Catching Katie Read online

  She said colourlessly, ‘I’ll remember, Mr Grove.’

  He came round the chair to her.

  ‘You’ve got to take me seriously too, Katie.’ His voice thickened. ‘I could be very helpful to you.’

  She began to edge away.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He followed her. ‘Never forget that you work for me, Katie. if you want to get a good reference you will have to be—flexible.’

  It hung in the air between them. Almost out in the open that time, thought Katie. She was so indignant that she was on the point of challenging him.

  But there was a cursory knock and the door opened. It was a boy from the sixth form. She did not know his name but she beamed at him as if he were a guardian angel.

  ‘Everyone is in assembly, sir.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Douglas Grove.

  He squeezed Katie’s arm and went.

  The watching boy was unsurprised. Presumably to him it looked like the sort of casual gesture that any informallyminded head might offer as encouragement to a colleague. Only Katie knew that Douglas had pinched her hard enough to bruise. Deliberately.

  Fortunately her next class was too demanding to allow her time to dwell on it.

  ‘Look at this, miss. Look at this,’ yelled one of them from the far end of the studio.

  ‘Don’t shout,’ said Katie automatically.

  But she went and looked.

  ‘Very vivid,’ she said diplomatically.

  The boy grinned. ‘Where’s your painting, then?’ he said cheekily.

  Katie laughed in spite of herself. ‘You may well ask.’

  But it gave her an idea. In the lunch break she avoided the dining room and made a phone call from the public box in the entrance hall.

  ‘It’s funny you should call today,’ Simon Jonas said when she got through to him. ‘I was going to get in touch. I’m a gallery-owner now.’

  ‘What?’ Katie was astonished. Simon had been her teacher at art school. She could not imagine a less likely businessman.

  ‘Well, third part-owner of a gallery actually. I’ve gone into partnership with Keith and Tatiana Drinkl.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Katie congratulated him, though she could not quite keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  Simon Jonas noticed. ‘What’s wrong, Katie?’

  ‘Well, I was hoping for a bit of career advice,’ she said. Then she laughed abruptly. ‘No, if I’m honest, I was hoping you could find me a job at the art school.’

  ‘Things aren’t working out at Halsey Street?’

  ‘Maybe I’m not a natural teacher,’ Katie said evasively.

  ‘In that case you don’t want another teaching job,’ Simon pointed out with irresistible logic. ‘You need an exhibition.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said with heavy irony.

  ‘It’s about the right time,’ Simon said, oblivious. ‘Three years out of college. You’ve had time to get rid of the nonsense and find your own style.’

  ‘Time?’ Her voice rose almost to a scream. ‘What time do I have? I work, Simon.’

  The machine started to blink at her, requesting more coins. She said as much hurriedly.

  ‘I’ll pick you up tonight,’ Simon said, raising his voice. ‘We’ll talk about it then—’

  And then, simultaneously, the line failed and the bell rang for afternoon school. She turned round—and found herself face to face with the headmaster. At once she felt guilty. There was no reason for it—it had been in her break time and she was paying for the call. But still she felt herself flush.

  The Headmaster gave her an unpleasant smile. ‘Sorting out a date for tonight?’

  Katie lifted her chin. ‘Yes,’ she said with literal truth.

  He looked furious. ‘Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work I can’t object, can I?’ He sounded profoundly frustrated.

  Katie did not make the mistake of agreeing with him. ‘It won’t,’ she said quietly.

  ‘See it doesn’t. I don’t want to hear about any more late arrivals.’

  - That meant that Douglas Grove would be in the studio when she arrived tomorrow, Katie interpreted. Her heart sank. She shook her head dumbly.

  The Headmaster looked over his shoulder. The children had all disappeared into their classrooms. The entrance hall was empty. He took a rapid step forward.

  ‘Cancel your date,’ he said thickly. ‘Spend the evening with me.’

  Katie backed. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You mean you don’t want to.’

