“I suppose we’re friends now, aren’t we?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“I suppose we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” Mark said quickly, but she had a strange feeling that a wary look had come over his face. “And a very good friend you are, too,” he added.

That defined their relationship perfectly, Anne thought with amusement. She mustn’t read anything into that kiss. Well, she didn’t intend to, did she?

Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son, who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots!

Misleading Engagement
Marjorie Lewty

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘ONE video camera, four cassettes, six batteries, one tripod, off-camera mike and stand, headphones, on-camera light...’ Anne counted each item aloud as she arranged them on the worktop in her editing suite—or what she preferred to call the pantry. It had always been the pantry, since she’d been a little girl raiding it for biscuits when she’d got home from school.

She reached down into the cupboard for her holdall and, as usual, her glasses slipped down her nose and fell onto the vinyl-tiled floor. Cursing roundly, she picked them up, examined them for damage and, when reassured, stuck them back on her straight little nose. Roll on contact lenses! She’d promised herself if this wedding job today went well and the clients paid up promptly, to get rid of the hated glasses for ever.

As she finished packing all her gear into the holdall she heard a faint plop in the hall and walked swiftly through the old-fashioned kitchen to the front door, hoping that it was a reply to her advertisement. But it was only the local paper. Picking it up, she carried it to the kitchen table and spread it out at the small ads page. She always checked carefully on her advertisement. There had once been a mistake in the phone number and she had worried about the jobs she might have lost.

She looked down the columns. Yes, here it was:

Anne Grey—videos. Weddings, parties, all social occasions captured on video to show in your own home. Top-class work guaranteed. Artistic presentation. Moderate fees.

Her phone number—correct!—followed.

Breakfast now. She made coffee and sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of toast and Marmite. The wedding was timed for one o’clock and she planned to be at the church a full hour before the guests started to arrive. She had paid a preliminary visit to the church, which was situated in a village about twenty miles away from her home in a south Warwickshire spa town, to take shots of the architecture and get the vicar’s permission to set up her gear inside the church. There were a lot of roadworks going on, and it had taken her nearly an hour to drive there yesterday, but there was plenty of time before she needed to start out today.

She picked up the paper and folded it back at page six, where announcements of forthcoming weddings and social events appeared. This was Anne’s happy hunting-ground. At first she had had to nerve herself to approach possible clients direct—it had taken a good deal of courage to ring a doorbell and announce herself and practise what amounted to touting for business—but she found that most people were polite, and some even interested in her sales spiel.

She didn’t realise that they were perhaps more interested in the neat young woman herself, with her slender figure, her thick mane of pale gold hair, more often than not scraped back in a bunch at her neck, and her brilliant, dark blue eyes smiling behind glasses which seemed too large for her small face. In time she had conquered her natural diffidence and had picked up several jobs by this method. If she was going to make a success of running her own business she would have to learn to be setf-assured—she had soon found that out.

There were no weddings announced for the week to come, but on the next page she found something which interested her even more. Under the heading WEDDING OF THE WEEK appeared a piece about the wedding she was booked to video today.

The wedding of Sir William Brent’s daughter, Elizabeth, to Mr Andrew Foulkes of London will take place on Saturday June 9th at St John’s Church, Offleigh. The photograph on the left shows the happy young couple at their engagement party last December. Also in the picture is Mr Mark Rayne, who is to be the best man. Mr Rayne is a writer and has recently become engaged to Miss Trudi King, the well-known model, who is seen here with him.

There was more about the reception for two hundred guests, which would be held at Sir William’s residence, and about the bridesmaids and the names of some of the important guests, but Anne was studying the photograph.

There would be no difficulty in capturing on tape the radiant happiness of the good-looking young bridal couple. They were standing with their heads together, champagne glasses raised to each other in a toast and obviously sharing some private joke.

But the other couple held Anne’s attention. Even in the newspaper photograph it was plain that they were both stunningly attractive. The girl was sitting on a sofa in an elegant posture, her long dark hair flowing round her lovely face, and the man was leaning over her, smiling adoringly, one hand on her shoulder. He was dark too, and looked as if he would like to eat her up, Anne thought with a chuckle.

She studied the picture for several minutes before she remembered the time and looked at her watch. Goodness, she must hurry now, not waste time gazing at a picture of a gorgeous man.

In her bedroom she got out the charcoal-grey suit and dark turquoise blouse she always wore for weddings. Her tutor at college had advised her always to wear dark, inconspicuous clothes when she was working at a wedding, so that she could fade into the background.

As she pulled off her jeans and top she looked down with a pang at the ring on her left hand with its tiny cluster of diamonds and thought fleetingly that it would be nice if it were she who was dressing in a white bridal dress with a veil and bouquet. But there wasn’t any chance of that.

When Keith had ended their engagement at Christmas, when she’d had to back out of going to a party with him because her father hadn’t been well enough to be left, she had tried to pull off her ring but had found it was stuck tight. She had caught her hand in a car door a few weeks previously and the swelling that remained had still been enough to make it impossible to remove the ring.

As she had pulled at it fruitlessly Keith had said casually, ‘Oh, don’t bother with it. Keep the ring—it isn’t worth much.’ And that had hurt almost as much as his constant grumbling that it wasn’t any fun for him, being engaged to a girl who spent all her time running round after a demanding invalid.

‘You’re too soft-hearted,’ Keith had told her. ‘You can’t say no, that’s your trouble. You need to toughen up, Anne. People take advantage of you.’

‘But Daddy’s ill. He needs me,’ she had said unhappily.

‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t.’ He had probably decided that it suited him best to be brutal. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m off tomorrow on a trip abroad. You won’t be hearing from me again.’

The wound was still raw, when she allowed herself to think of it. She had loved Keith and had thought he loved her, and if Daddy had not been a darling she might have felt bitter about men.

But now Daddy had gone too, leaving her quite alone, and she had had to put grieving aside and concentrate on how she was going to manage. She simply must make a success of the video business. She’d hate to have to go back to office work again. But she really must have Keith’s ring removed, she vowed as she pulled on black tights and low-heeled sandals.

Anne finished dressing and, having reassured herself that nobody would mistake her for one of the wedding guests, she went back to the editing suite for her holdall. Taking a last look round the tidy little room, her eyes softened. She always remembered how Daddy had fitted up this room for her and bought all the equipment. That had been a short time before he had retired from his position as music master at the local primary school. She had already taken a course in computing and word processing but had been keen on trying her luck at video work, and Daddy had thought it was a good idea.

‘You can’t have too much training,’ he had told her. ‘I want to be sure that you can keep yourself in comfort when I’m no longer here to look after you.’ His eyes had softened in a way she could never forget as he’d added, ‘You shouldn’t have chosen middle-aged parents, you know.’ And she’d known he had been thinking of her mother, who had died only a week or two after she was born.

‘But I’ve got Keith,’ she had said. She and Keith had got engaged at about that time.

Daddy had stuck to his opinion. ‘You never know what may happen,’ he’d said, and how right he had been! It had only been weeks later that he’d had a stroke and she had given up her first secretarial job to look after him. He had died a month ago.

