Page 157 of The Love Letter
‘Now, you get settled, then come downstairs and have a drink. I’ve cooked us supper, seeing as I owe you one.’
‘Zoe, sorry to be a party pooper, but I’ve already eaten and I have a heap of work to do tonight. It’s very kind of you, but maybe some other time, okay?’
Her face fell. ‘I’ve spent all afternoon cooking. I . . .’ She fell silent as she saw his closed face. ‘Oh well. Never mind.’
Simon did not reply, but instead busied himself with unpacking his few possessions from his holdall.
‘Is it okay if we go down to the house in Dorset tomorrow?’ she continued into the silence. ‘I need a bit of time to think some stuff over. I have to come back to London for the launch of the memorial fund on Thursday, but we could do a day trip, couldn’t we?’
‘Of course. Whatever you’d prefer.’
Zoe got the strongest feeling that her presence was not required. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Come down for a cup of coffee when you’ve finished your work.’
‘Thanks.’
Zoe shut Simon’s door behind her, feeling deflated. She wandered down the stairs towards the yummy aroma wafting from the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine out of the bottle she’d chosen earlier from the vintage collection in the cellar and sat down at the table.
She’d been filled with such manic energy all day, running around the house tidying up, shopping at Berwick Street market to get fresh ingredients for supper and coming home with armfuls of flowers to let spring inside.
She groaned, as realisation hit her properly for the first time. Her actions today had been those of a woman excited by the thought of seeing a man she really liked tonight . . .
Simon did not appear downstairs for a cup of coffee later that night. Zoe left most of the moussaka and Greek salad on the plate in front of her, preferring to drown her sorrows with the excellent bottle of wine.
Art called her at ten, telling her he loved her and missed her, reminding her that she was to face her first public outing with him in a week’s time and should do something about a dress – which shouldn’t be all that ‘revealing’, as he put it – which only aggravated her tension further. She tersely wished him goodnight and took herself off to bed.
Lying sleepless, she berated herself for allowing her imagination to run riot about Simon, just as she had done with Art for all those years. She’d thought Simon cared for her, thought she’d felt his warmth during all the time they’d spent together. But tonight he’d been cold, distant . . . made it obvious he was here to do his job and nothing more. Tears of frustration fell down her cheeks as she realised for certain that it was not the love of her life she longed for beside her, but the man sleeping only a few feet from her in his upstairs bedroom.
The journey down to Dorset the following day was conducted in virtual silence. Zoe, hungover and tense, sat in the back seat trying to both concentrate on the film script ofBlithe Spiritand make a decision.
Having stopped off for supplies at the supermarket in Blandford Forum, they drove to Haycroft House. After Simon had carried in her holdall and the shopping, he asked her curtly if there was anything else she required, then disappeared upstairs to his bedroom.
At seven that evening, as she sat toying with an uninspired pork chop covered in lumpy gravy, Simon wandered into the kitchen.
‘Mind if I make myself a coffee?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘There’s a pork chop and potatoes keeping warm in the Aga if you want them.’
‘Thanks, Zoe, but there’s no reason for you to cook for me. It’s not your responsibility, so really don’t bother in future.’
‘Come on, Simon, you’ve cooked for me. And I was cooking for myself anyway.’
‘Well . . . thanks. I’ll take it upstairs, if that’s okay.’
Zoe watched him reach inside the range and retrieve the plate. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked him plaintively.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Because it feels like you’re trying to avoid me.’
He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Not at all. I realise that it’s difficult enough having a stranger staying in your house and invading your privacy, without him foisting himself on you when you want some time alone.’
‘You’re hardly a stranger, Simon. I regard you as a friend as much as anything. After what you did for Jamie, well . . . how could I not?’
‘All in the line of duty, Zoe.’ Simon put his coffee and his plate on a tray and headed towards the door. ‘You know where I am if you need me. Goodnight.’ The kitchen door closed behind him.
Zoe moved her untouched meal to one side and laid her head on her arms. ‘All in the line of duty,’ she muttered sadly.
‘Good news. Our “messenger” is still alive.’
