'Good morning, miss,' replied the housekeeper. 'I've made some scrambled eggs and bacon, but if there's anything else you'd like…'
'That sounds marvellous, thank you.'
The woman put out a rack of toast, freshly made and golden brown, ran a glance over the table and left. Sian poured herself some freshly squeezed orange juice and helped herself to some egg and a piece of toast. There was a pile of Sunday newspapers at William Cassidy's elbow. He nodded to them and asked, 'Want one of these?'
'Please,' she said. 'My own paper first.' It was a pity she had to remind him, but she wanted to see the story in print; find out what the subs had done to her copy. She watched the frown appear on that lean face, the eyes glitter and the mouth harden, but he flicked over the papers and threw her own over to her without commenting.
They ate their breakfast in silence. Sian wryly noted the changes that had been made in the story and wondered how William Cassidy would react when he read it. He wasn't going to like it. But then, nobody ever did like what you said about them; she had learnt that long ago. In cold print a fact would look like an accusation; a comment could become painful. She had reported what Annette had said to her and she hadn't invented a word, but would William Cassidy believe that?
She put the paper down, and poured herself some more coffee, then glanced enquiringly at him. 'Can I refill your cup?'
'Thanks.' He held it out, looking at the paper by her plate. 'Finished with that?'
She reluctantly handed it to him, wishing she hadn't been around when he saw it. Sipping her coffee, she took another paper and glanced through that. They had the story, of course, but not in the same detail, or from the inside, as she had.
Sian would have felt triumph at that; it was always fun to get an exclusive, to scoop the others, but at present she was more interested in William Cassidy's reaction. She heard a rustle as his long fingers tightened on the pages, the thick sound of his angry breathing, and bit her lip in apprehension. She hoped he wasn't going to turn violent.
He suddenly flung the paper across the table, knocking over the jug of orange juice. 'I ought to wring your neck!' he grated.
Sian snatched up her linen table-napkin and hurriedly began to mop at the spreading orange stain, glad to have something to do. 'I realise it can't have been pleasant to read,' she said, and he made a furious noise.
'You've made me sound like some sort of ogre.'
'I just wrote what Annette had said.' Sian came out with that before she had thought about it, and wished she hadn't because it wasn't the most tactful excuse, was it?
His face darkened with angry blood. 'Annette's known me most of her life—ever since she was a toddler, in fact. It's true we didn't know each other all that well until she started working for me in my office, but for heaven's sake, she was going to marry me. Even if she changed her mind, she can't have hated me enough to talk about me as if I… and to a total stranger, too!'
She watched him with anxious sympathy; she felt guilty. She had never had to face anyone she had written about in that intimate way. It put her job into a new perspective for her. She had hurt this man! She bit her lower lip, watching him uneasily.
Her career had been ultra-important to her until that moment; she had never questioned its validity or hesitated to sacrifice anything in the pursuit of it. This was a first for her.
'You probably invented most of this!' he accused her, but she didn't deny it angrily. She stayed silent, her lashes lowered, her green eyes watching him through them. He stayed silent too, staring back. Suddenly she saw his mouth twitch, his body slacken from the tense rage that had held it.
'Stop looking at me like that!' he said softly, in a very different tone, and Sian lifted her lashes, and widened her eyes at him in query.
'How was I looking at you?'
His stare held an amused intimacy that made her heart skip a beat in surprise. 'You are a very annoying woman,' he drawled, and at that moment Annette ran into the room, breathless and white-faced.
'Is there any news? Is my father…why didn't you wake me?'
Cass was on his feet at once and beside her, putting an arm round her. Annette didn't shrink away, as Sian half expected; she leaned on him, looking up into his face imploringly.
'I've talked to the hospital. He's a little better this morning. When you've had some breakfast we'll go back there.'
'I couldn't eat! I want to go now.'
'No, Annette. At least drink some tea and have some toast! It won't take two minutes, but if you don't eat you might be ill, and that won't help your father, will it?' Cass used a gentle, reasoning voice, the voice one might use to a child, and Annette sighed, her face helpless.
'Come and sit down,' Cass said, leading her to the table.
Annette looked at Sian as she sat down opposite her, in the seat next to where Cass had been sitting. For a moment Sian felt the other girl didn't remember her; Annette frowned, stared, then said, 'Oh, hello!'
'Hello, Annette.' Sian poured her some tea while Cass vanished in search of fresh toast.
Annette drank the tea without appearing to be aware what she was doing.
'Where did Ricky go?'