hopes of my errant brother, sweetheart— and that you didn't let
things go too far on that island of his.' He gave her an unpleasant
smile. 'After all, the resemblance between you and Francesca is
almost uncanny, and it hasn't been lost on Flynn either, as you must
have realised. But you would only ever have been second best with
him, so I hope you haven't been—foolish, and indulged any of his
little fantasies about her. It would have been a terrible waste of time,
especially when he had the real thing waiting for him all along.'
Every word was like a barb, sinking sharply into her vulnerable
flesh. But she refused to allow him to see how hurt she was. She
lifted her chin.
'The only really stupid thing I've done was to come here in the first
place.' She paused. 'I'd like to go back to England by the first
available plane.'
'Oh dear,' mocked Crispin. 'You really do need to cut and run, don't
you, darling? Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?' he added,
glancing at his watch. He saw her hesitate, and went on, 'You don't
have to worry about facing Flynn again. He'll be spending the night
at Croaig Mhor, having a blissful reconciliation with my wife. And
he won't hurry back here tomorrow. You can be gone long before he
returns.'
Sandie bit her lip. 'Very well.'
'Then that's settled,' he said pleasantly, and turned back to the
keyboard.
Against her will, she lingered for a moment, listening to the first
plunging, difficult chords of the
Elegy
which he managed so
effortlessly.
'Is there something else?' He paused, brows lifted questioningly.
'Just one thing,' she said. 'You're wasting your life, Crispin, writing
music that only you can play. Your place is back on the concert
platform—where you belong. Another viewpoint I share with
Francesca,' she added gently, and walked out, closing the door on
the crash of infuriated discords which greeted her parting words.
It was the only victory she felt she'd scored, and it seemed paltry in
the face of all the other overwhelming defeats.
Her throat ached with tears she couldn't allow herself to shed, as she
went up to her room. At the top of the stairs, she almost ran into
Jessica.
'Oh, hello.' Sandie forced a smile. 'I thought you were in Clifden.'
'Even that isn't far enough away, with Crispin in a foul mood, and
Mother behaving like Camille,' Jessica returned crisply. 'So I'm
driving to Shannon to catch the evening plane.'
Sandie drew an uneven breath. 'Do you think there'd be a spare seat
on it?'
Jessica shrugged. 'You could telephone and find out.' She paused.
'Can you not stand the atmosphere in the house, or have you become
part of the general affliction?'
Sandie was silent for a moment. 'I—seem to be involved,' she
admitted eventually.
Jessica sighed. 'I suppose it was inevitable, looking as you do.
Crispin should be shot for bringing you here in the first place.' She
gave Sandie a straight look. 'But is running away the answer?'
'It's the only one I can think of.' In spite of herself, Sandie's voice
trembled.
Jessica sighed again, and patted her on the shoulder. 'Well? I won't
argue with you. Now make that call, and pack your case. We don't
have a whole lot of time.'
In a way, Sandie was glad of this, as she hazily gathered her things
together. It prevented her from thinking. But not, she discovered,
from hoping.
As she rammed her belongings into her case, she realised that she
was on edge all the time, listening for the sound of a car, waiting
and praying for Flynn's footstep on the stair—the sound of his voice.
But she waited in vain, as she knew she must. Whether she went or
stayed, Flynn would not be coming back to Killane. Crispin's
cynical words had been right. Flynn was at Croaig Mhor with
Francesca, planning his new life—the future that she could never
share. The future that he didn't want her to share. He'd promised
nothing, she reminded herself. He wasn't to blame for her foolish
dreams.
She took one last look round the room to make sure she'd forgotten
nothing, then carried her case to the door.
The rest of her brief time at Killane was taken up with goodbyes.
Magda, muffled hoarsely in her scarf, was icily distant.
'It's probably for the best,' she said, as Sandie apologised for leaving
her in the lurch. 'You were never particularly satisfactory.'
Only the twins seemed genuinely sorry about her departure, Sandie
thought as she got into the car, where O'Flaherty waited in the
driving seat with Jessica beside him.
He gave her a morose look. 'And about time,' he said. 'We'll have to
drive like the devil to catch this plane.'
Yes, drive, Sandie thought with sudden violence. Take me away
from here. Don't let me look back. She could see her reflection in
the car window, like a ghost. The girl, she thought, who was only
the shadow of another girl. The girl who'd only been second best for
the man she loved. The pain of that would stay with her for the rest
of her life.
SANDIE'S fingers feathered the last few chords of
As Time Goes By,
then lifted from the keyboard, as she turned, smiling, to greet the
scatter of applause.
The couple who'd requested the tune for their anniversary were
clapping with the most enthusiasm, and Sandie lifted her glass of
Perrier water towards them in a silent toast. Spending her evenings
playing the piano in a busy wine bar, she was invariably inundated
with offers of drinks, but she stuck firmly to mineral water all the
same.
Her parents had been none too pleased about her new job, but she'd
dealt with their protests gently but firmly, making it clear she had no
intention of returning to secretarial work. She needed to earn money
to pay Mrs Darnley's fees, and her own board and lodging while she
prepared for her LRAM, she'd told them. Once she had obtained
that, she would apply for a course as a student teacher, specialising
in music.
It wasn't the life she'd envisaged, but it was a viable alternative, and
she intended to make the best of it.
