‘I’ll have to bring you out more often,’ he said, peering at the glass. ‘If one drink lasts you this long you’re going to save me pounds.’
They both laughed.
‘You have another,’ she said.
‘Very generous,’ Blake replied.
‘Let me get it,’ she offered, fumbling for her purse.
Blake looked indignant.
‘Let a woman buy drink for me?’ He winked at her. ‘Good idea.”
She balled up a pound note and tossed it at him, watching as he retreated back into the bar to fetch another pint. It was a matter of moments before he returned, holding the glass in one hand and her change in the other. He sat down and supped a third of it immediately, wiping the froth from his lip with his thumb.
‘Did Vernon say anything when you told him I’d left this afternoon?’ the writer asked.
‘No,’ Kelly said, suspiciously. ‘Should he have?’
Blake smiled, wryly.
‘You know, Kelly,’ he said. ‘I could be forgiven for thinking you’re a tiny bit paranoid about Dr Vernon.’
Kelly didn’t answer.
‘Every time I mention his name you go cold on me,’ Blake continued. “Why? Or is it my imagination?’
She took a sip of her drink.
‘Perhaps it’s my imagination,’ she told him, wondering if that was the answer.
Maybe she was becoming paranoid.
‘What do you mean?’
She thought about mentioning what had been going on, her suspicions and suppositions but then decided against it.
‘Forget it, David,’ she asked. ‘Please?’
He nodded.
Kelly finished her drink and pushed the glass away from her.
‘Do you want another one?’ the writer asked.
She smiled and shook her head.
‘No thanks.’
There was another long silence between them then finally Kelly spoke.
‘To tell you the truth, David,’ she began, wearily, ‘I’m a little bit concerned at the amount of interest Dr Vernon is showing in my research.’
Blake frowned.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Surely he’s got every right to be interested.
He is Director of the Institute after all. It’s only natural.’
‘But he seems obsessed with my work.’
She told him about the incident with Maurice Grant, her trip to France and how Vernon had insisted on keeping her report.
Blake didn’t speak, he merely finished the rest of his beer and put down the empty glass.
‘Well,’ she said, challengingly. ‘Do you think I’m being paranoid now?’
‘There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, Kelly,’ he said.
‘Don’t try and humour me, David.’ He was surprised at the vehemence in her words. ‘There are other factors too. Things which don’t make sense, which have no logical explanation.’ She emphasised the last two words with scorn.
‘Like what?” he wanted to know.
Kelly shivered as the slight breeze seemed to turn cold. She looked up and saw that the crimson of the setting sun had been replaced by a layered sky of purple. Kelly felt goose-pimples rise on her flesh and she rubbed her forearms.
‘I don’t feel comfortable talking about them here,’ she told him, as if she feared some kind of surveillance in the peaceful garden.
‘I’ll take you home,’ Blake said without hesitation.
They got to their feet and walked to the car park where the writer opened the passenger door of the XJS, allowing Kelly to slide in. He clambered in behind the wheel and started the engine, guiding the Jaguar out into the road.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, glancing across at her, a little puzzled by her silence.
She nodded, feeling more at ease within the confines of the car. She even managed to smile at the writer who reached across and squeezed her hand gently. Kelly felt the coldness draining from her, as if Blake’s touch had somehow restored her composure. She gripped his hand in return, reassured by his presence.
After a fifteen minute drive they reached her flat.
Kelly no longer felt the cold seeping through her and she looked at the writer almost gratefully.
‘Home,’ he said, smiling, and once more she found herself captivated by that smile of his. No, more than that. She was ensnared by it, drawn to him unlike any man before. He
exuded a magnetism which she found irresistible, almost in spite of herself.
‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.
‘I’m OK,’ she told him. ‘Thanks, David.’
‘For what?’ he wanted to know.
‘Just thanks.’ She reached across and touched his hand with her slender fingers. If any emotion registered in his eyes she couldn’t see it because his dark glasses now hid them even more completely. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
Blake needed no second bidding. He climbed out of the Jag and locked his door then walked around and let Kelly out, watching appreciatively as she walked ahead of him, searching through her bag for her key. The writer enjoyed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked, the muscles in her calves tensing slightly with each step she took, perched on her backless high heels.
He followed her.
Her flat was, as he’d expected it to be both spotlessly clean and impeccably neat. At her bidding he seated himself in one of the big armchairs which flanked the electric fire. Kelly passed through into the kitchen and Blake heard water running as she filled a kettle.
She returned a moment later, crossing to the window to close the curtains.
Then she flicked on the record player, dropping a disc onto the turntable.
‘Do you mind some music?’ she asked.
“Not at all,’ he said.
The sound of Simon and Garfunkel flowed softly from the speakers.
‘Coffee won’t be a minute,’ she told him, seating herself in the armchair opposite and, as she did so, she found once again that her gaze was drawn to the writer.
is this your own place?’ Blake asked.
it will be eventually,’ Kelly told him. in another twenty years time probably.’ She shrugged. ‘By the time I’m an old, withered spinster at least I’ll own my own flat.’
Blake smiled.
i don’t think there’s much chance of you becoming an old withered spinster, Kelly,’ he said.
‘My mother keeps asking me why I’m not married yet.
Why I’m not knee deep in wet nappies and babies.’ Kelly smiled. ‘Parents love the idea of grandchildren until they actually have them. Then they complain because it makes them feel old.’ Kelly felt a warm thrill run through her as she relaxed in the chair, feeling quite happy to let Blake look at her, to examine her with his eyes. Every so often she would see them flicker behind the dark screen of his glasses.
‘Are you sensitive to light, David?’ she asked him. i mean, the dark glasses.’
She pointed to them.
‘Slightly,’ he said, i suppose that’s what comes of squinting over a typewriter for five years.’
The kettle began to whistle. Kelly got to her feet and walked back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which she handed to Blake. Then, she kicked off her shoes and, this time, sat on the floor in front of him, legs drawn up to one side of her.
‘Kelly, I don’t want to pry,’ Blake began. ‘But you said there were things about Vernon which you didn’t understand. What did you mean?’
She sucked in a weary breath and lowered her gaze momentarily.
‘From what you told me at the pub, I can’t see any reason to suspect that Dr Vernon’s up to something, especially not anything as sinister as you seem to think,’ said Blake. ‘What reasons would he have?’
‘David,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘I was responsible for what happened to Maurice Grant. What I did was wrong. It broke the rules of the Institute. The authorities could have closed the place. That Institute is Vernon’s pride and joy. He could have lost it because of me and yet he didn’t so much as give me a warning or suspend me.’ She decided to put down her mug.