TREACHEROUS
Barbara Taylor Bradford

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2014

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2014 ISBN: 9780007503414

Version: 2017-10-25

‘How easy it is, treachery. You just slide into it.’

Margaret Atwood

The Year of the Flood

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Keep Reading – Cavendon Hall

Keep Reading – Cavendon Women

Keep Reading – Hidden

About the Author

Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

It was in the fifth grade, when they were ten, that Fiona Chambers crossed the soccer field to stand with, and up for, the new girl. Skinny, awkward, out of place at the posh prep school in New York, Hayley Martin had become a target for the establishment’s well-heeled bullies.

She was taunted about everything: her clothes, an unruly tangle of auburn curls, her status as a scholarship student, and the street slang that popped out of her mouth at inopportune times.

After an essay Hayley wrote about her time living in a homeless shelter was deemed best in the English class, and published in the school paper, the torment became almost intolerable.

Then one day Fiona walked over to the embattled girl, put an arm around her, and asked if they could sit together at lunch. That act of compassion changed everything for Hayley.

Fiona Chambers was a superstar. It wasn’t simply her classic blonde beauty, or her sense of humour, or the fact that she was very smart that drew people to her. Fiona had an inborn shimmer that could not be counterfeited. It was called charisma.

From that day forward, if anyone wanted to hang out with Fiona, they had to put up with this ‘rescue’ girl of hers. And just like that, Hayley was part of the in-crowd. In exchange, Fiona garnered the lifelong devotion of her new friend.

Well, lifelong is perhaps an overstatement. There would come a time when Hayley Martin’s raison d’être would be the complete and utter destruction of her former friend.

The transformation from acolyte to enemy was complicated. And perhaps it was inevitable.

ONE

‘I just don’t see how we can do it, Hayley,’ Fiona said. ‘We have the Met Costume Gala that Saturday, Cancer the following week, and the Whitney wedding two days later.’

‘For Luke Thompson, we’ll find a way. And could you say Cancer Benefit, please.’ Hayley wrinkled her nose. ‘Cancer next week doesn’t sound that festive. Just the opposite.’

Fiona laughed. ‘Point well taken.’

‘Listen, I’d set my hair on fire if Luke asked me to. He wants us to do this party, so we do it. And that’s that.’

Still shy as a fawn in public, Hayley was a different person when she and Fiona were alone. Smart, accomplished and irreverent. The two girls had become inseparable at Miss Porter’s School, and beyond. They were roommates in college, had backpacked around Europe after graduation, and eventually landed in a tiny apartment in St Mark’s Place on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

It was an ancient railroad flat, which meant that in 1910 three rooms were lined up in a row, like train carriages, and the bathtub was in the kitchen. It was a quirky little place but the girls loved it. The combination of Fiona’s creative ideas, and Hayley’s uncanny ability to transform dreams into reality, had changed an eyesore into a charming little gem. That rare blend of skills was to prove invaluable, when later they launched their joint venture from the fifth-floor walkup. They started an event planning company which they called Celebration.

Outsiders wondered what kind of glue made these two disparate personalities into such a cohesive team. It was simple really. Fiona admired Hayley’s grit and determination to overcome a background Dickensian in its bleakness. She took hard work and perseverance to a new level.

Hayley, on the other hand, was in awe of Fiona’s seemingly effortless ability to accomplish whatever she set out to do. And instead of being full of herself because of it, Fiona had a huge heart. She was capable of acts of profound compassion, such as taking a lonely young girl under her wing and changing her life.

This morning, twenty years after that event, the two women were sitting at the cluttered round table that served as an operations centre for Celebration. It was the spring of 2013, and they had a burgeoning business.

‘Could you not set your hair on fire, no matter who requests it,’ Fiona begged. ‘That blue tint you thought was so cool has almost grown out.’

‘If we do this for Luke, I promise I’ll only dye it colours found in nature,’ Hayley answered. ‘He’s family, Fiona. We taught each other how to kiss, underneath the stairs at that shelter on 86th Street.’

‘You never told me you were romantically involved with the hunkiest newsman on the air!’

