A Driven Woman

A DRIVEN WOMANby Penelope Cambridge 1

Text copyright 2016 Penelope Cambridge All Rights reserved 2

1 Samantha Hayward leaned the big Kawasaki into the bend,her leather-clad knee only inches from the ground, and listenedwith satisfaction to the low growl of the exhaust bouncingback at her from the hedges that lined the country lane. This,she thought happily, is what motor biking is all about: a twist-ing road, the June sun beating down on your back and hardlyanother vehicle in sight. On days like these, work could be apleasure. Rounding the next bend, Sam spotted in the distance thestone pillars that marked the entrance to Berkley Manor.Closing the throttle, she applied her brakes and felt the big bikeshift on its springs, the nose dipping as its speed came down totwenty miles an hour. Gently she guided the bike through thegateway and onto the gravel drive then, uncomfortably awareof the treacherous surface beneath her tyres, opened up thepower once more. Cruising round the long semi-circular drive she could seetwo huge furniture-removal lorries standing in front of theManor. Their rear doors were lowered, pointing towards theflight of stone steps which led to the front door of the Manor.Alongside the vans, a small knot of men in brown overallsstood smoking and chatting. They broke off to watch Sam asshe glided to a halt at the foot of the steps and dismounted. Beyond the furniture lorries, Sam could see two parked cars.She recognised the dark red BMW of Charles Fletcher, the 3

local estate agent, and gave a small wave at the figure sittinghunched behind the wheel. Charles lowered his window and waved back, calling,‘Morning, Sam.’ His tone was friendly but his voice sounded edgy, nervous,and he grimaced as the driver’s door of the other car, a moss-green Range Rover, suddenly swung open with a loud crack. A man emerged. Sam watched him approach with interest,automatically registering certain details of his appearance. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, in his latethirties perhaps, with broad shoulders and no sign of middle-aged spread. Sam nodded approvingly. She herself was whip-pet-slim, a fact attributable partly to her genes - her fatherhad been a short, wiry man - but also, and increasingly as sheapproached the age of thirty, to the active life she led. Slothwas not part of her nature. The man had a good face, she noted: strong jaw line, firmmouth, dark eyes and a nose that was bent slightly to the left, asthough from some ancient sporting injury. It gave him a slight-ly dangerous appearance that was at odds with his clothing;the trousers and waistcoat of a dark blue pinstripe suit, highlypolished shoes and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled upalmost to the elbows. His hair was dark and wavy and his face and arms, Samnoticed with interest, were deeply tanned. It was only June andthe summer had so far been disappointing so the tan must havebeen acquired abroad. Either that or it had come out of a bottle. No, she corrected herself, as the man strode athleticallytowards her; this isn’t a man who uses fake tan. His wholemanner exuded confidence: confidence and impatience. Helooked like a man who was used to getting what he wants andwas currently not getting it. ‘About bloody time!’ the man barked while still several yardsaway and Sam stiffened, her hackles rising at his rudeness. 4

Reaching up, she removed her full-face helmet and ran aleather gauntleted hand through her hair, glad to feel the freshair on her skin for a moment. She gave him a cool, appraisinglook. The man blinked in surprise and looked momentarily flus-tered. Sam had to stifle a chuckle; she was used to this reaction.Dressed as she was in biking leathers and helmet, her slim,almost boyish, figure often led people to mistake her for a man.But that was no excuse for rudeness. ‘I’m sorry,’ the man growled, the expression on his facehovering somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment.‘I didn’t mean to be impolite but I’m in a hurry and you’re late!Do you have the package?’ Swallowing her irritation, Sam reached up and unzipped thefront of her one-piece leather suit, tugging a large brown enve-lope from within. As she held it out the man snatched it fromher grasp and turned on his heel. ‘Would you mind signing here?’ Sam called after himsweetly, and he turned back with a grunt and took the profferedclipboard. With bad grace he scrawled a quick signature on thedelivery slip, growled ‘Wait here’, and stalked back to his car. ‘You’re welcome,’ Sam muttered to his retreating back. She glanced at the clipboard, interested to know the nameof this rude man who would soon, if her plans were realised,become her neighbour. ‘Thomas Rattigan,’ she read aloud. ‘Well Thomas Rattigan,we’ll have to do something about your manners.’ ‘Hello Sam. What’s this, doing your own deliveries? Ithought you had a posse of young men to do that for you!’ Sam looked up and smiled as the estate agent approached. ‘Hello Charles,’ she replied. ‘It’s this flu epidemic. I’vegot two riders off sick at the moment and another who keepsmaking noises about staying in his bed tomorrow. It’s all handsto the pump at the moment.’ 5

‘That’s what it’s like when you’re in business for yourselfThe boss has to get his hands dirty occasionally,’ Charlesagreed. ‘Or her hands,’ he added carefully. ‘I’ll have you know I can still strip and rebuild an enginefaster than any of my mechanics,’ Sam told him defiantly, butwithout heat. Such gentle banter had been part of their friend-ship for as long as she could remember. Although Charlesalways pretended to be very politically correct Sam suspectedthat, privately, he was a little put-out by her success as a busi-ness-woman. ‘So that’s the new owner of Berkley Manor.’ she said,nodding at the man who was once again in his car, scanning thedocument Sam had delivered. ‘He seems a little stressed out.’ ‘Cock-up with the damn paperwork I’m afraid,’ Charlestold her ruefully. ‘It happens, you know. But not to men likeThomas Rattigan apparently. We’ve been here for forty minuteswaiting for the word from the solicitors. I had to tell him thathe couldn’t have the keys until the papers were signed.’ He grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t want to have heard him then.Still, won’t be long now. As soon as you put those papers in thehands of Messrs. Smedley and Smallpiece, I can hand over thekeys and get the hell out of here.’ Sam had to smile at the look of long-suffering patienceon his face. Poor Charles. He was a nice man, but she couldimagine that someone like Rattigan would have ridden rough-shod over his feelings A small cloud of doubt crossed her features as a new thoughtoccurred to her. ‘Does he know about the field?’ she asked. Charles lowered his voice and, taking her gently by theelbow, steered her away from the drive. ‘No,’ he said, his voice low, ‘ Fortunately it didn’t come up.Just as well. It’s not everyone that would want to live next doorto a bunch of motorbikes tearing around a muddy field.’ 6

‘It’s not next door,’ Sam pointed out. ‘It’s two fields awayand we’re going to build fences that will bounce the noiseupwards. He’ll hardly know we’re there.’ ‘Perhaps,’ Charles agreed. ‘But people can be funny aboutthese things. Anyway, I’m glad I got the place sold before youfound the money to buy your field. It might have been a differ-ent matter if he’d viewed it when your trails park was actuallyup and running.’ He grinned at her as he added, ‘If it ever does get up andrunning!’ ‘I’ll get the money!’ Sam insisted. ‘I just need another tengrand cash. Business is pretty good. It won’t be too long.’ They had been walking as they talked, unconsciously drift-ing towards the boundary fence. They stood now, looking outacross the adjoining field at a low hill a hundred metres away. On the other side of that hill lay Speed Machine, Sam’smotorcycle business, but for the past two years she had beentrying to raise the money to buy the vacant plot of neighbour-ing land. The hillside was clearly unsuitable for farming; toosteep, studded with large boulders and riven with gullies wherewater had cut its way down the slope. ‘Personally, you couldn’t pay me enough to ride a motorbikeover that lot,’ Charles observed dryly. ‘Are you going to get ridof those rocks and things?’ ‘You’re joking! That’s half the attraction. I’m more worriedthat some of the riders will find it too tame. I’ve been thinkingof ways to make it a bit more challenging.’ Her brow wrinkled with little lines of worry. ‘I can’t afford afailure,’ she muttered. ‘You’re determined aren’t you?’ Charles asked gently,watching the grim set of Sam’s face as she stared at the distanthill. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘It was dad’s dream. He talked aboutit all the time when I was growing up. He started out on trials 7

bikes, did you know? Before he graduated to road racing. Sonow it’s up to me to make the dream come true.’ ‘You’ve certainly done wonders with his business, since youinherited it,’ Charles agreed. ‘I remember it when it used to sellpushbikes.’ ‘When it was my grandfather’s,’ Sam nodded absently. ‘Iwonder what he’d say if he could see it today?’ ‘He’d be proud of you,’ Charles assured her. ‘And so wouldyour dad.’ Sam’s face became bleak and Charles, knowing whatwas running through her mind, quickly changed the subject.‘Looking forward to tonight?’ he asked brightly. ‘Tonight?’ ‘The Chamber of Commerce Summer dinner dance! Youhaven’t forgotten have you? You said you’d be there.’ ‘Oh. Yes of course. No, I hadn’t forgotten. It’s just been a bitof a day.’ ‘First dance of the night is mine, remember? You promised.’ She pulled a face. ‘I always keep my promises, but youmight regret it. I’m a terrible dancer and I was thinking ofwearing these.’ She lifted one foot and displayed her heavyleather biking boot. Charles laughed lightly. ‘Might look a little odd with a partyfrock,’ he pointed out. ‘Party frock? Who said anything about a frock? I was plan-ning to go in my overalls.’ ‘You’ll still be the prettiest girl there,’ Charles told her withawkward chivalry. A touch of colour came to Sam’s cheeks and she quicklylooked away. ‘Charles, we’ve been over this before…’ shebegan, but the estate agent cut her off. ‘We’d better head back,’ he warned. ‘His nibs will do his nutif you keep him waiting.’ As they strolled back together across the neat lawn, Sam 8

