No Cure For Love by Peter Robinson Page A

early teens – Keats, Shelley, Byron – followed by the plays she had read first at home then studied later at university – collections by Shakespeare, Ibsen and Tennessee Williams, along with well-thumbed copies of The Duchess of Malfi, Three Sisters and A Dream Play .
    Hanging from a hook at the back of the door was the red knitted Christmas stocking her mother had made, with her name, Sally, embroidered in white. Paula must have dug it out. Perhaps her family really did want her here for Christmas after all.
    Everything was quiet downstairs. Either they were still out or Paula was hushing everyone up so Sarah could sleep. Time to unpack.
    Sarah hefted her suitcase onto the bed and unfastened it. Clothes and presents spilled out, and there, stuck in among them all, was the letter. She hesitated, then reached out and picked it up. This one had no stamp; it had been delivered by hand.
    Just then, she heard a door bang downstairs, followed by the clamour of children’s voices. Jason called out her name. Paula told him to be quiet. Time to enter into family life again.
    Sarah’s heart leapt into her throat. She had never felt so nervous, even before going on stage for a first night. She looked at the letter again and dropped it back among the pile of clothes, half pleased that she had been interrupted before opening it. After all, she was in England now, thousands of miles away from her problems in LA.
    She pulled on her jeans and sweatshirt, then opened the door and started down the worn stone stairs.
    What she saw made her stop halfway.
    Illuminated by the hall light, a man slumped in a wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. Beside him, attached to the chair, stood a small tank, like the kind frogmen wear, from which a transparent tube ran to his nostrils. His shoulders sloped and his body looked emaciated under the thick woollen blanket. Bluish flesh sagged and wrinkled over hollow, bony cheeks and scared, bright, feverish eyes looked up at her. Even from halfway upstairs, she could hear the soft hiss of the oxygen and the struggle as he laboured for breath.
    White-knuckled, she gripped the banister and took a faltering step forward. ‘Hello, Father,’ she said.

13
    ‘I hear your actress found a body on the beach,’ Maria said. ‘Think there’s anything in it?’
    Arvo shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Just unlucky, I guess. On the other hand . . .’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t like coincidences, that’s all.’
    ‘So what’s she like?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘You know. The actress. Sarah Broughton.’
    ‘You watch that show?’
    ‘Sure do.’
    Arvo shook his head slowly. It was late Friday afternoon, and Maria was sitting opposite him. He hadn’t seen her since the Sandi Gaines intervention. The only other team members in the office were Eric Mettering and Kelly Norris, one of the three females on the unit.
    ‘Me, too,’ Kelly called out from the far hutch. ‘That Jack Marillo guy’s got a great bod.’
    Maria laughed. ‘So tell me about her,’ she insisted. ‘What’s she like? In the flesh?’
    In the flesh, Arvo still thought that Maria herself was as desirable a woman as he had ever met, though he hadn’t told her that, and just about the opposite physical type to Sarah Broughton.
    They were different as day and night. Maria’s sexuality was sensual and earthy, while Sarah Broughton’s was more cerebral. While lovemaking with Maria would be joyous and uncomplicated, Arvo imagined, with Sarah it would mean searching for and freeing repressed emotions, finding ways through barriers and other defences. Maria’s skin would be warm, would offer friction and texture to the touch, he thought, whereas Sarah’s would be as smooth, and possibly as cold, as marble.
    ‘What kind of question is that?’ Arvo asked. ‘“What’s she like?”’
    ‘A pretty simple one, I’d’ve thought,’ said Maria. ‘Is she pretty?’
    ‘Of course she’s pretty. She’s a TV actress.’
    ‘They’re not all