Act Of Possession. Anne Mather

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      ‘Ah!’

      His long-drawn sigh infuriated her, and abandoning any further attempt at politeness, she sprang to her feet. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, Mr Gallagher,’ she declared hotly, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. ‘I’m not afraid of the opposite sex. I don’t hate all men, or anything like that. I simply—I simply don’t care for … for men of your type, that’s all!’

      ‘My type?’ he prompted softly, and she felt the instinctive thrill of knowing she was getting into deep water without any means of saving herself. ‘Men like your ex-husband perhaps?’

      Like Simon! Antonia knew an hysterical desire to laugh. No one less like Simon could she imagine. Oh, Simon himself might have seen himself as being attractive to women, as knowing all the answers, but compared to Reed Gallagher, he had only been an amateur. And she had probably been at least partly responsible for the high opinion Simon had had of himself. Although it had meant giving up her degree at university, she had been flattered that the local heart-throb should have chosen her as his girlfriend, and she had fallen for his good looks without ever questioning what might lie beneath the surface. Until it was too late.

      ‘You’re nothing like my husband!’ she retorted now, suddenly losing enthusiasm for the argument. The reason she resented Reed Gallagher had nothing to do with Simon’s defection, and she felt ridiculously gauche for having lost her temper. ‘I—I shouldn’t have implied that you were.’

      Aware of her discomfort, Reed got resignedly to his feet and tightened the knot of his tie once again. ‘I think I’d better go,’ he remarked, stepping sideways round the low table on which she had set the tray. ‘Thanks for the tea. It was—delicious.’

      Antonia was sure it had been nothing of the kind, and her own behaviour had been unforgivable, but there was nothing she could say. Short of offering an apology, which she had no intention of doing, she could only spare him a tight smile as he walked towards the door, and with a knowing inclination of his head, he let himself out of the flat.

      Conversely, as soon as he had gone, Antonia wanted to call him back. Sinking down on to the edge of her chair, she cupped her chin in her hands and stared humiliatedly at the spot on the sofa where he had been sitting. What a fiasco! she thought bitterly. What an absolute fool she had made of herself. She hadn’t wanted him to leave with that impression of her, particularly not when she thought how amusing it would seem when he related the incident to Celia—and Liz.

      The disturbing dampness of a tear sliding down to touch her fingertips brought Antonia a measure of relief. It wasn’t that important, she told herself, dashing the tear away and making a concerted effort to pull herself together. Putting the teapot and her cup on to the tray, she picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. It wasn’t as if she and Celia were close friends or anything. It would teach her to be more wary of them in future. They were not like her, and she should remember that.

       CHAPTER THREE

      IT was over a week before Antonia encountered either of her upstairs neighbours again.

      It had been an unsettled week for her, not helped by the discovery, when she came home from work on Tuesday evening, of the delicate bouquet of creamy narcissus, hazy blue irises and nodding yellow daffodils residing in her kitchen sink.

      ‘I didn’t know where else to put them,’ declared Mrs Francis confidentially, knocking at her door only minutes after Antonia had arrived home to explain that she had taken delivery of the flowers. ‘It seemed a shame to leave them lying in the hall,’ she added, regarding her newest tenant with rather more interest than before. ‘They’re so beautiful, aren’t they? You’ve evidently got an admirer, Mrs Sheldon.’

      Antonia smiled, but her thoughts were not as tranquil as her expression. She had already perceived that there was no card with the flowers, and there was only one person in her estimation who could have sent them. Reed Gallagher.

      ‘I—I’m very grateful, Mrs Francis,’ she said now, hoping the garrulous caretaker’s wife would not pursue the subject, but she was disappointed.

      ‘I had to put them in the sink,’ Mrs Francis, continued, looking beyond Antonia, into the living room. ‘I … er … I didn’t like to look for a vase, and as there were so many …’

      ‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Antonia lifted her shoulders apologetically. ‘I’ll find something.’

      ‘I could lend you a vase, or maybe two, if you need them,’ offered Mrs Francis helpfully, but Antonia was adamant.

      ‘I’m sure I can manage,’ she refused politely, feeling distinctly mean for not satisfying the older woman’s curiosity. But how could she tell Mrs Francis that Celia Lytton-Smythe’s fiancé had sent her the flowers? How dare Reed Gallagher put her in this position?

      ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Reluctantly, Mrs Francis was having to abandon her enquiries. ‘You’re a lucky girl!’ she remarked, starting back across the hall. ‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny.’

      Antonia smiled again to soften her words. ‘I’m sure they must,’ she agreed, and closed the door firmly before any further comment could be made.

      Nevertheless, as she filled every bowl and jug and milk bottle she possessed with the softly scented blossoms, Antonia couldn’t help inhaling their delicious fragrance. She had never possessed so many flowers in her life before, and while her initial instinct had been to return the bouquet to its sender, the practicalities of such an action deterred her. For one thing, she had no idea where Reed Gallagher lived or worked, and even if she had, could she take the risk of embarrassing Celia should she be with him at the time? In addition to which, there was always the possibility—however slight—that Reed Gallagher might not have sent them. How ridiculous she would look if she returned the flowers to him and he knew nothing about them!

      One final solution occurred, but it was one she did not consider for long. The idea of returning the flowers to the shop that had sent them did not appeal to her at all. She could not consign such delicate blooms to instant destruction, and besides, if Reed had sent the flowers anonymously, as she suspected, he might never learn of her sacrifice.

      Stifling her conscience with this thought, she found she derived a great deal of pleasure from the colour they gave to her rather dull living room. Coming into the flat after a day’s work, she found herself anticipating their vivid presence, and when they eventually began to fade, she bought herself some daffodils to mitigate their loss.

      She spoke to Susie again on the phone, and promised her the days to her birthday would soon pass. ‘I’ll come on the six o’clock train next Friday evening,’ she told her mother, a week before she was due to leave. ‘I’m looking forward to it so much. It seems much more than eight weeks since I came to London.’

      The weekend was uneventful. She guessed Celia and her friend must have gone away, for there was no sound from the apartment upstairs all Saturday and Sunday. Antonia spent the time giving her kitchen a brightening lick of paint, and determinedly avoiding the inevitable comparisons between this weekend and last.

      On Monday evening, however, she came face to face with Celia in the entrance hall. The other girl was on her way out as she arrived home, and the bunch of daffodils in Antonia’s hand drew Celia’s attention.

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