In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)
‘Lilly!’
I was ripped from my thoughts by the door to my room bursting open and Patsy, Flora and Eve storming in. They bore the expressions of fierce amazons on the hunt for gossip. ‘You’re back! So, what have you been up to while you were away?’
‘Um…’ Cautiously, I licked my lips, while trying to think of a way to describe to my friends what had happened in Egypt. ‘I, um…’
They waited, their faces eager.
‘I did… um… I…’
I went to bed that night, after some very inventive lie-telling, my head still filled with the same thoughts.
What will he say? What will he do?
I watched the handle on the bedside clock move from ten pm to eleven pm. It didn’t seem inclined to answer my silent question.
Bloody, hell! What will he say? What will he do?
Eleven thirty. Still no answer.
It took me rather long to fall asleep that night. When I finally dozed off, I dreamt of the Sphinx chasing me through the desert, trying to kiss me. Apart from the fact that its nose was missing, the lecherous stone beast looked suspiciously like Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
Ambrose
I woke up in the morning and thought Oh God! It is Monday!
It was sort of a déjà vu, exactly like the first time I’d had to go to work. But in a way, it was even worse now, because this time I had to deal with… certain things.
My lips tingled, and I clamped my hand over them, trying to rub the traitorous sensation away. Bloody hell! Stuff like this shouldn’t happen without my express permission!
As fast as I could, I jumped out of bed and started dressing.
Keep busy, I told myself. Keep very, very busy, then you won’t have to think about what you are about to do. About what is going to happen.
In quick succession, I threw on my petticoats, a corset and a dress. It was agonizing, knowing I would have to take all this stuff off again in a minute anyway, when I changed into my male work clothes in the garden shed.
No matter! Just keep busy, and don’t think!
With flying fingers, I laced up the front of my dress, took a deep breath - and then made the mistake of looking in the mirror to check my appearance. I caught sight of my half-terrified, half-hopeful, half-angry expression. Can something have three halves, or is that impossible?
Oh, to hell with mathematics!
I could read the questions in my reflection’s eyes as clearly as if they were printed on the mirror’s surface: What will he say? What will he do?
Don’t think, damn you! Keep busy!
Whirling around, I marched to the window, threw it open and climbed down the ladder I had placed there last night before going to bed. I guess I could have gone out through the front door, but today I wasn’t in the mood to waste any time. I was heading straight towards what I was both anticipating and dreading more than anything else in the world. Putting it off would make it worse.
Two minutes in the garden shed, and I emerged in my work clothes, out onto the street. Hailing a cab, I swung myself up inside and sank into the upholstery.
‘Where to, guv?’ the cabby called.
‘Empire House!’
‘In Leadenhall Street? The place where that posh bugger Ambrose lives?’
‘Yes. That’s it, exactly.’
The whip cracked, and we shot forward. Only minutes later I climbed out of the cab in Leadenhall Street, the bastion of British commerce, Empire House rising right in front of me. Never had its huge portico, supported by two massive columns of grey stone, seemed less inviting than today.