Brought to Book by Anthea Fraser

Hugh.
    â€˜Thanks for the drink,’ she said, ‘but please don’t come again. I shan’t change my mind.’
    He bent down, and she detected the familiar aftershave as he lightly kissed her cheek. ‘And I shan’t give up trying,’ he said, as she turned and climbed quickly into the car. To her fury, she found she was trembling. She started the car with a jerk, causing the tyres to skid on the wet ground, then spun round and drove swiftly out of the car park. Her last glimpse of him in the side mirror was of a solitary figure under the harsh light that, for security reasons, brilliantly illuminated it. As she again turned left, on to Alban Road, tears were raining unchecked down her face.
    All right, he’d been charming this evening – and Hugh could certainly be charming when he chose – but it was important to remember all his other traits that had contributed to months of misery and which, should they ever get back together, would undoubtedly resurface.
    â€˜Good
bye,
Hugh!’ she said aloud, and turned up the volume on the radio. As a means of distraction, however, it was a failure, and as she fought to control the car against the buffeting wind, she found herself resurrecting all the memories she’d striven so hard to forget.
    â€˜Everyone has rows,’ Rona had said once, when Lindsey had confided in her. ‘Max and I certainly do.’ But
their
rows had sounded like the kind she and Rona occasionally indulged in – shouting at each other, banging around, but always aware of underlying love. Those between herself and Hugh had been quite different; his temper could flare with frightening suddenness, and hurtful jibes would be flung at her, which afterwards lodged in the memory. He’d never actually hit her, though there were times he’d come close to it, and when his rage had burned out, he would sulk for days, refusing to speak to her. Occasionally, later, he would say, ‘It’s my red hair!’ – as though that excused everything. It was the only apology she ever received.
    Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear.
The best way to get rid of him is to find someone else.
    And Hugh himself had echoed her:
I shan’t give up till you actually marry
.
    Simple, really, Lindsey told herself bitterly. But where exactly was she going to meet an attractive man in his forties, who wasn’t either married or gay? Yet she must find someone, she thought fearfully, turning into the driveway of her home; because if it ever occurred to Hugh to exert sexual pressure, she might not have the strength to hold out. And that would be fatal.
    Rona’s contract arrived in the post the next morning, and she was flicking through it when Max phoned.
    â€˜Have you seen the paper?’ he asked.
    â€˜What paper?’
    â€˜The
news
paper, honey! Wake up!’
    â€˜I’ve not had a chance; Eddie’s just sent me the contract, and—’
    â€˜Well, if you’ve got it in front of you, turn to the foot of page 4. Can’t stop now, but meet me for lunch at the Gallery?’
    â€˜I wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious,’ Rona grumbled, trying one-handedly to open the broadsheet.
    â€˜Twelve-thirty?’
    â€˜Yes, fine. I’ll be there.’
    â€˜Love you!’ he said, and rang off.
    Rona put down the phone and turned to the page he had indicated, her heart giving a jerk as the photograph used for her
Chiltern Life
articles smiled up at her. Alongside it was the heading ‘Biographer to Write Author’s Life’.
    Apprehensively she read on:
    Well-known biographer Rona Parish (left) has accepted an invitation from his family to chronicle the life of the late thriller-writer Theo Harvey, who was found drowned near his remote cottage in August last year. It will be interesting to see if Ms Parish, known for her meticulous research, can dig up anything to throw more light on this tragic and largely