noticed a figure standing beside her bike. For a moment shethought it might be Rattigan, waiting to vent his spleen at herfor wandering off, but the figure was shorter and slimmer, ayoung man in his teens. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked. Charles glanced casually at the young man and shrugged.‘Not sure. He’s with Rattigan. Could be his son. Listen, I’dbetter go and see that everything’s in order. I’ll see you tonight,okay?’ ‘Fine,’ Sam replied absent-mindedly, and Charles set offback to his car. Approaching the young man, she called, ‘Can I help you?’ The man looked up. He had thick blonde hair and an open,honest face with startling light blue eyes and a nice smile. Good-looking boy, Sam thought ruefully. Pity he’s too youngfor me. About ten years too young! ‘Oh, Hi,’ the young man replied. ‘I was just admiring yourbike.’ ‘Do you ride?’ The youth shook his head. ‘Not yet. But I will soon. It’s mybirthday next week. Eighteen at last and finally legal. Firstthing I’m going to do is go out and buy the biggest bike I canget.’ Sam gave him a doubtful look. ‘And then go straight out andsee how fast it can go I suppose?’ The boy grinned back. ‘No. I’m not stupid. I’m not lookingto kill myself. I just want a bike. Cars are so boring, youknow?’ ‘A big bike isn’t cheap,’ Sam warned, but the youth justshrugged. ‘Oh, money’s no problem,’ he said breezily. Sam sighed. I wish I could say the same, she thought. ‘If you’re serious, I can help you,’ she suggested. ‘I run thebike shop in town. We can supply the bike and train you to ride 9

it properly. Why don’t you drop in and see me? My name’sSam Hayward, by the way.’ ‘Martin Lawrence,’ the young man returned, shaking herhand. ‘Sure. I’ll do that. Will you teach me yourself? ‘If I have any staff I will. You can phone first, or just drop in.Lunchtime is your best bet. ‘I’ll do that.’ ‘Good. It’s a date.’ ‘What’s this about a date?’ Neither had heard Rattigan approaching, and the youth’sface flushed now as he spun to face him. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he saidlamely. The older man looked at Sam appraisingly, his expressiona mixture of suspicion and mild amusement. ‘Don’t you thinkmy nephew might be a little young for you?’ he enquired. Sam’s face flushed angrily and she opened her mouth toreply but the boy cut in quickly. ‘It’s all right uncle. I was just admiring this lady’s bike.’ Rattigan grunted contemptuously. ‘Damn deathtraps. Youwant nothing to do with them.’ He turned back to Sam, thrusting the envelope towards her.‘Here. Take this back to those incompetent fools who callthemselves solicitors.’ Sam was already donning her helmet when he added, ‘Andtry to get it there today, if that’s not too much trouble!’ The man’s sarcastic tone caused Sam to pause. She wasjust opening her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke, when shecaught sight of the expression on the young man’s face. Please, it said, don’t make him any angrier. Biting back her reply, Sam swung her leg over the bike andpressed the starter button. The engine roared into life. Withouta backward glance Sam opened up the power and tore downthe driveway, spraying gravel onto Mr Thomas Rattigan’s neatlawn. 10

Three men watched Sam as she sped around the curvingdrive and disappeared from sight through the stone gateway. The expression occupying Martin Lawrence’s face as hegazed after the departing figure was one of envy and anticipa-tion. In a few days time, a few weeks at most, that would behim. Uncle Thomas was not going to like it, but nothing wasgoing to stop him buying a bike. Thomas Rattigan grunted with annoyance as he watched hisgravel driveway being deposited on his lawn by the bike’s spin-ning rear wheel, then glanced at his nephew with shrewd eyes. Was it the girl? he asked himself, or the bike? If it was the girl it was of no consequence. Nothing could bemore natural than for a boy of Martin’s age to admire a prettygirl. Though she wasn’t exactly a girl, was she? Twenty five,he would have said, perhaps a year or two more. Far too old forMartin. Pretty, certainly, if you liked that sort of thing: rathermannish with her trim figure in that leather outfit. But a grownwoman: not for Martin. But better that he should be smitten by an unsuitable womanthan by a motorbike. God forbid that he should ever want oneof those things! And if God doesn’t forbid it, he thought grimly, then I mostcertainly will! ‘I think you got her back up a bit,’ Charles Fletcherremarked casually, appearing at Rattigan’s elbow. ‘She’s madequite a mess of your drive. She always was a bit strong-willed.’ ‘You know her?’ ‘Oh yes. Since we were kids. We’re engaged actually.’ Rattigan took a good look at the estate agent for the firsttime, his eyebrows rising in surprise. ‘Engaged?’ Charles looked abashed. ‘Well, not exactly engaged. Butwe’ve been courting for years. Childhood sweethearts, that sort 11

of thing. It’s only a matter of time.’ Rattigan gave the man a level look, taking in the bland face,the receding hairline, the overall plumpness. Then he thoughtagain about the beautiful young woman who had stared at himwith fire in her eyes, as though she was considering hitting himwith her crash helmet. ‘I wish you every happiness,’ he remarked neutrally andturned on his heel. * 12

2 Three hours later, Sam rolled onto the forecourt of SpeedMachine and parked outside the workshop entrance. Dismount-ing, she removed her helmet and gloves and ran a hand throughher hair, grimacing as she felt its damp lankness. That was theonly drawback with bikes; crash helmets played merry hellwith your hair. All you could do was wash it regularly. Tiredly, she reached high above her head with both arms andbent her back like a bowstring, feeling the ache at the base ofher spine that told of eight hours in the saddle. God, dispatchriding was hard work! It was months since she’d spent a wholeday on a bike and her body simply wasn’t used to it any more.Too much office work, crouched in front of a computer keepingthe books up to date and typing letters two-fingered. One ofthese days she’d get herself a secretary. Sure, Sam, she thought ruefully, and perhaps a lady’s maidtoo! It was six o’clock and all she wanted to do was go home andenjoy a nice hot bath, but first she needed to check how thingshad gone in her absence. Entering the workshop she found Terry, her chief mechanic,sitting astride a bike, revving the engine noisily. The soundfilled the tight space, bouncing around the walls like a livingthing in a cage looking for a way out. Blue smoke poured fromthe bike’s exhaust. Sam walked over and touched Terry on theshoulder to gain his attention. He looked around and pulled a 13

disgusted face. ‘Y’here that?’ he asked. ‘Bloody disgrace. The bike’s barelythree months old and the little sod’s buggered it already.Over-revving. Don’t they know what a red line means?’ Terry was a small wiry man in his early fifties, sharp facedand sharp tongued but a veritable magician when it came to theworkings of the internal combustion engine. He had worked forher father before her, preparing the special machines that herfather had raced. Despite his sour manner, Sam had a soft spotfor Terry. She knew he missed her father nearly as much as shedid. ‘Sounds expensive,’ she replied. ‘Can he afford it?’ This was a familiar problem. A youngster would spend hislast penny buying a bike then couldn’t find the money to haveit serviced or repaired. More than once she had been forced toimpound a bike for several months until the owner raised thecash to pay the repair bill. It was something she hated doing. ‘Got to, hasn’t he,’ Terry replied. ‘If he ever wants to ride thedamn thing again. It’s going to take me most of tomorrow to dothe work. Complete strip down, re-bore, the lot. Silly bugger!’ ‘Any problems while I was out?’ Terry shook his head. ‘Nah. I’m just off home. I’ll lock upbefore I go.’ ‘Thanks.’ Sam left him to his disgust and walked throughto the showroom where the two salesmen were busily movingbikes from the forecourt through to the back yard where theywere kept overnight. ‘Everything all right, Craig?’ she called to a young man whowas carefully manoeuvring a bike into place. ‘Yeah great. Had a good day. Sold a CBF125 and a couple ofscooters.’ ‘That’s marvellous. Well done. I’ll have a look at the paper-work in the morning.’ Sam continued on her way, crossing the rear courtyard and 14

entering the long brick building that housed the offices. The big main office was divided across the middle by acounter with a lift-up flap. On one side of this counter, a rowof plastic seats were provided for waiting customers. A coffeemachine sat in the corner and a pile of oil-stained, dog-earedbiking magazines lay on a small table. Behind the counter, a large man in his early thirties sat in awheelchair. He had a fleshy, red face smudged with three-day stubbleand black hair scraped severely back from his forehead and tiedin a greasy pony tail hanging down his back. His impressivebulk was encased in a faded black t-shirt with the name of aheavy metal band and a motif of burning skulls emblazonedacross the front. Aging tattoos covered his arms and aroundeach wrist he wore a heavy leather strap covered with brightconical studs. As Sam entered, he looked up and gave her a huge, broken-toothed grin. ‘Hiya, Boss. Nice day at the office?’ he called cheerfully, hisvoice deep and booming. Sam smiled in return, feeling her spirits revive a little. Nomatter how hard things got, Jezz was always smiling and shefound his good humour infectious. ‘Hi Jezz. How’re things?’ The big man placed a half-eaten pork pie on the counterbefore him and wiped his hands on his t-shirt. ‘Usual crap,’he replied airily. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. Craig sold threebikes.’ ‘So I heard.’ ‘Yeah, well the other good news is that yours-truly bookedtwo of ‘em for training. Diary’s filling up nicely.’ ‘Well done. That’s what I like to hear. Let’s just hope I canspare the time to train them. I’ve had enough of this dispatchriding lark.’ 15

