Myths Of The Moon

‘What would you prefer to be called? Ma’am?’

‘Carla. I’d prefer to be called Carla.’ She hung on to her temper with difficulty.

‘Then we’ll seal the intimacy. You call me Daniel,’ he said irrepressibly, finishing his meal with a nod of approval. ‘And you’re a great cook, Carla. One of these days you’ll make a husband a very happy man.’

‘My husband is dead.’ She said it without inflexion, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. ‘He was thrown from his horse in a riding accident, a year ago. And, to be quite truthful, he wasn’t a very happy man when he was alive…’

What had prompted her to say such a thing? The confession seemed to hang in the air between them, out of place and unwarranted.

Daniel leaned back in the wing-chair, watching her intently. To cover her confusion, she stood up and took the tray from his knees, carried it to the sideboard. Pausing there, she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks for a few seconds, and drew a deep breath before she came back to sit down opposite him again.

‘You reverted to your maiden name?’ His curiosity was clearly aroused.

‘I…yes.’

He was searching her face, a dissecting light in his eyes.

‘Do I detect that your marriage was an unhappy one, Carla?’ There was a gentler note in his voice.

‘What makes you say that?’ She knew she sounded idiotic. She’d virtually told him it was unhappy, hadn’t she?

‘Dropped your married name only a year after being widowed? And what you said just now? About your husband?’ he suggested, quietly ironic.

‘Sorry—ignore what I said, would you?’ She managed to smile at him, sipping some wine while she grappled with her composure. ‘Rufus died just over a year ago. I guess I’m…I’m not really over it all yet…’

‘I’d say it takes a lot longer than a year to mourn the loss of someone you love.’ Daniel’s face was shadowed. The flicker of the fire lit one side only.

To evade further discussion, she nodded quickly.

‘That’s assuming, of course, that you did love your husband?’

‘I…’ She stopped, staring at him, mauve-blue eyes wide with indignation. ‘What a strange question!’ she finished up coldly. ‘I appreciate you’ve got time on your hands, but if you’re going to spend it making rude speculations about me I might regret offering to have you here…!’

There was a brief silence.

‘Would you like me to leave?’

‘No, of course not!’ she amended irritably, cross with herself for losing her cool.

‘Thanks.’ The edge in the deep voice was difficult to fathom. There was certainly more to it than gratitude, or remorse.

She forced a laugh. ‘I offered you company this evening. All we seem to have done is bicker!’

‘We don’t seem destined to hit it off,’ he confirmed evenly.

For some reason, this analysis made her feel even angrier.

‘The trouble is, we seem to have got round to talking about me, when the idea is to talk about you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’m convinced that if we adopt a logical approach to your memory-loss, something will trigger its return.’

‘You mean, like tracking back over your movements when you lose your wallet?’

‘Something like that. Why not?’

‘Why not indeed?’ His smile was far from reassuring. ‘You’re not a policewoman, by any chance?’

‘No. I write detective stories…’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you published?’

‘Yes. I write under the pseudonym of Carl Julyan.’

He looked unflatteringly blank for a few moments, then his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition.

‘Carl Julyan? You’re Carl Julyan? Creator of Inspector Jack Tresawna?’

‘Yes. Have you read any of my books?’

‘I must have done.’

‘And did you enjoy them?’ she felt forced to enquire, goaded by his lack of comment.

‘I did. Sorry, I wasn’t intending any insult,’ he added evenly; ‘I was waiting to see if this revelation brought anything else filtering back to mind.’

‘Has it?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you can remember reading Carl Julyan books. That’s a breakthrough, of a kind!’ she said, excitement making her eyes glow. ‘Maybe if you reread one or two your memory might be jolted by something?’

‘Possibly. Although I’d hazard a guess that fiction is unlikely to.’ Lifting his uninjured hand to his forehead, he massaged his temples with a sudden, jerky motion.

‘Are you all right?’ She found herself quelling an instinctive urge to jump up and fuss like a mother hen.

‘Yes…I’m all right.’ He dropped his hand quickly.

‘Have you got a headache?’

He smiled bleakly. ‘Since I woke up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, I can’t remember not having a headache. I gather from the doctors that headaches and head injuries tend to go together.’

The put-down seemed deliberate.

‘I’m sorry, I’m probably tiring you out with all this talking. Would you like anything else to eat? Or coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Nothing else.’

‘Not even home-made apple pie and clotted cream?’ she tempted lightly.