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the chair.
    ‘There’s one bed upstairs,’ he said. ‘Mine. You’re not suggesting we share it?’ And he looked at her with a blistering contempt that made her curl up, and brought hot colour to her cheeks. He was a swine—but before she could tell him so he had marched off, picked up the lamp, and vanished through the door to the staircase. Pattie heard boots clattering on stone steps and a door bang overhead, and she was left in the firelight.
    The fire was burning low. The log had fallen into grey ash so that all the illumination it gave was a faint pinkish glow. He must let it out at nights, unless he had been so mad at finding her here that he had forgotten to throw on another log.
    When she got off the chair she felt stiff and slightly sick. She had had a bad shaking-up, but in retrospect perhaps that large brandy wasn’t such a good idea. Nausea rose in her when she went to pick up a log and she sat back on her heels until it subsided, then placed the log carefully and slowly in the middle of the embers. Her hands were dirty and she looked at them in distaste. It would be pitch dark in the kitchen, she’d have to wait till morning, but oh, how she would love a hot bath.
    Her little bathroom at home was palest blue, and she imagined herself going in there, as she did every night, slipping off her clothes and into the warm scented water. If she could do that now all the grime and the aches and pains would float away.
    Her clothes felt rough against her skin. They weren’t, she always wore soft pretty undies, and her sweater was cashmere. She hadn’t been wearing a coat, only a jacket, when the car crashed, and she was still in her boots. Shoes might have fallen off, she was lucky she hadn’t been barefoot on the mountainside, but the green tartan rug she was using as a blanket felt like barbed wire and she prickled all over.
    She wished she had stayed with Michael. She clutched her charm medallion for comfort, and promised herself that as soon as dawn broke she would get up and clean herself up. But all she could do now was huddle into the chair, and watch the fire, and try to sleep again.
    She couldn’t remember falling asleep in front of a fire since she was a child. There were no fires in her apartment, it was all central heating, but watching the little flames flickering took her back to long-ago days when she had fallen asleep on the sofa and been safe and happy.
    She shifted, trying to find an easier spot, and sighed. Any hopes of Duncan Keld agreeing to an interview had gone for sure. He wouldn’t have done in any case, he still harboured a king-size grudge against her, but coming here had really cooked her goose. He couldn’t have been madder. Obviously he wanted to be alone. No phone, nobody. He was probably here to work. If there was only one bed he didn’t do much entertaining here, except for ladies who might share the bed. Roz and Shirley had said he was sexy, but Pattie couldn’t see it. ‘I’d rather be interviewed by the K.G.B.,’ he’d announced—well, she’d rather sleep with Rasputin! Roll on tomorrow when she could get away, and this had to be the most uncomfortable chair she had ever encountered.
    Pattie caught herself in the middle of another deep sigh of self-pity and checked it. All she had to do was remember the car at the bottom of the hill and she stopped feeling sorry for herself. Things could have been a hundred times worse.
    She woke itching, with the blanket scratching her neck and face, and her hair like a bird’s nest. This was disgusting, she had to get washed; and she stood up and winced, sure she was covered with bruises.
    The windows were frosted over, in strange whirling patterns, so she put on another couple of logs, because her teeth were chattering, then went into the kitchen. This was a bathroom too. A second door led to a chemical loo, but you did your washing over the sink, it seemed, and Pattie’s fastidiousness revolted against such primitive plumbing.