Suddenly the neatly stacked shelves in the editing suite blurred before her eyes and she got out a handkerchief and blew her nose hard. She mustn’t let herself dwell on the past. She had a job to do. She locked the front door and went to get her small car out of the parking space at the back of the house.

Offleigh was a very small village with a very large church, which looked its best on a sunny morning like this.

Anne turned into the lane beside the church and backed her car carefully into the parking space allotted to her yesterday by the vicar when she had explained to him that she needed to leave immediately after the end of the service, so that she would be at the reception in time to catch the guests arriving and being greeted by the bride and groom and their parents.

She had found the vicar delightfully helpful. He had taken her. on a tour of the church and told her a little of its history. It dated from Norman times, although it had been extensively added to later. He had helped her to decide where she could set up her camera to get the best view during the service and had told her how to get to the vestry where the signing of the register would take place. He had also assured her that she would have no difficulty in following the service, that it was to be traditional even down to the organ music. Anne had been truly grateful to him for being so interesting and so helpful, and wished that all vicars could be as nice as this one.

Getting out of her car now, she stood and gazed with pleasure at the old church. It looked very beautiful on this June morning, the sunlight, shining between the branches of a tall chestnut tree, making dappled patches of silver on the ancient stones. The shape of the square tower stood out bravely against the flat blue sky as it must have done for centuries past, although Anne could see quite clearly the places where the stone had been patched over and over again—as the vicar had pointed out to her yesterday. Small birds—swallows? House-martins? —wheeled round the tower, diving to a place beneath the eaves where they evidently had a nest. She stood watching them, enjoying the quietness and peace of the morning.

Suddenly the peace was broken as a large green car turned the comer of the lane, swished round and backed into the parking space next to her own. The powerful engine throbbed for a moment and then was silent. A car door opened and slammed again. Anne lugged her heavy holdall out of the back seat of her car and put it down on the grass verge while she felt inside the door to press the lock.

A man’s voice from just behind her said curtly, ‘How long do you propose to stay here?’

A church official, perhaps? But why did he have to speak so peremptorily? She turned to confront him. He was obviously not a church official. He must be a guest. He was wearing formal attire—morning suit of striped trousers and a long coat, slightly shaped to the waist—and there was a pink carnation in his buttonhole. He was very tall and very dark, and he wore a hard, angry expression.

She played for time while she thought how to deal with him without making any unpleasantness. ‘Er—what did you say?’

He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘I asked how long you proposed to stay here,’ he repeated.

Then she realised suddenly who he was—he was the best man. Mark something. She recognised him from the photograph, in which he had been smiling down adoringly at the gorgeous model. His face was hard and unsmiling now. Anne reminded herself that the best man was responsible for getting the guests into their cars after the ceremony, so perhaps that could excuse his abrupt approach. He might even be feeling nervous about his role in the wedding.

She looked up at him and said mildly, ‘I propose to stay until the end of the ceremony. Why do you ask?’

She saw the angry light in his dark eyes. ‘Well, you can’t leave that thing here,’ he said, with a contemptuous gesture towards her white Metro which, although lovingly polished and regularly serviced, was beginning to show its age.

She began to feel very annoyed. ‘I certainly have no intention of moving. it,’ she said coldly.

He passed a glance over her, standing very straight in her off-the-peg grey suit, and took a deep breath. ‘Now, look here, my girl,’ he said, and his tone was more insulting than impatient, ‘if you’ve come early to get a good spot to gawp at a wedding it doesn’t concern me, but you must certainly remove your car to another place—much further away.’

Anne locked the door of the Metro very slowly and deliberately. She turned back to him. ‘And what will you do if I refuse? Send for the police with lifting gear? I doubt if you’ll find any in this village.’ The dark blue eyes that could so easily sparkle with laughter were as cold as ice.

He made a furious noise in his throat. ‘This is ridiculous. I shall see the vicar and have your car removed.’

‘You do that,’ she said. ‘Tell him Miss Anne Grey has parked her car in a place you don’t approve of. I’m sure he’ll help you. He is most courteous,’ she added pointedly.

She picked up her holdall and stalked away from him towards the church gates. She held her head high, but as she hurried up the side-aisle she was annoyed to find that her knees were shaking and she glanced over her shoulder in case he was behind her.

As she reached the place between the pillar of the chancel arch and the back row of the choir stalls and put down her holdall, she told herself that she mustn’t let that abominable man get under her skin. She should be proud of herself. He had been extremely rude and she had stood up to him ... but there had been something in that hard dark face which had sent a tremor of fear to the pit of her stomach.

She peeped round the pillar and saw that he had come into the church and was talking to the vicar beside the vestry door. She could hear the rumble of the deep voice and the vicar’s soft-spoken replies but couldn’t make out a word. After a time the best man nodded and seemed to be thanking the vicar before he turned and walked out of the church.

Anne breathed more easily. That was that and she must put the rather horrid little episode right out of her mind. She would need all her concentration when the wedding began.

She spared a few moments to look round the church again with deep pleasure, enjoying the scent of the flowers which filled every corner and the way the sun cast coloured patches on the rows of pews as it shone through the big south window. A heavenly place for a wedding, she thought as she started on her work.

The next half-hour was spent in setting up the tripod and camera and checking that she would get the best shots of the bride and groom from here as they took their vows. Yes, she decided at last, it would be perfect. She needed particularly to focus on the bride’s face when she made her responses. Next there was the off-camera mike to be installed where it would pick up the words of the service, as close as possible to the spot where the vicar would stand but without being obtrusive. This was always a headache, but at last it was done and the wires taped to the floor carefully.

The church bells had been chiming for some time, and she glanced at her watch. The guests would be arriving soon. Unhitching the camera from its tripod, she carried it out to the front of the church where a crowd was already collecting on both sides of the path to the entrance. Of course everyone in the neighbourhood would be there to see the squire’s daughter arriving for her wedding.

There was also a TV team from the local station. She knew the cameraman, Bob Riley, from her college days, and exchanged a few words with him. He was decent enough to make sure she had a good place beside him to film the guests arriving and the bride with her father.

‘How’s business, Anne?’ enquired Bob. ‘I’m going freelance shortly. I’m tired of the local stuff—I want to branch out a bit. Roger French is coming in with me as producer-director, and we’ll probably pick up a few more of the guys and gals’ He chuckled. ‘Wish me luck. Oh, here’s the first contingent. Off we go, Anne.’

He lifted his camera to his eye and Anne, after removing her glasses and sticking them into her pocket, followed suit. She couldn’t cope with the glasses while she had her eye glued to the camera.

Twenty minutes later Anne’s arms were aching, but the arrival of the elegant guests had duly been recorded. The bride’s mother arrived next, with an older woman, and a minute or two later the six little bridesmaids, pink-cheeked and cherubic in frilly voile dresses of hyacinth-blue, were decanted from three cars and shepherded by mothers and aunts into the porch, to a chorus of, ‘Ah! Aren’t they sweet?’ from the crowd.

