Page 141 of The Last Love Song
The car suddenly lurched forward into the traffic, eliciting a cacophony of horns. Ten minutes later, after driving down backstreets that even Sorcha had no idea existed in Hampstead, the car joined the main flow of vehicles around Swiss Cottage. Swerving in and out of lanes, the driver headed for St John’s Wood and central London. He looked in his mirror and smiled at her.
‘We’ve lost ’em, love. You’re okay now.’
‘There’s your case, Mrs Daly.’ The taxi driver put Sorcha’s belongings in the hall of Helen’s mews house.
Sorcha smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Any time. Adds a bit of variety to my day. You take care now. Goodbye.’
‘I’ll show you to your room, Mrs Daly.’
Sorcha followed Katie, Helen’s maid, up the narrow stairs.
‘I have some bread and pâté downstairs when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.’
She sat down on the bed and wept with relief.
After lunch, Katie announced that she had to go and do a little shopping and pick up Helen’s dry cleaning.
Just as Katie left, the telephone rang. Uncertainly, Sorcha walked towards the receiver and tentatively picked it up.
‘Hello?’ she whispered.
‘Helen here. In future, we’ll have a code. I’ll ring three times, hang up and then call straight back. Are you okay?’
‘Fine now I’m here. The driver was brilliant.’
‘I’ve used Dan for years. He’s completely trustworthy. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ve got a meeting now but I should be home by six. Make yourself comfortable. Watch an old film on TV or something.’
‘Thanks, Helen. I’ll see you later.’
‘Bye, Sorcha.’
She put the telephone down and, for the first time, took proper notice of her surroundings.
The house was so tidy as to be almost unlived in. Other than two immaculate cream sofas and a long smoked-glass coffee table with a pile of seemingly untouched glossy magazines in one corner, there was no other furniture. The white walls were mostly bare, the odd framed print here and there. A superb Bang & Olufsen sound system with three-foot speakers took up most of one wall, and a small television sat in the corner. Sorcha made her way back upstairs and opened the first door she came to. It was a little larger than a broom cupboard, furnished with an antique writing desk and leather chair. There were shelves lining two of the walls with rows of large books stacked neatly on them. Sorcha pulled one out.
Copyright Laws in the Music Industry – New updated edition.
Leaving the room, Sorcha tried the next door along the corridor and found the bathroom – small but serviceable. The third door along led to her own neat guest room.
The last room had to be Helen’s bedroom. Sorcha pushed open the door and stood on the threshold in surprise. Compared with the uncluttered elegance of the rest of the house, this room was completely different. The double bed was covered in a colourful patchwork quilt, and resting against the wrought-iron headboard were numerous cuddly toys. An old-fashioned dressing table was jammed with lotions and potions and down one wall ran a full-length mirrored wardrobe. On the other walls hung what could only be described as nursery prints, depicting teddy bears and children playing oranges and lemons.
‘A child’s room,’ murmured Sorcha. It reminded her very much of her bedroom in her parents’ house in Ballymore.
She pulled open the top drawer of a large oak chest. Thereshe found black silk stockings, soft to the touch beneath her fingers, camisoles, bustiers, suspender belts and knickers, all in black too.
Sorcha closed the drawer and smiled. ‘Maybe not such a child’s room.’
She shut the door and walked downstairs.
The only sound that broke the silence was the tick of the kitchen clock. Sorcha picked up a magazine and, settling down on the sofa, immersed herself in an article on the elegant garden of an eminent actress.
At almost seven o’clock, a key turned in the lock and Helen appeared in the sitting room.
‘Hi, how’ve you been?’ She put her briefcase down.