‘Yeah,’ he agreed, his face mock-serious. ‘It gets hard whenyou get to your age don’t it?’ ‘Bloody cheek! I can still give you five years, buster.’ The big man grinned happily. ‘Ah yes, but I keep myself inshape, unlike some people I could mention.’ He leaned back in his wheelchair and pulled up his grubbyt-shirt, revealing a huge, hairy belly which pressed againstthe edge of the counter. With one slab-like hand he gave hisbulging stomach a meaty smack, setting it wobbling like ajelly. Jezz liked his beer and, since his accident, the weight hadsimply piled on, but with his characteristic perverseness hedisplayed immense pride in his expanding waistline. ‘Oh yeah,’ he added. ‘Dave phoned in. He’ll be back tomor-row. I told him he’d better be or I’ll go round and drag ‘im outof bed myself.’ ‘That’s a relief,’ Sam said with feeling. ‘Perhaps I can beginto catch up with my own work.’ ‘Yeah. Besides, we need someone who can get around a bitfaster than you do. That bloke at the Manor phoned three timesto ask where the hell you’d got to.’ ‘Damn the man! It wasn’t my fault his precious papers weredelayed. It was that idiot solicitor. He practically demanded ablood sample before he’d hand the package over.’ ‘Yeah well, I don’t think Mr…’ Jezz picked a piece of paperoff the desk before him and peered at it, ‘….Mr Thomas Ratti-gan… will be using our services again. He was a bit pissed off.’ ‘Tell me about it! I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Rattiganin person. Long on money, short on manners.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘Sometimes I wonder why Idon’t just shut down the dispatch side of things. The rest of thebusiness is doing well. All the hassles come from dispatch.’ ‘Makin’ money though, ain’t it?’ Jezz pointed out reasona-bly. ‘Won’t get our trails park if we don’t raise the dosh.’ ‘Don’t remind me,’ Sam said wearily. ‘Are we finished for 16

the day?’ ‘Yeah. I was just tidying up the paperwork. I’m off in aminute.’ Sam moved behind the counter, carefully squeezing pastJezz’s wheelchair, and entered her tiny office at the back of thebuilding. Hanging her crash helmet on a peg behind the door,she slumped into her chair and stared at the pile of paperworkon her desk. Then she bounced back out of the chair and stuckher head back into the main office. ‘Got anything to eat? I’m famished. I didn’t even stop forlunch.’ ‘Bit of pork pie,’ Jezz suggested, holding up the remains ofhis snack. Sam pulled a face. ‘Any chocolate?’ ‘Take your pick,’ he told her, pulling open a drawer beneaththe till. Both Sam and Jezz had a sweet tooth. Sam surveyed the contents of the drawer. ‘A Mars Bar then. And I’ll have that bag of crisps. Whatflavour are they?’ ‘Pickled onion.’ ‘They’ll do. I’m starving. Going to a posh do tonight. I prob-ably won’t eat again until nine.’ ‘Goin’ with lover boy?’ Jezz smirked. ‘Be sure to get him totell you about the latest movements in property prices.’ ‘Shut up Jezz! Now go home. And thanks for the chocolate.I owe you.’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jezz replied, wheeling his way to the door. Sam returned to her office and stared despondently at the pileof paper-work on her desk. It would be at least another hourbefore she could go home. She sighed heavily. She loved thisbusiness, it was her life, but sometimes she wondered whetherit was all worthwhile. Snap out of it Sam! she told herself. It’s just that Rattiganbloke. He got up your nose. There’s nothing in the world you’d 17

rather be doing than this. Yes, she thought sadly, that’s true, but I wish dad was stillhere to share the load. With misting eyes she stared at the photograph on her desk.Mounted in a plain silver frame, it showed two men smilinginto the camera, their arms wrapped around one another’sshoulders. One was short, balding, in his fifties but still whippet-thin.The other man was several inches taller and a couple of stoneheavier. It was strange: she’d forgotten how tall Jezz had been beforethe accident. Two years of seeing him every day in a wheel-chair had shrunk him even in her memory. The two men in the photograph wore bright-coloured racingleathers with matching crash helmets tucked under their armsand leaned casually against a monstrous racing bike withsidecar. The photograph had been taken at the Isle of Man TT races,the day her father had died. He looked so happy, anticipatinga win. Clearly he’d felt no premonition of what was to come;the humpback bridge, the spectator who had stupidly wanderedonto the track while looking for a loo. Mercifully, Sam had been three miles away at the time,waiting at the finish line with her camera, ready to record thehistoric moment that had never come. But she’d seen the man later, the man who had killed herfather. He was sitting in the back of an ambulance, unhurt butlooking stunned at the enormity of what he’d done. She hadcursed him bitterly, wanting him dead in her father’s place,wanting things to be different, back the way they had been onlyhalf an hour before. Oh dad, she thought, why did it have to happen this way? Imiss you so much. She shook her head angrily and opened her desk drawer, 18

placing the photograph carefully inside. She couldn’t affordthis. If she didn’t snap out of it right now, she’d spend the nexthour crying and the paperwork would never get done. You have to be strong, Sam, she told herself. You’re on yourown now. People depend on you. Picking up the first invoice, she bit into her Mars Bar andstarted work. * 19

3 The venue for the Chamber of Commerce’s Summer dinnerdance was to be The Grasshopper Inn, known to locals as ‘thebig Grasshopper’ to distinguish it from the other Grasshop-per Inn located only half-a-mile away. Though she had livedin Westfield all her life, Sam had never heard anyone offer anexplanation as to how the village’s only two pubs had come toshare the same name. But it didn’t seem to matter. The character of the two pubs,and their clientele, was so different, there was little room forconfusion. When two locals agreed to meet “in the Grasshop-per”, each knew intuitively to which establishment they werereferring. The small Grasshopper was a close, dark place of nooks andcrannies that served the agricultural workers, bikers and teen-agers of the area. Conveniently located on the village green, itspatrons could be seen on sunny days lounging on the grass withtheir pints of bitter. The big Grasshopper, by contrast, offered wood-panelling,leather armchairs and, in winter, roaring log fires to the well-heeled local farmers and City types who commuted daily toLondon from the small village station. For the purposes of theChamber of Commerce, there could be no question as to whichof the two pubs would best supply their needs. Sam pulled into the vast car park and cruised slowly betweenthe rows of parked Jaguars and Range Rovers, uncomfortably 20

aware that her thin dress was whipping around her thighs in thewind of her passage. The soft evening air felt cool on her legsbut a hot flush spread across her cheeks as a party of middle-aged business men, making their way to the entrance doors,turned to watch her pass by. She could imagine how she must look to them, her leatherjacket incongruous above the print dress, her heavy leather bootseven more odd against her bare legs. Conscious of their stares, she climbed awkwardly off the bike,trying desperately not to flash her knickers at them, then took hertime changing into her shoes, letting the men enter the buildingbefore she followed. As she stepped into the entrance lobby, Charles emerged fromthe crowd at the bar and headed in her direction. She guessed hehad been keeping an eye out for her. ‘You changed your mind about the overalls then?’ he grinned,taking her elbow and leading her towards the bar. ‘I managed to find a dress at the back of my closet. It’s theonly one I’ve got.’ ‘Makes a nice change to see your legs.’ ‘Don’t! I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I feel like everyone’sstaring at me. I wish I had worn my overalls now.’ ‘You have beautiful legs,’ Charles observed with obvioussincerity, ‘and everyone is staring at you. You’re the most attrac-tive woman in the place.’ ‘I don’t even know what I’m doing here. All these businesspeople and their wives. I don’t belong in this company.’ ‘Yes you do,’ he replied with quiet insistence, calming herwith his tone of voice. ‘You’re a successful local trader. Youbelong here just as much as any of this lot. Besides, I’m gladyou came because you owe me that dance, remember?’ ‘Do I have to? I really am a dreadful dancer. When I dance apolka I look like I’m trying to kick-start a bike.’ Charles laughed happily. ‘I’d like to see that. But if you really 21

