Memories of the Storm Read Free

scraped the
wall but he was already undoing his seatbelt and
fumbling with the door catch. The rain beat down
on him, plastering his clothes to his back, as he ran
back over the bridge. His voice was caught and
flung away on the wind, drowned by the insistent
roaring of the water, but there was no sign of any
man. Clio was beside him, grasping his arm.
    'What was it? What did you see?'
    'There was a man. You must have seen him.'
    'No, there was nobody. The headlights must
have played some trick with the shadows. There's
nobody here. Come on, we're drenched. Let's get
inside.' And, still holding his arm, she led him
across the bridge and into the house where Hester
was waiting.

CHAPTER TWO
    Later, upstairs in her room at the end of the house,
Clio sat on the tapestry stool and stared at her
reflection in the ancient spotted looking-glass. It
creaked and protested in its mahogany stand as she
tilted it a little, before picking up her brush. She
was still shaken by Jonah's violent reaction and
by the jarring physical shock of the car hitting
the bridge. No real harm had been done but she
was confused, not only by Jonah's insistence that
he'd seen someone but also by Hester's behaviour.
Instead of reassuring him by telling him that there
could have been no man on the bridge, she'd
watched him with a kind of anxious compassion
that had made Clio feel quite angry, possibly
because of her own fright.
    'The bridge leads only to the house and the
garden,' she'd said, sounding cross in her attempt
to rally Jonah. 'It doesn't go anywhere else. It's
private. Hester's already told us that she's been
alone all day. Why should anyone hide on the
bridge in this weather just to jump out at us and run
away?'
    She'd looked at Hester, seeking confirmation,
but Hester's eyes had been fixed on Jonah's face.
    'I saw him,' he'd repeated stubbornly.
    'I think we need a drink,' Hester had said – much
to Clio's relief – and Jonah had swallowed two
fingers of Scotch and begun to pull himself
together. At this point Clio had left them, coming
upstairs to make up his bed.
    Now, as she brushed her hair, Clio's attention was
caught by the glimmer of a white envelope propped
against one of the pretty hand-painted glass candlesticks.
Because this small room, with its one electric
socket, was difficult to light adequately, Clio had
placed candle-holders in every possible place: two
shallow pottery bowls on the high, narrow mantelshelf
above the tiny Victorian grate, one tall brass
serpent on the small bamboo table beside the bed,
and four in different styles of glass on the polished
Edwardian washstand that served as a dressingtable.
She'd lit them all as soon as she'd come into
the room and immediately had grown more calm,
soothed by the familiar pattern of objects and the
sense of security this little room always projected.
    Putting down her brush, Clio reached for the
envelope and studied the impatient, curling writing.
Oh, how well she could imagine him, crouched at
his desk, fielding interruptions, dashing down the
words. Quickly she tore open the envelope and
unfolded the sheet, her whole attention fixed on his
message to her.
    Honestly, darling, I can't believe that I ever
agreed to let you go. Not even for a whole
wilderness of godmothers who have had hip
replacements. I simply can't do without you a
moment longer. I know that these four weeks are
part of your holiday but the place is in chaos;
nobody understands how I work and no quiet
sanctuary to flee to at the end of the day.
    Can we meet somewhere? Please! Bristol?
Exeter? I suppose you couldn't escape to London
for a few hours? Please, Clio, give your mind to a
meeting next week, however brief, or you won't
have a job to come back to because the agency
will simply have ceased to exist. You are essential
to it and to me.
    His signature was unreadable. Clio pressed the
paper to her face, hunched on the stool, longing
for him. Falling in love with him had ruined
everything: all her well-laid