Hayley laughed dismissively. ‘Hardly. I was eight, he was nine. And it wasn’t romance, it was a science experiment. When I was sent to Miss Porter’s, we swore to be friends for life, and we have been. Plus he looked after Mikey the best he could, after I’d gone.’

Fiona stiffened at the mention of Hayley’s younger brother. Mikey was trouble. But Hayley, who usually had an infallible radar about people, could not see it. She had practically raised the boy, in the absence of their will-o’-the-wisp mother, and in Hayley’s eyes he could do no wrong.

Fiona had an urge to say that Luke Thompson would have done better to watch out for the people Mikey conned, but she thought better of it. It would only upset Hayley. Instead, she said, ‘When am I going to get to meet this wonder?’

The investigative reporter was a household name, and Fiona admired him for the work he did. And he was a champion of the underdog, which made him extra special to her.

‘He’s hard to pin down. He’s always flying around the globe, covering disasters. Or exposing corruption,’ Hayley replied. ‘But when we plan this party for him, which we absolutely, positively must, you’ll finally meet him.’ Although she was usually indifferent about such things, she was growing agitated. ‘His television team is getting the Edward R. Murrow Award for their reporting on human trafficking.’

‘Talk about festive,’ Fiona murmured, raising a brow.

‘Figure it out, Fiona. Please.’

Fiona studied her friend. ‘You’re practically shaking, Hayley. Are you sure you don’t have strong feelings for Luke?’

‘Of course I have feelings for him. But not the kind you’re thinking. He’s like a brother. Romance would be like incest! Ick.’ She made a face, grimacing.

‘Okay, okay. Got it,’ Fiona said, examining the huge calendar that was displayed on the wall opposite. It was covered with neat printing which denoted events scheduled well into the next year. It hadn’t always been that way.

For the first few years, Celebration’s calendar was practically blank. A small wedding, a party on election night. They had even agreed to do a child’s birthday party. Anything to get them noticed by the people who gave the glittering events for which New York was famous.

The girls had supported themselves, and the fledgling business, by taking on any job they could get, sometimes two jobs at a time. They did telemarketing, dog walking, were even cocktail waitresses in a club that catered to ‘gentlemen in the sanitation removal business’. More precisely, wise guys connected to the mob.

No one had told them this, but it took Hayley, with her street background, only a few seconds to make that call. But even though the guys were connected to the Mafia, they were good tippers, and treated the girls with their version of respect. So they stayed and worked at the club.

There was one job Fiona had taken which was never, ever discussed, even by the two friends who shared everything. At one moment in time, Hayley stumbled on the truth of what Fiona had been doing on weekends, and it staggered her. ‘Why, Fiona? Why would you, of all people, do something like that?’ She had sounded horrified.

Fiona’s response had been dramatic. She had walked out of the apartment and disappeared for two days. The subject was never broached again. Some things, Hayley knew from experience, were best not spoken about.

There was no need for second jobs to pay the rent these days. When someone was planning a grand event in New York City, Celebration more often than not received the first call. They had even been able to move their company uptown, to a building with an elevator in the more socially acceptable East Sixties.

Oddly enough, it was the birthday party for a ten-year-old that had put them on the map. The child’s grandmother was a well-known socialite. She had a wonderful time playing the old-fashioned carnival games the girls had rented and, with a word from her, the bookings started to come pouring in.

‘If it’s so important to you, Hayley, that we do Luke’s party, I’ll make it work.’ Fiona was moving things around on the calendar. ‘Who do I speak with to confirm?’

‘Oh, I already told them we’d do it.’ Hayley smiled innocently at Fiona. ‘I knew you’d make it happen.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘So I’ve been told. Anyway, all you have to do is meet with Luke, and find out what sort of evening he’ll be comfortable with. He doesn’t like a lot of fuss.’

‘Hayley, he’s your friend. You should meet with him.’

The colour drained from Hayley’s face. ‘You know I can’t do that! I don’t do meetings. That’s your department.’

Hayley and Fiona were equal partners in their business, but the roles carved out in that school yard long ago never changed. It seemed natural that Fiona, with her inventiveness and easy way with people, would be the face of the business. She was the one who met with potential clients to plan the event, was photographed accepting thanks from socialites, senators and honorees for a perfectly planned occasion.

