Second Take: Bryce Series of Romantic Mysteries, #1

By Patricia Greasby

First in a series of Bryce family mysteries. Ann meets actor Stephen Bryce. Truth and gossip merge when a former girlfriend together with rival actor and petty criminal, Robert Marshall, conspire to drag Stephen into a sordid world of drugs and violence. Can an old lady's tales of Bryce family heirlooms, lost for a generation, be trusted?  When Marshall's boss hears rumours of priceless jewellery, lives are at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Greasby
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386742371

Patricia Greasby

Over the last thirty years Patricia has slotted in writing as a hobby around her husband, three sons and a career in insurance and accountancy.  For at least twenty years she attended Creative Writing classes at a local college. Sons now married with families of their own she and her husband recently retired, she expected to have more time to dedicate to a hobby which has become a passion.  Now Patricia slots in writing between grandchildren, outings with her husband and other hobbies...but with just as much passion. Facebook: Patricia Greasby Author patriciagreasby@btinternet .com

Book preview

SECOND TAKE

CHAPTER 1

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Beneath the beams and thatch of the Three Barrels tavern, blades locked, broke apart and clashed again. Forced backwards, Stephen stumbled over a stool and fell, raising dust from a rush-strewn floor. His opponent drew back his sword arm to deliver the final thrust─

‘CUT.’

Quickly on his feet, Stephen dusted down his leather doublet and, for the benefit of a coach party that had been allowed to watch, executed a low, flourishing bow.

His adversary, Robert Marshall, smirked. ‘Can’t resist showing off, can you, Brycie?’

Stephen flexed a shoulder. He suspected Robert had moved the stool and shot him an icy glare.

*

As the coach party shuffled on, Stephen noticed a woman loitering in the shadows. ‘If she’s hoping to gate crash, he mused, ‘she won’t get far; security is pretty tight.’ He watched her reach over a barrier where a small camera hung by its strap. Photography forbidden, perhaps she had hung it there and was up to nothing more sinister than retrieving the forgotten item.

As he watched, the sleeve of her jacket caught on the barrier, the jerk sending the camera clattering across the concrete floor. She struggled to free herself and, unable to resist a smile, he strode towards her. ‘Let me help.’ Material ripped as he disentangled her sleeve from a piece of bent wire in the metal fencing.

‘Careful! I only bought this jacket yesterday.’ She looked up into his face, her angry retort changing to ‘Oh.’

Feeling he couldn't merely walk away, he gestured to her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry about your jacket.’ She remained frozen, so, taking her by the elbow, he led her around the barrier, scooped up the camera and, handing it to her, said, ‘Let me get you a coffee.’

In the canteen, Stephen dismissed with a wave an invitation from a group of Cavaliers to join them, and, leaving her at a table, fetched two polystyrene cups from a nearby machine. Sitting opposite, he slipped off the cellophane wrapping from a pack of cigarettes and offered her the open packet. She shook her head. He examined the pack for a moment then pushed it aside. Sliding a serviette across the table he said, ‘If you jot down your name and address, I’ll pass it to someone who’ll deal with the damage to your jacket.’

She pulled a pen from her bag, printed on the napkin and pushed it back across the table.

‘Well—’ he glanced at the paper, ‘Ann Symons, I’m Stephen Bryce.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m with a tour,’ she explained. ‘I left my camera ...’

‘Yes, I know – that you left your camera,’ he gently teased.

Ann pushed back her chair. ‘I’d better catch up with the guide. I’m sure I’m not supposed to be here.’

He gave way to an urge to detain her. ‘It’ll be at least twenty minutes before they reset the scene and you haven’t drunk your coffee.’

She took a sip and winced, the strong mechanical brew obviously not to her taste.

‘Are you enjoying the tour? Apart from—’ he indicated her sleeve.

She poked a finger through the hole. ‘The schedule is hectic but the trip is a present from my sons; they’re old enough to look after themselves and I’m beginning to enjoy my freedom.’

Taking advantage of her downcast eyes, Stephen studied her face, her subtle attractiveness intriguing.

Someone called from the door, ‘Back on set, please.’

He pushed the paper cup away. ‘I must go, but please stay and look around. Sophie,’ he hailed a young woman carrying a clipboard, ‘can you find a place so Ann can watch?’

Leaving Ann in the care of the production assistant, Stephen gathered a cloak and sword and submitted to the brief attention of a make-up girl. He glanced at the set to ensure the three-legged stool stood in its correct place and took his position.