don’t want to dance, I won’t force you. Let me get you a drink.What’ll you have?’ While Charles elbowed his way into the scrum of peoplewaiting for drinks, Sam found a convenient niche into which sheretreated, trying to look inconspicuous. ‘Piglet! My darling. Look at you! You’re wearing a dress!’ There was only one person who still called Sam by her child-hood nickname. With a sigh of resignation she turned to greetCynthia Fothergill, the tall, elegantly-dressed woman who wasbearing down on her. ‘Hello Cyn. I didn’t expect to see you here. You look verynice.’ ‘Thank you darling. And you look simply ravishing. What afetching little frock. And those legs! My dear, you should getthem out more often. Look around; every man in the place isstaring at you hungrily. I feel quite put in the shade.’ ‘If one more person mentions my legs tonight I’m goingstraight home to put my jeans on.’ ‘Silly girl! Though come to think of it, that might not be sucha bad idea. I simply won’t get a look in otherwise.’ ‘On the prowl again Cyn? I wouldn’t have thought this wasyour sort of place. All these boring businessmen.’ ‘On the contrary my dear. Where better to look for a husbandwith a nice established business and a nice fat bank account?’ ‘And a nice fat wife?’ ‘Not all of them my dear. Not all.’ Cynthia cast a quick glance around the crowded room asthough afraid of missing an opportunity and Sam, watching her,shook her head and smiled wryly. Trust Cyn! Only three weeks out of her second marriage andhere she was looking for another man. And of course, she’dfind one. Cynthia was a truly beautiful woman, well-educated,sophisticated, with a mind like a razor and a tongue to matchwhen the mood took her. 22

Although they were the same age, Sam always felt like a childin Cynthia’s company. Her friend’s confidence, her upper classaccent and her regal presence made her seem a good ten yearsolder than her calendar years. Beside her, Sam knew, her owneveryday prettiness paled into insignificance. It was like placinga daffodil next to a rare hot-house orchid. Cynthia was still talking, her eyes never ceasing to roam theroom. ‘I couldn’t miss an opportunity like this,’ she was saying,‘even if it meant virtually going down on my hands and kneesand begging Charles to bring me.’ ‘You came with Charles?’ Sam asked, momentarily takenoff-guard. ‘Oh dear. Have I said something wrong? You don’t mind doyou?’ Cynthia’s face registered concern but her eyes glitteredwith malicious delight. ‘Of course not.’ ‘Only the invitations did specify ‘…and partner,’ and I knewyou would have an invitation as a business person in your ownright….’ ‘Don’t apologise, Cyn. It doesn’t suit you,’ Sam said sharply,annoyed that her surprise had been taken for jealously. ‘And youknow perfectly well that there’s nothing between Charles andI. We’re just friends. He can bring anyone he likes. It really isnothing to do with me.’ ‘If you say so, dear. To be honest the poor man really wasn’tkeen on bringing me. I subjected him to my not-inconsiderablecharms but he proved peculiarly resistant. I put that down toyour influence. Then I tried blackmail. I reminded him of a fewthings he did when we were children together, but apparently theman is no longer embarrassed by his childhood indiscretions. Iwas quite surprised: God knows, I’m still embarrassed by mine!’ ‘Anyway, I’d just decided to try violence when he cavedand agreed to bring me. I think I just wore him down. But you 23

needn’t worry. He’s not interested in me. The poor dear is stilltotally smitten with you. He always has been, hasn’t he, eversince we were children. I think it all started that day you beathim up, do you remember?’ Sam remembered the occasion well, but she was surprisedthat Cynthia did. ‘I didn’t exactly beat him up,’ she protested. ‘I just wrestledhim to the ground and sat on his chest until he gave in.’ ‘Precisely. And he’s been looking for an opportunity to repeatthe experience ever since.’ Sam sighed heavily. ‘I know. But I’m not interested. I’ve triedtelling him, but he just doesn’t want to hear.’ ‘I know dear. But you can’t stay single forever. And Charles isreally quite a catch.’ ‘Charles? Are we talking about the same man? Short, tubbyfellow with glasses.’ ‘Oh, I know he’s no Brad Pitt, but he does have the area’smost thriving estate agency and he’s rather sweet, in a timid sortof way.’ ‘You have him then.’ ‘My dear, don’t think I wouldn’t! If you’d said that to meyesterday, I’d have been after him like a shot. I’ve only refrainedup until now out of consideration for our friendship.’ ‘You said yesterday. Why yesterday?’ ‘Ah! Because yesterday, my dear little Piglet, the man of mydreams entered my life. Not that I’ve actually met him yet, but Iintend to, and soon.’ ‘The man of your dreams? What, the one with the riding cropand the huge….?’ ‘No, not that one dear. Though this one also has a huge estate.Come to think of it, he may even have a riding crop, but all Iknow for sure is that he’s just bought Berkley Manor and…’ ‘You mean Thomas Rattigan?’ ‘You know him? But how…?’ 24

‘I met him. Briefly.’ ‘Then you can introduce us. Come along. Let’s find him.’ ‘He’s here?’ ‘Of course, darling. The last I saw of him he was over bythe bar. Oh God, I do hope he’s not a lush. Still, one can’t haveeverything, can one?’ ‘That’s never stopped you trying,’ Sam muttered as Cynthiabegan to scan the crowd around them for traces of Rattigan. That’s just typical of Cyn, Sam thought. A new man in town, anew rich man, and Cyn is on his trail within twenty four hours. But she shouldn’t be surprised: she knew Cyn well enough. Their uneasy friendship had begun many years ago whenCynthia’s family, newly arrived in the neighbourhood, hadleased the East Wing of Berkley Manor for the summer whilethey looked for a permanent home in the area. The two girls, both twelve at the time, had stumbled uponone another one Sunday afternoon in the grounds of the Manor.Strictly speaking, Sam was trespassing, a technicality that hadnever troubled her. An archetypal tomboy, she had earned herplace as the first and only female member of the local gang,an honour she had won with her fists. Sunday afternoon wouldusually have found her roaming the neighbourhood with theboys, idly looking for some mischief to perpetrate, but Sam hada solitary side to her nature and on that day had sought seclusionin the normally deserted grounds of the Manor. The two girls could hardly have been more different. At the age of twelve Cynthia was already a pretty, if slight-ly plump, girl, with the normal interests of the pre-pubescentfemale. She had been holding a tea party for her dolls when shenoticed the thin little girl with the smudged face and the tangledhair watching her from the shadows of a Hydrangea bush. Thegirl was wearing jeans and Doctor Martin boots and her expres-sion was one of suspicious curiosity. Cynthia had invited herto join her party but Sam had refused, disdaining such girlish 25

pleasures, and right there and then, their budding relationshipmight have ended. But Cynthia was lonely, her family having just moved fromtheir home in Devon for the sake of her father’s career. She waswilling to compromise, following her new found friend aroundthe grounds of the Manor, climbing the wall to the forbiddenorchard and eating green apples. By rights the two girls should never have been friends, butas they idled away the long, hot hours on that summer day, thebasis of a life-long friendship was established. When, late in the afternoon, they had had met up with the restof the gang, Sam had fought for Cynthia’s right to join. Reluc-tantly they had bowed to her will, though only after she’d deliv-ered a trouncing to Charlie Fletcher, the event which seemed tohave turned him into her ardent admirer. For the next year Cynthia had roamed with Sam and the boys,trying hard to keep up but never really enjoying their rough andtumble activities. When she cried, as she often did, the boyswould turn on her as a pack and Sam was forced to defend herfriend. Then, soon after her thirteenth birthday, profound changesin Cynthia’s figure began to make themselves obvious. Herbudding breasts and rounding hips caused strange moments ofawkward silence. As she became aware of her effect on the older gangmembers, Cynthia’s natural character began to assert itself. Shebegan to demand, and receive, little attentions from them whichset her apart. She seemed older, altogether more knowing, thanthe callow boys who now competed for the right to help her overstiles and walk beside her. Sam watched with dismay and grudging envy, the changestaking place in her friend, and waited for the same changes toovercome her. But nothing happened. As her fourteenth birth-day came and went she surveyed her stick thin body with its flat 26

