Joanna had spent a miserable three days on Pets and Gardens, and an uncomfortable two nights sleeping in a makeshift pile of blankets and cushions on the floor of her bedroom, because the delivery of the new bed had not yet materialised. Tonight, she was meeting Marcus for dinner, and just the thought of having a soft, comfortable bed beneath her might actually be enough to tempt her into staying with him for the night. She pulled on her well-worn and only LBD and teamed it with a fitted cardigan and slip-on shoes. Then she added some mascara to her lashes, a little blusher and some lipstick. And, with her long hair still damp from the shower, set off for the bus stop.
As she walked, she tried to keep her gait natural, and resisted the urge to constantly look behind her. She kept her bundle of keys in her fist, the sharp edges poking out from between her knuckles, just in case of an attack.
As the bus trundled along Shaftesbury Avenue towards Soho, Joanna mused on the evening ahead. And hated herself for being so excited at the prospect of seeing Marcus again. She’d also spent the last few days pondering whether she should take Marcus into her confidence and tell him what she had discovered about his grandfather. She’d had to make the painful decision not to trust Simon, and had done her best to assign him to the ‘enemy camp’ – even though she didn’t know who this ‘enemy’ actually was. Given her demotion, she’d had to take Alec out of the equation too. As the bus pulled to a stop near Lexington Street, Joanna alighted, deciding she could really do with an ally. Marcus was waiting for her in Andrew Edmunds – a rustic but charming candlelit restaurant.
‘How are you?’ He kissed her warmly on the lips.
‘Fine, I’m fine.’ She slid into the chair opposite him.
‘You look fabulous, Jo. Love the dress.’ Marcus’s eyes travelled up and down her body. ‘Glass of champagne?’
‘Go on then, you’ve forced me into it. Is it a special occasion?’
‘Of course. We’re having dinner together. That’s special enough for me. Good week?’
‘Terrible, actually. Apart from the fact I’ve been demoted at work, my new bed still hasn’t arrived.’
‘Poor you. I thought you were staying with a friend until it did?’
‘I was, but it got a bit . . . crowded. Simon came back and the flat’s too small for both of us.’
‘Try and jump you, did he?’
‘God, no!’ Joanna pushed down a smidgen of guilt. ‘He’s my oldest friend. We’ve known each other for years. Anyway –’ she took a deep breath – ‘it’s a long story, vaguely connected with your family, actually. I’ll tell you over supper.’
Once they had ordered food and wine, Marcus looked at her quizzically across the table.
‘Go on then.’
‘Go on what?’
‘Tell me all about it.’
Joanna looked at him, suddenly uncertain. ‘I don’t know whether I should.’
‘That big a deal?’
‘That’s the thing, I don’t know. It may be something or nothing.’
He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. ‘Joanna, I swear it won’t go further than me. Strikes me that you need to talk to someone about it.’
‘You’re right. I do. But I’m warning you, it’s bizarre and complicated. Okay.’ She took a slurp of the very good red wine to give her confidence. ‘It all started when I turned up at your grandfather’s memorial service . . .’
It took the starter, main course and most of the dessert before Joanna had brought Marcus up to date on ‘Little-Old-Lady-Gate’, as she had nicknamed the situation. She decided not to tell him about the anonymous men on her trail, somehow afraid to voice the full reality of what she thought was happening.
At the end of her story, he lit a cigarette and slowly blew out the smoke, gazing at her steadily. ‘So that whole piece about me and the memorial fund was a cover-up so you could procure information about my grandfather and his dodgy past?’
‘Originally, yes,’ Joanna admitted. ‘Sorry, Marcus. Although of course the article is going to be used in the paper.’
‘I admit to feeling just a little used, Jo. Tell me honestly, are you having dinner with me tonight to see what else you can extract, or did you actually want to see me?’
‘I wanted to see you, promise.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘So, apart from the other thing, you do like me?’ he probed.
‘Yes, Marcus, of course I do.’
‘Okay.’ His expression cleared with what even Joanna believed was genuine relief. ‘Let’s go over the facts again: strange old lady at Sir Jim’s funeral, letter, programme, your flat gets trashed, you give said letter to so-called friend to have it analysed, who then tells you it’s disintegrated in the process—’
‘And you know what?’ Joanna butted in. ‘I can’t believe it did. I mean, think of letters from hundreds of years ago that are still in existence, but would have been chemically processed to determine their age?’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘The question is, why did Simon lie to me? He really is my best friend.’