  He stared at her, hot-eyed. Almost as if he hated her, she thought

  But she agreed bravely enough. ‘And I don’t want to.’

  ‘Is it Liam Brooker?’

  ‘Mr Grove,’ she protested, backing away harder.

  She did not know what he would have said then. But there was a clatter on the stairs above them. Douglas Grove jumped and looked up. It gave Katie the opportunity to slip past him.

  ‘I’m late for class. Goodbye, Mr Grove,’ she said loudly, and charged for the big front door.

  As it turned out, her saviour was Andrea. She caught Katie up.

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘What?’

  Katie did not abate her stride. All she wanted was to put as much distance as she could between the Headmaster and herself.

  Andrea increased her pace. ‘Douglas. What on earth did you say to him? He really snarled at me.’

  Katie disclaimed any idea and pelted for her class.

  But when they were walking home that evening, Andrea returned to the subject. ‘I suppose Douglas is getting worked up about you using the studio?’ she said knowledgeably.

  When she’d first gone to work at the school, Katie had confided her ambitions to Andrea. Studio space was expensive. A good school art room after hours was an excellent compromise. That was why Katie, hoping to work on her own painting, had taken the job at Halsey Street instead of one of the other three she had been offered. She had not bargained for the fact that she would be regularly visited by the Head after hours as well.

  Now she said carefully, ‘In a way.’

  ‘I noticed you weren’t staying late so often. Has Douglas been cutting up rough?’

  Katie could have laughed aloud. The truth was the exact opposite. Oh, she had used the studio all right. But more and more Douglas Grove had been turning up, bringing bottles of wine, settling down to chat, pretending to be interested in her work—and looking at her breasts.

  Her painting, once so loose and free, had grown cramped. Simon would take one look at her portfolio tonight and say the work showed signs of paranoia, she thought. He would be right.

  She said carefully, ‘I don’t think he likes me doing my own work there, even out of school hours.’

  Andrea accepted that. It seemed in character. ‘Control freak,’ she muttered.

  They strode down the tree-lined street in companionable silence for a bit. The trees were brilliant with the rich green of early summer. Slowly Katie felt the tension seep out of her.

  ‘I love this time of day.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Andrea was not interested in nature appreciation. ‘Speaking of control freaks, how’s the hormonestirrer? ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him next door,’ said Andrea with a grin. ‘Macho Man.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was completely unexpected. Katie thought about him for the first time in several hours and involuntarily flushed scarlet

  ‘Met him again, then?’ asked Andrea innocently.

  Katie strove for composure. ‘You could put it like that.’

  Andrea laughed. ‘Thought you would.’

  But she did not press for the details. Katie could only be grateful. She did not feel up to discussing it

  The truth was that for the whole weekend she had not been able to get the man out of her head. He’d even invaded her dreams. Of course, it had been hot at night, Katie excused herself. She had probably not had enough windows open. But eve
n so—the thought of what he had been doing in her dreams made her hot all over again, just to remember.

  ‘Going to see him again?’

  Katie thought of the lithe figure in running shorts. Her mouth dried at the memory. She felt her face warm again.

  ‘Not if I can avoid it,’ she said, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Andrea cocked an eyebrow. ‘Afraid of things getting out of control?’

  Katie felt a strange inward shiver. She found herself hoping that they were not out of control already. And it was not dreams she was remembering now.

  Andrea looked sideways at her. There was a good deal of understanding in her plain and friendly face. She patted Katie on the arm.

  ‘It had to happen some time,’ she said.

  Katie did not find it a comforting thought.

  Andrew stood in the hall surrounded by three enormous suitcases and lectured Haydon.

  ‘You’ve been working too hard for so long you don’t even know what it’s like to have a real life.’

  Haydon grinned. ‘Pot calling the kettle black. At least I don’t disappear into the jungle for years at a time.’

  ‘No. You disappear into a computer. Which is worse.’