chest and protruding hip bones and felt cheated and relieved inequal measure. Cynthia meanwhile continued to bloom. That summer, whenschool broke up and the long weeks of holiday beckoned, sheleft the gang. Without her, Sam felt unaccountably lost. At first she’d hopedthat things would go back to the way they had been beforeCynthia joined the gang, but they didn’t. They were all growingup. The boys were entering adolescence and it was becomingdaily clearer to her that, whilst she could no longer compete withthe developing boys, she was also a failure as a girl. She felt leftbehind. The friendship between the two girls continued within thecontext of the all-girl school they attended, but the relationshiphad changed. It was Sam, now, who was the awkward hang-er-on, while Cynthia was the knowing one. When the other girlswould taunt Sam for her boyish looks and manners, Cynthiawould sometimes intercede on her behalf. Other times she couldnot resist joining in the taunting, revealing the cruel streak thatran deep within her. It was during these years that Cynthia haddubbed Sam ‘Piglet’, a name that caused great amusementamongst their friends. It was a relief to Sam when, somewhere in her sixteenth year,Nature finally turned her attention Sam’s way, swelling herbosom to a comfortable, if modest, 36b and broadening her hipsjust enough so that she no longer looked like a man from behind. Their paths had continued to separate as they reached adult-hood, and while Cynthia, aged eighteen, settled into marriedlife with a young solicitor, Sam had gone to work in her father’sbusiness. But she’d never lost the feeling of being overshadowedby Cynthia’s voluptuousness. And now Cynthia was looking for Mr- Right-Third-Time-Around and Sam, as always, was standing in her shadow. ‘There he is,’ Cynthia announced, pointing with her fine 27

Roman nose towards a small group in the far corner of the room.The look on her face was that of a hunter who has spied herprey. Sam followed her gaze and located Rattigan, looking tall andhandsome, his deep tan glowing under the red-shaded lights ofthe ball room. His dinner jacket was beautifully-cut, his bowtie well knotted, his hair neatly combed. He stood a full headtaller than any other member of the little party, and was talkinganimatedly, his deep voice carrying through the hubbub in theroom. Small talk, Sam thought bitterly. Pleasant, polite, meaninglessconversation. The very thing she was so hopeless at. She could talk all night about motorcycles but there was nota single person in this room who would want to hear, least of allRattigan, who had made his feelings on that subject abundantlyclear. ‘Cyn,’ she pleaded, as her friend dragged her across thecrowded room. ‘I can’t introduce you to Rattigan. I only methim for a moment when I delivered a package to his house. Hewouldn’t even remember me.’ Cynthia gave her an appraising look. ‘I think you may be underestimating yourself my dear,’ shesaid, then shrugged. ‘Oh to hell with it. Let’s not worry about theproprieties. We’ll just march up and introduce ourselves.’ So saying she dug an elbow into the ribs of the man in frontof her and squeezed past, arriving alongside Rattigan. ‘Mr Rattigan? Hello. I’m Cynthia Fothergill. I just wantedto say “Welcome to the neighbourhood.” I understand you’vebought Berkley Manor?’ Rattigan took her sudden appearance at his elbow in hisstride, shaking the offered hand and murmuring in his deepvoice, ‘I see news travels fast in these parts.’ ‘But of course,’ Cynthia simpered back. ‘A new owner at theManor is quite the most exciting thing that’s happened in this 28

village for years. Everyone will want to meet you: size you up asit were.’ ‘Hmm. Well, I’m a rather private person Ms Fothergill. Iwasn’t planning on throwing a party for the whole village.’ ‘Of course not. But perhaps,’ Cynthia smiled coyly and laidan arm on the sleeve of his immaculate dinner jacket, ‘a fewspecial people might receive an invitation to afternoon tea on thelawn? I have such fond memories of the Manor from the dayswhen I used to live there. I’d love to see the old place again.’ A frown creased the tall man’s brow. ‘You used to own themanor? That’s odd. I thought the place had been in the samehands since the war.’ ‘Oh no, I didn’t own it. My father leased part of it when myfamily moved to the area. I was very young, but I really wouldlove to see the place again.’ Rattigan wore the grim expression of a man who recognis-es that further resistance is futile. ‘Well yes, of course. You’rewelcome to visit. I’m afraid the builders will be busy for thenext couple of months but when they’ve finished…’ ‘Oh don’t worry about that. Besides, I’d rather see it beforeit changes. I expect it’s exactly the same as when I lived there.How about Sunday?’ ‘Sunday?’ Rattigan replied distractedly. He had caught sightof Sam, standing in the shadows behind Cynthia, and the smallfrown had appeared once more on his brow as he peered at herface, as though trying to place her. Seeing his gaze, Cynthia jumped to make the belated intro-ductions. ‘This is my best chum, Samantha Hayward. But ofcourse, you two have already met.’ ‘We have?’ For a moment longer Rattigan looked perplexed,then recognition dawned. ‘Ah yes, of course. The young lady onthe motor bike.’ He gave her a wry smile as he shook hands. ‘I’m glad we getthe chance to meet again. I owe you an apology. I was rude to 29

you.’ Sam blushed. ‘Oh, there’s no need…’ ‘Yes there is,’ Rattigan interrupted, his tone brooking nocontradiction. ‘I don’t make a habit of being rude to women,even when it might be justified. But I’m told that you were inno way at fault this morning. Charles Fletcher explained theproblems that had occurred at the solicitors’ office. I’m sorryI jumped to the wrong conclusion. I’d had a bit of a tryingmorning you understand? Not that that’s any excuse. I hope Ididn’t upset you.’ ‘Please forget about it. It takes a lot more than that to upsetme. You should see what I have to put up with every day!’ Rattigan looked interested. ‘It must be a very strange life for awoman, riding a motorbike all day long.’ ‘Oh no…’ Sam began, but at that moment Charles Fletcherappeared at her elbow, looking hot and bothered. ‘Ah, there you are!’ he cried with relief. ‘For a moment there,I thought you’d sneaked off home. Hello Thomas. Cynthia.You’re looking lovely as always.’ ‘Thank you Charles. Mr Rattigan was just inviting us to tea atBerkley Manor. Did we agree Sunday?’ She turned an expression of sweet innocence on the tall manwho looked momentarily flustered before his features set in anexpression of grim resignation and he replied, ‘Certainly. Whynot? And of course you are invited too, Miss Hayward. And youCharles, if you’d like to come.’ ‘Lovely!’ Cynthia cried. ‘We’ll have such a nice time. I dohope the weather stays fine.’ * 30

4 ‘Just look at her. The poor man. I feel sorry for him.’ Charles looked up from his soup and followed Sam’s gaze tothe top table where Rattigan was sitting between the Chairmanand Cynthia Fothergill. Even from a distance of fifty feet, theforce of Cynthia’s conversation could be discerned. Rattiganwas spooning soup into his mouth and nodding politely atintervals, a somewhat strained expression on his face. ‘He’s dead meat,’ Charles announced cheerfully. ‘She hasher talons in him and she won’t let go until she gets what shewants. She’s a very determined lady.’ Sam nodded. Just how determined Cynthia was had beenmade clear when the guests filed through for dinner. Theseating plan was pinned up on a board just inside the doors.Rattigan, as the new owner of Berkley Manor, had been invitedto dine at the top table. Cynthia was to have been sittingwith Sam and Charles at their table in the far corner, near theentrance to the kitchens. The arrangement had not suited Cynthia, so she had changedit, commandeering the seat next to Rattigan. When the rightful occupant of that seat, the bemused-look-ing woman now sitting on Sam’s right, had tried to claimher place, she had met with one of Cynthia’s frostiest looks.Retiring in dismay, the poor woman had wandered the room forseveral minutes until Sam, taking pity on her, had guided her totheir table. 31

‘I can see a marriage proposal in the air,’ Charles observedwryly. ‘What! You must be joking. He’s only just met her. In fact Idon’t think he even likes her.’ ‘Oh, I didn’t mean he was going to propose. But I thinkCynthia’s just working up to it. You watch, by the time theyserve dessert, she’ll have popped the question.’ Sam giggled. ‘Do you think she’ll go down on one knee?’ ‘No. I expect she’ll just whip a pair of handcuffs from herbag and snap them round his wrists.’ I really do feel sorry for him, Sam told herself, surprised bythe thought. Why should she care what happened to Thomas Rattigan?Despite his apology earlier, she still felt him to be overbearing:a man who was too used to getting his own way. Well, Cynthiawas used to getting her own way too. Perhaps they would makean ideal match. At the very least it would be worth watchingwhen the sparks began to fly. After dinner, the guests filed out into the ballroom oncemore and the band began to play a medley of waltzes. Samwas standing alone at the edge of the dance floor waiting forCharles, who had gone for drinks, when Rattigan appeared outof the crush. ‘Ah, Miss Hayward. Would you care to dance?’ ‘Oh, no. I’m sorry, but I’m not much of a dancer.’ ‘That doesn’t matter. Come on.’ So saying, he took her by the hand and pulled her gently butfirmly onto the floor. Taken by surprise, Sam had no option butto follow. As they rotated their way sedately around the floor, Samcounting the steps in her mind, she saw Cynthia arrive at thespot they had just vacated on the edge of the dance floor. Herfriend was looking flustered and annoyed, staring at Rattigan’sback like someone who has just run for a bus and stands on the 32

