The Dark Shore Read Free Page A

for a moment before putting them down again and moving towards the long windows.
    “Your plants are doing well, aren’t they?” he said absently, looking out into the patio, and then suddenly he was swinging round, catching her unawares when she was off her guard, and the tension was in every line of her face and body.
    “Justin—?”
    “Yes,” he said placidly. “I’ve seen the paper.” He strolled over to the sofa, sat down and picked up the Times. “The photograph didn’t look much like him, did it? I wonder why he’s in London.” When no reply was forthcoming, he started to glance down the personal column but soon abandoned it for the center pages. The room was filled with the rustle of the newspaper being turned inside out, and then he added, “What’s for dinner, G.? Is it steak tonight?”
    “Justin darling—” Camilla was moving swiftly over to the sofa, her hands agitated, her voice strained and high. “I know just how you must be feeling—”
    “I don’t see how you can, G., because to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel anything. It means nothing to me at all.”
    She stared at him. He stared back tranquilly and then glanced back at the Times.
    “I see,” said Camilla, turning away abruptly. “Of course you won’t be contacting him.”
    “Of course not. Will you?” He carefully turned the paper back again and stood up. “I’ll be going out after dinner, G.,” he said presently, going over to the door. “Back about eleven, I expect. I’ll try not to make too much noise when I come in.”
    “I see,” she said slowly. “Yes. Yes, that’s all right, Justin.”
    The door closed gently and she was alone in the silent room. She felt relieved that he seemed to have taken such a sensible view of the situation, but she could not rid herself of her anxiety, and amidst all her confused worries she found herself comparing her grandson’s total self-sufficiency with Jon’s constant assertion of his independence ...
    3
    Eve never bought an evening paper because there was usually never any time to read it. The journey from her office in Piccadilly to her flat in Davies Street was too brief to allow time for reading and as soon as she was home, there was nearly always the usual rush to have a bath, change and go out. Or if she wasn’t going out, there was even more of a rush to have a bath, change and start cooking for a dinner-party. Newspapers played a very small, insignificant part in her life, and none more so than the ones which came on sale in the evening.
    On that particular evening, she had just finished changing and was embarking on the intricate task of make-up when an unexpected caller drifted in t o the flat and upset all her carefully-planned schedules.
    “Just thought I’d drop in and see you ... Hope you don’t mind, I say, I’m not in the way, am I?”
    I t had taken at least ten minutes to get rid of him , and even then he had wandered off leaving his ta tt y unwanted ra g of an evening paper behind as if he had deliberately intended to leave his hall-mark on the room where he had wasted so much of her valuable time. Eve shoved the paper under the nearest cushion, whipped the empty glasses into the kitchen out of sight and sped back to add the final touches to her appearances.
    And after all that, the man had to be late. All that panic and rush for nothing.
    In the end she had time to spare; she took the evening paper from under the cushion and went into the kitchen absently to put it in the rubbish bin, but presently she hesitated. The paper would be useful to wrap up the bacon which had been slowly going bad since last weekend. Better do it now while she had a moment to spare or otherwise by the time next weekend came ...
    She opened the paper carelessly on the table and turned away towards the refrigerator.
    A second later, the bacon forgotten, she turned back towards the table.
    “Jon Towers, the Canadian property millionaire ...”
    Towers. Like ... No, it