Irresistible Temptation

If only Jeremy had told her that he was holed up temporarily with his wife’s cousin. Instead, she’d gained the opposite impression—that he had his own independent flat, that he was making a life which she would be able to share.

I couldn’t have been listening properly, she admitted, with a sigh. Or else I simply heard what I wanted to hear.

Nothing, but nothing was working out as she’d expected. And she could well end up on her own in one of the world’s great uncaring capitals.

Or she could go back to Bristol, she reminded herself. No one apart from Beth knew why she’d come to London, and her flatmate was too kind and loyal to have spread the word. She could probably even get her old job back.

My God, she thought in swift horror, as she crossed the road to Lancey Terrace. That was real defeatist talk. Return to square one and occupy her familiar rut. When in fact it had been more than time for a change. For her to take hold of her life by the scruff of its neck and shake it.

She had a career—valuable job skills to offer. She could earn her living—pay her way. She’d come to London to share Jeremy’s life, not to become some pathetic dependent.

And whatever happened, she intended to survive.

Lifting her chin, she strode the last hundred yards.

Her shopping unpacked and put away, Olivia sat down to eat her lunch and take a long look round her. The flat was starting to look occupied, and she had her small portable radio to fill the silence. She’d noticed, too, there was a TV aerial in the room. And from the information that Sasha had thrown at her earlier about Notting Hill Gate she reckoned she’d be able to rent a set quite easily.

That will be my project for the afternoon, she thought. Keep busy—keep interested—and, above all, don’t brood.

She’d found a vase in one of the cupboards. She’d get some flowers to go in it. And some wine. If it turned out there was nothing to celebrate, then she’d drown her sorrows instead, she decided, squaring her shoulders.

She got out her A to Z of London, working out the shortest route to the Gate.

Sasha had told her she could find anything there, and that seemed to be true, she thought as she battled with the other Saturday afternoon shoppers. Like Portobello, it seemed to be fizzing with life. She gave herself time to look properly, lingering in front of boutiques and reading the menus of the various bistros, walking, inevitably, much further than she’d planned.

But if Notting Hill was to be her home, at least for the time being, she needed to get to know it. She wanted to look as confident and purposeful as the people who streamed past her, and feel it too.

She thought suddenly, I want to belong.

At a wine shop she bought some red Italian wine to go with the pasta, a decent Chardonnay for the chicken, and an optimistic Bollinger for her reunion with Jeremy, investing in a strong canvas bag in which to lug her purchases home, as most of her shopping was likely to be done on the hoof from now on.

She discovered a TV store without difficulty, and ended up buying a reconditioned portable with a reasonable warranty for far less than the cost of an annual rental, treating herself to a cab to get it back to Lancey Terrace. After all, she reminded herself, she couldn’t waste good job-hunting time waiting at the flat for a delivery to be made.

In spite of her personal reservations, there was a curious satisfaction in making her basement look like home.

But, when it came to it, the idea of spending her first evening in London concocting a pasta sauce for one held little appeal.

Up to now there’d always been people around her—family first, then friends, and flatmates. Always someone to laugh with, or moan to, or simply exchange the news of the day.

This was her first experience of being single in the city, and she needed to tackle it positively.

So she wouldn’t skulk in the flat, feeling hard done to. She would go out. Go to the cinema in the Gate, and have a meal afterwards. Make her first night in London an occasion.

She changed, putting on black leggings, a cream shirt, and a long black linen jacket, and set off. She had a choice of films, including a well-reviewed romantic comedy, but it seemed safer in her present state of mind to opt for a thriller, with a plot convoluted enough to keep her mind engaged, and, consequently, off her personal problems.

She emerged feeling more relaxed then she’d done all day. Now all that remained was to find somewhere to eat. Probably not easy, she realised, surveying the still crowded pavements. Maybe she’d have to settle for a take-away.

She’d intended to head for one of the bistros she’d checked out earlier, but instead found herself wandering up Kensington Park Road.

The lit window of a restaurant drew her across the street, but one look was enough to convince her that it was not only full to bursting point with beautiful people, but, more significantly, out of her price range.

She was just moving on when she saw a diner seated at a table for two in the window itself turn, hand raised, to summon a waiter.

She recognised him with stomach-churning immediacy. Declan Malone, she thought, stiffening, her hackles on full alert. But not with the morning’s exotic redhead, she noticed at once. His evening’s companion was a willowy blonde decorously clad in a dark trouser suit. For the moment anyway. Presumably the peach towel outfit came later.

‘Poor girl,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Does she realise she’s simply feeding the ego of a serial womaniser?’

Clearly she didn’t, because she was devouring Declan Malone with her eyes, to the complete detriment of the food on her plate. And he was looking at her and smiling in a way that had been totally lacking in his dealings with Olivia.

In fact, Olivia acknowledged without pleasure, she would hardly have recognised him.

A taxi drew up, and three girls got out, all stick-thin, and talking and giggling at the tops of their voices.

As the new arrivals pranced past her into the restaurant, shrieking their hellos and air-kissing everyone within reach, Olivia started, as if she’d been woken abruptly from some spell.

What the hell am I doing? she demanded silently. Hanging round here with my nose pressed against the glass like the Little Match Girl? Do I want him to look up and see me?

Hastily, she turned away, retracing her steps towards the Gate.

She realised with sudden bleakness that her appetite had totally deserted her. And, more disturbingly, that she had never felt quite so cold, or so lonely in her life before.

Claudia Lang was not a particularly conceited girl, but she was sufficiently keyed in to know when her dinner partner’s attention was wandering, and human enough to be piqued by it.

She reached across the table and put a scarlet-tipped hand on Declan’s sleeve.

‘Is something wrong?’

Startled, Declan wrenched his frowning gaze back from the window.

‘No—I’m sorry. I—thought I saw someone outside. Someone I knew.’

Claudia directed a sceptical glance over her shoulder at the darkness beyond the window. ‘Then you must have X-ray vision,’ she commented lightly. ‘Do you want to go and check?’

‘Of course not.’ The frown faded, and the smile he sent her was charming and repentant. ‘I’m probably wrong, and anyway, it’s really—not important.’ He paused, then added with cold emphasis, ‘Not important at all.’

And wondered why he’d needed to say that.

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