‘Sorry, Jo, but I think you’re right to be suspicious of him. So,’ Marcus continued, ‘then you mention it to your boss, who tells you to follow it up, but does a quick U-turn a few days later and has you moved to a useless section of the paper where you can cause no harm.’ Marcus rubbed his chin. ‘Whatever it is you’re on to, it’s something. The question is, what do you do now?’
Joanna rifled through her rucksack for the envelope. ‘This is the photo I borrowed from the house in Dorset to dress up the article. And this is the theatre programme the little old lady gave me.’ She laid them side by side. ‘See? It’s him, isn’t it?’
Marcus studied both pictures. ‘It certainly looks like him, yes. If anyone would know more about this, it’s my sister Zoe. Except she’s filming in Norfolk at the moment.’
‘I’d love to speak to Zoe, although I have to be very careful from now on, look as though I’ve dropped the whole thing. Could you arrange it?’
‘Maybe, but it’ll cost you.’
‘What?’
He grinned. ‘A brandy back at my place.’
Joanna sat in Marcus’s living room watching the flames leap in the gas fire. She felt calm, a little drowsy, and comforted that she had shared her secret with someone else.
‘There you are.’ Marcus handed her a brandy glass and sat down next to her. ‘So, Miss Haslam, where do we go from here?’
‘Well, you try and arrange for me to see Zoe and—’
He put a finger to her lips. ‘No, I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about us.’ He ran his finger up her cheek and caught a lock of her hair. ‘You see, I really don’t want to just play Watson to your Holmes.’ He took the glass away from her before she had even taken a sip, then leant towards her. ‘Let me kiss you, Joanna, please. You can tell me to stop at any time if you want to, and I promise I will.’
Her stomach coiled in anticipation as Marcus put his lips to hers. She closed her eyes as she felt his tender kiss become more passionate, his tongue gently caressing hers. His arms closed around her shoulders and she relaxed into him as sense and right and wrong vanished in a haze of longing. Then he abruptly pulled away.
‘What?’ she murmured.
‘Just making sure you don’t want me to stop.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered and pulled her back towards him. ‘Oh Joanna, God, you’re gorgeous . . .’
An hour later, she saw his face next to hers, his expression full of wonder. And gave him a contented smile.
‘Joanna, I think I love you . . .’
His arms wrapped around her shoulders and she drank in the smell of his fresh, clean hair and the faint musky aftershave on his neck.
‘You okay?’ he whispered.
‘Yes.’
He rolled away from her and propped himself up on his elbow.
‘I meant what I said, you know. I think I’m falling in love with you.’
‘Bet you say that to all the girls,’ Joanna replied briskly.
‘Before maybe, but never afterwards.’ He sat up and reached for his trousers to dig in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Want one?’
‘Go on then.’
Marcus lit up two cigarettes and they sat on the floor cross-legged, smoking.
‘That was really enjoyable.’ Joanna smiled at him.
‘The sex?’
‘No, the ciggie.’ Joanna stubbed hers out in an ashtray.
‘You old romantic, you. Come here.’ Marcus reached for her again and kissed her. ‘You know, ever since that first lunch I’ve thought about you constantly. I mean, could we put this on a more permanent basis?’
‘Are you asking me out?’ she teased him.
‘I suppose I am, though after the past hour, I’m quite happy to stay in as much as possible.’
‘Oh Marcus, I don’t know,’ Joanna sighed. ‘I told you before I had a long-term relationship with an awful ending. I’m still very vulnerable. Besides, your reputation goes before you, and—’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come off it. Everyone I know in London has told me what a player you’ve been.’
‘Okay, okay, I admit I’ve been out with a few women, but I swear I’ve never felt like this before.’ Marcus stroked her hair. ‘I promise I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please give me a chance, Jo. We can take it as slowly as you like.’
‘Marcus, that was not very slow.’
‘Why are you so flippant every time I try and talk to you seriously?’
‘Because –’ Joanna rubbed her eyes, weary now – ‘I’m really scared.’