One of the six was taller than the rest. She was, no doubt, the chief bridesmaid. It would be the best man’s job to look after her, and Anne hoped for the little girl’s sake that he could smile as well as scowl.

There was a lull in the proceedings now as they waited for the bride and her father. Anne balanced her camera on her shoulder and shook her tired arms one by one. Then, only about five minutes late, a beribboned Rolls-Royce glided up to the gate and the bride was helped out carefully by her father. More murmurs of admiration came from the crowd, and a ripple of applause.

Anne, concentrating on getting the best angles, could see only that Elizabeth Brent was a dream in cream satin and lace as she walked slowly up the path on her father’s arm.

With a hasty goodbye to Bob, who wouldn’t be working inside the church, Anne hurried round to the south door and back to her station beside the pillar, avoiding the porch where the procession would be forming.

Fixing the camera back on its tripod and checking that the monitor screen was properly connected to the camera, she was able to draw a deep breath and prepare herself for the next stage of the service. The bells had ceased and the organist was playing a Bach prelude. The bridegroom had taken his place at the chancel steps, the best man standing beside him, and Anne focused on them to check her position.

The profile of the best man came into view and she couldn’t resist zooming in on it for a moment. In the zoom lens his profile looked serious but no longer grim. She gave him full marks for that. If he hadn’t made the effort to look cheerful to back up his friend on this nervy occasion he wouldn’t have been human.

Suddenly, to her horror, he turned his head. She saw him full-face now, and it was as if they were staring into each other’s eyes from only inches apart. She felt again that odd jolt in her stomach. It wasn’t really like that, of course; he couldn’t see her face, several yards away and hidden behind the camera. He had probably heard a sound from somewhere behind her and had moved his head to see where it had come from.

It was only a couple of seconds before she turned the camera away, retracting the zoom lens, but in those seconds she had registered every single detail of the hard, handsome face—the dark hair, curling slightly at the temples, the furrows in the wide brow, the long, curving lashes over night-dark eyes, the small lines round the long, sensitive mouth, even the pores of his skin where he had shaved earlier. She saw something else in that momentary Cash—he was not angry or bad-tempered. He was deeply unhappy.

The realisation was a shock. Anne’s hands were trembling as they gripped the handle of the tripod. Pull yourself together, you idiot, she told herself. You’re supposed to be a professional, and professionals don’t allow their minds to wander.

The bride’s mother came alone up the aisle and quietly slipped into the second pew, then the choir of boys and girls filed in, followed by the vicar, who, after a short pause before the altar, took his place beneath the chancel arch. The bridegroom and best man were standing before him to one side. The organ music faded away into silence and a hush of expectation fell over the congregation.

The solemnity of the moment got through to Anne, and her hands were damp as they adjusted the camera. Then the first notes of the ‘Bridal March’ sounded and the bridal procession appeared from the porch and began the slow walk up the aisle, the bride on her father’s arm, followed by her bridesmaids. From then on it was total concentration for Anne. Not a moment of the service must be lost.

She worked with confidence, missing nothing, through the singing of the hymns, the prayers, the address by the vicar, the exchanging of rings, and the move to the vestry to catch the signing of the register. She dashed back again to change the cassette before she made her way down the church to be in place when the couple came down the aisle together. Hastily she slipped the cassette out of the camera, dropping it into her holdall, and put a new one in.

She’d better be on the safe side and change the battery too, although she didn’t think that the old one was exhausted. It was dark in her comer of the church, and she had to fiddle with inserting the new battery. She was feeling quite unbearably hot. She just couldn’t go out into the sunshine again without removing her jacket. She pulled it off hastily and tossed it down just as the organ began triumphantly to fill the church with the strains of the well-loved Mendelssohn ‘Wedding March’.

Gripping her camera, she hurried down the side-aisle to a spot from where she could record the progress of the bride and bridegroom, smiling happily, down the nave, with the bridesmaids following behind.

Outside in the churchyard the photographer had arrived, and was soon busily organising people into groups. After taking a few casual shots, Anne left him to it and hurried back up the side-aisle to reclaim her holdall.

She packed her camera and tripod away and then picked up her jacket—or rather she tried to pick it up. It seemed to have got stuck somehow in the end choir stall. Her glasses were in the pocket and without them it was difficult to see what had happened. Anne pulled at it and swished it from side to side, trying to unhook it. Finally, with a tearing sound as the lining was released, the jacket was free. She clicked her tongue as she saw a long rip. up the lining, but that could wait to be examined when she got home. She pushed on her glasses, zipped up her holdall and left the church by the south door.

Her car was, of course, where she had parked it. For just a second she wondered if the best man might have had it moved after all. That would have been victory for the male sex. But not this time, she thought with a wry grin as she unlocked it, threw in the holdall and jacket and set out to drive to the Brent residence, a few miles away, where the reception was to be held.

She did not turn into the drive, but found a place to leave her car further along the lane beside the high wall which surrounded the grounds, and walked back to where a large marquee had been put up on the lawn of the impressive mansion of Sir William Brent.

It was hot inside, with an overpowering smell of flowers and cut grass. Two long trestle-tables indicated that the meal was to be a buffet, and maids from a catering firm were bustling about with plates and glasses. The food would no doubt be brought from the house at the last minute.

Anne enquired of an older woman who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings where the wedding cake would be placed, so that she could position herself out of the way but at the best angle to record the cutting of the cake and the speeches. She found a corner to place the microphone and waited for the next stage of the proceedings. She was beginning to feel tired and very hot. She would be thankful when it was all over.

The parents were the first to arrive, followed by the bride and groom, and a line was formed to welcome the guests. Last lap! Anne told herself.

Soon the marquee was full of people, and the smell of expensive perfume mingled with that of flowers and the delectable goodies on trays which the maids were carrying in and laying out on the tables. Champagne followed in buckets of ice, and lastly the cake, a glorious pyramid of dazzling whiteness. The sound of talk and laughter rose and fell and finally rose in a crescendo as the bride pretended that she had to be helped by her husband to cut the cake.

Anne was working mechanically when it came to the speeches, and as soon as they were over she parked her camera and tripod with her holdall and jacket in a comer of the marquee and found her way out into the cool air. There was a garden seat under a clump of trees quite close and she sank down onto it, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the refreshing breeze.

She wasn’t aware of a tall figure approaching across the grass. ‘Hello, Miss Grey.’

Anne’s eyes flew open to see the best man standing before her, a plate in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. He held the glass out to her. ‘A peace offering,’ he said.

Her earlier resentment had faded, the memory of it erased by the moment when his eyes had looked into hers so closely—so intimately, it had seemed—through the lens of her camera.

‘Oh! Oh, thank you,’ she murmured weakly. She felt absurdly shy and lowered her face over the glass as she took a long drink of the blessedly cold champagne. ‘That’s lovely.’