Robert Marshall flexed the blade of a rapier and inclined his head confirming his readiness to continue.

*

The scene at last in the can, Stephen ignored Marshall’s mock salute and, leaving the crew to dismantle the set, threaded his way through the equipment to Ann who was gazing at another actor now speaking with the director.

‘Is that Guy Gillard?’

‘Would you like to meet him?’

‘I’d love to, but—’ she glanced anxiously at her watch, ‘I must get back to the coach, the driver won’t wait.’

Stephen held open a side door.

She said, ‘Thank you for allowing me to watch,’ before hurrying down a corridor towards Reception.

*

Ann burst through the double doors of Reception in time to see a large, silver coach leaving the car park. ‘Shit.’

‘Sorry, madam.’ A uniformed security officer touched his cap. ‘I put a call out over the PA half an hour ago. The driver assumed you’d made your own arrangements.’

Too annoyed to decide what action to take, she paced the length of the office, eventually asking, ‘Is it far to the nearest train station? Can I get a taxi?’

The officer made a call. ‘A cab will be here in twenty minutes.’

Ann tried to regain her cool; no use becoming upset, nothing to do but wait. She examined her camera. It seemed undamaged, and she returned it to her shoulder bag before spending a few moments scrutinising the photos adorning the office wall. Stars past and present gazed back. She flicked through a magazine and found a picture of Robert Marshall. Further on, a photograph of Stephen, an article outlining his career and a number of women with whom he’d been linked.

Twenty minutes at last elapsed, she threw down the magazine and left Reception to pace the car park. She was checking her watch for the tenth time when the glass reception doors crashed to a close behind. Stephen Bryce, in sweatshirt and jeans and carrying a holdall, looking flushed as if straight from a shower, his light brown hair drying into untidy curls.

A grin dimpled his cheeks. ‘You still here?’

Ann checked an answering smile. ‘I decided to take the train.’ She failed to prevent an edge of sarcasm.

‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

‘I’m waiting for a taxi to Bridgford, but—’ She again examined her watch; twenty minutes had stretched to thirty-five.

‘I’ll drop you at the station,’ he confirmed just as a green Vauxhall Vectra, boasting Courtesy Cabs, pulled into the car park and drew to a halt beside them.

Ann expected Stephen to politely open the car door, but he leaned into the cab, pushed a note at the driver and apologised for a wasted journey, her, ‘Hey, you can’t just–’ too late to prevent the cab’s swift departure.

Stephen dumped his bag in the boot of a red Mazda RX7 and, holding open the passenger door, smiled again. ‘It’s no trouble. I’m visiting my parents and it’s practically on the way.’

Judging she had little option, Ann slid into the seat and slammed the door. ‘How far is it?’ she asked brusquely when he’d settled in the driver’s seat.

‘About half an hour.’ He answered absently, lighting a cigarette before joining traffic at a busy main road. The junction safely negotiated, he tossed the cigarette out of the window. ‘I’m working toward giving up for the millennium.’

Ann rewarded him with a tight smile, determined not to succumb to his charm.

‘What part of the country are you from?’ His voice was rich and well modulated. ‘Not from around here.’

She winced, sensitive about her Midlands accent. ‘Is it so bad?’

‘It’s delightful.’

‘Patronising—’ she bit off the retort. With half an hour to spend in his company, she allowed a few moments for her irritation to subside. After all, he was simply making polite conversation. She asked about the film he was working on.

Obviously a subject close to his heart, he spoke easily and with enthusiasm. ‘It may not be a major role, but it pays the rent.’ He pointed to the ruins of a castle just off the motorway and seemed surprised when she told him much of its history.

‘We’re not all barbarians north of Watford,’ she countered.

Chastened, he gave a little grin.

The sky darkened and spits of rain dotted the windscreen. Ann pointed at a sign for Bridgford. ‘Should you have turned there?’

‘I’ll take the next exit.’ He flicked on the wipers, muttering something she didn’t catch when he saw the next slip road clogged with stationary traffic, twin rows of brake lights reflecting on wet tarmac. ‘I’ll turn further on. What time does the train leave?’

‘I’m not sure ... I haven’t seen a timetable.’ She felt foolish, her self-assurance taking a jolt – there’d been plenty of time to ring Rail Enquiries whilst waiting at the reception office.

