going to contain.
If only she could disappear! But where could she go? Apart from an elderly aunt who lived in Tooting, she and Hugo had no other relatives that they knew of. And she couldn’t impose on the hospitality of her friends—she had no idea how long this was going to last, and if the Press found out where she’d gone it could cause all sorts of problems.
Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she reared, she tried to reassure herself over and over. After all, they didn’t exactly have much of a story, based on the facts, and there were laws of libel to prevent them publishing outright lies—weren’t there?
The rest of the cast were going off to a party after the show, but she couldn’t bring herself to join them, pleading a headache. Ted, the producer, was there, waiting to convey them off in his Rolls-Royce, and he drew her to one side.
‘You do look a little pale,’ he agreed, a note of agitation in his voice. ‘Are you worrying about this thing with Clive getting into the papers?’
She nodded. ‘It’s probably stupid—there’s nothing they can make anything of.’
‘You didn’t tell them anything about me, did you?’ he asked anxiously.
She shook her head angrily, exasperated by his self-centredness. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.’
He beamed in relief. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home and tuck you up in bed?’
‘No, thank you,’ she asserted quickly—she could all too readily guess that his idea of tucking her up was likely to include tucking himself up with her!
‘Well, see you next week then,’ he conceded, drifting off reluctantly with the others.
She smiled wanly to herself. She was quite sure that if things turned out as badly as she had feared he wouldn’t hesitate to dump her from the production. Well, it wouldn’t be much of a loss, she assured herself wryly—there had to be something better than playing understudy to French au pair!
The flat was in darkness when she got home—Hugo was performing with Les Sauvages at some nightclub in Croydon. She undressed, and went straight to bed, but she couldn’t sleep—there were too many unwelcome thoughts buzzing in her brain. After tossing and turning restlessly for several hours, she finally threw back the bedclothes and, reaching for her dressing-gown, padded out into the kitchen to make herself a mug of hot cocoa.
It was there that Hugo found her when he came in half an hour later—sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. ‘Hi, sis,’ he greeted her with a wry grin. He tossed a copy of the Sunday Beacon on to the table in front of her. ‘I picked it up on the way home,’ he explained. ‘You ain’t gonna like it.’
The banner headline screamed out at her: ‘Minister in Blackmail Plot.’ Beneath it was a picture of Clive in Downing Street, looking as kindly and respectable as a bishop, and one of herself taken the other morning, carefully cropped to make it look as if she had been a willing subject, posing provocatively in her underwear, displaying a more than generous amount of cleavage, pouting for the camera. A cold chill wrapped around her heart as she picked it up and read the story.
‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasped, stunned. ‘How can he have said this? It’s the most awful pack of lies I’ve ever heard! He’s told them that I approached him, that I kept pestering him, that he was only friendly with me because he felt sorry for me—and that I started demanding money from him, and threatened to claim we’d been having an affair if he didn’t pay up!’
‘It looks as if he’s decided to try and make a last-ditch attempt to save his own skin by throwing you to the wolves,’ Hugo remarked caustically. ‘I did warn you.’
‘Yes, but... this! How can a person be so... dishonest? And he seemed such a nice old man.’
Hugo laughed drily. ‘You’re such an innocent!’ he teased with gentle affection. ‘I don’t know how you manage it in this dirty old world, but you never seem to be able to think badly of anyone.’
Lacey’s soft mouth twisted into a wry smile. There was one person she thought badly of—but she had been doing her best to forget about Jon Parrish for the past few days. Not that it was easy; the unwelcome memory of their two brief encounters tended to flit back into her mind far too frequently for comfort.
Khan, sensing something was wrong, had heaved himself up from his beanbag in the corner and came over, laying his long nose in her lap and gazing up at her from beneath his yellow fringe with liquid brown eyes that held nothing but simple adoration. She stroked his tousled head absently.
‘Why can’t people be more like dogs?’ she questioned wistfully. ‘They’re so... uncomplicated. I’m sure the world would be a better place.’
Hugo snorted. ‘Not if they were all like that stupid mutt—he hasn’t an ounce of brain in his whole body. Do you know he got hold of a packet of cotton-wool while you were out yesterday afternoon, and ripped it up all over the sitting-room floor? It took me ages to pick it all up.’
‘Oh, is that where it went? You naughty dog!’ Khan accepted the compliment with delight, jumping up to lick her face and trying to climb on to her lap. ‘No—hey, you can’t do that! You’re much too big,’ she protested, laughing in spite of her distress. ‘Ow! Your claws are digging in me! Get down!’
‘Is that cocoa you’re drinking?’ Hugo enquired with a wide yawn. ‘I think I’ll have some too.’
She slanted him a teasing look, struggling to be brave. ‘Going to bed with a mug of hot cocoa? Whatever would all those girls who’ve been screaming all evening for your hunky body say if they knew?’
He chuckled with laughter. ‘It would ruin my image! I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t get out.’
Lacey cast a wry glance at the newspaper on the table. ‘A couple of days ago, I would have laughed at that,’ she mused with dejection. ‘But now...’ She picked up the paper again. ‘They’ve called you my “mystery lover” in this, and they’ve got a picture of you chasing those reporters down the steps. It’s a bit fuzzy, though—I don’t think anyone would recognise you. I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell them you’re my brother?’
He shook his head grimly. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Could I sue them for libel, do you suppose?’
He sat down opposite her, taking the paper from her and scanning the page. ‘I don’t know. It would be pretty difficult, with that old git having told them all this rubbish—it would be your word against his.’
‘And they’d be much more likely to believe him.’
‘Exactly. And it would cost a fortune.’ He put the paper down. ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s much you can do.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
It was a couple of hours before Lacey could get to sleep, and it seemed as though she had barely closed her eyes when there was a knock on the door. ‘Who the... ?’ She groaned, rolling over to peer sleepily at the clock. It was a quarter to six. Who on earth... ?
There was another loud rap on the door, and the letterbox rattled. She sat up sharply. Khan had woken, and raced out into the hall, barking ferociously and scrabbling at the door. And that would have Mrs Potter complaining, she realised with weary resignation, dragging herself out of bed and putting on her dressing-gown.
She knew who was at the door. Reporters. No doubt all the other papers had picked up on the story, and now they would all be trying to get their oar in. Well, she had no intention of opening the door to them—she had learned that much at least during her short period of notoriety.
‘Lacey?’ Someone was calling through the letter box as she stumbled out into the hall. ‘Come on, love—we know you’re in there. Just let us in.’
‘No—go