Tainted Love

With her mind on being the latter, she searched for the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, a beautiful, fully modernised kitchen with built-in cupboards, cooker and every labour-saving gadget imaginable. Having not seen it on her first visit, Clare had feared a quaint, farmhouse sort, with impossible-to-keep-clean nooks and crannies and an impossible-to-cook-on range.

Her only problem was trying to fit into the overall she found hanging behind the larder door. Made of white cotton, it really did threaten to go round her twice. She had to dispense with the buttons and simply wrap herself in it and tie the belt very tightly. She ended up looking slightly ridiculous but that didn’t bother her.

Breakfast was simple to prepare and was almost ready when the Marchands, father and son, trooped into the kitchen.

Clare, however, wasn’t expecting them to sit down. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve set the table in the dining-room.’

It was Miles who awarded her a critical look, before announcing, ‘We never have breakfast there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Clare repeated. ‘If you give me a minute or two, I’ll move everything back.’

‘I should have told you,’ Fen Marchand said, rising from the table. ‘We’ll move. Come on, Miles.’

The boy took his time in obeying and, before leaving the kitchen, he glanced smugly at her. Having fallen out of favour, Clare’s mistakes were going to be tallied.

Not having time to worry about it, she concentrated on finishing the scrambled eggs and tipping them into a salver to keep warm. She’d already taken through two jugs of fruit juice and a first batch of tea and toast, and the Marchands were busy eating when she appeared. She served up the eggs, the man taking a fair portion, but leaving the same amount for the boy.

That didn’t stop Miles from complaining, ‘Is that all there is? I’m hungry.’

‘I’ll make more,’ Clare said, resigned to the boy’s rudeness.

But his father cut in, ‘No, you won’t. Miles, apologise!’

‘What for?’ the boy immediately protested.

‘You know,’ his father retorted. ‘Either apologise or go to your room.’

The man clearly meant it. The boy’s mouth went into a resentful line while his eyes flashed angrily in Clare’s direction.

‘Apologise!’ his father insisted, a definite warning ring in his voice.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’ Clare didn’t want any pitch battles fought on her behalf, and, before Fen Marchand could make a bigger issue of it, she escaped to the kitchen.

She was preparing another batch of toast when Miles sidled into the room some five minutes later. He didn’t speak but hung about at the door, his face a picture of sullenness.

He was a handsome boy, with the same blond hair and well-cut features as his father. He also had the Marchand eyes, a clear, penetrating blue that seemed so honest in Louise’s case, and so chilling in the man’s. On Miles, the eyes were windows of a troubled soul, following her as she moved about the kitchen.

‘Can I get you something, Miles?’ she eventually asked.

It gave him an opening and he blurted out, ‘He says I have to apologise.’

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