“You bitch! You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”
He jammed her back against the door. The handle dug painfully into her spine. Then she saw the expression in his eyes alter, and suddenly she knew what was going to happen next. As though the thought had prompted the action, he dropped one of his hands and wrenched aside the bathrobe, ignoring her struggles as he grabbed her breast. He dug his fingers into her.
“Paul — No!”
The hand on her throat choked her, stopping her from screaming. His leg went between hers, forcing them apart, pinning her. There was no space to kick or knee him. She tore at his wrist. Tiny points of light began to spark her vision. She felt his hand at her waist, yanking at the belt that still held the robe closed. No! God, no! Abruptly, she stopped struggling. Feeling the lack of resistance, Paul looked up. She forced herself to smile at him over his hand.
“Bedroom …” she croaked.
For a moment he didn’t move, and she thought he was too far gone to listen to her. Then a grin touched his mouth. He stepped back, and as the pressure on her throat relaxed and his leg slid from between hers, she shot her knee up at his groin and pushed out as hard as she could.
It was too soon. Her knee skidded off his thigh, and even as he reeled away, he was already grabbing for her again.
She lunged through the doorway, feeling him close behind her as she stumbled down the hall. He caught hold of her bathrobe as she reached the top of the stairs, checking her, dragging her back in an unequal tug of war. She could see the door standing open at the bottom, and in desperation spun round and wrenched the robe from his fingers.
She pitched back against the wall as it ripped free, her teeth snapping together painfully. Paul toppled the opposite way, into the open stairwell. He caromed off the banister and tumbled untidily to the bottom, crashing into the door and knocking it back against the wall before sprawling onto the black and white tiles of the entrance hall.
Breathless, Kate ran down after him. His eyes were screwed shut, mouth frozen in a pained “O” as she stepped over his legs and opened the front door. Dazed, he didn’t resist as she tucked her hands under his arms and began dragging him backwards. He was heavy, but there wasn’t far to go.
It was only when his hips bumped down off the porch that he seemed to realise what was happening. “Whoa — ” he said, stiffening, and Kate let him drop.
His head cracked onto the concrete path, but even as the “Ow/” was forced from him, she was already running back inside. She banged the front door shut and leaned against it, panting. Her back and shoulders ached from the effort.
For a few seconds there was silence outside, then she heard him grunt and curse as he scraped to his feet. “Fuck!” Another groan. “Bitch!”
She heard him take a step towards the porch. “If you’re still there when I get upstairs, I’m calling the police!” she shouted. She turned to find Miss Willoughby standing in the doorway behind her. Below the wig the old lady’s face was shocked.
“Is everything all right?”
Kate saw her bathrobe was flapping open. She pulled it around her, trying to compose herself. “Yes. I’m sorry, it’s …” An explanation defeated her. “Everything’s fine.”
With Miss Willoughby staring after her, she hurried upstairs into the lounge. Keeping to the side of the window, she edged forward until she could look down onto the path. Paul was standing by the gate, rubbing the back of his head and glaring into the porch. He glanced up at the window. Kate jerked back, but he gave no sign of having seen her. Finally, with a last black look, he turned and walked slowly away.
Kate watched until she could no longer see him in the dusk. Then she sagged. Her legs felt weak, and it was all she could do to make it to a chair before they gave way. She shook as she wrapped the bathrobe tight across her chest and hugged herself.
The sudden clamour of the doorbell made her jump. God! Now what? Cautiously, she went back to the window and peered out. Whoever it was, they were out of sight on the porch. She hesitated, then crept back downstairs. The doorbell rang again when she was halfway down, almost making her miss a step. Mouth dry, she unlocked the door at the bottom. In the fading light, the figure framed in the stained-glass panel was even more indistinct than before.
Her voice cracked a little as she asked. “Who is it?”
“Cab for Powell.” The voice was Cockney, nothing like Paul’s, and she rested her head against the wall. She almost told the driver she had changed her mind: the urge to lock herself inside and crawl into bed was overwhelming.
“Give me ten minutes,” she called instead, and ran back upstairs to get dressed.
CHAPTER 2
The little girl was losing the fight to stay awake. Her eyelids drooped, flicked open, then drooped again. This time they stayed shut. Kate waited until she was sure Emily was asleep before softly closing the book and standing up. Disturbed by the slight shift of the mattress, the little girl turned on her side and burrowed under the sheets until only a tuft of pale hair was visible. Kate quietly slid the book onto the shelf. In the other bed Emily’s brother, younger by almost two years, lay on his back, sturdy arms and legs thrown out with eighteen-month-old abandon. Angus had kicked off most of the covers. Kate pulled them over him again. She turned down the dimmer switch on the wall until the light from the Mickey Mouse lamp faded to a dull glow. The sound of the two children’s breathing was a soft sibilance in the half-light. Kate had been absurdly flattered when they had both wanted her to take them to bed, Angus first, then his sister half an hour later. A wave of affection constricted her throat as she looked at the two of them sleeping. Gently, she closed the bedroom door and made her way downstairs. The house was a decaying, detached villa in Finchley, with high moulded ceilings, a mahogany-banistered staircase, and a small walled garden that Lucy called “the jungle”. The ceilings were flaking and the banister cracked, but it was better than the cramped and cold apartment where Lucy and Jack had lived before. The house had been left to them several years earlier by an aunt, and they still didn’t seem to have unpacked properly. Toys, papers and clothes were scattered on chairs, on the floor and over the backs of radiators. It was the sort of house Kate wished she’d been brought up in. She stepped over a red tricycle lying on its side at the bottom of the stairs and squeezed round a pile of boxes stacked untidily against the wall. Jack ran his desktop publishing business from the converted cellar, and the over-spill from it cluttered the entire house. Lucy was putting more coal onto the fire as Kate went into the lounge. It tumbled out of the scuttle with a clatter, covering the flames completely. A damp smell came from it. Lucy set down the scuttle and wiped her hands on a rag. Her eyes were a vivid, almost violet blue as she looked up at Kate. “She get off okay?”
“Out like a light.”
“You should come more often. They’re always on their best behaviour when you’re here. “Kate smiled and sat on the floor. The coal had smothered the heat from the fire, but already smoke was beginning to rise like steam from the black chunks. The lounge was big and draughty, and Lucy and Jack kept a fire going on all but the hottest nights. Kate curled her legs under her and leaned back against the settee. In front of her, the coffee table was littered with the wreckage of a Chinese takeaway, fried rice and noodles congealing in foil containers. A half-empty bottle of white wine stood among them. Lucy pushed a blonde curl out of her eyes and sat down on the floor near Kate. She picked out a cold prawn. “I knew I should have cleared this lot away,” she said, chewing. “I’ll have put on half a stone by tomorrow.”