Stephen glanced at the shoulder bag now resting on her knee and, conscious of his meaning, she said, ‘I don’t carry a mobile.’

‘And mine’s in my holdall in the boot.’

Ann studied the rain-streaked side window. Events seemed to be conspiring to shake the confidence it had taken so long to rebuild.

She felt Stephen’s scrutiny, his, ‘Sorry, my fault,’ gently said.

‘Not really,’ Ann conceded. ‘If I’d kept track of the time, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.’

‘The next turning is towards Elliston Village, where my parents live. You can phone from there, check the times, and I’ll make sure you catch the next train.’

Ann gave a resigned sigh, little choice but to go along with his suggestion.

Recently built houses showed behind a hawthorn hedge. A commuter village. Half a mile further on, a sign for the old village leaned into an elder bush; a row of small shops lined one side of the main street. A butcher, in a blue striped apron, paused in the act of pulling down shutters and waved. Stephen raised a hand in acknowledgement. The shops gave way to greystone cottages rambling on to a triangular green. Interest awakened, Ann sat up. The interior light of an old red telephone box glowed dimly in gathering dusk and a warm glow from the sign of the Red Lion shone through rain-dashed trees.

‘It’s lovely.’

Stephen shot her a quick smile as if wrenched from other thoughts.

They left the village and followed a narrow tarmac strip with a wide grass verge. A few ancient trees bordered fields on the left, while opposite, laurel and well-grown rhododendron bushes showed above a high stonewall. Tall wrought iron gates stood open and Stephen flicked the indicator, tyres rumbling over a cobbled drive curving towards a double-fronted house built of local greystone, Elliston House – Rebuilt 1887 carved above a substantial central porch. A muted light shone from a stone-mullioned bay window.

A man, fractionally shorter than Stephen’s six feet but stockier, curly hair darker and peppered with grey, stepped on to the drive. He put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder and said solemnly, ‘Glad you could come,’ before noticing Ann in the front passenger seat.

Stephen helped her from the car. ‘Dad, this is Ann. She missed the coach taking her home from the studio and needs to use the phone.’

A smile broke through his father’s austere features, his handshake, firm. ‘I’m Peter.’ He led them through the porch and entrance hall, into the sitting room. Soothingly furnished in soft green, the room exuded an atmosphere of comfortable country living. A slight figure reclined on a sofa. She extended her arms. Stephen sank to his knees and put his arms around her waist. His mother returned the hug and kissed him.

At a loss, Ann remained in the doorway until Stephen rose and holding out a hand, drew her closer. ‘Mum, I’d like you to meet Ann.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Bryce.’ His mother’s tired features reflected a faded beauty.

‘Please, call me Susan.’ She patted a cushion beside her. ‘Take off your jacket and sit by the fire.’

‘No.’ Ann looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but if I may use the phone ...’

Stephen showed her to an office and placed a directory on the desk. She found and punched in the number for Rail Enquiries, glancing around the precisely laid out office as she waited for a reply. Breathing the scent of leather and polish, she tipped her head to glimpse a tome in a bookcase, something about Tax in gold letters on the spine, another read ‘Business Law’.

On returning to the sitting room she ran into an exuberant golden Labrador. It shoved its wet nose at her and wagged its tail in approval when she patted its broad smooth head.

‘Jodie.’ Stephen called the dog away and rubbed its ears, provoking more frantic tail wagging.

‘Nine fifty-five,’ Ann told him. ‘Changing twice,’ added without enthusiasm.

‘And the first direct train?’ Stephen asked.

Ann studied a leaf torn from the telephone pad. ‘Eleven-fifteen.’

‘That’s much too late,’ Susan exclaimed. ‘You must stay here tonight and we’ll sort out train times in the morning.’

‘No, I couldn’t—’

‘Tell her she must stay, Peter.’

Peter shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of room and you can phone if you need to let anyone know.’

Faced with the prospect of a long journey alone in the cold and dark, the offer was tempting and, after a pause, Ann said, ‘Well ... if you’re sure it’s no trouble—’

‘Good,’ Peter said briskly. ‘Supper’s almost ready.’

Ann felt it wise to leave Stephen alone with his mother and followed Peter into a kitchen filled with an aroma of roasting meat. Marbled work surfaces topped oak units and, Ann had no doubt, an original flagstone floor.

Peter glanced at the sitting room door and gave a brief nod, appreciating her tact. ‘It’s not often Stephen brings a young lady home. How long have you known him?’