It was Hayley who, by choice, laboured in the background, executing that perfect planning. While Fiona escorted the guest of honour to his seat, Hayley was in the kitchen making sure the caterer remembered which of the guests was lactose intolerant or had other food issues.

Fiona never meant to steal the spotlight. Like most truly magnetic people, she just walked into a room and dazzled. Hayley, on the other hand, walked into a room and disappeared. And she was content with that arrangement. Until one day she wasn’t. And then everything changed.

‘All right, don’t panic,’ Fiona now said. ‘I’ll meet with the great man. Who knows, maybe he’ll teach me how to kiss, too. I could use a little help in that regard. I haven’t had a date in three months.’

Fiona had turned away, studying the calendar, and didn’t see the stricken look settle on Hayley’s face.

TWO

It was late when Hayley let herself into her apartment on East 86th Street. The building was a luxury high-rise with a doorman. It was a far cry from the shelter down the street where she, Mikey and Luke had spent far too much time as children. She always shrivelled inside when she thought of that place.

Once Celebration started making money, she and Fiona had decided to have separate apartments. When they lived together they would come home from the office and talk business until it was time to go to bed.

Even now they’d spend half the evening on the phone, going over details of whatever event they were planning. But this new living arrangement allowed them to think about something else, at least for a few hours every day.

There was another reason Hayley wanted her own place, but she would never admit it to Fiona. She needed to have somewhere for her brother to crash when he got into one of his scrapes, as he called them. Like getting evicted, or beaten up for not paying a debt to the wrong people. She knew Mikey was a mess, but he was her mess. And she wasn’t about to run away from her responsibilities, like their mother had done.

Fiona was well aware that Hayley was constantly rescuing her brother, and Hayley knew she knew, but it was another one of those things they never discussed.

Hayley poured a glass of wine, clicked on the television and curled up in her favourite spot. It was an enormous wing chair, more suitable for a wrestler than a slender slip of a girl who was all of five foot two with shoes on. She had paid thirty-two dollars for the chair at one of the many charity thrift shops that dotted First Avenue, and managed to get it home tied on top of a yellow cab. She had reupholstered it herself in rich emerald-green velvet, the colour of her eyes. When she had lived at the shelter down the street, she had dreamed of having a real home one day, and a special chair. Now she had both.

She was later than usual, and Luke’s news show was almost over. She watched him every night. At the end of every broadcast, he looked into the camera and said, ‘I’m Luke Thompson and I wish you a goodnight.’ She liked to fantasize that he was talking only to her.

‘I wish you goodnight too, Luke,’ she said to the screen.

She froze the frame and studied his face. His dark hair was prematurely greying at the temples, but it only served to make him look sexier, if that was possible. He had grey eyes with thick lashes, but he was all man, cut from the same cloth as old-time movie stars like Clark Gable. She tried to fathom what his home was like, who he would have dinner with tonight, and who he loved.

She hadn’t seen him in person for more than five years. When he called her to say he was getting an award, and would she like to organize the party for him, it took almost an hour for her to stop trembling after she’d hung up. Life had made her tough, but there was something about Luke Thompson that made her knees turn to jelly … when she was eight. And now at thirty.

‘Having a drink with your lover, I see.’

Hayley almost jumped out of her chair.

Mikey was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her intently.

‘Mikey! You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?’

‘Well, I was sleeping until you turned on Captain America.’ Mikey looked at the face frozen on the television screen. ‘Who would’ve ever guessed he’d end up on TV?’

‘He always wanted to be a newscaster,’ Hayley exclaimed, sounding annoyed.

Mikey picked through the refrigerator and settled on a piece of cold pizza. ‘Wanting and doing are different things. I wanted all kind of things,’ he said through mouthfuls of food.

‘You could be anything you want, if you just worked at it.’ She went to the kitchen and gave him a piece of paper towel to use as a napkin.

He stuck it in his pocket and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, studying the screen. He threw himself down in Hayley’s chair, sprawling in it. ‘Did old Luke ever get married? Or is he waiting for you?’

‘Don’t be disgusting.’ Hayley’s voice was harsher than she had meant it to be. ‘And no, he’s not married. But we’re not that kind of friends.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Would you get out of my chair! You’re going to get pizza sauce on it.’