  Haydon’s grin widened. ‘No, it’s not—’ he began.

  Outside there came a swish of tyres. Haydon gave a quick glance at his watch. He had left the office early to see Andrew off but he was expecting a call from Atlanta.

  ‘That sounds like your taxi.’

  Andrew was not to be deflected, however. ‘There must be some women you trust.’

  Haydon picked up the heaviest suitcase and opened the front door. ‘Not the time, Andrew,’ he said firmly.

  Andrew looked horrified. ‘You mean there aren’t?’

  But Haydon had areas not even his best friend was allowed to touch. When you got too close, Andrew found, those blue eyes could be as cold and distant as the Himalayas.

  ‘I judge people on the basis of experience,’ Haydon said levelly. ‘You’ll miss your plane if you don’t get going.’

  ‘Oh.’ Andrew jumped. ‘Cripes, yes.’

  He seized his other cases and clattered down the path after Haydon. When they were loaded, he turned back to his friend.

  ‘I mean it, Harry. You’ve got to get more of a life than this. Start trusting people. Women.’

  Haydon propelled him gently into the back of the cab and shut the door on him. ‘Concentrate on your own problems,’ he advised. ‘Like Latin American time-keeping. They like people to be prompt in Edinburgh. Be practical.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘OK. Point taken.’ He said to the driver, ‘Heathrow, please,’ then a thought occurred to him. He leaned forward. ‘Be practical yourself. What are you going to eat until Mrs Bates comes back?’

  Haydon had not thought about it, but he was used to fielding difficult questions he was not prepared for. Andrew would not go until he had the answer he wanted. And he could not afford to waste any more time.

  ‘I shall go to the bistro round the corner,’ he said smoothly and with utter falsehood. He had never set foot inside the modest café and never intended to.

  He stepped back and the cab took off. Andrew stuck his head out of the window.

  ‘Thanks for putting me up. I’ll let you know if I get the job.’

  Haydon raised a hand. ‘Good luck.’

  He could not resist a quick look at the house next door as he went back inside. But there was no sign of the long-legged redhead. Not so much as an open window or a forgotten watering can in the garden. Haydon was surprised to find how disappointed he felt.

  He shook his head, smiling at himself. But his smile died as he closed the front door. He was almost certain he knew what the guy in Atlanta wanted to talk about. It would need careful handling.

  He went into the study and pulled the confidential file towards him. He began to concentrate.

  Simon arrived late and laughing.

  ‘Found you at last,’ he said, swinging her off her feet with his hug. ‘What’s the prize?’

  ‘What?’ Katie said, puzzled.

  ‘Your address, sweetheart. Your address.’

  She put a hand to her mouth, conscience-stricken. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘No sweat. A dour woman at your last flat gave it to me. Now, where are these canvases?’

  Katie had set them out in the conservatory. She led him in there and went round with him nervously. He looked at three or four, then picked one up and studied it narrowly. He did not say anything.

  ‘I’ve hardly done. anything for weeks,’ Katie said excusingly. ‘There were all these problems in the flat. . .’

  ‘Artists can’t afford domestic problems,’ said Simon authoritatively. He did not raise his eyes from the painting he was holding. ‘Either an artist is serious about his work or he is an agony aunt. You are serious.’

  Katie was relieved. But she still protested.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I know you. You don’t stop working.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, sighing faintly. ‘But I’m not painting well.’

  He did not contradict her. But he did say, ‘Artists don’t always know whether they’re painting well.’

  Katie hooted. ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It’s not rubbish. Look at this.’

  He held the painting out to her. It was a smoky grey watercolour, a surreal view of a building that could have been a Gothic church or even an imaginary castle. She made a disgusted face.

  ‘Illustrative.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s more to it than prettiness. A lot more. But it’s too—’

  ‘Neat,’ said Katie.

  He sent her a look of surprise. ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘It’s because I’m worried.’ She told him about Douglas Grove.