pavement watching it disappear into the distance. She lookedas though she might stamp her foot. ‘Is she still following me?’ Rattigan murmured in Sam’s ear,bending slightly to do so. ‘I’m sorry to pounce on you like that,but I had to escape. She went to the loo and I saw my opportu-nity, so I took it. I hope you don’t mind?’ Sam chuckled. ‘Happy to be of service. I gather she came ona bit strong?’ ‘Like a whirlwind,’ he replied ruefully. ‘I feel like I’ve justsailed across the Atlantic in an open boat.’ Rattigan danced well, moving lightly for a big man butproviding a strong lead to guide her faltering steps. She wasconscious of his hand placed firmly in the small of her back.Although it rested lightly, she could sense its weight, thehidden strength in his arms. If he were to tense his muscles shewould be pulled inexorably towards him, unable to resist. Itwas so long since she had been held in a man’s arms. She forced her mind back to the present, concentrating for amoment on what her feet were doing and stumbling as a result. ‘Oops. Sorry,’ she laughed. ‘But I did warn you.’ ‘You’re doing fine,’ he smiled back and she noticed howwhite and even his teeth were. She could feel the heat coming off him, smell his maleness,a mixture of after-shave and pheromones which made her feellight-headed. Gradually she tensed the fingertips of her left hand, gentlysqueezing his shoulder, enjoying the feel of the smooth fabricand the hard muscle beneath. Feeling suddenly guilty, shelooked up to find him gazing down at her, his dark eyes staringinto her own, his expression serious. For the first time, shenoticed a thin line of scar tissue running along the line of hisjaw on the left side of his face and wondered briefly about itsprovenance. A sports injury, perhaps, possibly the same onethat had resulted in the curiously attractive bend in his nose? 33

The natural motion of the dance had taken them around thefloor and they were passing Cynthia once more. Sam could feelRattigan subtly guiding her steps so as to keep his back to theedge of the dance floor and Cynthia. As they swept by, Samsmiled sweetly at her friend and was rewarded with a scowl. Two scowls in fact, for Charles was now standing besideCynthia, a glass of champagne in each hand and a black lookon his face. ‘Oh dear. I’ve upset Charles,’ she muttered, rememberinghow she had pleaded with him not to make her dance. ‘Is he very jealous?’ Rattigan asked. ‘Perhaps I should haveasked his permission.’ ‘Permission? Why on earth should you ask his permission?’ ‘I just thought, what with you two being, well, almostengaged…’ ‘Engaged! Where on earth did you get that idea?’ ‘Charles told me this morning that he and you…’ ‘Bloody cheek! Why, I’ll tear his head off!’ ‘Whoa. Calm down. I’m sure it was just a mistake. I prob-ably misunderstood what he said.’ Rattigan gazed at her withcalm amusement as she fumed. ‘So you’re not engaged?’ heasked casually. ‘Certainly not.’ It came out angrier than she had intended. ‘Boyfriend?’ ‘No.’ ‘Good.’ Sam gave him a suspicious frown. ‘What does that mean?’ ‘It just means I don’t really see you and Charles together,that’s all.’ Sam continued to regard him sceptically but at that momentthe music ended. As the band moved into the next tune Samcould see Cynthia making her way across the dance floor, apurposeful look in her eye. ‘Thank you for the dance,’ she said hastily. ‘I have to go.’ 34

Unlocking her hand from his, she turned quickly and madeher way off the floor, pushing into the crowd. As she movedtowards the exit doors she could hear Charles’ voice, high andplaintive, calling her name. Ten minutes later Sam was two miles away, picking her waycarefully up the rocky hillside of her field with only the moon’ssilver light to guide her. Her heavy leather boots sank into thesoft, springy turf and scrabbled over loose pebbles as she madeher way to the summit. The cool night air washed through herlungs and her body, chilled by the short ride through the coolevening air, now warmed to the exercise, her muscles workingsmoothly as she pushed and pulled her way up the incline. At the top of the field a large boulder, shaped roughly likea cottage loaf, lay half-embedded in the soil beneath a stuntedtree. Sam clambered onto it. For as long as she could remem-ber, this was where she had come when she felt the need forsolitude. The ancient rock was smooth and still warm from the day’ssun against the skin of her legs as she sat and gazed back downthe slope. From here she could just make out the dark silhou-ette of her business, Speed Machine, half-a-mile away behinda screen of trees. The road ran around the base of the hill like asmooth silver-grey ribbon thrown across the rough ground. Wrapping her arms around her legs Sam laid her cheek onher knees and closed her eyes, listening to the night sounds. Asher breathing returned to normal her mind became calm andshe floated blissfully for several minutes, letting her thoughtsdrift where they would; childhood memories, images of sunnydays on her motorbike. She smiled as she remembered herfather burning the breakfast bacon in the kitchen when she wasyoung, before she was old enough to take over the householdchores. Though a skilled mechanic, he had been a hopelesscook. She had grown up thinking that all food should be black 35

round the edges. Poor dad. She became aware of a low growl in the distance which grewas she listened, coming nearer. A motorbike, a large one, wellridden. She could hear the change in note as the rider workedthe gears, keeping the revs up and moving fast. Automatically,she turned her eyes to the gap in the trees at the bottom of thehill where the road was visible for fifty yards or so. The noisegrew louder, a sustained roar as the rider engaged top gear andgunned the motor. Travelling too fast, Sam thought testily, understanding thedesire to speed along empty moonlit lanes. For a brief moment the big bike flashed into view, the ridercrouched across the petrol tank like a racer, his knees closeto the ground, and then it was gone, disappearing once morebehind the trees. The engine sound changed with the Dopplereffect as it tore into the distance. After ten seconds it was just afaint drone in the distance, like a drowsy bee on a sunny day. The silence returned, but in Sam’s head the sound continued.She could hear the stuttering bark of a highly-tuned enginebeing revved in neutral, could see her father give his familiargood-luck thumbs-up sign as he crouched over the tank waitingfor the starter’s signal. Beside him, on the little wheeled plat-form that constituted the racing bike’s sidecar, Jezz knelt low toreduce wind resistance, his arms tensed as he clung to the metalbar which was his only way of staying on the bike. Thirty minutes later it had failed to do its job as he was cata-pulted fifty feet into a tree, snapping his back like a twig. Herfather had never let go of the handle bars, guiding the careeringmachine out of the path of the spectator and up a bank where ithad become briefly airborne before crashing down in a splinter-ing mess of metal and flesh. Sam lay back on the smooth rock and stared at the stars ashot tears flowed from her eyes, running down her temples into 36

her hair. Poor dad. And poor me, she thought bitterly. Poor me,left to carry on alone, without you. It isn’t fair! For several minutes she lay on the rock while the nightbreeze dried the tears on her cheeks. Gradually, as her sensesreturned to the present moment, she felt the pressure in thesmall of her back where a small protuberance in the rock waspressing against her spine. Instantly, her mind conjured up an image of Thomas Ratti-gan, his hand in the small of her back, his calm eyes gazingdown into her upturned face. She felt again the heaviness ofhis hand, the strength. Pressing down with her back she pushedher spine against the rock. In her mind, the hand increased itspressure, pulling her into him, against his hard body. She couldfeel his taut stomach against hers, his broad chest against herbreasts. Warmth flowed through her as she felt his hips pressagainst hers, felt the bulge of his manhood, roused from itssleep, move against her skin. She longed to feel his weight onher, pressing her down into the stone, crushing the breath fromher as he moved inside her... An owl hooted nearby and she sat up in sudden alarm, herheart racing and her breath trapped in her throat. Anger andself-disgust washed through her as she brushed at her face andstood, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. Feeling guilty and ashamed, she made her way back downthe hill. * 37

5 No wonder they call her Mother Nature, Sam thought as shemoved around the little flat, searching drawers and wardrobesfor a dress she knew didn’t exist. After all, it’s a woman’sprerogative to change her mind, isn’t it? The morning had started out warm and sunny, perfect for teaon the lawn, and it had seemed for a while as though even theweather was prepared to comply with Cynthia’s wishes. Buttowards noon, dark clouds had swung in from the West andheavy drops of rain began to patter on the windows. Clutchingat the slightest chance of a reprieve, Sam had phoned her friendand suggested they postpone their visit to the Manor. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Cynthia had askedcrossly. ‘First you disappear without a word of farewell onFriday night, now you want to cancel because of a few spots ofrain. Is this something to do with Charles?’ ‘No, not really,’ Sam sighed. She knew Charles would becross with her for walking out on Friday night, but she alsoknew he would forgive her anything. And no doubt, eventually, she would forgive him for tellingRattigan that they were engaged. But she also knew shecouldn’t tell Cynthia her real reasons for not wishing to seeThomas Rattigan again. ‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ she improvised, hoping to touch asympathetic nerve in her style-conscious friend. ‘I wore myonly dress on Friday night.’ 38