‘Thank you for the young lady,’ Ann laughed, at ease with Peter’s direct, friendly manner. ‘And I’ve known him—’ she consulted her watch, ‘about two hours. I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘Nonsense.’ Peter strained vegetables over the stone sink. ‘It’s no bother.’

Stephen came into the kitchen, and with a hand under his mother’s arm helped her to a chair.

Peter carved a joint of beef.

‘Very little for me,’ Susan appealed.

Peter frowned, meeting her apologetic smile.

Ann noticed Stephen glance often at his mother who pushed food around her plate and ate only tiny mouthfuls.

Stephen looked up, Ann embarrassed he’d caught her gazing at him.

‘Where did you go in town this morning?’ he asked.

‘I would’ve liked to visit the Tower, but everyone else wanted to go shopping.’

‘Stephen will take you,’ volunteered Susan, ‘when he has time.’

‘No,’ Ann said quickly. ‘I doubt if I’ll—’ She studied her plate. ‘I mean I may not ...’

Peter overrode the conversation. ‘You should visit your brother tomorrow, Stephen.’

Stephen ignored the suggestion, telling his mother, ‘I’ll see Ann safely on her way and be at the studio by midday.’

Susan slid back her chair. ‘I’m really quite tired.’

Peter helped her to her feet. Stephen stood and kissed his mother’s pale cheek.

At the door, Susan called, ‘Goodnight, Ann. You’ll find everything you need in the guest room, so feel free to go upstairs whenever you please.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

Left alone with Stephen, Ann said, ‘Your mother’s lovely.’

He gathered the plates and Ann studied him as he stacked them in the dishwasher. Hair, mid-colour, curled loosely over his forehead. A pleasant face – straight nose, fine jawline, cheeks that dimpled when he smiled. Dark eyes, often described in the press as smouldering. Well, perhaps they could smoulder when required. Right now, as he turned to face her, they were full of concern. His smile seemed to carry genuine warmth and, without warning, Ann was beset by an intensity of feeling that at first surprised and then overwhelmed her. For an instant she imagined her feelings reciprocated, but Martin’s indoctrination of her worth had been thorough, and feeling foolish she quickly looked away.

Peter’s return broke an awkward silence, Ann taking the opportunity to say, ‘May I go to my room?’

Stephen showed her into the hall and paused at the foot of the staircase. ‘Main landing, first door on the right, it’s painted blue,’ he grinned.

Anxious to break his charismatic hold, Ann said, ‘I’m sure I’ll find it.’ She felt on the verge of being impolite and added with a strained smile, ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

*

In the sitting room, conversation between father and son stilled. Peter placed a wire fireguard in the hearth and briefly rested a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘I'll take the dog on The Common.’

Stephen drained the last drop of Southern Comfort from his glass and left it on the coffee table. In the hallway, a lightweight wheelchair propped alongside a narrow table, a rude reminder of his mother’s frailty. A minor operation, Peter had told him. Corrective surgery from an operation she’d undergone some years before.

In his bedroom, Stephen straightened a small, furless bag of sawdust kept on the windowsill: once a fluffy grey rabbit, it had belonged to his father before being rescued when discarded by his brother, Julian. Stephen shuddered. His mother’s illness frightened him. It always had.

*

‘Out of the way, Jodie,’ Stephen muttered as the dog almost tripped him. An early morning jog, part of his daily routine, was therapeutic for mind as well as body. The route around The Common at the back of the house, reassuringly familiar.

Aware of being more out of breath than when he’d last run the same circuit, the question of quitting the fags flittered briefly before he dropped his trainers into the utility room, picked up a towel and wiped his face and neck.

In the kitchen, Ann was pouring boiling water into a teapot. She looked up and offered him a half-smile before setting a cup and saucer on a tray.

When she didn’t speak, he asked, ‘What time does your train leave?’

‘Ten forty-five from Bridgford.’ She avoided eye contact.

He’d sensed the same tension the previous evening. The moment he felt they could become better acquainted she’d put up shutters with an almost audible snap.

‘Your father’s gone into the village,’ she told him. ‘I was about to take a cup of tea to your mother.’

He held the door open. Aware his tracksuit was sweat stained, he was sure she must feel the heat from his body. Following her upstairs, it seemed she was trying to outpace him. He racked his brain for something to say that would put her more at ease, managing only, ‘I’ll shower and change, then drop you at the station.’

