Sirocco. Anne Mather

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      Rachel moved her shoulders. ‘Think nothing of it.’ Her eyes sought the security of her car. ‘I have to go.'

      ‘You must allow me to drive you home,’ he declared, dogging her steps with his, apparently indifferent to the fact that his car was just asking to be stolen. His hand restrained her arm once more. ‘Believe me, I am not drunk. You will be quite safe with me.'

      Will I? thought Rachel cynically, aware of the strength in the hand curled about her flesh. Ridiculous as it seemed, she was instinctively aware that this man meant trouble, and although she had no reason to be alarmed, she reacted automatically against his undoubted magnetism. She was engaged to Roger. Just because they had had a minor upset there was no reason to feel this unwarranted attraction towards another man; particularly when that man was self-assured and wealthy and probably well-used to the adulation of the opposite sex.

      ‘I—my car is here,’ she got out at last, gesturing towards the Mini parked a few feet away. She freed herself determinedly and took the steps necessary to put some space between them. ‘Thank you, but I don't need a lift. Goodnight.'

      He swayed back and forth on his heels and toes as Rachel clumsily forced the key into the lock. Her fingers were all thumbs, and she was half afraid he was going to come and take the keys and do the job for her. She could already see him squatting beside her, his lean hands reaching surely for her keys, brushing her hands, making her skin tingle as her flesh had tingled when he touched her ...

      God! With a sigh of relief, the key fitted and turned, and she wrenched open her door and scrambled inside. Her legs seemed absurdly long all of a sudden, and she had to coil herself behind the wheel, searching for the ignition with the same hurried panic as she had used on the door. She need not have worried, however. The man did not move. He simply watched until she had negotiated herself out of the parking space, and then turned and walked indolently back to his vehicle.

      ‘I thought you were home early last night,’ remarked Jane drily, setting down the cup of tea she had brought on the table beside Rachel's bed. She viewed her friend's darkly-ringed eyes with a wry grimace. ‘Just after midnight, wasn't it? I know I didn't expect you until three, at least.'

      ‘Oh——’ Rachel dragged herself up on the pillows, giving the other girl a bleary-eyed stare. ‘I left the party early,’ she explained. ‘Roger and I had a row, and I walked out.'

      ‘I see. So that's the reason why you haven't slept.’ Jane grimaced. ‘What was it about this time? The usual thing?'

      ‘Mmm.’ Rachel lifted her teacup and took a gulp of the strong sweet liquid, wondering as she did so why she felt so guilty. It was true. She and Roger had had previous rows about their anticipated wedding, almost always concerning his mother's role in it, and just because that had not been the reason for her restless night it didn't mean she owed Jane any other explanation.

      ‘But surely he's realised by now that you're not about to let Mrs Harrington take charge of the arrangements,’ Jane exclaimed, moving about the room, drawing back the curtains and lifting a discarded pair of tights from the floor where Rachel had dropped them. ‘I mean, it's not as if you don't have any family, is it?'

      ‘No.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘But with my parents being divorced, she sees her opportunity to take control. Besides which, she doesn't consider my mother as a likely contender, and you know she disapproves of my father.'

      ‘Well ...’ Jane was reluctantly candid, ‘your father hasn't exactly endeared himself to your future in-laws, has he?'

      ‘No.’ Remembering the night of her engagement party, Rachel had to be honest, too. ‘But paying for a staff of caterers isn't exactly beyond his abilities, and I can handle all the details.'

      ‘I suppose she wants a terribly swish affair,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘To be charitable, she's probably only wanting to save you the trouble. After all, you have a job; she doesn't. Which reminds me, it's a quarter to eight.'

      ‘Quarter to eight?’ Rachel's eyes turned in horror to the clock on the bedside table, and swallowing the rest of her tea in a gulp she thrust her legs out of bed. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

      ‘I did,’ Jane pointed out wryly, leaving the room. ‘Don't panic! I'll go and make the coffee while you get dressed. Do you want some toast?'

      ‘I won't have time,’ exclaimed Rachel, throwing off her cotton nightgown and grabbing a clean pair of panties from the drawer. ‘Mr Black is leaving for Chelmsford at half-past nine, and I promised I'd go in early so we could deal with his mail before he left.'

      ‘Oh, well,’ Jane was philosophical, ‘it's not as if he's likely to fire you. I sometimes wonder what he'd do without you.'

      Rachel grimaced. ‘So do I, but I'd rather not find out,’ she retorted as she disappeared into the bathroom.

      Fifteen minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen of the flat, and Jane looked up from the morning paper with a faintly admiring smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you made it. And with five minutes to spare.'

      Rachel shook her head. ‘Do I look all right?'

      ‘Don't you always?’ Jane's comment was not without a trace of envy. ‘Next time I come into this world, I'm going to be a blue-eyed brunette!'

      Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

      ‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

      ‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

      ‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

      ‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

      Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

      It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

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