‘All I want is to be a part of your life. Give me a chance and I swear I won’t let you down.’
‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’ Joanna yawned. ‘I’m exhausted.’
‘You can stay tonight, seeing as you haven’t a bed of your own to go to.’ He smiled at her.
‘I’ve been perfectly okay on the floor for the past few days.’
‘Joanna, don’t be so defensive. I was joking. There is nothing I would like more than to wake up next to you in the morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
He stood and offered her his hand to pull her to standing. He led her out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, then threw back the duvet.
‘Ahh, a bed. Heaven.’ Joanna climbed in and snuggled down contentedly as Marcus slid in beside her and turned off the light.
‘Jo?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do we really have to go to sleep straight away?’
The following morning, Joanna was awoken by Marcus nuzzling her neck. Still half asleep, she came to as Marcus gently caressed her, then slowly made love to her again.
‘Oh my God! Look at the time. It’s twenty past nine! I’m going to be horrifically late!’ Joanna sprang from the bed, and ran into the sitting room to search for her clothes. Marcus followed her.
‘Don’t go, Jo. Stay here with me. We could spend the day in bed.’
‘I wish. I’m holding on to my job by a whisker as it is,’ she said as she hopped around the room trying to put her tights on.
‘Come back tonight, then?’
‘No, they have absolutely promised delivery of my new bed and I have to go straight home to meet them at five thirty.’ Joanna threw her dress over her head.
‘I could come and help you make up the bed,’ he said hopefully.
‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a ring from work.’ Joanna put on her jacket and picked up her rucksack. She kissed him. ‘Thanks for last night.’
‘And this morning,’ he reminded her, as he opened the front door.
‘Yes. By the way, would you call Zoe for me?’
He kissed her on the nose. ‘Leave it with me, ma’am.’
Marcus watched her leave, then stretched, his muscles feeling deliciously sore from last night. Crawling back into bed, he fell asleep again within minutes.
The telephone woke him at one o’clock. He ran for it, hoping it was Joanna.
‘Marcus Harrison?’ a male voice inquired.
‘Yes?’
‘You may not remember me, but I was five years above you at Wellington College. My name’s Ian, Ian Simpson.’
‘Yeah . . . actually, I think I do remember you – you were head boy, weren’t you? How’re you doing?’
‘Fine, just fine. Listen, how do you fancy getting together for a drink? Discuss old times, you know.’
‘Er . . . When were you thinking of?’
‘Tonight actually. Why don’t you meet me at the St James Club?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m already booked.’ Marcus wondered why on earth Ian Simpson would want an urgent drink with him out of the blue. He couldn’t remember a single conversation they had ever conducted – at school, Marcus had always steered clear of him and his renowned sadistic tendencies towards the younger boys.
‘Could you cancel, by any chance? There’s something we should talk about, which might be to your financial benefit.’
‘Really? Well, I suppose I could make it around seven.’
‘Perfect, as long as you don’t mind me shooting off. Look forward to it.’
‘Yeah, bye.’ Marcus put the telephone down and shrugged in puzzlement. Later on, just before he was leaving, he dialled Joanna.
‘Hello, sweetheart, did your bed arrive?’
‘Yes, thank God. The woman upstairs only just caught them as they were about to leave. I told the delivery people to ring the upstairs bell if I wasn’t at home. Oh well, at least it’s here now.’
‘Want me to help test out the new bed later on? I’m highly qualified, I can assure you,’ he said with a smirk to himself.
‘I’m sure you are,’ Joanna drawled sarcastically. ‘How about we take it slow and watch a film instead? I’ve got the new telly all set up,’ she added. ‘You could bring No Way Out.’
‘Really, Jo? Didn’t I mention how depressing that film is? And I should know, I produced it,’ Marcus said.
‘Really.’ She gave an inward smile at his embarrassment. ‘I want to see what you helped create. I’ll get the popcorn. Deal?’
‘Deal, but I get to say “I told you so” when you end up hating it.’
‘We’ll see. Bye, Marcus.’
‘Bye, darling.’
As he walked into the bar at the St James Club, Marcus recognised Ian Simpson instantly, although his round face and angular chin had already begun to soften into fleshy pouches. A drinker, Marcus thought as Ian walked towards him, his burly frame reminding him that Ian had been the captain of the first XV rugby team. He’d led the team to victory, and had taken no prisoners whilst doing so.