*

Refreshed and ready to leave, Stephen stood outside his mother’s room, the door slightly ajar, her light perfume drifted onto the landing. A lace bed jacket around thin shoulders, she looked childlike in the king-sized bed.

‘Peter has given up so much for me,’ he heard her tell Ann. ‘When I couldn’t cope he gave up his job in the city to work from home. Peter was always strict.’ She leaned a little towards Ann. ‘He used to keep a slipper behind one of the cushions.’

Horrified at his mother’s indiscretion Stephen pushed the door open. ‘I hope you’re not giving away too many secrets, Mother.’ Stephen kissed her and pulled up another chair.

Ann stood and said, ‘I’ll get my things. Thank you for allowing me to stay.’

‘Please come back and see us again,’ Susan insisted.

Stephen drew his chair closer, slipped his arms around his mother’s waist and buried his face in the bedclothes.

She stroked his hair. ‘I don’t want you to fret about me, whatever happens.’

He raised his head. ‘You’ll be okay, Mum.’ He sat back and took a deep, calming breath. ‘You don’t mind me bringing Ann?’

‘Of course not. I like her.’ She touched his hand. ‘But you will be careful?’

He was puzzled.

‘I don’t know what messages you’re sending out, but don’t let her misinterpret them.’

He grinned. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mother.’

‘Do you like her?’

‘I hardly know her, but yes, I suppose I do.’

‘Is she married?’

He tried to recall if she wore a ring. ‘She told me she was enjoying her freedom so I assume she must be on her own, for whatever reason.’

‘It can be dangerous to assume.’

He shrugged. ‘I probably won’t see her again. I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.’

Susan said, ‘Mm,’ before reminding him of the time.

*

‘It’s not far to the station,’ Stephen told Ann as they drove away from the old village, ‘which is the reason for these—’ He indicated the recently built houses.

As they joined a short stretch of motorway, Ann made an effort at conversation. ‘Your parents’ house is lovely, though big for the two of them.’

‘Linda from the village does some cleaning, and her husband helps Dad with the garden. They should sell, move somewhere easier to manage, but my mother won’t hear of it.’ More lightly, he said, ‘The house has been in her family since it was built. They owned the stone quarry back there.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Her maiden name is Ellis. Ellis stone. Elliston?’

‘Really?’

‘No.’ He flashed a mischievous smile. ‘Not really.’

Ann smiled wryly at her own gullibility.

*

Bridgford Station was little more than a modern shelter and ticket office, a large car park evidence of its popularity with commuters.

Stephen helped Ann from the car but before he could escort her to the platform, she said, ‘Goodbye, Stephen. I hope your mother makes a good recovery.’

He took her proffered hand, his fingers brushing the frayed sleeve of her jacket. ‘Wait a moment.’ He leaned into the car and from the glove compartment produced a notebook and pen. ‘I left the napkin with your address on the table at the studio; it will have been cleared away by now.’

As Ann rested the pad on the car’s roof and scribbled on the page, he glimpsed a plain gold band on the middle finger of her right hand.

CHAPTER 2

‘You should have complained,’ Ann’s colleague at the General & Commercial Insurance Company insisted.

Ann adjusted the vertical blinds, deflecting a shaft of sunlight that caused the computer screen to glare. ‘I was annoyed. It was an expensive jacket but so many things were happening.’

‘You’re too easy going, that’s your trouble,’ Pauline chided. ‘You’d still be in the post room if I hadn’t noticed how well you can rattle a keyboard.’

It was a year since Pauline had persuaded her to apply for a more responsible position. It wasn’t very exciting, but it was her lifeline, her way back into the world.

Pauline leaned forward eagerly. ‘Tell me who you saw.’

Ann reeled off the names of half a dozen actors, including Stephen Bryce, before changing the subject. ‘Pass that file; I must finish this before five.’ No way, she thought, am I going to admit making a total mess of my first excursion in years and doing the very thing a woman on her own should not. Worse still, letting myself think he could possibly–

The screen blurred as she remembered Stephen’s dazzling smile from across the kitchen at Elliston House. The stirring of an emotion she’d vowed would never trouble her again.

This is starstruck school girl stuff. Forget this ridiculous fancy; treat him as a casual acquaintance. But – she almost choked – for a moment, I really believed...

‘Are you staying all night?’

Ann’s head jerked up at Pauline’s gibe. The office clock read ten minutes past five. She slipped a pile of folders into a desk drawer and shut down the computer.