‘Oooohhh. The queen’s throne!’ He playfully pretended to wipe his hands on the chair.

Hayley swatted him, but couldn’t help smiling. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’

‘I quit. Night watchman is a joke job. I need to get something that suits me better. Maybe I’ll be a TV star, too.’

‘You got fired, didn’t you?’ It was a statement, not a question. Hayley knew him only too well.

‘It’s better to get fired than quit. I keep telling you that. Then you can collect unemployment.’

‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘Since you asked … can you lend me a few bucks to hold me, till my unemployment kicks in?’

‘Mikey, I just gave you five hundred dollars.’

Mikey looked stricken. ‘That was a week ago. I know you’re a penny pincher. Well, I guess I can get a loan. I know some people.’

‘No!’ Hayley went to find her bag. ‘Stay away from those guys. They charge a hundred per cent interest, and you know what happens when you don’t pay. I’ll give you what I have.’

Mikey counted the money. It was a hundred and twenty dollars. ‘Maybe you could cash a cheque?’

‘Out! Go home before I take that money back.’

He playfully lifted her up and whirled her around. ‘Thank you, big sister.’ He indicated Luke, whose face was still frozen on the television screen. ‘I’ll leave you two alone.’

‘Go!’

Mikey blew her a kiss, and let himself out. Hayley collapsed in her chair. She stared at the screen and smiled. ‘You were right, Luke. I’m a patsy. But he’s so damn loveable I just can’t help myself.’

She snapped off the television set and poured herself another glass of wine. After a moment she locked and chained the door and moved to the desk near the window. She unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out an ancient scrapbook full of clippings and photos. Handling it with care, she took it with her to the giant chair and opened it.

The book was all about Luke Thompson. There were school pictures of him when he was eight and nine, old clippings about his sports triumphs, and a catalogue of his progress from roving reporter to anchor of his own national television show on a major network. After a moment, she found what she was looking for. It was a yellowed letter in a child’s hand, which Luke had written to her shortly after she got the scholarship to Miss Porter’s.

Dear Hayley,

It’s boring here without you. Mrs Barrett in the next room still snores like a rhino. Remember when you sneaked in and put a clothes pin on her nose? I think Dad got a job, so maybe we’ll be moving in to our own place soon. Do you like your school? If those snotty rich girls give you a hard time, let me know and I’ll come up and take care of them for you. No one’s going to mess with my girl. That’s all for now.

Luke

P.S. Your brother got sent to the principal’s office again yesterday. I hear he got caught smoking in the teacher’s bathroom.

Hayley smiled wistfully, carefully refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She held the scrapbook to her heart as if it were a sacred relic.

Or the chronicle of the man she loved.

THREE

Fiona was tearing through her closet, wishing that she had Hayley’s talent for saying no to people. She had an hour to change and then meet the famous Mr Luke Thompson at Penn Station. She had already visited with the committee hosting the award dinner, and had worked out most of the details. But, as guest of honour, Luke was entitled to a courtesy meeting to approve the plans.

She had scheduled the meeting at the office for four o’clock today, but then Luke had called a few hours ago with a change of plans. Something had come up, a lead on a story he was working on. He had to take the 4 p.m. Acela, the express train to Washington, D.C., for a meeting at the State Department. He would then leave for Thailand in the morning. If she cared to ride along on the train, they would have two hours and forty-eight minutes to work out all the details of the award evening. He would be happy to send her back by plane, and she would be in New York later the same evening.

The last thing Fiona wanted to do was sit on a train for three hours, but this was Hayley’s friend and she felt she had to say yes. Besides which, she’d been wanting to see the new photography collection at the National Gallery. She could stay in D.C. overnight, see the exhibition, and fly back in the morning. It would all work out if only she could find something suitable to wear, and get to the station in an hour.

Being tall, with a voluptuous body and long shapely legs, Fiona evoked a strong reaction from men and women alike. Today she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she dressed to downplay the curves, especially for a business meeting. Although she wasn’t aware of it, her efforts did not work. She had the kind of allure and beauty that were impossible to disguise.

