warm hug.
‘Thank goodness the good weather has held, although Jim isn’t too pleased. He’s worried about people trampling on his precious lawn,’ Louise told Rosie ruefully.
The Simpsons’ garden party was an annual event which normally Rosie enjoyed, but Jake Lucas had made her feel so hypersensitive that she felt reluctant to go anywhere, just in case she might run into either him or his cousin. Not that Ritchie was likely to be here, she reassured herself. As far as she could remember the Simpsons, like her own parents, had never been particularly friendly with his.
Taking comfort from this reassuring thought, she followed her hostess out into the sunny garden, and then froze as almost the first sound she heard was a child’s voice with an unmistakable Australian accent. Panic hit her immediately.
Quickly she turned away, heading in the opposite direction, thankfully merging herself with a group of people around their host.
She stayed there as long as she could, determinedly asking Jim questions about his precious roses long after everyone else’s interest had quite obviously faded.
‘Better get back to my duties as barman,’ Jim told her. ‘You haven’t got a drink, Rosie. Come with me and I’ll get you something.’
She would have preferred to stay where she was, separated from most of the other guests by the rose-hung pergola which was Jim’s pride and joy, but Jim already had his hand on her arm and she couldn’t refuse.
The bar had been set up on the large, paved area just outside the house. Several large groups of people were congregated around it.
One of the Simpsons’ grandsons had taken over as barman, but was now quite obviously pleased to be relieved of his duties and set free to enjoy himself with his friends.
He was a shy boy of around seventeen, who blushed fiercely as Rosie said hello to him.
‘The lad’s got a bit of a crush on you,’ Jim told her with a chuckle as his grandson disappeared. ‘Can’t say I blame him, mind...if I was twenty years younger...’
Dutifully Rosie smiled, refusing an alcoholic drink and asking for something cool and soft instead.
As she waited for him to pour it for her, she felt a sharp prickle of sensation at the base of her neck, a conviction that someone was watching her. Automatically she responded to it, turning her head to glance over her shoulder, and then she froze.
She was being watched, by Ritchie Lucas. She recognized him immediately, even though, unlike his cousin, his physical appearance had changed considerably in the fifteen years since she had last seen him.
At school, Ritchie had been considered good-looking by some of the girls, although personally she had never found his rather beefy blond-haired looks in the least attractive. To Rosie there had always been something slightly coarse and uncontrolled about the way he looked which, she had subconsciously felt, reflected his personality, so that she had always felt repelled by him. Which was no doubt why he had decided to pick on her as a victim of his callous cruelty.
Now that coarseness was very much more obvious, his skin burned a reddish brown by the Australian sun, his blond hair now more gingerish and very obviously receding. He had put on weight and, to judge from his physical appearance, was not particularly keen on exercise. He was holding a can of beer, and as she looked at him he raised it towards her, acknowledging her presence, grinning at her, ignoring the faintly anxious glance the small dark woman at his side was giving him. Was she his wife? And those two boys with her, were they his sons? Jake Lucas was standing with them, and Rosie shivered, quickly putting down her glass, her drink untouched.
She couldn’t stay here now.
‘Rosie, are you all right?’ she heard Jim asking her in some concern.
‘Yes... Yes... I’m fine... It’s just that I’ve remembered a phone-call I should have made...’
She was gabbling, she recognised, her manner causing
‘Thank goodness the good weather has held, although Jim isn’t too pleased. He’s worried about people trampling on his precious lawn,’ Louise told Rosie ruefully.
The Simpsons’ garden party was an annual event which normally Rosie enjoyed, but Jake Lucas had made her feel so hypersensitive that she felt reluctant to go anywhere, just in case she might run into either him or his cousin. Not that Ritchie was likely to be here, she reassured herself. As far as she could remember the Simpsons, like her own parents, had never been particularly friendly with his.
Taking comfort from this reassuring thought, she followed her hostess out into the sunny garden, and then froze as almost the first sound she heard was a child’s voice with an unmistakable Australian accent. Panic hit her immediately.
Quickly she turned away, heading in the opposite direction, thankfully merging herself with a group of people around their host.
She stayed there as long as she could, determinedly asking Jim questions about his precious roses long after everyone else’s interest had quite obviously faded.
‘Better get back to my duties as barman,’ Jim told her. ‘You haven’t got a drink, Rosie. Come with me and I’ll get you something.’
She would have preferred to stay where she was, separated from most of the other guests by the rose-hung pergola which was Jim’s pride and joy, but Jim already had his hand on her arm and she couldn’t refuse.
The bar had been set up on the large, paved area just outside the house. Several large groups of people were congregated around it.
One of the Simpsons’ grandsons had taken over as barman, but was now quite obviously pleased to be relieved of his duties and set free to enjoy himself with his friends.
He was a shy boy of around seventeen, who blushed fiercely as Rosie said hello to him.
‘The lad’s got a bit of a crush on you,’ Jim told her with a chuckle as his grandson disappeared. ‘Can’t say I blame him, mind...if I was twenty years younger...’
Dutifully Rosie smiled, refusing an alcoholic drink and asking for something cool and soft instead.
As she waited for him to pour it for her, she felt a sharp prickle of sensation at the base of her neck, a conviction that someone was watching her. Automatically she responded to it, turning her head to glance over her shoulder, and then she froze.
She was being watched, by Ritchie Lucas. She recognized him immediately, even though, unlike his cousin, his physical appearance had changed considerably in the fifteen years since she had last seen him.
At school, Ritchie had been considered good-looking by some of the girls, although personally she had never found his rather beefy blond-haired looks in the least attractive. To Rosie there had always been something slightly coarse and uncontrolled about the way he looked which, she had subconsciously felt, reflected his personality, so that she had always felt repelled by him. Which was no doubt why he had decided to pick on her as a victim of his callous cruelty.
Now that coarseness was very much more obvious, his skin burned a reddish brown by the Australian sun, his blond hair now more gingerish and very obviously receding. He had put on weight and, to judge from his physical appearance, was not particularly keen on exercise. He was holding a can of beer, and as she looked at him he raised it towards her, acknowledging her presence, grinning at her, ignoring the faintly anxious glance the small dark woman at his side was giving him. Was she his wife? And those two boys with her, were they his sons? Jake Lucas was standing with them, and Rosie shivered, quickly putting down her glass, her drink untouched.
She couldn’t stay here now.
‘Rosie, are you all right?’ she heard Jim asking her in some concern.
‘Yes... Yes... I’m fine... It’s just that I’ve remembered a phone-call I should have made...’
She was gabbling, she recognised, her manner causing
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