*

Stephen parked on the drive of Elliston House. He rummaged through the glovebox, pulled out a notepad, flicked through the pages, and tossing it aside, searched again. Disappointed, he slammed it closed before collecting a basket of flowers and a glossy carrier bag from the boot.

‘Getting stronger every day,’ Susan told Stephen in response to his concerned enquiry.

He delved into the carrier and handed her a box of her favourite perfume. She leaned forward from her comfortable position on the settee to kiss his cheek. ‘What else are you hiding?’

‘Some papers for Dad, and, do you remember Ann?’ He pulled a tissue wrapped garment from the bag. ‘You let her stay when she missed the coach home.’

‘I remember her very well.’

‘Her jacket was damaged at the studio, so I bought her a replacement, but I’ve lost her address.’ Laying the jacket aside, he gripped his mother’s hand, idly playing with a ruby and diamond ring on her middle finger. ‘I could check with security at the studio; they’ll have a record of the coach company and presumably there’ll be a passenger list.’

‘That’s a lot of trouble to go to.’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I promised her some recompense.’

‘And an opportunity to see her again?’

‘That plan’s scotched.’ He grinned philosophically.

Susan reached into a windowsill on which stood a number of get well cards, picked out a floral notelet and waved it under her son’s nose. ‘Not necessarily.’

*

Ann hung her black jacket behind the door of the small terraced house she rented. Having written off the possibility of a replacement from the studio, she’d carefully sewn velvet ribbon around the cuffs.

She didn’t really expect to hear from Stephen Bryce. In truth, she felt relieved. So why had she included her address on the note thanking Susan and Peter for their hospitality? Addressed simply, Elliston House, Elliston Village, the letter had found them and an exchange of correspondence followed.

*

Ann toyed with a salad while her younger son made short work of an evening meal of cottage pie and chips. ‘Thanks Mum.’ Wearing a T-shirt and ripped jeans, he conformed happily with the unofficial uniform of the local college.

‘I heard from Susan and Peter Bryce this morning.’ Met with a blank look, Ann explained, ‘The couple who let me stay when I missed the coach home. They’d like me to visit at the weekend.’

‘Are you going? As long as the freezer’s full, I’ll be okay. Or I could stay with Richard – his flat mate’s away for a couple of weeks.’

Ann winced at the mention of her elder son. ‘What’s it like, the flat?

‘A bit small.’

‘I worry about him eating junk food.’

‘It's a bit late for that Mum; he’s been fending for himself for nearly three years.’

Ann covered her eyes, overwhelmed by the shame she always felt when considering the reason for her elder son’s self-reliance.

Chris, always sensitive to her discomfort, said quickly, ‘Sorry, Mum.’

She ran a hand through hair brightened from the mousy brown of a few years ago.  ‘It’s okay, I asked for it.’

Chris put an arm on her shoulder. ‘He had a chance to live with us.’

‘He’s not as forgiving as you,’ Ann sighed. ‘I don’t blame him.’

‘You’ve got to have a life of your own.’ He halted in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. ‘If you go away for the weekend you can avoid a visit from Gran and Aunt Marge.’

‘What?’

‘I forgot to tell you: Gran rang whilst you were out. She’s invited herself and Marge for Sunday lunch.’

*

‘Honestly,’ Ann told Bev, her oldest friend, ‘I don’t think I can bear a joint assault from Mum and her sister. They won’t let me forget.’

Bev dropped a sweetener into her coffee. ‘Really Ann, you’re no better off now than you were four years ago. Stop trying to appease your mother and do something for yourself instead.’

Ann gazed into her coffee recalling the evening spent with the Bryce family. Though uncomfortable with Stephen, she’d enjoyed Susan and Peter’s company. Susan, worn by illness, gentle and vulnerable; Peter, caring, beneath a stern exterior. So different from—

Ann put down her cup, slapped the arms of the chair as she stood and left the room in three long strides.

‘Well?’ Bev queried on her return.

‘I’ve telephoned Mum to explain I have a previous arrangement.’

*

Ann stepped from the train into autumn sunshine, relieved to see Peter in the station car park. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, casually dressed in a dark winter jacket, he was still a handsome man.

He saw her and strode across the tarmac to help with her bag.

At the door of Elliston House, Susan clasped Ann’s hand. Though the lilac dress and cardigan hung loosely, Susan’s eyes shone brighter than Ann remembered. She handed over flowers carefully nursed throughout the journey.

