A Family Concern by Anthea Fraser Page A

her way through the swing doors of the Clarendon, grateful for its warmth on her wind-chilled face, and made her way down the broad, carpeted stairs to the Grill Room, where François, the maître d’, met her with a small bow.
    â€˜Mr Cavendish is already here, madame. If you would come this way?’
    Obediently following in his wake, she caught sight of Hugh’s red head bent over the menu at a corner table. He stood at their approach, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as François pulled out her chair for her and took her jacket. For a moment longer she busied herself, taking off her gloves and dropping her bag to the floor, in order to cover the racing pulse that accompanied any meeting with her ex-husband.
    â€˜You’re looking gorgeous, as always,’ Hugh said quietly.
    â€˜Thank you, kind sir.’
    â€˜Would you like to stick to the grill menu, or go for one of the chef’s specials?’
    â€˜I think steak and a salad would be fine.’
    â€˜A starter?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’ve under an hour and a half, Hugh; I’m seeing a client at two thirty.’
    â€˜It would be good to meet without always having an eye on the clock,’ he said tightly. ‘Are you as circumscribed when you lunch with your colleague, or is that extendable in the guise of a business lunch?’
    She didn’t meet his eye. ‘It depends on my schedule; you know that.’
    He leaned forward, laying a hand on her wrist. ‘What I know is that I need to see you –
really
see you, Lindsey.’
    His hand seemed to burn through her skin and she forced herself to speak lightly. ‘Only in public, Hugh; that was the agreement. And if you were about to suggest your flat, that would be doubly unwise; Pops is renting one in Talbot Road from the end of the month.’
    He sat back in his chair, staring at her. ‘My block?’
    â€˜Rona says not. However, it’s immaterial as far as we’re concerned.’
    He leaned forward urgently. ‘When are you going to stop all this nonsense and marry me again?’
    â€˜Don’t rush me,’ she said.
    In truth though, Lindsey reflected, as Hugh relayed their order to the waiter, she had no intention of remarrying him. They’d been at each other’s throats before, and would be again. It was only physical attraction that kept them, unwillingly for the most part, still tied to each other.
    Roland Allerdyce lived in an old farmhouse on the fringes of a village some five miles from the town. He’d sold off the surrounding land when he bought it thirty years ago, but its barn, large and airy, had been converted into a centrally-heated studio that suited him admirably.
    The house was, of course, far too large for him, but he refused point-blank to consider moving, either to somewhere smaller, or to live with his daughter and her family. His devoted housekeeper, Doris Pemberton, who’d been with him from the start, ran the house with quiet efficiency, helped for the last five years by a woman from the village who came in twice a week to do the heavy cleaning. It was thanks to Mrs Pemberton’s ministrations that Cynthia was able to worry less about her father than she might otherwise have done.
    The old man came out to meet them as they turned into the cobbled yard, the stiff breeze ruffling his still-plentiful hair. As Max quickly got out of the car and went to greet him, he was aware of shock. Though his father stood ramrod straight and was still the same height as Max himself, he seemed to have shrunk inside himself, the skin on his face falling away to leave nose and cheekbones more prominent and his clothes hanging loosely on his frame.
    â€˜Father!’ Max clasped the veined hand thrust out at him, wincing at the strength of the grip.
    â€˜So you’ve put in an appearance at last. Cynthia put the wind up you, did she? She’s been clucking round like a mother hen for