He sat down beside her. ‘I thought you looked as if you needed it. I’d no idea that recording a wedding involved such hard work.’ He still wasn’t smiling but his tone was friendly now. ‘And I did my best to make things more difficult for you,’ he added wryly. ‘Please have some cake as an indication of your forgiveness.’ He put the plate on the seat between them.

Anne tried to think of something concise and witty to say in reply, but the words didn’t come. Instead she smiled at him through her large glasses and took a bite of the delicious wedding cake.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now all debts are settled.’ He leaned back in the wooden seat. ‘Have you finished your labours yet?’

This was easier. She chased a crumb of cake round the plate and said, ‘Not quite. I still have to wait for the bridal couple to leave for their honeymoon. Then I can pack up and go home. But there will be at least twelve more hours to spend on editing the tapes. I’ll wait for tomorrow to tackle that.’

He nodded. ‘You’d better keep an eye on the goings-on inside. I don’t suppose Andrew and Liz will hang about long; they’ve got to drive to Dorset. Andrew has a cottage and a boat there. They plan to spend their honeymoon cruising round the Greek Islands and I think they want to make a start today.’

Anne drank the last drops of her champagne and put the glass down on the empty plate between them. ‘What a lovely idea.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the sustenance and the kind thought, Mr...’

‘Rayne,’ he said. ‘Mark Rayne.’

As he rose she smiled up at him. He was very tall; if only he would smile he would be really handsome, she thought. She knew he could smile. The photograph in the newspaper had shown him smiling beatifically at his lovely fiancé. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t here with him that he looked so gloomy.

‘Well, thank you again, Mr Rayne,’ she said, turning to go.

‘It was the least I could do,’ he replied gravely.

There was a spring in Anne’s step as she hurried back into the marquee. She hated to be on bad terms with anyone, and Mark Rayne had apologised very handsomely even if he couldn’t manage a smile.

The bridal couple were no longer in the marquee; they must have gone into the house to change before leaving. Anne collected her camera and tripod and made her way round to the front of Sir William Brent’s impressive Neo-Gothic mansion. At the foot of a long flight of steps an open car, a Mercedes, was pulled up. Other expensive-looking cars lined the forecourt and the overflow was parked diagonally down the wide drive. She set up her tripod in a spot beside the long, shiny bonnet of the car and hoped for the best.

Very soon the guests began to drift out of the marquee and stand around the car and up the steps, but they were all too polite to push in front of her. It seemed a long wait, but at last the chatter died down and bags of confetti were produced as the small party from the house came down the steps. Anne swivelled her camera round and got a marvellous view of the bride, dressed now in a honey-coloured suit that matched her hair, which hung round her pretty face like a golden halo as it caught the sunlight. Her husband, in a lightweight suit, was beside her, and next to him the best man, Mark Rayne, with the parents and close relatives.

Anne felt rather absurdly conscious of him as he took his place on the bottom step, almost by her side. He looked down at her as she lifted her head for a moment and nodded. She would have liked to move away, but of course that wasn’t possible.

Confetti was falling like rain all over the car now. People were calling out, kissing, laughing, but at last the bridegroom helped his bride into the passenger seat of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Anne kept her eyes glued to the camera. That was a most beautiful shot of the bride. She looked so blissfully happy as she lifted her face towards her new husband. Already Anne was composing the end of the video in her mind.

Then—suddenly—something hit her on the head, and she looked up, startled, and saw what had happened. The bride had thrown her bouquet high in the air and it had landed on—of all people—the woman taking the video. Anne clutched it, her cheeks scarlet, as everyone laughed. She caught a whiff of the lilies of the valley as she threw it back into the crowd.

She felt a touch on her arm and heard Mark Rayne murmur, close to her ear, ‘I noticed you were wearing a ring. That should speed matters up.’

She was disturbingly conscious of the feeling of his hand on her bare arm. He had beautiful hands, she noticed, the fingers strong and sensitive. She gave him a tremulous little smile before she turned back to her camera, and although he still wasn’t smiling she thought she detected a wicked glint in his dark eyes.

The car drew away to cheers and calls of good wishes and showers of confetti. Anne made her way hastily back to the marquee and packed her gear into the holdall. By the time the guests began to filter back, ready for more food and drink and socialising, she was on her way down the drive, making quickly for her car—and home.

She drove slowly along the country lanes. After a large wedding like this her head seemed full of moving pictures, and it took her a while to return to the real world. One picture kept coming back again and again—the face of Mark Rayne, the enigmatic best man. She would never see him again, except on video, when she edited the tapes, but it wasn’t a face she would easily forget.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS nearly nine o’clock and beginning to get dark when the blow fell. After a leisurely supper Anne was unpacking her holdall in the editing suite when the horrible fact emerged—cassette number two, the most important one, the one which held her recording of the heart of the wedding, was missing. A feverish search of every comer of the holdall confirmed the fact. She stared down at the worktop. Cassettes four, three and one were in order, but there was a gap where two should have been.

Don’t panic, she told herself. Think. Think. When did you take cassette two out of the camera and what did you do with it? She sank onto the stool and pressed a shaking hand to her forehead.

After the signing of the registry in the vestry, that was it. In a hurry to get down to the front of the church and record the bridal couple walking back down the aisle together, she had pulled the cassette out of the camera and slipped the next one in. It had been quite dark in her corner and she must have dropped cassette two on the floor instead of putting it back in the holdall, and later, when she’d been struggling to get her jacket free, she must have swept the cassette behind the pillar or under the choir stall. So—it must still be there, and all she had to do was drive back to the church and find it.

Another two hours’ driving! But it would be worth it—anything would be worth it if she could only lay her hands on precious cassette number two. Without it the video would be useless.

She had changed when she got home, into jeans and a cotton top, and now she hurried upstairs and pulled on a thick woollen jumper, swilled her face in cold water and went to get the car out again.

The church clock was striking ten when Anne reached Offleigh. The single streetlamp was situated in the main street of the village, some distance from the church. When she had parked her car and turned out the lights she had to wait for a moment to accustom her eyes to the darkness and then she found the front path and made her way to the porch. ‘Please let the church not be locked,’ she breathed.

She was fumbling with the heavy ring handle of the massive door when steps sounded behind her and the light of a torch shone round her feet. A gruff voice said, ‘Sorry, I’ve just come to lock up.’ Not the vicar’s voice. It must be the church warden.

Anne turned and the light of the torch fell on her face. ‘Oh, please,’ she said. ‘Could you wait for a few minutes? I was at the wedding this afternoon and I’ve lost something rather valuable. I know exactly where I dropped it, and if I could just have a chance to look round...’

He must have heard the desperation in her voice. He leaned nearer and looked into her face, and after a short time for consideration he said, ‘OK, come in. I’ll switch on the lights.’

‘Thank you,’ Anne whispered fervently. She scurried up the side-aisle to the place by the pillar where she had parked her gear. The church warden followed more sedately. He helped her to search while she explained the circumstances to him.

After ten minutes they had covered every square inch of the floor where the cassette might have fallen, but had drawn a blank. Anne felt like bursting into tears. ‘It isn’t here,’ she said in a wan voice.