Ann took pleasure in the restful ambience of the sitting room. Logs arranged in the stone hearth, ready for lighting as the evening grew cooler.

‘Let me show you round,’ Susan offered, opening a door leading off the sitting room. ‘When Peter decided to work from home we had this room behind the garage made into an office.’

From here, Ann had telephoned Rail Enquiries. ‘Leather and polish,’ she recalled.

‘You say leather and polish,’ smiled Susan, eyes sparkling. ‘I say Peter.’

Ann gestured to a silver framed photo. ‘You?’

‘Publicity shot from long ago.’ Susan smiled demurely. ‘My career was very short lived.’

From sitting room to kitchen, kitchen to dining room. Large, cool, it smelled of lavender, wedding photos on the wall. Peter and Susan in monochrome and another more recent picture Ann took to be Stephen’s brother, Julian, and bride, Stephen at his brother’s shoulder. Further along a head and shoulders portrait of Stephen, the photographer having captured a spark of mischief in the eyes.

‘Plenty of room for the family at Christmas,’ Susan broke the spell. ‘I inherited the table and chiffonier from my parents, along with the house. When my mother saw the name, Elliston House, she insisted my father buy it. Ellis is my maiden name.’

‘Any connection with the stone quarry?’ Ann asked, innocently.

Susan pursed her lips. ‘Stephen will get into terrible trouble telling that story.’

Ann joined in with Susan’s gentle laughter.

‘We can go back into the hall this way.’ Susan pushed open a door at the opposite end of the room– ‘This corridor leads to a cloakroom and then back to the kitchen.’

‘I love it, Susan. It’s a wonderful house.’

Joined by Peter, Susan put her arms around his waist. ‘All the credit must go to Peter. He’s tried to eliminate most of the inconveniences of an old house without destroying its character.’

‘And been very successful,’ Ann observed.

Peter took Susan gently by the arm. ‘You haven’t given Ann time to freshen up after travelling. I suggest that whilst she does, you rest on the sofa for half an hour.’ To Ann he said, ‘I’ve taken your bag upstairs. You’re in the same room.’

Taking the hint, Ann left her hosts, glad of the opportunity to change from travel-creased clothes. With a glance across the landing to Stephen’s room, she counted four bedrooms in all and wondered if they all had en-suite bathrooms. Further along was another narrower staircase. More rooms in the roof space perhaps.

From the window, where she’d previously seen only a dark, rain-dashed night, was a large well-kept garden, a gravel path leading across a wide expanse of lawn, through thick shrubbery to common land beyond.

She noticed movement along the perimeter path – Stephen jogging? No. A man followed by a small black dog. Disappointment mingled with relief.

*

Over lunch, Susan told Ann of plans in the village for forthcoming millennium celebrations before saying, ‘Stephen was hoping to be here but the filming of a TV series he’s involved with has been postponed until next spring and he’s had to negotiate, rather hurriedly, with a theatre company.’

Ann had hardly taken in the mention of Stephen when Susan added casually, ‘He may call back if he has time.’

Ann’s knife clattered to her plate.

‘I hope he’s in a better mood.’ Peter’s normally stern features hardened that much more.

Susan placed a hand on his arm.

He took the hint and continued less severely, ‘I know he was disappointed, but there was no need for him to be so bad tempered yesterday.’

The telephone rang, and Susan hurried into the sitting room to take the call.

She returned, resumed her seat and leaning towards Ann, said, ‘That’s sorted at last. They’ve been trying to get Stephen for this part for ages, but he’s never had time before. He starts rehearsals next week and the play’s scheduled to open next month. There’ll be a first night party and we’d love you to come with us.’

Surprised, Ann said, ‘Thank you,’ while trying to think of a legitimate reason not to accept the invitation.

‘When I was on the stage,’ Susan went on, ‘we had parties for first nights, last nights and sometimes for no reason at all. It will do Stephen good to get back to some real theatre after all the TV and film work he’s been doing. I know it’s nerve-racking but there’s nothing like a live audience.’

Peter pushed back his chair. ‘I have to go into the village, call at the butchers. Gerry has the order ready and he’ll want to scrub up and get home early.’

‘Perhaps Ann would like a walk?’ Susan suggested. ‘It’s too far for me, but I’ll make myself useful for once and clear away.’

*

In the village