Hidden by Derick Parsons, John Amy Page A

green-tiled bathroom and locked the door before switching on the light.  She leaned over the sink and peered at her reflection in the mirror before screwing up her face in dismay; what have I done?
    In the harsh fluorescent light she looked haggard rather than slim, and far older than her thirty-four years, her eyes were hidden in deep pockets of shadow and her lips were tight and pale.  She stared at her reflection dispassionately for some time before dropping her gaze to her naked body.  No problem there; after years of remorseless dieting and exercising in search of the perfect figure she could look at her body without a qualm and even with a touch of pleasure.  Of pride in her hard work, if nothing else.  It was only when she raised her gaze back to the reflection of her face that the problem began.  She pushed her long hair away from her face and almost glared into the mirror.  When she had set out that evening she had been young and at least reasonably attractive; now her eyes were too big for her face and she looked haggard and old.  As old as sin, as old as guilt.  She shut her eyes again; w hat have I done?  And with my patient’s father!
    She could never have imagined where the evening would end up considering the appalling way it had begun.  She had met Michael outside the restaurant as planned but just as they were about to go inside Martin Wilson had accosted them.  He had been very drunk and had roared abuse at her for invading his privacy and for “poking her bloody nose in where it wasn’t wanted”.  Riordan’s Special Branch bodyguard had appeared as if by magic to grab his arm and bustle him away but even he could not stop Wilson shouting furiously back to her that George Meagher was innocent, and that she would regret it if she smeared his good name.
    Almost dying with emba rrassment she had muttered, ‘I’m most awfully sorry, Michael!  I never dreamed that awful man would turn up here!  I don’t know him or anything, he’s connected with my latest book, on sex offenders.’
    ‘Well, he doesn’t seem very happy about it!’ Michael had replied, smiling lightly at her and apparently not fazed in the slightest.  ‘Still, even in these celebrity-mad times not everyone wants to be famous.  At least, not as a sex offender.’  He had taken her arm and ushered her into the restaurant, not turning a hair even when Wilson began shouting from a distance, ‘You’ll be sorry, bitch!  You wait and see!  You’ll be sorry !’
    Michael hadn’t asked any questions about Wilson either, and when she had tried to apologize for the scene had waved her explanation away, saying, ‘Don’t be silly; I’m a politician, I get worse shouted at me on a daily basis!  I’m glad there weren’t any reporters about, though; there’s usually one lurking near me nowadays and I dread to think what they would have made of that little lot!’
    Her mouth had fallen open in horror at the mere idea and he had laughed and reassured her, ‘Don’t worry, they generally only turn up when my press secretary tells them where I’m going.’  He had winked and whispered conspiratorially, ‘ Officially I’m having a quiet night in!’
    In spite of this inauspicious beginning she had enjoyed the evening, and found herself increasingly glad she had agreed to dine with him.  She had also, as the evening wore on, found herself increasingly attracted to the immaculately dressed and coiffured Michael.  She had even taken a certain proprietorial pride in the sidelong glances aimed at him from other women in the restaurant, foolish though that was.  For one thing she had no claim on him whatsoever, and for another much of the attention was probably due to the fact that he was the most famous government Minster in Ireland.
    He had been the perfect companion; witty, urbane, charming; he met every criteria perfectly.  He had been able to talk fluently on just about any subject, either amusingly or thoughtfully, as