The church warden agreed. ‘But the vicar might have it, miss. It might have been handed in to him.’

Anne clutched at the straw. ‘Where could I find him? Would you direct me to the vicarage?’

He shook his head. ‘He doesn’t live in the village. He lives in Lifton-on-the-Hill. He has to look after both parishes. And there won’t be any services here tomorrow.’

‘I see,’ Anne said in a defeated voice. ‘Well, thank you very much; you’ve been very helpful.’ She got back into the car as the elderly man switched off the church lights and ambled round to the side-door.

Anne drove a short way out of the village and stopped to think. Should she drive out to Lifton-on-the-Hill now? It must be over ten miles away, on the Stow road. It would be nearly eleven o’clock by the time she got there, and it would probably mean knocking up the vicar and getting him out of bed. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Putting the car into gear, she headed once more for home.

The journey back seemed to take hours as she stared ahead at the road and refused to let herself consider what it would mean if she had really lost the cassette. But once in the house the emptiness closed round her and panic stirred, giving her a hollow feeling inside. She relied mainly on recommendations from satisfied clients, and had had high hopes of doing a good job for the influential Brent family. Things soon got around—negative as well as positive. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have any dealings with Anne Grey—she’s most unreliable.’ She could almost hear the words already.

She had to face the fact that she might have lost the cassette for good. Perhaps one of the cleaners had thrown it into a rubbish bag, or a choirboy had picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. To a boy any video was a video and might be interesting. Anne shivered. The house felt very cold. She made a pot of strong tea—the panacea for all ills—and drank it sitting in the kitchen.

She tried to cheer herself up. There was still the vicar. She could find him tomorrow morning, and surely he would have the cassette? As she drank the tea she glanced wearily at her watch. She might as well go to bed; there was nothing else to do tonight.

She emptied the teapot and her glasses fell off into the sink. Picking them out, she saw that one of the side pieces had come off. A hasty search in the sink revealed the fact that the tiny screw had vanished—probably down the plughole. Tears of frustration came into her eyes at this final annoyance. This was definitely not her day. Leaving the glasses on the kitchen table to be dealt with tomorrow, she switched off the lights and started to climb the stairs, her head drooping.

She was halfway up when the front doorbell rang shrilly. Her heart thudded. Who could it possibly be at this hour? Holding onto the banister, she waited, hardly daring to breathe. But the bell rang again, and then again. Anne crept downstairs and across the hall, switching on the light. Without removing the chain she opened the door a crack and peered round it.

In the light from the hall she saw that there was a large man standing outside, but without her glasses she couldn’t make out his face. She felt a horrid qualm of fear. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

A man’s deep voice said irritably, ‘Open the door, can’t you? I’m not a burglar.’

She knew that voice. Mark Rayne. Her first thought was, He’s got the cassette. That’s why he’s here. Hope shot up like a thermometer plunged into hot water. She slipped off the chain and threw open the door. As the light from the hall fell on him she saw that he had changed out of his morning suit and was wearing jeans and a pullover.

He leaned closer and stared at her. ‘I’m looking for Anne Grey; I’ve got something for her.’ He patted his jumper as if expecting to find pockets there.

‘I’m Anne Grey,’ she said.

He peered closer, swaying slightly, and put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He shook his head. ‘Are you sure? You don’t look like her.’

‘I assure you I am,’ she said, and laughed. She realised that he might be a little drunk, but that didn’t matter beside the glorious fact that he probably had the cassette. ‘Won’t you come in? And then you can find—whatever it is you have for me.’ She mustn’t rush matters; he might get angry and go away.

He went on patting himself, feeling for non-existent pockets. ‘I know it’s here somewhere. I must have put it in my case.’ He turned round and walked rather unsteadily to his car, which was standing at the kerb. Anne pattered after him; she wasn’t going to let him get away until he had found what must be the cassette.

He opened the back door of the car and heaved a heavy suitcase along the seat. Balancing it on the edge, he began to fumble with its catch, muttering to himself.

Anne pulled the case away from him. ‘Let’s take it inside,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t see what you’re doing out here.’

He seemed a little surprised but he let her carry the heavy case into the house and dump it on a chair in the sitting room. He followed her inside and stood staring at her in puzzlement. ‘I don’t think you are Anne Grey,’ he said, slowly and carefully. ‘She looked like a ghost—and you look like...’ He thought for a long time and then finished triumphantly, ‘Like Goldilocks.’ He reached out and touched a lock of golden hair, which was now hanging in a wavy mass to her shoulders. ‘Nice!’ he said.

Anne moved away quickly. Had she been quite mad to invite the man into the house at this time of night? She must find the cassette and then get rid of him.

‘Won’t you sit down,’ she said, ‘and let me open the case?’

He stared at her as if he still wasn’t sure who she was. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, and collapsed backwards onto the large sofa. ‘Yes, by all means open it.’

She let him sit there while she managed to get the case open. It contained his morning suit, carelessly folded, three clean handkerchiefs, and a crumpled white shirt rolled round a pair of underpants. There was also shaving gear and a hairbrush and comb. She felt all round the edges of the case without success. As a last resort she examined the striped trousers. No large pockets in them! Then she held up the coat and found that it had an inside pocket which seemed to contain something bulky. Hardly daring to hope, she felt inside it—and drew out the missing cassette.

Anne couldn’t restrain a little whoop of pure joy and relief. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ she cried, looking at the man on the sofa. He was leaning back with his eyes closed. She shook his arm. ‘I’ve found it,’ she burbled.

He opened his eyes with an effort, mumbled, ‘Have you? Good,’ and then closed them again.

Anne regarded him doubtfully. He didn’t really look drunk, he looked absolutely exhausted. His face was colourless and there were deep dark smudges below his eyes. She would make some black coffee and then wake him up and somehow get him back in his car—although he really didn’t look as if he should be driving. Well, she’d have to see how things went.

While the kettle was boiling she took the cassette to the editing suite and placed it tenderly on the worktop. She’d run it through on the monitor to check up on it, even gloat a little, as soon as she’d got rid of Mark Rayne.

In the kitchen the kettle had boiled. Anne spooned coffee liberally into a mug, filled it and carried it back to the sitting room. In her absence the man had made himself comfortable. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long legs curled up like a child’s. He was breathing deeply and evenly, undoubtedly fast asleep. The thick black lashes that she had seen through the zoom lens rested on his cheekbones. His mouth, no longer held in a stern, tight line, was relaxed as he breathed deeply.

She put down the cup of coffee and went on staring at him. He really was fabulously good-looking. Anne’s mouth twitched into a soft smile—the smile of amused tenderness that she would bestow on any sleeping creature, human or not.

‘Yes,’ she said aloud. ‘You’re very appealing, no doubt. But you can’t stay here.’ She leaned forward and shouted, ‘Mr Rayne.’

No reply.

‘Mr Rayne, I’ve made some coffee. Wake up, can’t you?’ She shook his arm as hard as she could.

