Again. No one does that twice.â
Her mouth was dry.
âHowever,â he said.
It was the most beautiful word she had ever heard.
Your very betrayal has earned you a reprieve. Your intimacies with Mr Scott have proved useful. You will remain in my employment â but not, I hasten to add, as my public relations manager. I will be terminating that appointment tomorrow morning.â
She didnât understand what the hell he meant and she didnât care. She had to sit and listen while he told her quietly and unpleasantly what he thought of her, but that was nothing new. It used to hurt; now she knew that it was probably no more than the truth, it didnât any more.
âKeys,â he said, when he had finished.
She went into her bag, and handed him her set of keys to the penthouse flat.
âTell him the arrangement is at an end,â he said. âYou will not see him again.â
She nodded, and decided she could speak again. âIâm really much better at what I do best,â she said.
He raised his eyebrows, and explained then, quickly, concisely, and brutally, why she couldnât continue in her old job, what the PR job had all been about, and what he expected of her in her new job.
And not since that night in the police van had Anna felt so violated.
Catherine huddled into her coat for security, rather than warmth, as she sat in the dark. She had come to her decision; she wouldnât be going home. Not tonight. She couldnât. She was afraid; she seemed to have been afraid for months. Ever since she had known what was going to happen. She had been afraid to tell Max, because of what she had done at the time; she had just let it all roll on, let it happen, putting off the dreadful moment.
But it wasnât until this morning that she had been afraid of Max himself. She hadnât ever expected that. But he desperately wanted an explanation, and the only one she could give him was quite inadequate.
Even if she could work out what in the world she could say to him, it wouldnât work, because he would be in no mood to listen. He felt betrayed, and small wonder. She could have put an end to all the speculation, all the innuendo, all the police questioning, and the cold-shouldering. She had tried to help the only way she could, but it had only made matters worse; he had been grateful for that once, but now he knew the truth, and he hated her for it. She could have proved Maxâs innocence, and she hadnât, it was as simple as that.
Except that it wasnât as simple as that. If only Max hadnât seen her stepfather that night none of this would have happened.
Her mind was filled with images; of Max, white faced with anger, of Zelda, anxious and puzzled. Why hadnât Catherine told her? Why was she so afraid? Of Geraldine, briskly examining her, asking about the red marks on her face, so obvious against her pale skin. It wasnât Maxâs fault; they mustnât blame Max. It was her own fault.
And she had fainted, when all that fear had got too much; lying on the bed in that low-ceilinged, beige and cream room, she had had to look at the situation logically. Max might never forgive her, whatever she did, whatever she said; the hurt could have gone too deep. Unless ⦠at the back of her mind had been the hope, the single, almost indecipherable hope that she could get him back.
And she was going to try.
Maxâs interrogation by Geraldine and Zelda had been punctuated at one point by the sound of high-heeled shoes clicking down the stairway; a few moments later, Anna Worthingâs Porsche had backed out from behind the stair wall, and she had driven noisily out.
Zelda had refused to start the car until Max had assured them that he wasnât going home; Charles hadnât reappeared, and Max had finally asked to be dropped at the estate where Anna had her flat. It was a five-minute journey from the factory, but it was almost nine
Her mouth was dry.
âHowever,â he said.
It was the most beautiful word she had ever heard.
Your very betrayal has earned you a reprieve. Your intimacies with Mr Scott have proved useful. You will remain in my employment â but not, I hasten to add, as my public relations manager. I will be terminating that appointment tomorrow morning.â
She didnât understand what the hell he meant and she didnât care. She had to sit and listen while he told her quietly and unpleasantly what he thought of her, but that was nothing new. It used to hurt; now she knew that it was probably no more than the truth, it didnât any more.
âKeys,â he said, when he had finished.
She went into her bag, and handed him her set of keys to the penthouse flat.
âTell him the arrangement is at an end,â he said. âYou will not see him again.â
She nodded, and decided she could speak again. âIâm really much better at what I do best,â she said.
He raised his eyebrows, and explained then, quickly, concisely, and brutally, why she couldnât continue in her old job, what the PR job had all been about, and what he expected of her in her new job.
And not since that night in the police van had Anna felt so violated.
Catherine huddled into her coat for security, rather than warmth, as she sat in the dark. She had come to her decision; she wouldnât be going home. Not tonight. She couldnât. She was afraid; she seemed to have been afraid for months. Ever since she had known what was going to happen. She had been afraid to tell Max, because of what she had done at the time; she had just let it all roll on, let it happen, putting off the dreadful moment.
But it wasnât until this morning that she had been afraid of Max himself. She hadnât ever expected that. But he desperately wanted an explanation, and the only one she could give him was quite inadequate.
Even if she could work out what in the world she could say to him, it wouldnât work, because he would be in no mood to listen. He felt betrayed, and small wonder. She could have put an end to all the speculation, all the innuendo, all the police questioning, and the cold-shouldering. She had tried to help the only way she could, but it had only made matters worse; he had been grateful for that once, but now he knew the truth, and he hated her for it. She could have proved Maxâs innocence, and she hadnât, it was as simple as that.
Except that it wasnât as simple as that. If only Max hadnât seen her stepfather that night none of this would have happened.
Her mind was filled with images; of Max, white faced with anger, of Zelda, anxious and puzzled. Why hadnât Catherine told her? Why was she so afraid? Of Geraldine, briskly examining her, asking about the red marks on her face, so obvious against her pale skin. It wasnât Maxâs fault; they mustnât blame Max. It was her own fault.
And she had fainted, when all that fear had got too much; lying on the bed in that low-ceilinged, beige and cream room, she had had to look at the situation logically. Max might never forgive her, whatever she did, whatever she said; the hurt could have gone too deep. Unless ⦠at the back of her mind had been the hope, the single, almost indecipherable hope that she could get him back.
And she was going to try.
Maxâs interrogation by Geraldine and Zelda had been punctuated at one point by the sound of high-heeled shoes clicking down the stairway; a few moments later, Anna Worthingâs Porsche had backed out from behind the stair wall, and she had driven noisily out.
Zelda had refused to start the car until Max had assured them that he wasnât going home; Charles hadnât reappeared, and Max had finally asked to be dropped at the estate where Anna had her flat. It was a five-minute journey from the factory, but it was almost nine
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