Where Memories Lie by Deborah Crombie Page A

might want to go out for a coffee, talk about it. Or—or you could come to the flat. We could listen to—”
    “Thanks, but I can’t, really.” There was no way she was going to his flat. The thought of being alone with Giles was bad enough—although she couldn’t imagine he’d get up the nerve to make a move—but she certainly wasn’t spending the evening with that dog he was always going on about. She knew what effort it must have taken him to invite her, however, and tried to be kind. Excusing herself, she left the dining room and retreated to her bedroom. “I’m going out already, Giles,” she said when she was out of her parents’ hearing. “Meeting someone at the Gate, in Notting Hill.”
    “You’re meeting him, aren’t you? The bloke who sent you the roses.”
    “You’re starting to sound like my father, Giles,” she said, all inclination to be gentle vanishing. “And besides, it’s none of your business. Look, I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” She started to hang up, then put the phone back to her ear. “And by the way, don’t call me at home—
    “—And sod you,” she added, tossing the phone on the bed. Nowshe had to get out quickly, before her mum started asking questions about her friend . Leaving her work clothes in a heap on the floor, she changed into jeans and a slightly tatty rose-colored cardigan. This was one night she didn’t intend to tart herself up for Dominic Scott. Nor did she intend to wait if he wasn’t there.
    She’d told herself a hundred times that she was only going to finish what she’d tried to say that afternoon, but there was a small, traitorous part of her that knew it wasn’t true—a part that imagined the roses were real, that she would see him and he would look into her eyes and everything would be all right.
    Serve her bloody well right if he didn’t turn up, she thought as she walked up the road towards Earl’s Court tube station, head down against the wind.
    When she emerged at Notting Hill Gate a few minutes later, it was well past ten, but the streets were still busy with late shoppers and patrons coming and going from the restaurants and pubs. Waiting to cross at the light, she saw the woman beside her start to step out into the path of a 52 bus barreling round the corner into Pembridge Road. Kristin grabbed the shoulder of her jacket and yanked her back, feeling the draft rock her as the bus passed.
    “Christ!” she said, loosing her hold, her heart pounding. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”
    “Sorry,” the woman mumbled, without looking at her, and when the light changed she walked on, head still down.
    Some people, Kristin thought, shaking her head, but then she was crossing Notting Hill Gate, and the door to one side of the Gate Cinema yawned before her.
    There was no bouncer, as Monday was a light crowd, but it was only as she started down the stairs into the club that she remembered it was salsa night. The driving beat of Latin music rose up to meet her, and as she reached the basement she saw that instead of the usual milling bodies, couples were dancing in sync, touching. Her heart sank. That temptation was a complication she didn’t need, andshe wondered if Dom had remembered and had chosen the club because of it.
    She pushed her way through the knot of people blocking the bottom of the stairs, into the purple-blue glow of the light from the bar. One of the bartenders, a pretty blond girl, waved at her, but she shook her head and kept looking.
    Then she saw him, sitting alone, in the corner farthest from the bar and the dance floor. He’d washed his hair and dressed with obvious care, and she wondered if the pallor of his face was simply a reflection of the lights from the bar.
    When he saw her, he smiled and stood, beckoning her over, and when she reached him he kissed her, brushing his lips against her cheek.
    Kristin shivered and pulled away. “I came to talk, Dom.” She sat on the banquette, putting a good foot