Silence, except for the faintest of grunts.

Anne frowned, perplexed. So—it was like that, was it? She couldn’t get rid of him unless she removed him bodily—which was impossible—or rang for the police—which was unthinkable.

She sighed. He wasn’t going to wake up for some time, and she did owe him a debt of gratitude for returning the cassette, however tardily. He might as well stay here and have his sleep out. She fetched a blanket and draped it over him. He didn’t stir when she pulled off his shoes. The suitcase lay on the chair, its contents hanging out. Well, he could pack that for himself when he left. He would probably wake some time in the night and let himself out.

She lit the table lamp and switched off the main light. Was there anything else? Oh, yes—his car. It had been left standing in the road, unlocked. Anne rushed out, holding her breath. There had been a car theft in this road only last week.

She breathed again when she saw that it was still there, with the keys hanging from the ignition. She regarded it doubtfully. Ought she to move it into the parking space at the back of the house? She’d never handled a powerful car like this in her life and the passage between the two houses was quite narrow. Better leave it where it was. There was probably some security gadget fitted. She locked the driver’s door and found that the other doors locked as well.

Taking the keys back to the house, she placed them on the low table by the sofa. Mark Rayne was even more deeply asleep. He looked very peaceful. Anne went out and closed the door. Now, at last, to watch the result of all her work this afternoon.

Fetching her glasses from the kitchen, she managed to perch them on her nose. She could see the monitor screen well enough if she didn’t move her bead. The recording proved to be superb—the best thing she’d ever done. Nothing of importance had been missed, the angles were just right and the lighting inside the church had been much better than Anne had expected. She ran it through to the end and shut off the monitor with a sigh of satisfaction. How truly terrible if she had actually lost it through her own carelessness! She felt a surge of gratitude to Mark Rayne for bringing it back to her.

Turning off the downstairs lights again, she listened for a moment outside the sitting-room door. There wasn’t a sound from inside. Well, let him enjoy his sleep, she thought, her mouth quirking into a soft smile.

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom she was suddenly overcome with tiredness. It had been a gruelling day, one way or another. She washed her face, cleaned her teeth and, standing by the bed, wondered for a moment whether she should keep her clothes on. After all, there was a strange man sleeping in the sitting room. Anne shrugged. She was almost sure he didn’t present a threat. But when she had pulled off her jeans and top and put her nightdress on she went across the room and locked the door. She climbed into bed and was fast asleep within five minutes.

Anne woke later than usual. The first thing she did was cross the room, pull back the curtains and look down into the road. Yes, the green car was still there, steaming gently as the sun dispersed the morning dew from its long, sleek bonnet. She was annoyed to find that her heart was beating faster than usual.

She didn’t have to worry about what the neighbours might think if they saw a strange man leaving her house with a suitcase early in the morning. Most of the houses in the road had been made into flats, and there was such a rapid turnover of occupants that she never had time to get to know anyone. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was how she was going to deal with Mark Rayne.

It was such a very odd situation. If he had been a man she knew, she could have turned the whole thing into an amusing episode and they would have laughed together and avoided any awkwardness. But she hadn’t even seen him smile yet. She wondered if he would remember saying that she looked like Goldilocks. Probably not. It had seemed out of character.

She wasn’t at all sure why she chose to wear a golden yellow top with her jeans this morning. Probably because it was her favourite and she needed something to boost her courage when she went down to deal with her unconventional visitor.

When she opened the sitting-room door she was relieved to find that he was awake. He had put on his shoes and the blanket was folded neatly on the sofa. He was in the process of trying to get his case locked and looked round quickly when he heard her come in. She decided to play it lightly, even if he didn’t respond. She smiled at him. ‘Good morning, Mr Rayne. Sorry you didn’t have a more comfortable bed.’

He straightened his long body. ‘I really am desperately sorry. I feel ashamed of myself for passing out on you like I must have done. A couple of whiskies with friends at my hotel on top of the champagne and having been driving for about thirty-six hours was the reason, if not the excuse. I hope your family aren’t thinking of handing me over to the police. Perhaps I could see your mother and apologise to her, as well as to you.’

‘My parents are both dead. There’s only me,’ Anne said simply.

He looked hard at her with a lift of his thick dark brows. ‘Do you mean to say you live alone in the house? And you allowed me to stay here all night?’

She laughed. ‘I didn’t have much choice. You were sleeping the sleep of the—what is it?—the just or the unjust? Anyway, you were immovable. You were in no fit state to drive either. Also, I felt eternally grateful to you for bringing the cassette. So, all things considered, what would you have expected me to do?’

‘You could have rung the police,’ he suggested. ‘Although,’ he added quite seriously, ‘your sofa was much more comfortable than a cell in the police station, I’m sure.’ He was looking hard at her, but still he didn’t smile. ‘May I ask who you are?’

Anne gasped in surprise. ‘I’m Anne Grey, of course. Don’t you remember me from the wedding?’

He shook his head. ‘You look so very different. But I must believe it if you tell me so.’

Nothing about Goldilocks this morning! Anne wanted to giggle.

He turned back to struggle with the lock of the case again. Anne said, ‘Let me help. I’m afraid I had to pull things out last night when I was searching for the cassette.’

She took out the morning coat and refolded it carefully. She put it back and her hand touched his as he held the large case steady while she got the lid shut. She drew in a quick breath as a thrill of electricity passed up her arm. She had often read about this sudden sexual attraction that could pass between two complete strangers, but had never quite believed it could happen. She forced down the lid of the case and held it while he snapped the locks.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. But she could feel that they were looking steadily at her. She wished he would laugh, or even smile—anything to break the strange awkwardness that had suddenly sprung up between them.

At last he said, ‘Well, I’ll relieve you of my company, and thanks again for your kindness.’ He carried the case into the hall.

Suddenly Anne knew that she didn’t want him to go yet. She wanted to find out more about him. ‘Have you far to drive?’ she asked.

The long mouth drew into a rueful grimace. ‘About three hundred miles.’

‘Oh, dear, then you must let me make you a cup of coffee before you go,’ she said quickly. ‘If you’d like to wash, the cloakroom is just down the passage. Come into the kitchen when you’re ready.’ She didn’t give him time to refuse. She hurried into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She made two mugs of coffee and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster, laying butter and marmalade on the table with plates and knives.

A few minutes later Mark Rayne joined her. ‘I feel more human now,’ he said. He had evidently put his head under the tap; his black hair was wet and gleaming. He ran a hand over his chin. ‘I would have had a shave, in your honour, but I couldn’t face the hassle of getting the case opened and closed again, so please forgive me if I look like a pirate.’ He took the chair which Anne indicated.

She put a mug of coffee before him and said, ‘Don’t let that worry you. I broke my glasses last night so I can’t see you properly.’ She wished she could see his expression, but without her glasses his face was blurred.

At last he said, ‘That’s what it is. You were wearing glasses yesterday—and your hair was different, surely?’

