How many hours had they spent here, talking, dreaming, planning their lives together, making love?
She got up, finding the memories too painful, and began prowling along the bookshelves looking at the books; they smelt of damp and when she reached down a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury the leather was spotted with green mould and the pages breathed a graveyard air.
She flicked the pages and stopped at a poem by William Blake.
‘“O rose, thou art sick ?
??”’ It had been one of her recital pieces at drama school. She knew it by heart, did not need to read the words on the mould-spotted page. She had tried to forget it since; it reminded her too much of Roger Keats. ‘“His dark secret love does thy life destroy,”’ she said aloud, shuddering; but Roger Keats had never loved her, had only wanted the sadistic pleasure of humiliating her, hurting her, watching her suffer.
Johnny came back, carrying a tray of tea things that rattled as he put it down on the table. Quickly closing the book, she slid it back into place on the shelf and turned, feeling her whole body quicken into life just because he was in the same room.
Johnny gravely said, ‘You don’t still think of him, do you? After all these years? Forget him, Annie.’
She was taken aback – could he still read her mind, even after their years apart? It stunned her.
‘I wish I could forget him,’ she whispered. ‘But I can’t, because he hasn’t gone away, Johnny. He’s still around, sending me scary, threatening Valentine’s cards ever since.’
He stared at her, his dark blue eyes wide with shock. ‘Scary, threatening cards? What are you talking about?’
She wished she hadn’t mentioned it; she had wrecked the atmosphere. Suddenly the house felt different, or was it just her who had changed?
‘Oh … it’s a long story,’ she muttered, and sat down in one of the fireside chairs, crouched on the edge, holding her cold hands out to the fire, which was well away by then, the log on top crackling with resin, flames all along it, giving out a sweet apple scent.
She saw that the old Minton tiles framing the fire had cracked even more since they were last here, but their beauty was undiminished.
‘I’ve got all the time in the world to listen, Annie.’ Johnny poured her tea, put sugar in it, brought it to her, smiling at her.
She took the cup between her palms and held it, eyes half closed, grateful for the warmth of the hot liquid, while she told him about the cards, about the burglary on St Valentine’s Day this year, about the rose on her pillow, the Valentine’s card with its chilling message.
‘I rang the police, but they wouldn’t take me seriously because nothing had been taken, and there was no sign of forced entry.’
‘How can you be sure it was Keats who broke in, who sent you these Valentines?’ Johnny asked slowly. ‘You must have plenty of admirers.’
‘I recognised the printing on the card; I got the first one the year after I got Roger Keats the sack. There were a couple of dozen Valentine’s cards that year, but I knew that was from him – I don’t know why, I just felt this weird shiver down my spine. The others were from fans, and they’re often over the top, a bit soppy, but this was different.’
Johnny watched her, frowning, and she met his eyes, and felt her throat close up at the fixity of his stare.
How did he feel about her now? He couldn’t feel the same, not after all this time. Could he?
Her heart beat thickly, her head swam, she looked away, into the fire.
It was a minute before she could go on. ‘I rang the police. They just laughed at me, said they were sure I would remember who had a key, but I know nobody had one, except my cleaner and she would never let anyone else use hers. But Sean is going to track Roger Keats down and –’
‘Sean?’ Johnny sharply interrupted, and she gave him a startled look.
‘Yes, Sean Halifax … the scriptwriter on our series. He was a policeman.’
Johnny’s face tightened, his pallor intensifying. She picked up anger inside him and blinked, then guessed what was wrong. After what had happened to him, Johnny probably didn’t want any contact with the police, and who could be surprised at that?
‘Anyway,’ she said uneasily, ‘he’s investigating it for me. He’s going to track Roger Keats down and put the fear of God into him.’ She gave a quivery little smile. ‘And believe me, Sean could do it. He’s a very tough customer. He must have been a good copper. And he’s a damned good writer.’
‘You like him?’ Johnny’s voice was low and expressionless, but Annie picked up something else in his face.
‘Sean’s OK,’ she said, suddenly flushing. Was he jealous? Did he suspect she and Sean were more than just colleagues? She drank her tea and stood up, put the cup on the table. ‘I suppose I’d better get back now. It’s been nice to see the house again. I’m sorry you will have to sell it.’
Johnny was in her way. He looked down at her, his eyes dark; she saw the flames reflected in them, dancing on the glazed iris like the flames of hell. Annie stared into them, breathless.
He touched her cheek with the fingertips of one hand. ‘Annie … Annie …’