‘Marcus, good to see you, old chap.’ Ian shook his hand brusquely. ‘Do sit down. Drink?’
‘A beer would be great, thanks.’ Marcus eyed the whisky that sat in front of Ian, but remembered his promise to himself and resisted.
‘Super.’ Ian signalled for a waiter and ordered a pint and another whisky. He leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. ‘So, how’ve you been?’
‘Er, since leaving school? Fine. Been a while, hasn’t it? I left over seventeen years ago.’
‘And what line of work are you in?’ Ian said, ignoring his remark.
‘I have my own film production company.’
‘How glamorous. I’m a poor old civil-service bod, earning just enough to bake my daily bread. But then, I suppose with your background, there was a natural progression.’
‘Sort of, although one could say my family’s been a hindrance, in fact.’
‘Really? You surprise me.’
‘Yes, it surprises most people,’ Marcus agreed morosely. ‘At the moment I’m starting up a fund in memory of my grandfather, Sir James Harrison.’
‘Really?’ Ian said yet again. ‘Well now, what a coincidence, as that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. Thank you.’ The waiter put their drinks on the table.
Marcus eyed Ian suspiciously, and wondered if there’d ever be a time when someone was interested in meeting him for himself, rather than his family.
‘Cheers.’
‘Yes, cheers.’ Marcus took a healthy slug of his beer, watching Ian as he drained his first whisky then picked up his second. ‘Now, what’s this about?’
‘It’s all a bit hush-hush and you have to understand that we’re really taking you into our confidence by telling you. You see, the situation is this: apparently your granddad was a bit of a lad, had a ding-dong with a certain lady who was very much in the public eye. She wrote him some rather steamy letters. Your granddad returned all of them years ago, apart from one. We thought we’d retrieved it – he always promised to will the last and most, shall we say, compromising one to this lady’s family on his death.’ Ian picked up his glass and sipped from it. ‘It seems the letter was the wrong one.’
The letter Joanna had been sent by the old lady, deduced Marcus.
‘Can’t say I remember anything of that nature being in the will,’ murmured Marcus innocently.
‘No. Subsequently, the . . . family concerned have contacted us to see if we can retrieve this last letter. It could all be very embarrassing if it fell into the wrong hands.’
‘I see. Is there any point in asking who the family might be?’
‘No, but I can tell you they’re rich enough to offer a substantial reward to anyone who might come across it. And I mean substantial.’
Marcus lit up a cigarette and studied Ian. ‘And how far have you got with your enquiries?’
‘Not far enough. We hear tell that you’re friendly with a young journalist.’
‘Joanna Haslam?’
‘Yes. Have you any idea how much she knows?’
‘Not really. We haven’t discussed it much, although I did know she’d been sent a letter, presumably the one that found its way to you.’
‘Quite. Er, look, Marcus, to put it bluntly, you don’t by any chance think that Miss Haslam is encouraging your friendship because she thinks you might lead her to further information, do you?’
Marcus sighed. ‘I suppose it is a possibility, especially after what I’ve just heard.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And obviously this conversation is completely between us. The British government is relying on your discretion in this matter.’
Marcus had had enough of Ian’s cloak-and-dagger behaviour. ‘Listen, cut the crap, Ian, and tell me exactly what you want.’
‘You have access to your grandfather’s houses, both in London and in Dorset. Perhaps what we need is in one of them.’
Maybe that’s what Joanna was looking for, Marcus thought with a jolt.
‘It might be, yes. Certainly the attic at Haycroft House is chock-full of boxes containing my grandfather’s memorabilia.’
‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you took another trip down there and looked through the boxes again?’
‘Hold on, how do you know that I’ve already looked?’ Marcus demanded. ‘Have you been spying on me and Joanna?!’
‘Marcus, old chap, like I said, the British government is just trying to resolve the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. For everyone concerned.’
‘Jesus!’ Marcus wasn’t reassured by Ian’s tone. ‘Is this letter going to start World War Three or what?’