‘And very pretty it was too,’ Cynthia replied coldly. ‘Wear itagain.’ ‘But I can’t wear the same dress twice in a row,’ Samcomplained. ‘He’ll notice.’ ‘Of course he won’t! He’s a man. Men never noticeanything. Besides, he’s seen you in it before.’ ‘No he hasn’t,’ Sam replied, confused. ‘Yes he has. You wore it last month when we had dinner atthe big Grasshopper.’ ‘But he wasn’t there…’ Sam began, then realised too latethat they were talking at cross-purposes. ‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘You mean Charles. Well yes ofcourse…’ ‘Who else would I mean?’ Cynthia asked suspiciously. ‘Youdon’t mean Thomas? Why on earth should he care what youwear?’ ‘No. You’re right. Forget it,’ Sam blustered. ‘Will you pickme up in your car? I don’t want to ride in this weather.’ ‘Very well,’ Cynthia said, her voice still cool. ‘I’ll be there inone hour. Be sure you’re ready.’ The little party sat drinking tea and making stilted conversa-tion in the ancient summer house attached to the East wing ofthe Manor. Above their heads, water gurgled noisily in the oldcast-iron drainpipes and poured in spouts from either end of theroof to splash noisily on the gravel. Rain drummed on the glassroof and occasional flashes of lightning marched across thedeep grey of the sky. ‘Well, that’s what I get for wishing for good weather,’Cynthia remarked brightly. ‘But never mind. It’s nice and cosyin here, isn’t it? Quite tropical really, what with the plants andall.’ Rattigan smiled dutifully, then glanced at his other twoguests. Neither had said more than a few words since they had 39

arrived and each was now sitting brooding on their privatethoughts. Anxious to lift the atmosphere, Rattigan began to tell thema little of the history of the house, information he’d pickedup from the previous owner. As he talked, Sam watched himthrough half-closed lids. She had not slept well the previousnight, her mind alternating between worry about raising thecash for her field and deep-seated distress at the thoughts shehad experienced on Friday night on the cottage-loaf rock. Tiredness, combined with the heat of the room, was makingher feel drowsy. Rattigan was looking cool and comfortable in cotton slacksand a pale blue, short-sleeved shirt. A slim gold watch on acrocodile strap nestled among the dark hairs that covered hisdeeply tanned forearms, distant cousins of the hairs whichgraced his broad chest, just visible through the open neck of hisshirt. His chin, at one o’clock in the afternoon, had the tell-taleblue sheen of a man who really needs to shave twice a day.With her eyes, Sam traced the line of the scar along his jaw,showing now as a thin thread of white against the blue. Oneday, when they knew one another better, when he was safelymarried to Cynthia and they had, perhaps, become friends, shewould ask him about it. He’s an attractive man, she thought idly. Cynthia is settingher sights high this time: rich and handsome. In the past she’dsettled for rich. ‘Thomas.’ Cynthia leaned forward in her chair, her eyesholding Rattigan’s gaze like a mongoose hypnotizing a cobra.‘Charles mentioned that you had recently returned from foreignparts.’ ‘That’s right,’ Rattigan replied with obvious relief, glad ofthe new topic of conversation. ‘I was in Saudi. I spend three orfour months there each year.’ 40

‘Ah, then you’re in the oil business?’ Cynthia purred, hereyes sparkling with interest. ‘Oil?’ Rattigan looked surprised. ‘No. I’m in the boat busi-ness.’ ‘Boats?’ It was Cynthia’s turn to show surprise. ‘In Saudi?You mean oil tankers, that sort of thing?’ Clearly, she wasunwilling to relinquish her dream of oil-millions. Rattigan laughed. ‘I wish I did. No, I’m no Aristotle Onassis.I sell power boats and motor launches. Expensive playthingsfor the rich.’ ‘Really?’ Cynthia murmured, looking non-plussed, and Samhad to smile. Clearly her friend had no terms of reference withwhich to judge the social value of a boat-seller. ‘But in Saudi?’ Cynthia went on. ‘I always imagined it asnothing but sand as far as the eye could see.’ ‘That’s true,’ Rattigan nodded seriously. ‘But my customersare mostly Arab Sheiks. They travel about quite a bit and theyenjoy messing about with boats as much as anyone. Most ofthem keep their boats moored in the South of France. Theystock the things up with booze and take naughty weekendsaway from their wives and their religion.’ ‘I imagine there’s a good living in that line of work?’Charles fished. He had begun to take an interest at the mentionof business. ‘Not bad,’ Rattigan answered carefully. ‘The boats them-selves are pretty expensive and no self-respecting Prince woulddream of using one that’s more than a year old. So I go outthere once a year and sell them the latest models.’ ‘Nice business,’ Charles observed, nodding shrewdly withhis fellow-entrepreneurs-discussing-business expression.‘There must be a lot of competition.’ ‘Actually, no. The Saudis are hard bargainers, but they liketo buy from someone they can trust: someone who will deliverwhen he says he will. I’ve been dealing with the same group of 41

clients for more than fifteen years and some of them I count astrue friends. I rarely lose a client to the competition.’ ‘Better and better,’ Charles nodded eagerly. ‘A virtualmonopoly, eh? I imagine the profit must be pretty good on anexpensive item like a powerboat?’ ‘It’s satisfactory,’ Rattigan replied cautiously. He paused,as though weighing up whether to say more, then, apparentlydeciding that he was amongst friends, he continued. ‘But that’snot where I make my money. I make the real killing when I buythem back.’ ‘Buy them back?’ ‘Yes. You see, to an Arab Prince, the price he gets for his‘old’ boat is of almost no concern. He just wants the new one asquickly as possible. So I buy back the boat I sold him last yearfor a fraction of the original price. Then I sell it on to a Europe-an buyer. Why, a couple of times I’ve bought back a boat that’snever even been in the water and paid 20% of the new price.’ ‘My God. It sounds too good to be true. How on earth didyou get into a business like that?’ The naked envy in Charles’svoice made Sam wince. ‘It started when I was at Oxford,’ Rattigan explained. ‘I wasthere on a scholarship but some of my friends were rather well-heeled. We would go out at weekends on one or other of theirfather’s power boats. I did quite well, won a few races. WhenI graduated I took up power boat racing professionally. I couldnever afford my own boat of course, but I had some pretty richsponsors. For five years I was in heaven. And then I gave itup and started selling them. By then I had some pretty goodcontacts among the boat-owning fraternity and it just took offfrom there.’ ‘You don’t race boats now?’ Sam asked, intrigued by thisunexpected side of the man she had mentally summed up asstuffy and conservative. ‘No.’ 42

‘I’d have thought….’ Sam began, but the sound of a car hornfrom the drive at the front of the house broke across her words.Rattigan started and flashed an odd, almost guilty, look at theothers. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment,’ he said, rising from hisbamboo chair, ‘There’s something I must see to.’ ‘Isn’t he heavenly?’ Cynthia gushed as soon as he left. ‘Socommanding. And very handsome. Do you think he likes me?’ ‘He hasn’t taken his eyes off Sam since we arrived,’ Charlesremarked sourly. ‘Sam? You think he’s interested in Sam?’ Cynthia’s tone wasfrosty and she glared at her friend accusingly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous Charles,’ Sam broke in quickly.‘Besides, whatever Mr Thomas Rattigan might be interested in,I’m most certainly not interested in him!’ Only slightly mollified, Cynthia continued to watch Samsuspiciously as they awaited Rattigan’s return. Sam hid herblushes in her tea cup and wished she were elsewhere. She had only agreed to this visit because Cynthia had insist-ed it wouldn’t be right for her to take tea with the man alone. ‘Idon’t want him thinking I’m after him,’ Cynthia had said. ‘But you are!’ Sam had pointed out. ‘Of course I am, but I don’t want him realising it,’ Cynthiahad explained patiently, as though to a child. In fact, Rattigan could hardly have failed to recogniseCynthia’s intentions. Once or twice Sam had practicallysquirmed in her seat at the sight of her friend’s fawning atten-tions towards the man. But Rattigan had failed to reciprocate.Rather, he had made it quite clear from the first that his inter-ests lay in Sam’s direction. He had said nothing overtly ofcourse, but she had been acutely aware of the man’s eyes onher. Clearly, Charles had noticed too, and was madly jealous. Damn Rattigan! It wasn’t as if she’d tried to draw attentionto herself. After the abortive phone call to Cynthia this morning 43

