Dark Paradise

And to make matters worse, each time she looked at him, it was to discover that he was watching her, a half smile playing about his lips as if he had discerned her inner struggle and was amused by it.

So she did her best to ignore him, and pretend that the buzz of talk and laughter around him did not exist, although she couldn’t help but be aware of the almost electric excitement his presence engendered. But he was bound to leave soon, she told herself. A suburban wedding couldn’t hold his interest or confine the air of restless energy which characterised him for very much longer.

Not for the first time, she wondered why he had accepted the invitation. The dinner service he had bought as a wedding present was displayed with the other gifts, so no other gesture was necessary. Alison’s parents had issued the invitations, of course, and had been cock-a-hoop when he had accepted, but Kate knew that Jon had not been pleased, although he’d said nothing in the light of Alison’s jubilation.

She had watched her stepbrother watching Matt kiss the bride, seen the rigidity of his features, and her heart had ached for him. Matt had been in Venezuela until the previous day, and had dashed back specially, she heard Alison’s mother smugly proclaiming to a coterie of her friends.

‘Why did he bother?’ she asked herself savagely.

She had avoided him, and the inevitable introductions, since the reception began. She had no wish to become one of the admiring throng, she told herself, although even her mother who was not easily impressed had been won over, she noticed.

But at an intimate gathering like a wedding reception, she couldn’t hope to keep out of his way for ever.

She was chatting to Simon, the best man, when she became suddenly aware that he was beside them. She was immediately irritated by Simon’s deference, stopping in mid-sentence to turn to Matt Lincoln.

‘Can I get you another drink, Mr Lincoln?’

‘No, thanks.’ Matt Lincoln shook his head, smiling. ‘Jet-lag and alcohol don’t mix too well.’ He nodded towards the adjoining room where a small band had been playing softly during the reception. ‘But some gentle exercise could be just what I need.’ He looked down at Kate. ‘We haven’t actually met, but I’m sure this is our dance.’

The tenor of the music had changed, she realised as she took in what he had said. The energetic disco beat had changed to a slower dreamy rhythm, and people were moving closer, holding each other as they danced.

He would expect to put his arms round her, she realised, a kind of sick panic rising inside her at the prospect.

Her voice sounded thick as she said, ‘I don’t want to dance, Mr Lincoln. Why don’t you ask one of your devoted fans? I’m sure any one of them would be only too delighted.’

The blue eyes narrowed slightly but he was still smiling. ‘I can’t really debate that without sounding like a slob. But the point doesn’t arise, because the fact is I’ve asked you—Miss er …’

‘Marston,’ Simon supplied helpfully. ‘Kate Marston.’

‘Kate,’ Matt Lincoln repeated musingly. ‘A nice old-fashioned name.’

She said hotly, ‘Please don’t patronise me, Mr Lincoln. I’m not the subject of one of your programmes. And here’s another fact, as you’re so keen on them—I’m turning down your invitation.’

She’d never been so deliberately rude to anyone in her life, and she was aware of Simon gaping.

For a long moment, Matt Lincoln stood looking at her as she felt the betrayal of embarrassed colour rising in her cheeks, then he said coolly, ‘I beg your pardon for having annoyed you.’ And turned away.

‘My God,’ Simon said helplessly. ‘That was a bit strong, wasn’t it?’

Kate lifted her chin defiantly, crushing down an unexpected feeling of shame. ‘I don’t think any lasting damage has been done—not to an ego like his!’

Simon was looking at her as if she was a stranger who had suddenly developed horns and a tail. ‘But he only wanted to dance with you, Kate. Hell’s bells, you couldn’t have cut him off more sharply if he’d made a heavy pass!’

‘Well, I find his conviction that he’s God’s gift to women a bit strong too,’ Kate retorted. ‘Men like that are an abomination. One smile, an invitation to dance—and they expect you to—to roll over and beg!’

‘Well—roll over anyway,’ said Simon with a mock leer. ‘I didn’t know you were such a feminist, Kate.’

‘I’m not,’ she said shortly. ‘But he—his whole approach—reminded me of—of someone I used to know.’

‘Did you give him a hard time too?’ Kate wondered if the alarm she heard in Simon’s voice was altogether feigned.

She gave him a placatory smile. ‘No.’ She glanced round. ‘I think Alison’s ready to go up and change. I’d better help her.’

‘Fine,’ Simon agreed, and she realised ruefully as she left the room in Alison’s wake that he was probably regretting that he had to spend the evening with her. And she wasn’t altogether sure she could blame him.

By the time they came downstairs again, Matt Lincoln had left, to Alison’s momentary pouting disappointment. Kate could only feel relief. She had almost been tempted to remain upstairs packing away the discarded wedding dress and tidying up generally rather than face him again.

She had imagined he had passed out of her life for ever. Now, it seemed, he was back with a vengeance.

Her steps began to slow. She had been walking aimlessly in no particular direction, or so she had thought. Now, as the glass and concrete block of the National Television building reared up in front of her, she wasn’t so sure.

Was this what they called a Freudian slip? she asked herself wryly.

She stood staring up at the building, hating the way all those windows seemed to stare back like so many blank eyes, then gave herself a swift mental shake. She was doing no earthly good drifting round London, worrying about something for which there might be a perfectly innocent explanation.

The best thing she could do was go back to the studio and get on with her own work, her own life.

In other words, mind her own business.

The studio was one large attic room of a tall Edwardian house. It had windows on two sides and a skylight, and Kate loved it. There was another attic across the narrow passage, and this she used as a bedsitter, sharing the bathroom on the floor below with the family who owned the house, Felix who was a newspaper photographer, his wife Maria and their two children. It was an arrangement that suited them all.

As Kate unlocked the front door and went in, Maria’s voice called from the kitchen, ‘How was the drunken lunch?’

Kate put her head round the kitchen door. ‘Remarkably sober,’ she said. ‘Something smells wonderful.’

Maria grimaced. ‘Not really.’ She waved a spoon. ‘Just an ordinary little meat sauce to go with spaghetti—it being the end of the month and all—but I think you’ll be amused by its precocity. Want to join us, or are you too full of caviare and champagne?’

‘I’d love to,’ Kate said regretfully, and meant it, because Maria was generally an inspired cook even with the most average ingredients. ‘But I thought I would go home this evening. It’s been some time since I saw them all.’

‘Fine,’ Maria said amiably. She gave Kate a narrow look. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

‘Of course not.’ Kate achieved a laugh. ‘I do go home occasionally, you know!’

‘I didn’t mean that. I just thought you looked a bit fraught, that’s all,’ said Maria, stirring her sauce, and lowering the flame beneath the pan.

‘Oh,’ Kate pulled a face, cursing her landlady’s perspicacity. ‘It’s just this new book—there could be problems. Nothing that I can’t handle, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Maria agreed. ‘Well, enjoy yourself this evening.’

Kate’s mother was delighted to get her phone call. ‘Darling, how marvellous! Jon and Alison are coming over too. It’ll be a real family party.’

‘Yes, won’t it?’ Kate agreed. She replaced her receiver slowly. She had intended to do some subtle probing, now it seemed she was going to be able to see them together and judge the state of their relationship for herself.

And probably Alison would be bubbling over with the story of her wonderful lunch, she told herself forcefully.

Her stepfather greeted her at the door with a warm hug.

‘You’ve lost weight, my girl.’ He held her at arms’ length and stared at her critically.