Minding Amy

"Are you in a position to tell me where she is, so I can try to catch her?"

"Not really, but…you could try convincing me."

"You'll hear me out?" The smattering of hope in his tone made her smile. He was very keen. And she could tell Amy was more than interested in him, otherwise she wouldn't have been so upset. She'd looked so happy over the last couple of days. Janine had never seen her look quite as content before.

"Go ahead. I'm all ears." She rested back in her chair and reached for her coffee, fully prepared to give the man a fair hearing. Amy would calm down soon enough and hopefully she would see sense. In the meantime, she could maybe ease the way for Mr. PI here, not to mention getting the inside story herself. That sort of first hand entertainment was always welcome. In fact it was a pity she couldn't share it with the Women's Page readers, she thought, as Sebastian's story unfolded. It was the sort of feature they'd love to bits.

* * * *

The tube train journey out to Harrow on the Hill seemed to take forever. Normally Amy would have enjoyed the journey, watching the ebb and flow of people passing through the train, the never-ending variety of humanity bustling through the capital in the summertime. This time she barely noticed the other people, and counted each stop impatiently. By the time the train reached Finchley Road, she'd steadied herself enough to think straight. The revelation had explained a lot about Sebastian's reluctance to speak about his work. It also shed new light on his attitude and his line of thinking when he talked about the assignment with her. All that prompting and suggesting he had done in Arundel, she cringed as she thought back over it.

He must have thought her an absolute idiot. Mr. Big Shot Private Investigator, nannying the silly journalist on her great adventure. She rested her head in her hands, wondering why she couldn't just wish it all away. Her father had misled her. More than that, he'd duped her entirely. Why did he do it? He obviously had no faith in her as a journalist. That hurt.

As for Sebastian…she had to face up to it, seducing her might have been part of his cover. Even if it wasn't, it was a shoddy thing to do.

When the tube train finally pulled in and she emerged into Harrow on the Hill, Amy had gone from angry to mortally wounded. Grim determination had lodged inside her. She would simply have to point out his gross error of judgment to her father and end the charade. By the time she got into the taxi for the last stage of the journey, she had vowed never to trust her father again. Indeed, she realized, all men had become entirely untrustworthy in her eyes.

She looked up at her parent's house as she climbed out of the taxi. Ever since she’d moved out the two of them rattled around in it, but her mother treated the large, detached house as her castle and planned to see her days out there. Who could blame her, it was in a beautiful spot, a green wooded retreat, and yet it was just over twelve miles from the heart of the city. Amy had moved out when she'd gone to college, but it was still home and coming back to visit felt good, even if today she was visiting under a cloud of discontent.

"Amy, oh how lovely to see you." her mother exclaimed, as she opened the front door. "Now, why didn't you call and say you were coming over?" She threw the kitchen towel she was drying her hands on over her shoulder and lifted her glasses to perch them on top of her stacked hair. She peered at her daughter. "Are you sick, dear? You look flushed."

"I'm not sick." She didn't want to worry her. If she could keep her out of it she would. "I'm just a bit upset. Work stuff. Sorry I didn't let you know I was coming, it was a bit of a snap decision—is Dad around?" She looked over her mother's shoulder and into the house, while she hugged her.

"He got back from the golf club about five minutes ago. Can you stay for some lunch?"

Amy didn't think she could eat anything at all, but she gave her mother a weak smile.

"I'm putting a Spanish tortilla together. It's such a treat having your father at home for lunch midweek. It gives me an excuse to cook."

The familiar ambience of home soothed Amy a mite. When she caught sight of her father standing in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hand, a moment later, the warm feeling quickly evaporated.

He was wearing a short-sleeved casual shirt and his golfing trousers and looked a whole lot more comfortable than when he was suited and formal, at work. He put the mug down, his expression brightening when he saw her.

"Hey Trixiegirl, how's tricks?"

It rattled her more than ever that he spoke to her as he had when she was a little girl. "Can't you treat me as if I'm an adult, please, for once?"

She glared at him.

"Sorry, I forget you don't like to be called Trixie any more." He looked at her, as if realizing something was amiss. "Problem?"

"Yes, problem." She dropped her bag on one of the breakfast bar stools then perched on another. Her mother had gone back to her cooking but was watching them as she went about her work, curiosity in her expression.

"The Quentin Edwards job…you told me the deal was I had to have a bodyguard with me."

He glanced away, suddenly shifty.

"Ah, I can see that you know what I came about."

"Bodyguard?" her mother exclaimed. "What on earth were you doing that you needed a bodyguard?"

"Exactly." Amy declared. "I didn't need one, and not only did Dad make me feel incapable of protecting myself on a simple investigation, but by being underhand and hiring a private investigator—without my permission, I hasten to add—he's shown that he thinks I'm incapable of doing investigative work at all, without the prompting of a…a professional."

So much for keeping her mother out of it. Her mum was whisking the eggs very slowly indeed, her attention riveted.

Meanwhile, her dad gained an imploring expression. "Trix, I mean Amy, that's simply not correct."

"Well, if it's not correct, please go ahead and enlighten me about it." She folded her arms over her chest, her mouth pursed, awaiting what was sure to be a stack of excuses.