she’d decided against wearing her one and only dress, optinginstead to wear her usual casual garb of jeans and tee-shirt. By contrast, Cynthia looked gorgeous in a simple butundoubtedly expensive summer frock which hugged her figurein all the right places. Why couldn’t the stupid man have takenthe bait? The last thing Sam needed was a jealous Charles onher case. The atmosphere in the conservatory had grown distinctlycool, each of them occupied with their own unhappy thoughts.Sam stared out of the glass walls at the damp lawn. The rainhad stopped and the sun was making a belated appearance butthe thin sunshine failed to thaw the sudden frost that had settledon the friends. ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ Sam told the others, and fled. Rattigan had given them a brief tour of the house on theirarrival and Sam remembered his having pointed out at leastthree loos along the way, but now she couldn’t find any ofthem. Not that it really mattered; she just wanted to be alonefor a few minutes. As she wandered aimlessly through the entrance hall, asudden flash of light scythed across her eyes, momentarilyblinding her. It was gone as quickly as it had come. Lookingaround, Sam realised that it must have come through the smallwindow beside the front door, but the sun was behind the houseand the hallway itself was in shadow. Curious, she moved tothe window and looked out through the leaded panes. A flat-bed lorry was parked on the drive and two men wereunloading something from the back. Rattigan stood to oneside, directing operations. The object on the back of the lorrywas covered with a heavy tarpaulin, but for Sam there was nomistaking the angular shape beneath the canvas. It could beonly one thing: a motorbike. ‘What the Hell…?’ she muttered aloud. Thomas had madehis feelings about motorbikes clear from the first time she met 44

him. Yet here he was, taking delivery of a bike. It made nosense, unless… Was the bike a gift for his nephew? But she’d heard Thomaswarn Martin not to get involved with bikes. So why wouldhe… The light flashed across her eyes again and she turned herhead quickly away. When she looked back, she could see thatone of the bike’s wing mirrors was sticking out from under thetarpaulin into the bright sunlight, flashing its semaphore signalsas the men tugged the heavy machine towards the back of thelorry. It appeared that one end of the tarpaulin had becometrapped, and as the men manoeuvred the bike to the tail of thelorry, the tarpaulin gradually eased away, revealing its contentslittle by little in a strange, mechanical striptease. ‘Honda 750 four.’ Sam muttered under her breath, her brainproviding the information automatically. ‘1974 model.’ She nodded appreciatively. Nice bike, in its day. Somethingof a classic now, if you could find one in good condition. It washard to say what condition this one was in. She could only seethe back wheel and a bit of the seat. Rattigan had barked an order and the men were busilyfreeing the trapped tarpaulin and re-wrapping it around thebike. As Sam continued to watch, Rattigan suddenly lookedover his shoulder, as though he felt the weight of her gaze. Instinctively she ducked back into the shadows of thehallway, then berated herself for doing so. She didn’t thinkhe’d seen her, but so what if he had? She wasn’t doing anythingwrong. It was just an old bike. Nevertheless, she couldn’t losethe feeling that she’d seen something she wasn’t supposed tosee, and a little worm of guilt wriggled inside her. ‘To hell with this,’ she said aloud, her voice loud in the dustyhallway, and stepped up to the window again. The men had the bike off the lorry now and were carrying,rather than wheeling, it into the garage. In a moment they 45

emerged, dusting their hands, and Rattigan secured the garagedoor with a large padlock, placing the key in his trouser pocket. The men turned towards the front of the house again,and Sam ducked back once more, cursing herself under herbreath for her timidity. Quickly she made her way back to theconservatory. Her return was met with twin versions of a cold stare fromher friends and the three sat in silence until Rattigan joinedthem a moment later. Resuming his seat, he looked around the small companyand asked, ‘I’m sorry. Where were we?’ ‘You were telling us about how you raced power boats inyour youth,’ Cynthia told him, becoming suddenly animatedonce more. ‘It all sounds most exciting. Don’t you miss it?’ ‘No. I was young and foolish at the time. You might say Iwas addicted to the danger. Then I grew up, so I stopped.’ ‘Just like that?’ Sam asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘So perhaps, one day, it will happen to you too, eh Sam?’Charles cut in jovially. ‘Perhaps you’ll give up tearing aroundthe country on motorbikes and settle down.’ ‘I’ll never outgrow motorcycles,’ Sam answered stolidly. ‘That’s a pity,’ Rattigan said heavily, ‘I’d have thoughtsomeone of your obvious intelligence would have recognisedthe fool-hardiness of riding those contraptions.’ Goaded, Sam threw caution to the wind. ‘Have you everridden bikes, Mr Rattigan?’ she asked tartly. He threw her a suspicious look. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact Idid. When I was younger. But like I said, I grew up.’ ‘Well if growing up means losing your sense of adventure,of being able to enjoy the rush of adrenaline, then I’ll settlefor immaturity thank you. Nothing could make me give upbikes.’ ‘That’s a pity,’ Rattigan said, watching her carefully. ‘But 46

then again, perhaps all you need is the right incentive.’ An hour later they took their leave. Rattigan walked them totheir car. ‘I really have had a lovely time,’ Cynthia enthused. ‘Wemust do this again. Soon.’ ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Rattigan replied without conviction. As Cynthia climbed into the driving seat he touched Samlightly on the arm, drawing her a few paces along the drive. ‘I would like to see you again,’ he told her earnestly. ‘Well, I’m sure Cynthia would love to…’ Sam began butRattigan shook his head. ‘Alone,’ he said in his deep voice. ‘Just you and I. Perhapsyou’re free one evening next week?’ Sam looked up into the man’s face. He really was quitehandsome, and when he spoke softly like this, instead of in hisusual commanding bark…. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry’ she told him. ‘I’m very busynext week.’ ‘Then perhaps the week after?’ Sam glanced at the car where Charles was hovering, holdingthe rear door open. She could see Cynthia peering through thedriver’s window, her face set in an angry frown. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she told him. ‘I’msorry but…no, I don’t think so. Now I really have to go.’ Quickly she moved to the car and slipped into the backseat, past Charles who glared at Rattigan for a moment beforejoining her. In angry silence, Cynthia put the car in gear anddrove off down the drive. * 47

6 On Wednesday morning Sam woke feeling tired and jadedafter another sleepless night. Her slumbers had been disturbedby confused dreams in which her father had sat on a rock in themoonlight while Rattigan performed wheelies on a dirt bike.Sam couldn’t decide which disturbed her most: dreaming of herfather, or dreaming of Rattigan. At ten o’clock she entered the office, having spent half anhour going over the parts inventory with Terry. Jezz looked upand gave her a knowing look. ‘That bloke phoned again. Geezer at the Manor. Third timethis week that is.’ ‘What did you tell him?’ Sam asked guiltily. ‘Same as last time. Said you wasn’t here. He said you was tophone back. Left his number. You goin’ to ring?’ ‘No,’ Sam answered quietly. ‘Listen Jezz. If he rings again,tell him…tell him the boss doesn’t allow personal phone callsduring working hours, okay?’ ‘Whatever you say,’ Jezz nodded. ‘But I could just tell ‘im tofuck off if you like.’ Sam shuddered. ‘No thanks. Just tell him what I said.’ The afternoon was spent giving one of her pupils his lastlesson before he took his test. Privately Sam harboured doubtsabout the young man’s readiness, and the way he drove thatday gave her no reason to revise her opinion. But as she cruised 48

along at forty miles an hour, keeping a careful forty metresbetween herself and the bike in front, guiding him by way ofthe two-way radio built into their helmets, she began to feel thefamiliar sense of peace that overtook her whenever she rode abig bike slowly in good weather, so different from the adrena-line rush that came with riding the same bike fast. After three more hours, they returned to the showroom andSam gave her student his final debriefing. ‘You did well today, Brian, but you need to concentrate onyour signalling. You’re still leaving it too late. You’ll fail unlessyou give good clear warning of your intentions. Okay? I’ll seeyou on Friday. Make sure you get here half-an-hour early.’ The young man nodded and called a muffled farewellthrough his crash helmet as he guided his bike back out ontothe road. As he pulled into traffic his indicator gave a belatedblink and Sam sighed. ‘You’re not going to get rid of those ‘L’ plates like that,’ shemuttered and headed for the office. Jezz looked up as she entered. His face wore an uncharac-teristically agitated expression. ‘Thank God you’re back!’ herumbled. ‘We’ve been goin’ bleedin’ bonkers here. I need youto do a drop.’ ‘What about the other riders?’ ‘They’re all out.’ ‘What, all of them? On a Wednesday afternoon?’ ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s that bloke up at the Manor. He’s gonecrazy or something. He’s sending packages to all points of thecompass. We’ve done seven drops for ‘im already. Every timeone of the lads gets back, he sends them straight out again. Itstarted off as local stuff but now it’s getting bloody silly. Lesis up at ‘Eathrow, Dave’s off to Gravesend and Adrian is on ‘isway to Wales, would you believe? Now he says he’s got a dropfor Central London and it’s got to go right this bleedin’ minute.’ ‘Did you give him my message?’ 49