A Species of Revenge Read Free Page A

loose-limbed way, making her aware of every crease and crumple collected on the hot, sweaty journey here.
    Boardroom and top management, every inch of him – and living here?
    Sarah looked into a face as dark as the thunderheads piling up outside, saw a square jaw, a strong nose, felt a sense of harsh purpose. Their eyes met and held, hers wide and brown, his a brilliant and unexpected grey under lowering brows. For an instant, she thought she saw a hint of trouble behind them, in the lines of pain drawn down towards the mouth, but quickly decided it was simply general disagreeableness.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I don’t usually trespass without invitation,’ she admitted, his lack of response to her warm smile transferring itself to her and making her unusually stilted. ‘I was curious about that big window ... Mrs Burgoyne says you can see the Rotunda from it. I saw it from the garden, the window, I mean.’
    He stood aside for her to pass. ‘It’s hard to miss, Mrs Voss.’ He didn’t offer to show her the view.
    â€˜Good heavens, I’m not Mrs Voss! I’m just living with Dermot for the time being.’ Realizing what she’d said, Sarah laughed and an explanation was on the tip of her tongue when the expression of either acute disinterest or disapproval, the one raised eyebrow, brought her to a halt. Her smiled died. No sense of humour, either. A spark of antagonism cracked across the space between them.
    â€˜I’m very sorry,’ she repeated, and turned to go. There was nothing for it other than that, a dignified exit and as graceful an apology as she could muster. He made no attempt to detain her, and she escaped.
    And hoped, as she fled down the stairs, that his elegant silk tie might choke him on a sweltering day like this, and thought the other tenants were certainly going to be interesting to meet, if this was Mrs Burgoyne’s idea of ‘the right sort of person’.
    She’d just filled the kettle ready to make tea the moment Dermot got back – the girls would love a picnic out in the garden, sandwiches and Granny’s jam tarts, never mind the wasps or the possibility of thunderstorms – when there was a knock on the back door. The woman who stood there was plump and pleasant, in her early forties, her hair done in a top-heavy mop of curls over her forehead, otherwise shorn into a short back and sides, like a man’s. She introduced herself as Doreen Bailey.
    â€˜Oh, do come in and sit down; Mrs Burgoyne mentioned your name.’ Not intending to make the same mistake twice, Sarah this time made it clear who she was.
    Mrs Bailey smiled and settled her ample figure with the ease of familiarity on to the ugly fifties vinyl-covered banquette seat which someone had once mistakenly fitted in a half-hearted attempt to modernize the kitchen. Sarah rummaged in the picnic basket. ‘I’m just about to make some tea, if I can sort some cups out. Hope you don’t mind plastic.’
    â€˜Better than Mrs B’s cast-offs, I’ll bet. She said she’d leave one or two mugs and plates for you to use while your stuff was being unpacked, but I should use your own – anything she hasn’t taken, it won’t be worth much, I can tell you. She’d cut a currant in two, that one.’ She laughed and got up to open a cupboard next to the sink, sniffing. ‘As I thought! Chipped, and cracked, what cheek! Only fit for the dustbin. She tell you I’d be willing to come and help out with the cleaning a couple of mornings a week?’ she continued, without pause. ‘I work afternoons at the checkout down at Safeway’s, but I’ve come to Edwina Lodge twice a week, mornings, getting on for twelve years. I’d be willing to carry on, if that’s all right with you.’
    Sarah said, perhaps unwisely on such short acquaintance, but she’d taken one of her immediate likings to Mrs Bailey, ‘I’m