‘Hardly.’ Ian’s features softened into a smile. ‘Simply an . . . indiscretion on the part of a certain young lady way back when, which the family would prefer to keep quiet. Now, there may be other places we are unaware of, trusted friends of your grandfather who might have been given the letter for safe keeping. The situation is so delicate that we have to keep the net tight. What I’ve told you tonight is on a need-to-know basis only. So any pillow talk with Joanna will veto our agreement and put you both in a . . . vulnerable position. We’ve chosen you because we know you are a man of discretion, with perfect and innocent access to places and people we cannot touch without arousing suspicion. And as I stressed before, you’ll be well rewarded for your troubles.’
‘Even if I don’t find it?’
Ian reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He put it on the table. ‘There’s a small retainer to cover any expenses. Why not take the lovely Joanna off for a weekend away, wine her and dine her and find out how far she’s got in her search? Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey, as the saying goes.’
‘Yes, I get your drift, Ian,’ Marcus murmured, wanting to punch Ian on his patronising and oft-broken nose.
‘Good. And if you discover the golden ticket, what’s in that envelope will seem like small change. Now, I’ve got to head off, I’m afraid. My card’s in there too. Call me any time of the day or night if you have news.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Oh, and by the way, not wishing to be overdramatic, but I should warn you, the stakes are high. Any leaks down the wrong drain and you could find yourself next to it in the gutter. Goodnight.’
Marcus watched Ian leave the room. He sat down abruptly, somewhat shaken by Ian’s final riposte. He gave in and ordered a whisky, feeling decidedly nervous, but as he took a large gulp, he comforted himself that at school Ian had always used fear tactics with the younger boys to subjugate them to his will. Yet, the teachers had seen him as a charming and caring individual. It was obvious that Ian hadn’t changed, but Marcus was now a grown man and would take his threats with a pinch of salt.
His fingers were itching to find out exactly how much was in the envelope. What if he could find that letter, then pass it into the right hands? From what Ian had hinted, he could virtually name his price. It may give him enough money to turn his film into reality, and actually make a difference to the world . . .
He then wondered whether, despite what Ian had said about ‘leaks down the wrong drain’, he should come clean with Joanna and tell her about the past half-hour’s conversation. Then they could work together – no secrets from the start. But what if Ian found out? He didn’t want to put Joanna at risk . . . Perhaps he’d leave telling her for now, see how things developed and then make a decision.
What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, he decided as he drained his glass. It seemed Ian had already paid the bill, so he picked up the envelope and went downstairs to the gents’ toilet. Locking himself in a cubicle, he counted the thick wad of notes in the envelope, his pulse racing. Five thousand pounds in twenties and fifties.
Of course, the next step was to see Zoe and find out what she knew about this letter – no longer just to please Joanna, but for his film project too . . .
Arriving by taxi half an hour later at Joanna’s flat, he could feel the envelope full of cash burning guiltily in his jacket pocket. He shrugged it off quickly and let her lead him into a cosy sitting room, where a gas fire had already been turned on and a large bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table.
‘I’ve missed you today,’ Marcus said, then leant down to give her a deep kiss.
‘You only just saw me this morning,’ Joanna said, as she reluctantly broke her lips away from his.
‘May as well have been aeons ago,’ he murmured, dipping down for another kiss, but she ducked out of his reach.
‘Marcus, the film!’
He pulled out the old VHS tape that he had dug out of a drawer in his flat. ‘Let me say again, this is not a movie that sets the mood for romance.’
Joanna popped it into the VCR player then turned her TV on, and they settled down on the new sofa together, Joanna nestling her head against the crook of his shoulder.
Marcus barely noticed the first half-hour of the film, so intent was he on looking down at Joanna’s face, seeing her attention completely focused on what he had produced. He felt a knot of anxiety settle in his stomach. What if she thought it was rubbish? What if she thought he was rubbish? What if . . .
Finally, when the credits rolled up on the screen, Joanna turned to him, her eyes shining.
‘Marcus, that was amazing,’ she murmured.
‘Did you . . . what did you think?’ he asked.
‘I thought it was brilliant,’ she said. ‘It’s one of those films that really stays with you, you know? The cinematography was just gorgeous and so atmospheric, it really took you into the rainforest—’
Before she could say more, Marcus kissed her. Her mouth tasted salty-sweet from the popcorn as she kissed him back. The credits continued rolling on the TV screen, but the two paid no attention to them.