Sophie Weston - Catching Katie

Haydon was torn. His every instinct told him to tell Viola to get lost. He could take a taxi home easily enough. But conscience stirred uncomfortably. If he had not spent that night with her, she would never have started this.

He said quietly, ‘Do you think now is such a good time to talk? I haven’t been to bed for three days. I could be less than my flexible best.’

Viola waved his objections aside. ‘This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about,’ she said in reproof.

He looked at her gravely for a moment.

‘You’re talking about,’ he corrected.

But she was sliding behind the steering wheel and did not hear him. Or pretended not to. Haydon shrugged. If that was the way she wanted to play it, fine.

So he flung his case into the back and inserted his long frame into the passenger seat. He clipped his seat belt and, stretching, tipped his head back against the headrest.

New York time, it was around four o’clock in the morning. Haydon closed his eyes.

Viola started to talk at once. She was in full flood before she had even negotiated the short-term car park. By the time they were on the motorway for London she was well into the middle of a carefully rehearsed speech.

Haydon let it wash over him. He was regretting Bates’ absence more by the minute. Why did women always want to make a drama out of everything? At the craziest times, too.

‘It’s just stupid to let things drift,’ Viola said with energy. ‘We’re both adults. We both know what we want.’

For the first time an answer was clearly required. Haydon opened his eyes.

‘We do,’ he agreed drily.

It was the right answer. Superficially, at least. And Viola Lennox was not one for hearing the subtext, he thought.

She gave an indulgent laugh. ‘The trouble with you, Haydon, is you’re just scared to commit. You got burned once, so you think it will happen again.’

‘No. It won’t happen again,’ he said quietly.

So quietly, it seemed, that Viola did not hear that either.

‘You channel all your feelings into work so you don’t have to take any emotional risks. The world is full of men like you.’

Haydon sighed. ‘Would you say full?’

‘My therapist says all successful men are out of touch with their inner child. The trouble is. . .’

Haydon switched off. There was only so far conscience would carry him. When Viola started talking about her therapist, it gave out. Oh, Bates, Bates, where are you? he mourned inwardly.

Viola continued to analyse his character for the next ten miles. Traffic lights did not give her pause. Roadworks did not deflect her. The monologue took them over Westminster Bridge, through the Saturday-morning shopping traffic and into the quiet Georgian square where Haydon had his house.

All the time he looked out of the window, neither contradicting nor encouraging. Eventually Viola stopped the car outside his door. She swung round to face him.

‘Well?’ she said.

Haydon brought his attention back. ‘Well, what?’ he said wearily.

‘What are you going to do about it?’

He looked bored. ‘Your therapist, thank God, is no concern of mine.’

She was disconcerted. ‘What?’

‘This taradiddle. Didn’t you say it was your therapist’s idea?’

Viola bit her lip. ‘Of course not.’

Haydon raised his eyebrows. They were startlingly dark. When raised they soared upwards until they nearly touched his hairline. One besotted girlfriend had said they made him look like a samurai warrior.

Viola thought he just looked like a devil, a mocking, indifferent devil. She began to wonder whether her careful strategy had been so clever after all.

But she was an intelligent woman and she had been in the world of negotiations for a long time. If there was one thing she knew, it was how not to be discouraged by the first setback. She had always known that getting Haydon Tremayne to the altar would not be easy.

She pulled herself together and said quietly, ‘I told you what Madame Piroska said because that’s what I think too. She put everything in perspective for me.’

‘Then I’m glad for you,’ Haydon said politely.

He undid his seat belt and got out of the car. Viola sat watching him as he tipped the seat forward. For all its compactness, his case was not easy to get past the obstacle of designer seats and headrests. The sports car was not really intended to carry anything in the back except the odd makeup bag, he thought drily. Viola frowned.

‘Haydon, you can’t run away from this.’

He finally extracted the case. He did not reply. But he closed the car door with a finality that was an answer all on its own. Viola discarded her seat belt and whipped out of the car. She faced him across the roof.

‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘we’ve had some fun. But we’re not kids. We both need some stability in our lives. And we get on well—very well.’

It was hard to sound sexy at ten o’clock on a brilliant summer morning, with a car in between you and the object of your attentions. Especially when the man in question was not trying to hide his derision. But Viola gave it her best shot. She even lowered her lashes to give him a long, smouldering look. It was supposed to remind him of exactly how well they had got on.

It did not have the desired effect. Derision became outright amusement. Viola abandoned the tactic.

She said sharply, ‘You can’t keep me on a string for ever.’

The amusement was wiped away on the instant. His eyes hardened. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘You know it is.’ She leaned forward, one fist on top of the car roof. ‘I never know where I am. You—’ She broke off.

A ramshackle van had drawn up behind them with a squeal of unoiled brakes. Viola glared at it impatiently.

‘Oh, this is impossible,’ she exclaimed. ‘Let’s go indoors and get some coffee, for heaven’s sake.’

She turned towards the front door.

Haydon said without expression, ‘I think not.’

Viola swung round. She looked as if she didn’t believe her ears. Haydon gave her a faint, weary smile and the angry protest died on her lips.

He picked up his case and came round the front of the car.

‘It was good of you to meet me,’ he said. He did not even try to sound as if he meant it.

Behind them two girls in tattered jeans started unloading the van. They did not do it quietly. Haydon winced.

‘But now I’m going to crash out. If I can.’

Viola did not like that. ‘Haydon—’

‘No coffee,’ he said with finality. ‘Look,’ he said, struggling to be honest, ‘I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has misled you. The truth is, marriage is not for me. No amount of talking will change that.’

Viola swallowed. Two spots of colour burned high in her cheekbones. She did not say anything.

There was a loud crash, followed by peals of girlish laughter. It was the last straw. Furious, Haydon swung round.

A collapsed artist’s easel lay drunkenly against the privet hedge next door. The two girls caught sight of his expression and their laughter died.

‘This is a residential square,’ he flung at them in icy tones.

They got their breath back.

‘Well, excuse us for breathing,’ one of them said.

She was a short girl with wild frizzy hair and a pugnacious expression. Her companion murmured something conciliatory. The companion had long legs and a swirl of auburn hair but Haydon was immune. His eyes skated over both equally with glacial indifference.

He was curt. ‘Then breathe quietly.’

The companion became rapidly less conciliating. She took a step forward.

‘I have a right to move my stuff.’ Her voice was shaky but she looked him straight in the eye.