Anne Mather - Snowfire

Conor finished pouring his own coffee, and Olivia quickly looked away. Concentrating her attention on the fireplace, she noticed the ashes lying in the grate. Although the house was centrally heated, someone had had a fire the night before. The image of Conor and his wife sharing this sofa in front of the open fire, even perhaps making love by firelight, flashed into her mind. It brought an uneasy prickling to her skin, and she angrily thrust it away. It was because she still thought of this as Sally’s and Keith’s house, she told herself grimly. And of Conor as a boy, when he was obviously a man.

’Well?’ he prompted, and she was aware of him turning to look at her now. It made her glad she still had her coat wrapped about her. The honey-coloured cashmere hid a multitude of sins.

’Well,’ she countered, turning his way, but not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Small world, isn’t it? Who’d have thought you’d come back to Paget?’

’Why shouldn’t I?’ Conor was curt. ‘It’s my home.’

’Yes, well—I didn’t realise the house hadn’t been sold until now.’ She cast a determinedly casual look around the room. ‘It’s amazing. Everything looks the same.’

Conor’s mouth compressed. ‘Are you saying that when you came up here you didn’t know it was my house?’

His tone was vaguely accusing, and Olivia’s head swung back to him with some haste. ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed, meeting his green gaze half indignantly. She felt the warm colour surge into her throat at his cool appraisal. ‘I—I just wanted to—to look around.’

’For old times’ sake?’

’Yes.’ The colour had reached her cheeks now, but she refused to look away. ‘After all, you didn’t tell me you’d come back to England. How was I supposed to know?’

Conor put down his cup. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded, lounging back against the cushions and propping one booted ankle across one twill-covered knee. ‘I guess I didn’t think you’d be interested. You haven’t exactly kept me up to date with your affairs.’

Olivia dragged her gaze away and looked down into her cup. She was aware that her heart was beating far faster than it should have been, and, in spite of the cold day outside, she was sweating. She should have taken off her coat, she thought, though all she did was draw it more closely about her. She needed its comforting folds to disguise her trepidation.

’So,’ she said, feeling obliged to make some comment, ‘you’re a doctor now.’

’Don’t make it sound so unlikely.’ Conor inclined his head. ‘I told you what I wanted to do, when I came to see you in London. Actually, I’m still in training. I’ve decided I want to specialise in psychological disorders, so for the last six months I’ve been working at the drug rehabilitation unit in Witterthorpe.’

’I see.’ Olivia was impressed. ‘Did—er—did you do the rest of your training in England?’

’No.’ Conor reached for his coffee again and took a drink. ‘Uncle Philip had a heart condition. He died soon after I started medical school. I stayed on in the States until I’d finished at med. school, because that was what Aunt Elizabeth wanted. She’d been good to me, and I guess I owed her that much. When I came here, I began the extra training you need to get a full British qualification.’

Olivia absorbed this with a pang. So Philip Cox had died, too. Just another aspect of Conor’s life that she had known nothing about. But she could understand that Elizabeth Cox would have found comfort in her nephew. Philip had only fathered daughters, which was probably why Sally had left Conor in his care.

Her coffee was almost finished, and, surreptitiously testing her foot against the floor, Olivia decided she was strong enough to stand. But, when she replaced her cup on the tray and inched forward on the sofa, Conor’s hand closed about her sleeve.

’We’ve talked about me,’ he said, ‘but you still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Paget. You mentioned that you’re staying in the village. Would that be at Tom Drake’s place? I had a word with him this morning, but he didn’t mention he had a visitor.’

’Why would he?’ Olivia moved her arm so that he was forced to release her. ‘He doesn’t remember me. My married name means nothing to him.’

’Ah, yes. Your married name.’ Conor lowered his foot to the floor, and leant forward, his arms along his thighs. ‘You’re a married lady, aren’t you? Is your husband with you? Am I going to get to meet him?’

’No.’

Suddenly, Olivia had no desire to tell Conor about the divorce. His intimation that they might see one another again unsettled her, and, for some reason she didn’t choose to recognise, she didn’t want his sympathy. So long as he believed she was still married, he couldn’t get too close to her. Though why the idea of his getting close to her should disturb her so, she couldn’t imagine.

’No?’ Conor’s eyes were uncomfortably intent. ‘Why? You ashamed of me or something?’

’Don’t be silly.’ Olivia licked her dry lips. ‘He’s not here, that’s all. He—I’m just taking a short holiday. On my own.’

’Recuperating,’ suggested Conor quietly, and she hesitated only a moment before allowing a taut nod. ‘So what happened?’ he persisted. ‘D’you want to talk about it?’

’So you can psychoanalyse me?’ she taunted, needing to make light of what was threatening to become a seriously heavy development. ‘No, thanks. I crashed my car, that’s all. It’s a common enough story. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid—–’

’When?’

’When what?’

’When did you crash your car?’ Conor was unnervingly direct.

’Oh …’ Olivia shrugged. ‘A little while ago. Eight or nine months, I think.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Look, I must be going, I’ve got some phone calls to make.’

Conor didn’t move. ‘And that was when you smashed up your leg? Eight or nine months ago?’

’Well, I didn’t do it by falling over,’ she retorted, still trying to lighten the mood. ‘Conor, it’s been lovely seeing you again, and I’m sorry if I upset your wife—–’

’My wife?’ At last something she said had distracted him. He raked back his sun-bleached hair with a restless hand. ‘Sharon’s not my wife!’

’Oh!’ Once again, Olivia could feel the heat flooding up under her skin. ‘Well, your—er—girlfriend, then,’ she muttered, getting determinedly to her feet. She swayed rather unsteadily on one leg, as she gauged the distance between the couch and the door. ‘Please explain that I don’t make a habit of this. I’d hate her to think I was spying on you!’

’Spying on us?’

Conor came to his feet with a lithe movement, successfully reminding her of his superior height and build. It hardly seemed possible that he had once cried on her shoulder, she thought. These days, he was almost a head taller than she was.

’Well, you know what I mean,’ she mumbled now, wishing she had chosen a less emotive word to describe her position. ‘I really was curious to see this house again. And the cottage, too, of course. It was just my luck that I slipped and fell at the wrong moment.’

’Or mine,’ remarked Conor softly, looking down at her, and she wondered how he could imbue those words with such a measure of intimacy.

Heavens, he was good, she thought ridiculously, unable to sustain his warm, disturbing gaze a moment longer. It probably amused him to see how he could disconcert her. A delayed payment for the way she had bossed him about in his youth.

’Look—I’ve got to go,’ she said, wishing he would get out of her way so that she had an unobstructed passage to the door. She didn’t want him to carry her again. She didn’t want him touching her.