  He listened without comment. When she’d finished he said, ‘Yes, I can see that it’s a nasty situation. But that’s not what’s wrong with this.’

  Katie was piqued. She had expected him to be more outraged by the Headmaster’s behaviour.

  ‘So what is?’ she challenged.

  Simon was thoughtful. ‘You’re afraid of something.’

  Simon had always been too perceptive, Katie thought. Of course, as her director of studies, he had learned a lot about her. Not for the first time she wondered if the teacher in the life class had told him about her refusal to take her clothes off when it came her turn to model. And, if so, whether Simon had worked out why.

  She said carefully, ‘What do you mean?’

  Simon was still looking at her painting. ‘You won’t let yourself go,’ he diagnosed.

  Katie let out a tiny sigh. So he did not know her as well as she feared. To disguise her relief, she cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, per-lease. Spare me the pop psychology.’

  Simon was not put out. ‘You asked.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hungry?’

  Katie tried not to show her disappointment. ‘Have you seen enough, then?’

  ‘I’ve booked a table,’ Simon said, showing more practicality than soul. ‘It’s close,’ he added kindly. ‘We can come back afterwards.’

  As they were leaving, Simon nodded at the house next door.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were living next door to Haydon Tremayne.’

  Katie tensed. But the front garden was deserted. Not a disturbing gardener in sight.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she said, relaxing.

  ‘Not personally. He used to be my landlord. The Tremayne Trust runs the Elderflower Arts Complex. I had a studio there for a while.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Maybe you could do the same. They’re not dear.’

  ‘And how often do they come on the market?’ demanded Katie drily. She had been looking for studio space ever since she left college.

  ‘You could pop round and ask Tremayne,’ suggested Simon, grinning.

  Katie shuddered. ‘I’m not going over the threshold.’

  ‘Oh?’ He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘You can’t h
ave fallen out with him. You haven’t been here long enough. Anyway, every woman I ever met swoons over him.’

  ‘I haven’t met him,’ Katie said curtly. ‘I don’t like his staff, that’s all.’

  Simon was curious. But he knew Katie too well to pursue the subject when she was wearing that mulish expression. Instead, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm, comfortingly.

  The call from Atlanta was exactly what Haydon had been expecting. That did not make it any more palatable. He was coldly angry.

  ‘The word is that a parcel of Tremayne shares might be available,’ said his informant apologetically. ‘As long as the price is right.’

  Haydon breathed deeply. He had little doubt who was responsible. There was only one person who owned Tremayne shares who was not also an employee of the company. He should never have let himself be persuaded to let Carla keep them after the divorce.

  ‘damn,’ said Haydon with concentrated fury.

  ‘What you need,’ said the American thoughtfully, ‘is to take off with a girlfriend.’

  Haydon thought he had misheard. He said so. The American chuckled and obligingly repeated it.

  ‘What on earth—? Why?’

  ‘Gives the lie to the takeover rumours.’

  ‘I don’t see the logic in that.’

  ‘Ask your PR adviser,’ said the American drily. ‘If you were involved in strategic talks you would stick around in London, not take to the hills with a blonde.’

  There was a long, dangerous pause. Then Haydon said with deceptive mildness, ‘You bankers never cease to amaze me. And you think my PR company would agree? Had you got any particular blonde in mind, by any chance?’

  ‘Hey, I advise on your funding strategy, not your sex life. Find your own blonde,’ said the American cheerfully.

  Haydon looked down at the file in front of him. He stabbed his pen angrily into his blotter.

  ‘You mean it was your own idea? Viola Lennox didn’t suggest it to you?’

  But the banker was not to be drawn. He laughed and rang off.

  He would have to talk to Carla, stop her trying to sell those shares, Haydon thought. His ex-wife was greedy enough to ignore the fact that it would be illegal to do so. But of course she was not there. He left a message on her answering machine.