She shook out her mop of gold curls. ‘I always wear it tied back when I’m working, and I always wear dark clothes so that I can fade into the background.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I was conscious of a small grey ghost flitting about the church.’ She could almost imagine he was smiling. But his tone was serious again as he said, ‘It’s really very kind of you to feed me like this, especially when I put you to such trouble last night.’ He spread marmalade on a piece of toast. ‘Will you give my apologies to your fiancé when you tell him? I wish I could see him myself to explain.’

Anne looked down at the ring on her left hand, and for a moment she wondered whether to tell this man that her engagement had been ended months ago, but she couldn’t do that without telling him why the ring was still on her finger. So she said lightly, ‘Oh, Keith would understand; he’s abroad at present.’

Mark Rayne was looking hard at her with a slight frown. ‘I keep wondering why you’re living alone in this big house. Surely it’s too large for one small girl? Or is that a tactless remark?’ he added hastily.

She felt herself flush very slightly. She supposed it might be taken for granted, in this day and age, that she and her fiancé should be living together. She didn’t quite know why she should be so eager to dispel that idea from his mind. ‘It’s my family home. I live quite alone here. My mother died soon after I was born and my father died only last month,’ she said quietly. She had to turn her face away quickly to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes; she hadn’t yet got over Daddy’s death. ‘Of course it’s too big for me. I shall have to try my luck in the house market soon, I suppose.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you should do that,’ he said gravely. He finished his coffee and the last piece of toast and stood up. ‘Well, mind you don’t let in any more wandering good-for-nothings to disturb you.’

‘I would let anyone in if they brought me back something valuable that I’d lost,’ she said, quite seriously.

She walked to the front door with him. ‘Thank you for everything, Anne,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a lovely, kind girl, and they don’t come like that very frequently these days. If ever I can do you a good turn to repay you just ask me.’ To her amazement he leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently before he picked up his case and carried it out to the car. He tossed the case on the back seat, got in behind the wheel and lifted his hand. She waved as the car disappeared round the corner of the road.

It was like waving to a friend whom she would see again soon. It seemed strange that he was driving three hundred miles away and that they wouldn’t meet again. “‘Ships that pass in the night”,’ she quoted aloud. She couldn’t remember the rest of that rather sad poem.

Her eyes were thoughtful as she went in and closed the door. She wouldn’t ever solve the enigma that was Mark Rayne.

Anne worked all day and into the night before she was satisfied with the editing of the wedding tapes, and before she went to bed she did something unusual—she made a copy of the finished video to keep for herself and put it away carefully in her bedroom drawer so that it wouldn’t get mixed up with any of the other cassettes in the editing suite. She thought that some time she would watch it to see if she could find any trace of a smile on Mark Rayne’s handsome face.

She knew that it was silly, but the man had caught her imagination and she found herself wondering about him. She put the cutting from the local paper with the tape, wondering what kind of books he wrote. She was a great reader but she’d never seen his name on any books in the library. She’d enquire some time. But of course he probably used a pen-name... Oh, stop brooding about the man, she told herself. He’s nothing to you.

On Monday morning Anne went into the town and took her glasses to the opticians to be mended. While she was there she made arrangements to have a test for fitting contact lenses, keeping her fingers crossed that she would be getting a cheque when she delivered the video.

In the afternoon she drove to the Brent mansion and delivered the video to Lady Brent, who invited her into an elegant drawing room and gave her tea as the video was played back on an enormous TV screen. Lady Brent was a handsome, grey-haired woman, friendly and with no nonsense about her, who seemed delighted to chat to Anne.

‘You’ve made a wonderful job of it, my dear,’ she said enthusiastically at the end. ‘I’m sure Elizabeth and Andrew will be delighted with it when they come back from their honeymoon. It will be one of their treasured wedding mementoes—so much more exciting than just a photograph. And Mark would like to have a copy too, to send to his parents. They’re retired now, and live in Malta.

‘Mark Rayne was Andrew’s best man, you know. They were at school together. He’s a very well-known writer—you may have heard of him; he writes under a pen-name...’ She looked up at the ceiling and clicked her tongue. ‘My memory for names is getting shocking. I know it’s something to do with gardens. He writes exciting mystery stories. I’m sure they’re very good, but not really my cup of tea.’ She laughed. ‘I’m afraid I only read gardening books.’

Anne assured her that it would be possible. to make another copy and promised to bring it the next day.

‘Poor Mark.’ Lady Brent sighed. ‘He was so disappointed that Trudi couldn’t come to the wedding with him. She’s his fiancée, you know, quite a well-known model, and he seems completely obsessed by her. She had to go abroad on an assignment. I’m afraid I’m very old-fashioned and out of touch, living in the country. You young people dash about the world so casually these days. I hate to go far from my beloved garden.’

Before she left, Anne had to be shown around the garden, whose full beauty could be appreciated now that the marquee had been removed. It was really lovely, and Anne received a pleased smile from Lady Brent when she expressed her admiration.

But she was thinking more of what Lady Brent had said about Mark and Trudi, and felt she had found out the reason for his low spirits. To be without someone you love, even if only temporarily, made the world seem empty and colourless, as she had found when Keith left her.

She hardly heard what the older woman was saying as she chatted on happily about the wedding and the house that Andrew had bought. ‘In the very next village, so they won’t be far away—Andrew will commute to his office in London.’

Anne hoped that Lady Brent would suggest recommending her work to friends, but the fond mother was far too engrossed in her family affairs to think about anyone else.

That evening Anne made a second copy of the video, and on Tuesday morning she drove out to deliver it. Lady Brent was away from home, the imposing butler informed her as she handed in the package, but her ladyship had left a letter for Miss Grey.

Anne stopped in a lay-by on the way home and opened the envelope. Inside she found a note of appreciation and a cheque for the agreed fee plus a bonus for the extra copy. Well, she needn’t worry about paying for the contact lenses, she thought with relief. But as she drove on she felt almost sad that the unusual episode in her life was over.

But, as it happened, it wasn’t quite over. Later that morning a florist’s van drew up outside the house.

‘Miss Grey?’ the girl enquired, and handed Anne a large wrapped bunch of flowers. Who could be sending her flowers? Anne wondered, carrying them into the kitchen. For a moment she thought it might be Keith and that he wanted to be forgiven and taken back. But when she had torn off the wrapping to disclose a huge spray of mimosa she found a tiny envelope, inside which was a card saying, ‘With gratitude and every good wish, M.R.’ Mark Rayne! How very nice of him—and how odd that the shop had selected her very favourite flowers.

With a warm feeling of pleasure she filled a brown pottery jug with water, arranged the spray in it and carried it into the sitting room, looking round for a good place to put it down. The low table beside the sofa where Mark Rayne had made himself comfortable was the perfect place. Anne stood, holding the jug in both hands. The mimosa smelled gorgeous and she leaned close to smell the fragrance of the fluffy yellow balls.

What an unexpected man Mark Rayne was! She remembered vividly the strong, hard face she had seen so intimately close in her camera lens, and then the smoothing out of all the unhappiness as he’d slept.