Finally she settled for cream-coloured slacks and a short-sleeved lavender sweater. It was spring, but weather in mid-April was so changeable on the East Coast. And Washington could be a steam bath, even at this time of year. Layers, she reminded herself.

She went back into the closet and found a fitted blue jacket trimmed with bone buttons, and selected a vintage Hermès scarf. She slid her feet into beige patent L.K.Bennett pumps, the ones favoured by the Duchess of Cambridge, and examined herself in the mirror. With her cream-coloured trench coat she would be ready for any eventuality the day offered.

Or so she thought. But then, no one could have predicted what this day had in store for Fiona Chambers.

She sat at her dressing table and studied her face. She had the creamy complexion of her English ancestors, wide-set blue eyes and straight blonde hair that Hayley, always fighting with her wild mass of curls, openly coveted.

On a whim, Fiona opened a drawer, took out a cosmetic pouch, and emptied the contents onto the table. She began to apply makeup, something she rarely did. She was basically a soap-and-water kind of girl but now, she decided, she would gild the lily a bit.

What is wrong with you, Fiona Chambers? she thought, staring back at herself. You’re meeting a client. Why are you acting like a school girl going on her first date?

She wiped her face clean, purposefully put her makeup bag back in the drawer, and pulled her hair into a severe pony tail. She was annoyed with herself.

For a reason she could not explain, when she had called to arrange the meeting and had heard Luke’s voice, butterflies seemed to take flight in her stomach. This unbidden thrill of anticipation was completely inappropriate but she was powerless to control it.

Are you becoming star-struck all of a sudden? she asked her reflection. It was not as if she hadn’t had to deal with celebrities in her work. And she was going to join Luke Thompson on the train from New York to Washington, D.C., not the mysterious Orient Express to Istanbul.

She had made her reservation at the Jefferson, her favourite D.C. hotel, and now all she needed to do was to throw a few things in an overnight bag, then call Hayley to let her know the plans had changed. She did not need makeup.

Fiona felt flustered and she did not like the feeling. Why wouldn’t Hayley go to see Luke? Couldn’t she make an exception to her hard and fast rule about not meeting with clients? Luke was, after all, her oldest pal. Fiona couldn’t understand it. But that was Hayley: solid as a rock one moment, jumpy as a squirrel the next.

I’m not much better than that today myself, she thought, forcing herself to focus. She was going to miss the train if she didn’t hurry.

She put the last few things in her bag, and tried Hayley one more time. Again her call went right to voicemail, which was unusual.

Well, no matter. Hayley had already made it clear she wanted no part of this meeting. Fiona left a message, telling her friend what was going on, and headed for the door. She was determined to dispatch the uninvited butterflies, and behave like the professional she was.

FOUR

Hayley’s phone lay on the polished counter covered with bits of blue hair. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life and was silently castigating herself for making this appointment. God only knew what it was going to cost.

She finally found the courage to look in the mirror, and then sneak a peek over her shoulder where the master was plying his trade. Frederick, hair stylist to the rich and famous, was a blur of flying hands and scissors. Hair fluttered everywhere in a cloud of multicoloured curls, and was immediately swept up by an assistant dressed all in black.

Frederick was flanked by two more black-clad assistants, hands behind their backs, leaning this way and that with his every move. They could have been watching a tennis match, she thought.

He was finally behind her. Ready to do her hair. ‘If you must have blue hair in future, please promise me you will have a professional colour it for you. You are lucky not to be bald.’

All Hayley could manage was a nod. She was grappling with the image in the mirror. She hardly knew herself. The blue tint which she had so carefully applied to her hair was gone, replaced by her own colour, auburn. She hadn’t seen it in years.

The long tangle of messy hair that she thought of as her trademark was gone. In its place was a pixie cut, which one of the assistants was now coaxing into place with a round brush and a blow dryer. Anne Hathaway on a bad day, she decided, thinking of the actress. She was also fighting the urge to burst into tears and run away from this place.

‘Very chic! Very you,’ the famous hairdresser said, although Hayley had never met him before, and he had no idea who she was.

Frederick’s fingers were flying through her hair now that the assistant had finished his work. He smoothed it, then spiked it, then messed it up completely, and called it perfection.