She sighed under her breath as she picked up the next request and
studied it. Life had not been easy for her since her return from
Ireland. Her mother in particular had demanded explanations for her
sudden reappearance that Sandie did not feel capable of giving.
She'd merely repeated over and over again, with growing weariness,
that 'things just hadn't worked out'.
Her mother, though clearly unsatisfied, had grudgingly accepted that
this was the only excuse she was likely to get, although Sandie was
still subjected to the occasional querulous questions, usually about
Crispin. Mrs Beaumont had absorbed her daughter's pallor and
abstracted air, and drawn her own obvious but incorrect conclusions.
Sandie parried her enquiries and demands, thankful that her mother
could not even guess at the truth.
She'd hoped that as the days which separated her from Killane
turned into weeks, her memories might become easier to bear, but so
far that hadn't happened. Flynn still filled her thoughts by day, and
invaded her dreams at night.
As she began to pick out the first wistful notes of
Cavatina,
always
a popular choice with the wine bar patrons, the words,
'He was
beautiful' sang
sadly in her head. Everything, it seemed, conspired
to remind her of
Oilean an chroi
and the brief idyll she'd enjoyed
there. She'd never felt so close to anyone in her life—so right with
him, and yet it had all been a giant piece of self-deception.
She reached the end of the piece, mechanically acknowledged the
applause, and reached for her glass.
'Can you slip this one in next, Sandie?' It was one of the waiters.
'The guy over in the corner has asked for it specially.'
She -took the slip of paper from him, and opened it.
Clair de Lune,
written in bold capitals, stared up at her.
For a long moment she sat frozen, looking at the words that danced
in front of her eyes. She'd sworn she would never play it again.
Certainly it wasn't the kind of thing customers usually asked for. It
had to be some kind of horrible coincidence. Had to be.
She crumpled the slip of paper in her hand and swung round on the
piano stool, her eyes searching the shadows of the dimly lit room.
The shock of seeing him, exactly where the waiter had indicated,
almost drove the breath out of her body. Her eyes met his in
anguished recognition, then she turned back to the piano, reaching
for her bag with shaking hands.
'I'm taking my break now,' she told the waiter. 'Tell him—later,
perhaps.'
She wanted to run, but she made herself walk at a normal pace to the
swing doors which led to the kitchen regions, and the cubbyhole
where she left her coat.
Mrs Westfield, who ran the wine bar with her husband, was just
coming out of the kitchen.
'Hello, dear. Finished your stint already?'
Sandie shook her head. 'I'm afraid I have to go home. I—I've got a
migraine.'
'Oh, that's an awful thing!' Her employer's instant sympathy made
Sandie feel guiltier than ever about deceiving her. 'Would you like
me to get George to drive you home?'
'Oh, no, it's quite all right. The fresh air will do me good.' Sandie
was aware that she was babbling. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Yes, of course. Now you take care of yourself. You're terribly
white—like a little ghost.'
Sandie fastened her woollen jacket and dived up the steps to the rear
entrance. She paused in the doorway for a moment, looking left and
right, then put her head down and ran up the narrow lane which led
to the main street.
'So there you are,' said Flynn, and his hand closed like a vice on her
arm.
'Let go of me! Leave me alone!' She tried to shake him off, but all to
no avail.
'Be still, you little wildcat! What kind of behaviour's this, when I've
come all this way to see you?' There was laughter in his voice, and
another element too, not so easy to gauge.
'Why did you come? Why couldn't you have stayed away?'
They stood facing each other under a street lamp. He was wearing a
suit. It was the first time she'd seen him so formally dressed, Sandie
thought numbly as she absorbed the elegance of its cut, the way the
trousers hugged his lean hips and the waistcoat accentuated the
slimness of his waist. His face was thinner, she realised, its
expression faintly weary, and a little preoccupied.
'Because we couldn't leave things as they were that day at Killane. I
told you that,' he said. 'There are still things that have to be said.'
'That's not necessary.'
'Well, I think it is,' he said curtly. 'For one thing, I need to know if
you're pregnant.'
Sandie gasped, the colour storming into her face. 'Of course I'm not!'
'There's no bloody "of course" about it,' Flynn said with acerbity.
'Didn't it ever occur to you that it was a possibility, you crazy little
idiot?'
She shook her head mutely.
'But you're sure that you're not?'
She nodded.
'Well, that's one problem the less,' he said with faint grimness.
'I hope you haven't spent too many sleepless nights worrying about
it,' she flashed, caught on the raw.
'On the contrary, I've begun to think I invented insomnia.' His tone
was bitter. 'Why the hell did you go off like that, without a word?'
'I said goodbye to everyone,' she said defensively.
'Everyone but me.'
'You weren't around.'
'But you knew I'd be back—I told you so. Why didn't you wait? Or
at least leave me some message?'
She said flatly, 'I didn't want to be a nuisance. It was over—you said
so. There was nothing else to say.' She wanted to add, 'And you had
other priorities', but was afraid of sounding like a jealous woman.
Although that's what I am, she acknowledged painfully.
'You didn't want to be a nuisance?' Flynn echoed, with a small harsh
laugh. 'God, girl, you were a thorn in my flesh from the moment I
set eyes on you!'
'Then why did you come after me? And how did you find me,
anyway? Did Crispin tell you where I was?'
'Crispin was in a profound sulk when I saw him last. I doubt if he'd
tell me what day of the week it was. Not that I'd trust his answer if
he did. And Magda professed not to know where you lived, so I