She put the jug down on the table with an impatient thud, reminding herself that the man was nothing at all to her, and she shook her head at her own foolish fancy as she found herself wishing again that she could have seen him smile—just once—before he’d passed out of her life for ever.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER the activities of the Brent wedding, the couple of weeks that followed were an anticlimax. There were no answers to Anne’s advertisement and her doorstep calls were either flatly rejected or met with a smiling, ‘Oh, we have our own camcorder now, thank you: It was all rather depressing.

Then, to make things worse, the gas bill came in. Anne stared at it with horror. Surely she hadn’t used all that gas in one quarter? But it had been a cold spring and it was a big house. Too big, as her wedding-night guest had told her, for one small girl to live in alone. At five feet six and a half she had never considered herself small, but perhaps if you were over six feet it would seem so.

She had a quick, confused picture in her mind of Mark Rayne. She had seen him looking arrogant and disdainful and she had seen him looking charmingly apologetic, and, of course, she had seen him in the photograph with an adoring smile on his lips. Now that she had seen the man she could imagine him looking deeply in love. Her heart seemed to miss a beat. Then she blinked and pulled herself together. This was no time to indulge in fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. She should be thinking about gas bills and how to pay them.

After a whole day spent poring over bills and cash book and bank statements, she had to face the fact that she had been much too optimistic to believe she could support herself with her video work and continue to live in this big house, which was all Daddy had had to leave her. She would have to sell the house and find somewhere much smaller, and if there wasn’t enough money left after the mortgage had been paid off it would have to be a bedsitter. And she must find another job.

The only bright spot on the horizon was that she had by now acquired her contact lenses and had gone through the necessary period of adjustment. They were a great success, although she wondered now if she should have spent all that money on them. But they improved not only her looks but her confidence, and they would make her video work much easier—if she ever got any more work.

Suddenly she felt frighteningly alone—Daddy gone, Keith gone and the future stretching ahead emptily. She put her head down on the table and wept.

But this was no time for self-pity, she told herself, wiping her eyes. It was the time for action.

All weekend she worked on the house, cleaning it from top to bottom until it looked cared for, if rather shabby. Tomorrow, she promised herself as she fell into bed late on Sunday night, she would go and visit an estate agent.

Anne slept very late on Monday morning, and by the time she had showered, breakfasted and got dressed to go into town it was after eleven o’clock. Just as she reached the front door the phone rang in the kitchen, and she rushed to answer it. A new customer? Had she despaired too soon?

She lifted the receiver. ‘Anne Grey,’ she said in her crisp, businesslike voice.

A man’s voice said, ‘Hello, Anne.’ It was a deep voice, and for one mad moment she thought it was Mark Rayne and her throat tightened. Then the voice went on, ‘This is Bob Riley here.’

Bob Riley, the cameraman she had been to college with and whom she had met at the Brent wedding, when he had told her he was setting up his own company.

‘Bob! How nice to hear from you. How are things going?’

‘Badly. I’m in the devil of a fix, Anne. The fact is that I’m in the middle of a job and I’ve been idiot enough to break my wrist. I can’t handle my camera. I can’t even pick it up.’

‘Oh, Bob, how rotten for you,’ she cried with ready sympathy. ‘Can I help at all?’

‘That’s why I’ve called you,’ he said. ‘You’re my last hope. Are you madly busy?’

Madly busy! That was a joke. ‘I’m free just at present,’ she said.

‘Well, could you possibly get yourself down here and stand in for me at a recording session tomorrow morning? It’s a terrific lot to ask of you at a moment’s notice, but it’s very important. It might be make or break for our new company.’

‘Why not? But you haven’t told me where “down here” is.’

Bob said sheepishly, ‘I didn’t want to frighten you off at the start. We’re in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall!’ Anne gasped. ‘B-but that’s three hundred miles away.’ She looked at her watch, which said nearly midday. The thought of driving three hundred miles on a strange route in her small car was rather horrifying. But Bob was a fellow pro and a friend and she couldn’t let him down.

Bob’s voice came anxiously from the other end of the line. ‘Anne, are you still there?’

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to get to you, Bob. Will you give me the address and advise me on the best route?’

After hours sitting behind the wheel of her car Anne was aching all over by nine o’clock that same evening, when she finally arrived at the address Bob had given her—the Wheatsheaf Hotel, Penryll. She parked the car beside three or four others at the front of the building and stood, stretching and yawning, looking for the entrance.

‘Hotel’ seemed rather too grand for this small, friendly-looking place, she thought. It was old, as if two or three fishermen’s cottages had been knocked into one, and lights shone from all the small, deep-set windows on the ground floor. From the two windows on the left, which were wide open to the road, there issued the unmistakable sounds of a public bar. No jukebox, thank goodness, simply the loud talk and rough laughter of the local folk enjoying their evening pint.

The next door bore the word ‘Residents’, and Anne pushed it open and blinked around. A steep flight of narrow stairs faced her and on her right was a door marked ‘Residents’ Lounge’. There was no sound from within. She opened the door and found herself in a small room with red velvet banquettes round the wall and three armchairs arranged round an ancient oak table. In one of the chairs sat Bob Riley, a glass of whisky beside him, his head drooping on his chest. His right arm was in plaster and supported by a sling. He looked the picture of misery.

‘Hello, Bob,’ Anne said brightly.

His head jerked up, his pleasant fair face lighting with a wide smile. ‘Anne, angel—you made it. I’d begun to think you’d got stuck somewhere. Am I pleased to see you! Come here and let me give you a hug with my one good arm.’ She went across to him and he gave her a delighted hug with his left arm. ‘Forgive me for not getting up,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair. Would you like something to eat or drink?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m OK. I had some sandwiches at a service place on the motorway. Now, tell me what’s going on. Where are the others?’

‘They went down for a breath of sea air. The beach is just at the bottom of the hill. They’ll be back soon.’ He gave her a worried look. ‘I hope we haven’t brought you all this way in vain, Anne. I’m afraid things are not all plain sailing yet. Roger went to see this writer bloke—he’s the subject of our film, by the way—a couple of hours ago, to tell him we were expecting a replacement and to check that we could still start tomorrow morning, as arranged. Roger didn’t get much joy.

‘He said Gardiner was in a black mood—something about a computer that had let him down—and he was making noises about not wasting his time pulling pretty faces in front of a camera until he’d got someone out to fix the computer, which, Roger gathered, was problematical. We’re a long way from any technology centres. As there are ladies present, I’ve edited his language.’

Anne sat up. ‘Gardiner? Is that his name?’

‘That’s the name he writes under—Francis Gardiner. I believe his real name is Rayne.’

Anne slumped back in her chair weakly. She supposed she might have guessed. Lady Brent had said his pen-name had something to do with gardens. And he himself had said he had three hundred miles to drive when he’d left her that morning. ‘I believe I know him,’ she said slowly. ‘How about if I go along and try my hand at smoothing him down?’

Bob regarded her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you aren’t too tired to beard the lion in his den?’

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