‘You have something special to do today, yes?’ the hairdresser asked.

In spite of herself, Hayley blushed. ‘Maybe. Yes. I’m going to see a friend, a man. I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

‘You love this man.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Oh, no!’ Hayley was adamant. ‘Nothing like that. He’s a friend, as I said.’

He laughed. ‘I am French. I know such things! And when he sees you today, he will love you back.’ Frederick made a little bow, and, trailed by his entourage, floated off to the next client.

Hayley had frequently Googled Luke and knew he was still single, knew he had no significant relationships. She stared at herself in the mirror and dared to hope.

FIVE

Fiona was late. She had left the brownstone in Gramercy Park, where she lived, in plenty of time and, miraculously, a taxi was just dropping off a passenger on Park Avenue.

Her luck ended there. Bumper-to-bumper traffic was everywhere. Her driver crawled up and down side streets only to be greeted by another snarl of cars.

Finally she thanked him, stuffed twenty dollars into his hand, and jumped out of the cab on Sixth Avenue and 32nd Street. She ran the four long blocks to the railway station, her overnight bag banging against her leg.

Fiona raced into the 34th Street entrance, her pony tail flying. Penn Station was crowded even at three forty-five in the afternoon. She breathlessly asked the first person she saw where the Krispy Kreme Donut Shop was. Luke had suggested they meet there, because every employee in the station would know where it was.

He was correct. But by the time she had pushed her way through the crowd to the entrance, it was three fifty. The train left at four o’clock, and she feared Luke might have gone ahead without her.

Then she spotted him. There he was, holding a bag of donuts, looking impossibly handsome, as he searched the crowd for a woman he had never met.

‘I know what you look like,’ she had told him, but she had been wrong. He was better-looking in person than he was on air, if that was possible. He wore jeans, a pale blue cashmere sweater topped with a blazer and a vest. A long scarf of some exotic weave was wrapped around his neck.

Layers, Fiona thought. Like me. He looked more like a professor from the Ivy League college where her father taught than one of the most respected television journalists on the planet.

‘Hi,’ she said, gasping for air like someone who had just completed the New York Marathon. He turned around and smiled at her, which did nothing to slow her breathing.

‘Sorry,’ was all she could choke out. That giddy feeling she had been battling all day came rushing back. This, coupled with shortness of breath from the run, and the insane physical attraction she was feeling for this perfect stranger, was making her feel faint.

‘No worries,’ Luke said, taking her bag. ‘We’ll make it with time to spare.’

He grabbed her hand and started running, pulling her along behind him. His hand was strong and warm as he rushed her through the throng of commuters. They sprinted down the stairs to the track.

‘Board! All aboard for Washington, D.C.’

The conductor stepped onto the last car, swung his light to signal the engineer, and slowly the train began to move down the tracks.

‘Oh no!’ Fiona gasped. ‘I’ve made you miss it.’

Luke was undaunted. Hanging onto Fiona’s hand, he raced down the last few steps toward the train. He let go of her hand for a second, and leapt, still holding her luggage and the donuts, and was on the moving train. He reached out his hand to her, as the train began to speed up. He was pulling her, forcing to run alongside the train.

‘Jump!’ he cried. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you!’

And so she jumped.

She didn’t think about the consequences or the danger, she just jumped. He caught her, as he had promised, and didn’t let go. They held onto each other, there in the vestibule of the train, panting and wheezing and gasping for air.

Fiona started to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, which made breathing all that much harder. Then he began to laugh, too, and soon they were gone in paroxysms of hysterical laughter mingled with dyspnoea.

Fiona slid to the floor, and Luke joined her. When, finally, she could breathe enough to speak, she panted, ‘I’m Fiona,’ and extended her hand.

‘And I’m Luke.’ He grinned, taking her offered hand.

He did not let go right away, and Fiona, the laughter gone now, made no move to pull away. They just sat there, holding hands. And looking at one another with a kind of wonder.

SIX

After spending nearly eight hundred dollars, including the tip, for her new pixie cut, Hayley decided to go all out. She left the salon and walked down Fifth Avenue to Henri Bendel. In the past this store had intimidated her, but she was on a roll today.

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