Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.’ She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black and white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
He grinned. ‘Who else? Like them?’
‘Does her husband?’
‘I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.’
Jo looked back at him and laughed. ‘OK, Tim. You tell your Mr Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?’ She got up to examine the photos. ‘It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.’
‘That’s what they pay me for, Jo.’ He was watching her closely. ‘I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?’
‘I know.’ She turned. ‘So you know about it.’
‘About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.’
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. ‘It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.’ She looked at him with a small grimace. ‘I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.’ She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.’ He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?’
‘Not if I can bring someone too.’
He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. ‘Someone?’
‘I’ll think of someone.’
‘Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.’ He laughed. ‘’Course you can.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. ‘It could always be me, you know, Jo.’
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.’
He groaned. ‘The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. “I like you too much,”’ he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. ‘At least you didn’t say I was too old, though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.’
Nick Franklyn sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.
‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.
‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.
Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower.
‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.
He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’
‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’
‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.
She smiled. ‘Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.’
‘I’m not?’
‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’
‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’
She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘About?’
‘Jo.’
She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.
‘Does Jo need any favours from me?’ she asked.
‘She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.’
He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. ‘I think you’d better explain, Nick.’
‘She’s planning a series of articles which she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.’
‘And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?’ Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face.
A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. ‘I care about her, Bet.’
Bet stood up. ‘Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.’ She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. ‘Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?’
Nick rose to his feet. ‘I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.’ He was pacing up and down the carpet. ‘She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly …’ He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
‘And why shouldn’t she?’ Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.
He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. ‘If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.’
‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re a hard bitch, Bet. OK. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject – that means if she gets hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical programme. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it – they did that business of “you won’t remember when you wake up” on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project