‘Trubshaw, get off me.’ I started to roll over and he obliged, grumbling, and then came to butt his head against my cheek when I just lay there staring at the ceiling trying to pull myself together and ignore the fishy cat-breath. ‘Oh, all right.’
I sat up in a tangle of long skirts. Somewhere I had lost a shoe and the other, a delicate blue kid slipper, was stained and battered. Last time I had returned home within minutes of leaving, so I crawled on hands and knees over to the desk, hauled myself up and stared at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Eleven forty five, eleventh of May. I’d been gone about ten minute
s.
My paperwork was scattered, of course – Trubshaw’s usual way of demonstrating displeasure. I grovelled about, picked it all up and found the miniature portrait of Lucian buried underneath, undamaged. Fortunately it seemed that Trubble hadn’t plucked up enough courage to chew it.
It was cool to the touch and I hung it back on its cat-proof hook, touched the painted lips through the glass with my fingertips, pressed them to my own tingling mouth and took a minute to pull myself together before I tried to do anything that involved coherent thought.
Shower, change, stop imagining you can feel Lucian’s kiss lingering on your lips…
‘Ouch! No, I am not going to feed you again, Cat.’ That helped anchor me back in time.
The status quo was restored an hour later even though sleep was impossible. I was clean, dressed in jeans, slides and an oversize cotton top, Trubshaw was sulking and I’d got my accounting programme open with the first invoices ready to send. Luc had not entered my head more than twice a minute. I was fine. Absolutely fine.
The next morning I was still as fine as someone who’d had about two hours sleep and was covered in emerging bruises could be.
I made breakfast, argued with Trubshaw, rang Sophie to find out what she’d bought at Slink the day before. Or was it ten days ago? I checked my emails, sent some more invoices. Yes, I was absolutely back to normal.
The doorbell rang and I answered it so fast that the three on the landing jumped back with a synchronised gasp of alarm. They took another step, presumably at the sight of my manic grin of welcome. I got it under control. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ the one with the hipster beard said back. ‘Er… Polworth, Prendergast and Ponsonby. I’m Polworth.’
‘I remember from last time. You’ve brought me another box?’ Daft question, Ponsonby, the short stocky one who seemed to be the designated box-carrier, was peering over a black deed box, just like he had the first time.
‘Absolutely.’ That was Lucy Prendergast who seemed to specialise in being perky. She elbowed Ponsonby, he held it out.
‘Oh good. More naughty diaries from my ancestress,’ I said, taking hold. ‘Or perhaps this is her love letters. Very scandalous according to all the family legends. Thank you so much.’
From their faces I could tell that the three junior members of the ancient firm were agog to watch me open the box, perhaps hoping for a reading of the fictitious ancestress’s purple prose.
‘Must get back to work.’ I began to edge the door shut with one foot. ‘I’m in the middle of a tricky Spanish translation about water purification plants. Bye!’
I dumped the box on the table and broke the seal on the red tape threaded though the hasp to secure it. There was my bag and its contents, my clothes and a folded sheet of paper.
It crackled with age as I opened it, but the black ink was unfaded and the single line of writing was instantly recognisable as Luc’s.
Come back to me, my heart. Bring back my kiss.
‘Yes,’ I promised. ‘I’m coming back.’
THE END