Irresistible Temptation(5)

'Not yet,' Olivia said quietly. 'But first thing on Monday morning I'm going to start job-hunting.'

'What sort of thing are you looking for-acting-modelling?'

'Heavens, no.' Olivia felt emotionally battered by the events of the  morning, but she managed a weak giggle. 'In Bristol I taught computer  systems in offices, but I thought I'd look for a secretarial  agency-start by temping.'

'Oh.' Sasha gave her an astonished look. 'You mean real work. Such a  novelty. My tenants are usually waiting tables and stacking shelves  while they wait to be discovered.'

She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly  tucked under her arm. 'When you've unpacked, come on up and we'll have  some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local  shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in  the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.'

'Thank you.' Olivia gave her a resolute smile. 'You're very kind.'

Ah, well, darling,' said Sasha. 'Declan sent you. And I'd do anything for Declan.'

So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long  as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.

But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round  her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and  it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She'd  expected to be charged twice or three times as much.

Sasha's kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was  greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.

'Quiet, Humph, you fool.' Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of  newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large  pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. 'You've got to  tell friend from foe. He's a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a  Rottweiler,' she added. 'Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the  embroidered cushion-that's Humph's.'

She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar  beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on  thankfully.

'So, tell me all about yourself,' Sasha said, lighting another cheroot. 'How long have you known my lovely Declan?'

Olivia put down her mug, her stomach churning in swift apprehension. 'Er-not long.'

Oh, come on, she chided herself. Tell the truth, even if she dumps you  back on the pavement She cleared her throat. 'Actually, I met him for  the first time about an hour ago. I-I was looking for someone else  entirely.'

'Serendipity,' Sasha nodded, apparently unfazed. 'A happy accident.'

'Not,' Olivia said tautly, 'how I'd have described it.'

'Ah, you clashed.' Sasha gave a throaty chuckle. 'Excellent.'

'I don't think he sees it that way,' Olivia said thinly.

'Well, of course not. He's had to beat women off with sticks since he  could walk. And now he's a media personality I expect he gets targeted  by all sorts.'

'Media personality?' Olivia stared at her, while connections in her  brain jangled into place. 'My God,' she said in a hollow voice. 'I've  just realised-he's Declan Malone. He interviews politicians on  television. I knew I'd seen him somewhere.'

But not, she thought, next to naked on a doorstep.

Sasha gurgled. 'You could say that, darling. I think I'm going to like  you.' She paused, frowning slightly. 'Declan can be abrasive sometimes,  because his work demands it, but his heart's in the right place or you  wouldn't be here now. Why, he's even got one of his in-laws lodging with  him, which I think is carrying charity too far.'

Olivia swallowed her last morsel of carrot cake. 'One of his in-laws?' she repeated.

'Well, almost.' Sasha gestured broadly, doing no good to yet another  pile of miscellaneous paperwork. 'The chap who's married to his cousin  Maria. But she and Declan were practically brought up as brother and  sister, so I suppose it counts.'                       
       
           



       

'Yes,' Olivia said, dry-mouthed. 'I-suppose it does.'

She felt deathly cold-shrivelling inside. She wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee.

My God, she thought, despairingly. He's Maria's cousin, and I just  marched up to his door and laid my claim to her husband. What have I  said? What have I done?

Oh, Jeremy-Jeremy. Why didn't you warn me?

Because he didn't know you were about to descend on him, a small, flat  voice in her head reminded her. You did it all off your own bat, and now  you have to live with the consequences. Whatever they are.

'Are you all right?' Sasha was staring at her. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost, darting.'

'No.' Olivia mustered a smile. 'I think I've just realised how much I've bitten off-and I'm wondering if I can chew it.'

'While on the subject of chewing.' Sasha grabbed an envelope and drew a  swift sketch map on the back of it 'The Portobello Road, darling, and  our closest food source. Today's market day, so you'll find everything  you need, but keep a close grip on your wallet. Pickpockets are  practically endemic down there, so try not to look like a tourist'

She didn't feel like a tourist, Olivia thought an hour later, as she  picked her way warily along the crowded Portobello pavements. More like  an alien from the Planet Zog.

She'd spent a fraught hour with Sasha, being interrogated with the  utmost charm on her background from birth to the present day. Nothing to  hide there, but she'd had to dance round the subject of why she'd come  to London, and how she'd happened to fetch up in W11.

She'd said far too much about her association with Jeremy already, and  she suspected Sasha would approve no more than Declan Malone.

She'd been quite glad to make her urgent need to shop for provisions an excuse to escape.

And now here she was, walking down the Portobello Road. At first she  thought she'd come to the wrong place, because all she could see on both  sides of the road were antiques shops. The displays of silver and  crystal were certainly mouth-watering, but there was no sign of any food  outlets.

She crossed a road, and suddenly found herself absorbed into an  alternative reality. A rowdy, brash reality, where dozens of ethnic  accents brayed and clashed. Where clumps of street musicians vied for  attention with a non-stop assault on the eardrums. Where stall-holders  bellowed incomprehensible special offers. Olivia was wearing her bag  slung diagonally across her body under her jacket, and she kept a  protective hand on it as she found herself almost borne along on a tidal  wave of humanity.

She was used to crowds, for heaven's sake. She'd lived and worked in  Bristol. But here the noise and numbers suddenly threatened to overwhelm  her.

She'd never seen a market like it. As well as all the fruit and  vegetables on offer, there were innumerable stalls offering bric-à-brac,  second-hand clothing-including a display of old fur coats and military  uniforms from another century-books, jewellery and musical instruments.

The temptation to linger and explore was fierce, but buying food had to be her main priority.

She turned and fought her way back, diving into a supermarket with  something like relief. She filled a basket with staples, then pushed her  way up the road to a specialist bakery she'd noticed earlier, where  tempting displays of every kind of bread and pastry were presented  outside for customers to pick and mix.

Olivia chose some focaccia bread, with a mini-baguette filled with  smoked ham and salad, which, with fruit, would serve as lunch. She  selected apples, plums, tomatoes and peppers from a street stall, and  then stopped at the old-fashioned butcher's further up the road and  bought a chicken and enough minced pork and beef to make a pasta sauce.

On her way back, she passed the end of a cobbled mews and paused for a  moment, looking wistfully at the narrow smart houses, painted in pastel  colours. One of them she saw, even had a 'For Sale' board hanging from  its first-floor balcony.

As she hesitated a couple came out of the house opposite, walking fast,  hand in hand, the girl looking up into her companion's face and  laughing. Olivia stepped back to let them pass, an intense pang of envy  twisting inside her as she wondered what it would be like to live there  with someone you loved.

She allowed herself to indulge a brief fantasy of being there with  Jeremy. Wandering out to buy fresh croissants and oranges to squeeze for  breakfast, while he stayed in bed with the newspapers. Then, later,  going for a stroll together round the second-hand bookshops and junk  stalls, choosing something for the house-a piece of pottery, maybe, or  some glassware. Something to provide memories in the years ahead.

She stopped herself right there. At the moment there was no guarantee  that she was going to share any time with Jeremy, she thought  wretchedly. Not after her appalling gaffe at Lancey Gardens.