Pacific Heat. Anne Mather
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top floor of an old Victorian town house, the flat was her home and her refuge, the place where she’d sought sanctuary when Richard had got his divorce. Until the divorce, they’d been living in a pretty semi-detached house in Chiswick, but even without its unhappy memories Olivia couldn’t afford to keep it on. Instead, she’d moved into this rather gloomy apartment in Kensington and over the years she’d transformed its narrow rooms and draughty hallways into a place of light and beauty.
Henry came to meet her as she opened the door. Rubbing himself against her legs, he showed her how much he had missed her, but Olivia wasn’t deceived. He was hungry, and he was reminding her it was his dinner time, and for the first time since she’d left Kay’s office Olivia’s generous lips curved in a smile.
‘It’s all right. I haven’t forgotten you,’ she said, juggling the two bags she’d brought from the supermarket and shouldering the door closed behind her. ‘How does salmon and shrimp appeal to you?’ Henry purred his approval as Olivia started down the hall. ‘I should have known,’ she added ruefully. ‘It’s only cupboard love.’
The kitchen smelled reassuringly of the plants and herbs she cultivated so assiduously. Trailing fronds of greenery brushed her face as she deposited the bags on the counter. There were daffodils on the window-ledge, providing a vivid splash of colour, and although the skies were overcast outside the kitchen was bright and cosily immune from the cold March wind.
Once Henry had been dealt with, Olivia filled the kettle and set it to boil. She would eat later, but for now she thought she deserved a hot, sweet cup of tea. As she put the food she’d bought away, she tried not to think of Diane Haran and her commission. This was her home; she didn’t want to sully it with thoughts of her ex-husband’s lover. She’d felt safe here, secure, far from the misery that loving Richard had brought
With the tea made, she had no excuse for lingering in the kitchen, and, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the office she’d created for herself. With the walls lined with books—both for pleasure and for reference—and a modern computer and printer, it was comfortingly familiar, her desk still as cluttered with papers as it had been when she went out.
Taking a sip of her tea, she perched on the old leather diplomat chair she’d bought at a warehouse sale three years ago, and regarded the clutter resignedly. She’d been planning on spending some time catching up with her correspondence, but there were still notes and discarded pages of manuscript from her last book lying around. That was why she’d been to see Kay that afternoon: to hear her judgement on her latest profile of a woman sailor. Suzanne Howard had sailed single-handedly around the world at the age of seventy-three.
The fact that Kay had been delighted by the manuscript had been eclipsed by the conversation they’d had about Diane Haran. But Olivia was relieved to know that what she was producing was still on track. When her first book—a biography of Catherine Parr, the only one of his six wives to have survived Henry the Eighth—had been successful, she’d been afraid it was only a one-off, that her next book would bomb as many second books did. But the life of Eileen Cusack had proved a best-seller, and that had encouraged her to approach the Howard family last year.
She wondered if Richard knew what she was doing. When he’d walked out, she’d been working for Milady magazine, with no prospect of improving her career. Perhaps if he hadn’t walked out she wouldn’t have found the nerve to tackle a book, she thought consideringly. It was true that he’d always made fun of the gossipy pieces she’d been paid to produce for the magazine.
Which brought her back to the subject she’d been trying to avoid ever since she’d left Kay’s office. Was she actually going to write Diane Haran’s story—or at least as much of it as the public would be permitted to know?
The shrilling of the telephone was a welcome escape from her thoughts, and, pushing back a strand of dark, tof-fee-coloured hair, she reached for the receiver. It crossed her mind, as she brought it to her ear, that it could be Kay, but it was too late now. Besides, she was fairly sure that Kay was satisfied that she’d promised to think about the commission. She was unlikely to try and push her any further. Not today, anyway.
‘Yes?’
‘Liv. At last!’ It was her father. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.’ He paused, and when she didn’t instantly jump in with an explanation he continued, ‘Are you all right? Not having a problem with the new book, are you?’
‘No.’ Olivia blew out a breath. ‘No, Kay’s very happy with it, as it happens.’ She forced herself to sound positive.
Her father and stepmother had supported her all through her divorce from Richard, and they’d be most disturbed to hear what she was thinking of doing. ‘I—er—I was just at the supermarket. I’ve just got in.’
‘Ah.’ Matthew Pyatt sounded relieved. ‘Well, your mother and I were wondering if you’d like to come for supper.’ He always referred to her stepmother as her mother. After all, she had acted as such since Olivia was barely five years old. ‘We’ve got something we want to discuss with you, and as we haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks we thought it would kill two birds with one stone. What do you think?’
‘Oh, Dad—’ Olivia wasn’t enthusiastic. After the afternoon she’d had, she’d been looking forward to doing nothing more energetic than putting a frozen pizza in the microwave and curling up with a bottle of wine. Besides, she needed time to think before Kay came back to her. And she wasn’t sure she could hide her anxieties from them. ‘Could I take a rain check?’
‘There is something wrong.’ Her father had always been incredibly perceptive, which was one of the reasons why she’d hoped to put him off. ‘What is it? What’s happened? You might as well tell me.’
Olivia sighed. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said, not very convincingly, she had to admit. ‘I’m—tired, that’s all. It’s been a stressful few weeks, finishing the book and—’
‘Why are you stressed?’ Her father broke in before she could warm to her theme. ‘You’re not being harassed by some man, are you? You read about these things in the papers—young women who live alone being terrorised in their homes. I’ve never been entirely happy with the security at the flat. Anyone can get in downstairs.’
‘No, they can’t.’ Olivia was impatient. ‘You know visitors have to use the intercom to get in.’
‘But when that door opens to admit a legitimate visitor anyone can push in with them,’ retorted her father. ‘I know. When I used to install heating systems, you’d be surprised at how many robberies there were.’
Olivia had to smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that the way it sounded.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Her father snorted. ‘And you’re not going to avoid an answer by being smug.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Olivia gave in. ‘I’ll come for supper.’ She suppressed her misgivings. ‘Just give me time to take a shower and change. Is eight o’clock all right?’
The Pyatts lived in Chiswick, just a stone’s throw from the station. It gave Olivia quite a pang getting off the train at Grove Park station. For the four years that she and Richard had been married, she’d got off there every evening on her way home from work. But at least her father’s house lay in the opposite direction to the one she used to take. The Pyatts’ house was detached, with double gates and a block paved drive leading to the front door.
Her stepmother opened the door to her.
‘Liv, my dear.’ Alice Pyatt reached up to bestow a warm kiss on her stepdaughter’s cheek. ‘Your father’s just gone down to the cellar to get some wine. He’ll be annoyed he wasn’t here to greet you himself. He’s been watching for you for the past half-hour.’
‘Am I late?’ Olivia let her stepmother help her off with her coat before stepping into the living room. There was a fire glowing in the hearth, and she moved towards it gratefully. ‘Mmm, this is cosy. I miss an open fire at the flat.’