Page 12 of Kiss Me at Christmas
“They don’t need a black mark on their records. They already feel like the world is out to get them, and I don’t want to prove them right.”
“I wish I’d had a teacher like you when I was at school.”
“Did you need one?”
He swiveled in his seat to face her.
“Can you see the color of my skin?”
She nodded. “Point taken.”
Five
It was a long timesince Harriet had been inside a police station, and the experience was flinging memories at her that she would rather forget. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was a knot of anxiety. She discreetly eyed the other occupants and wondered what they were here for. She tried to make herself look hard, but her floral cardigan was undermining her.Why do I feel so guilty? It’s not like I’ve robbed a bank or anything. We were discussing Dickens, for god’s sake!She pulled her cardigan more tightly around her.
A smiley officer with an East London accent took her details and assured her that someone was on their way to talk with her. Then she was led into a waiting room that resembled a dental reception area, with out-of-date magazines on a low coffee table and a water cooler with annoying cone cups in the corner. She sat up straight on the edge of the green sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. Should she call a solicitor? Did she need one? Pete was the only solicitor she knew, and she really didn’t want to call him.
After ten minutes Harriet had all but thought herself into a prison sentence; the prison library would be the safest place for her, she decided, and maybe she could get some of her fellow inmates interested in reading…Herspiraling thoughts were halted when the door opened and a plainclothes officer walked in. The officer took her details again and listened as Harriet repeated and embellished her initial lie about cajoling the students to accompany her in breaking into the theater so that they could experience the environment firsthand…
The detective’s expression was dubious, but she accepted Harriet’s statement and got up to leave.
“Ms. Evaline Winter—the owner of the Winter Theater—has instructed me to let you know that her solicitor will be along presently to speak with you. After which, as far as we are concerned and provided Ms. Winter doesn’t want to press charges—”
“Charges!” Harriet blurted. “Oh my god! Do you really think she’ll press charges? Son of a nutcracker, I’m going to lose my job.” Her mind began to spiral again; would she be allowed to take her own pillow to prison? She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep on prison pillows.
“In all honesty, I don’t think it will come to that,” said the detective kindly. “It would be more trouble than it’s worth. But wait and see what the solicitor has to say. In the meantime…” She picked up a magazine, frowning at the date, and handed it Harriet. “Take a look at the fashion must-haves of 2016 and try not to panic.”
“Thanks,” she replied weakly. Could this day get any worse?
She was on her second cone of water when the door opened again.
“Hello, Ms. Smith, I’m…”
Oh, you have got to be kidding me!
James—of last night’s excellent drunken sex—rocked back on his heels. Well, damn, he was even more devastating in the daylight. She’d consoled herself that her attraction to him was more than likely due to hermulled-wine-tinted glasses, but now she was sober and the light of day was cold as hell, and he still looked like temptation personified. Her heart pounded in her chest. She smiled hesitantly, wishing she hadn’t left so abruptly that morning, and quickly necked the last of her water.
The door swung shut, bumping against the brown leather messenger bag that rested against James’s left hip. He recovered himself, rearranging his expression into one of professional disdain.
“Ms. Smith. My name is James Knight. I am acting on behalf of Ms. Evaline Winter, owner of the Winter Theater. I am here regarding a breaking-and-entering incident at one of her properties earlier today.”
He was wearing another most excellently tailored suit. She wondered if he had a walk-in wardrobe full of them, and it occurred to her that if she’d stuck around this morning she might have found out. He pulled one of the low armchairs opposite the sofa toward the coffee table and lowered himself into it. He looked uncomfortable. She smiled at him.
“Well”—she tried to catch his eye and adopted a jokey tone—“ ‘breaking and entering’ makes it sound much worse than it actually was…” James remained unmoved, his gaze cold as the clouds that scudded across the wintry sky outside. She continued to blather on in the hopes of causing a crack in his demeanor that would reveal the man she’d met last night in the bar. “I mean, technically, I didn’t break in at all—there was a flimsy piece of corrugated iron covering an already open door. Someone long before me had done the actual breaking in; mine was more of a squeeze-through and enter, if you will.”
Nothing. The spirit of Kristin Scott Thomas had well and truly deserted her.
“The semantics of the crime do not interest me, Ms. Smith. A crime was committed. And by your own admission, you are answerable for it.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ms. Winter would be within her rights to press charges,” he went on.
This went beyond mere professionalism; he was being downright rude. Had her abrupt departure this morning dented his ego?
“Listen, about this morning—”
“Not the place, Ms. Smith.” He didn’t look up from his papers, but he did gesture toward the mirror with his Montblanc fountain pen. She glanced up at the mirror in the ugly frame and then it registered.A two-way mirror! No wonder he’s being cool.
