Part 17 (2/2)

She pressed the b.u.t.ton beside J. Brown, and wailed. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. And again nothing happened.

She sighed, and stepped back down a couple of steps to look up at the windows of the house. There were lights in several of them.

Going back up the steps again, she pressed J. Brown's b.u.t.ton once more, and when still it was ignored, she pressed the b.u.t.ton beside M. Philips. Whether Mr Philips, or Miss Philips, was expecting visitors, she never did find out, but at that moment the door released itself, and swung invitingly inwards.

She took a step forward, and then gulped as a group of Indians confronted her in the hall. But they smiled politely, and on impulse, she asked if they knew where she could find Mr Brown.

'The top floor,' one of them told her immediately, gesturing her towards the stairs. 'Two flights up.'

'Thank you,' she smiled. But she waited until they had closed the outer door behind them before starting the long climb.

She was breathless by the time she reached the second floor, and she stood for a moment regaining her breath before deciding which of the two doors to choose. Then, running a smoothing hand over her hair, she knocked determinedly at the one to her left.

She had half expected to have to stand there knocking for ages before he answered, but to her surprise, the door opened almost immediately, and an angry voice exclaimed: 'For G.o.d's sake, Laura-' before breaking off abruptly as he saw her. He stared at her disbelievingly for a long disturbing minute, and then she said quietly: 'Can I come in?'

She had been shocked by his appearance, she couldn't deny it, and when he stood reluctantly aside to let her enter the flat, her legs moved almost automatically. He was so thin, he was almost emaciated, and his hair was shoulder-length, matching the growth of beard on his chin. She would never have recognised him as the arrogant owner of Amaryllis, or indeed as Jared Royal, portrait painter and landscape artist. And yet he looked more like everyone's idea of an artist now than any other time in his life. If he had wanted to disguise himself, he could not have done it more successfully. But at what cost?

The flat was small and untidy, and it stank of stale liquor and cigarettes. Low windows were set in walls that sloped down with the eaves of the house, and through their open panes came the low rumble of the city traffic. Catherine gave one comprehensive look around her, and then she exclaimed frustratedly: 'Oh, Jared!

You could afford better than this!'

He had closed the door and seemed to be getting over the shock of finding her outside. 'This is good enough for me,' he told her harshly. 'You must excuse the mess. I never was much good at housework.'

Catherine drew a trembling breath. 'What are you doing in London, Jared? You told me you disliked the place.'

Jared shrugged. 'I thought it was time I expanded my field.'

'But' Catherine looked about her. 'Where's your painting equipment? Have you done any work since you came here?'

Jared held up his head, surveying her with a little of his earlier arrogance. 'I don't think you have the right to ask a question like that,' he said.

Catherine twisted the strap of her handbag. 'I don't, of course.

But-but finding you like this. ..'

'How did you find me? Laura, I suppose.'

Catherine nodded. 'She came-she came to the centre.'

'You're still working there, then?' He spoke heavily.

'Of course. Why shouldn't I be?'

He shook his head. 'Why have you come here, Catherine?'

Catherine made a helpless little gesture. 'To see you, of course.'

'Why?' His lips twisted. 'Did Laura tell you what a squalid little place I had? Did you want to see it for yourself?'

'No!' Catherine drew an unsteady breath. 'Jared, you have to tell me-why did you break your engagement to Laura?'

He walked slowly across the room to where a bottle of Scotch resided on a low table. He held up the bottle to show Catherine, but she shook her head, watching him as he bent and poured some for himself into a thick gla.s.s. He was wearing jeans, and as he bent to his task, his denim s.h.i.+rt parted from the waistband of his pants, revealing bony hips. It was the last straw as far as Catherine was concerned. With a little sob, she dropped her bag on the floor, and covered the s.p.a.ce between them, winding her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her face against the rough, sweaty material of his s.h.i.+rt.

'Jared, Jared!' she breathed, tears dampening her cheeks, wetting his s.h.i.+rt. 'Oh, Jared-I love you!'

He had stiffened as she touched him, the untasted gla.s.s of whisky halfway to his lips. He remained motionless for fully half a minute, and then he carefully lowered the gla.s.s on to the tray, and turning, put his hands on her shoulders, propelling her away from him.

'Now hear this!' he muttered roughly. 'I don't need your pity, Catherine!'

'Pity?' She stared up into his face. 'Jared, if I pity you, I pity myself as well. For-for all the time we've wasted.'

He thrust her away from him, tugging impatiently at the hair at the back of his neck, but his hands were shaking. 'What has Laura been telling you?' he demanded. 'Why have you come here now? Why now?'

Catherine spread her hands. 'I couldn't come sooner. I didn't know you were here.'

'And you didn't trouble to find out, did you?' he muttered bitterly.

'To find out?' She was confused. 'How could I have found out?

I've had no contact with you since I left.'

'But Liz wrote you. She told you the wedding was off.'

'Elizabeth-wrote to me?' Catherine blinked rapidly. 'When?

When did she write to me?'

Jared shook his head. 'I don't know exactly. After I told her it was all over between me and Laura.'

'But I got no letter!'

His eyes narrowed. 'You must have done.'

'I didn't, I tell you!' She made a futile gesture. 'Oh, what's the use, you won't believe me, will you?'

Jared took a step towards her. 'I asked Liz to write to you,' he said. 'I-G.o.d help me, I didn't know what to say-what I could say after- after-'

Catherine caught her breath. 'Did you-did you actually see the letter?'

Jared frowned distractedly. I don't know. No, no, I don't believe I did.' He closed his eyes. 'She didn't write, is that what you're saying?'

'If you believe me.'

His eyes opened again, staring into hers, bloodshot, but no less penetrating. 'I have to believe you,' he muttered. 'For my own sanity.' He took another step towards her. 'So you didn't know that-that Laura and I...'

'No. I thought you were-married.'

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