Secrets of Cavendon: A gripping historical saga full of intrigue and drama. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘You sound bad. I’ll come and get you. Where are you?’ she cried, her alarm spiralling.
‘Just left Albany, Jake Stafford’s place. I’m in Piccadilly, in a phone box.’
‘That I realize—’
‘Say you’ll let me in … Do you want me to be arrested for loitering with intent?’
‘Get into a taxi at once. Oh, do you have money?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘I bloody well hope so.’
The phone went dead. She stared at it for a long moment, then put it back in the cradle. In the year they had been involved in an intense and passionate love affair, nothing like this had ever happened before. He did like to drink, that was true, but he could hold his liquor, was always in control. Now he sounded out of control, weird. She couldn’t help wondering if he was still drunk?
Alicia leapt out of bed, went to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. She then hurried into her bedroom, pulled on a silk dressing gown, continued into the bathroom, removed the cream, washed her face, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Ready for anything, she muttered.
Returning to the kitchen, Alicia set a tray, but was interrupted by the doorbell. Bracing herself, she went to let him in, not quite knowing what to expect.
She called him Brin, an invention based on a favourite toy from her childhood. His real name was Bryan MacKenzie Mellor, born thirty-one years ago, in Edinburgh of a Scottish mother and an English father. A fellow actor, he was tall, handsome, dashing, and considered to be the second best-looking man on the West End stage. The first was her uncle, James Brentwood, still thought of as the greatest matinee idol of all time.
Brin coveted his Savile Row clothes, was proud of his stylish appearance and looks, and did not usually have a hair out of place.
Not this morning, she thought, shocked by what she saw standing before her. He looked like a tramp who lived permanently on the streets; someone who had just risen up from the gutter.
His navy blue pinstriped suit, a piece of perfect Savile Row engineering, was crumpled and his jacket was stained. A blue silk tie dangled out of a side pocket; his white shirt had dark bloodstains on the front and the collar was torn. Then she noticed the cut above his right eye and bruises on one cheek, just visible under his growth of stubble. He lolled against the door-jamb and it seemed as if he was about to slide down onto the floor. He almost did.
Reaching out with both hands, she grabbed his arms and pulled him inside the flat. He tripped and almost fell, but managed to somehow stay upright. Then he staggered towards the bedroom, muttering, ‘Bathroom.’
Alicia followed him, stood waiting for him. Once he came into the bedroom, she took hold of his arm and said firmly, ‘Come on, darling, let’s get you comfortable.’
He didn’t protest as she led him into the living room, just allowed himself to be propelled over to the sofa. He flopped down, a look of relief crossing his face as he sank into the soft cushions.
‘Do you want a glass of water? Coffee might be better.’
‘Whisky.’
‘No way. You smell like a brewery.’
‘Hair of the dog,’ he muttered, and tried to smile, but winced, and a small shiver ran through him.
‘Have you been in a fight, Brin?’ she asked, leaning forward, peering at the cut above his eyebrow and the puffiness on one side of his face, her puzzlement apparent.
He shook his head, then closed his eyes, a deep sigh running through him.
Alicia went to the kitchen and prepared the coffee. She then took a fresh loaf of bread out of the bread-bin. After cutting a thick slice, she spread on butter, then peeled a banana and cut this into rounds, laying them on top of the bread. Taking the tray into the living room, she put it on a low table, bent over Bryan and shook him lightly.
‘Drink this coffee. It’ll help a lot, and so will the slice of bread.’
With a bit of an effort he roused himself, and sat up straighter, took several long swallows of the coffee. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember having dinner.’ As he spoke, he reached for the slice of bread.
‘What happened to you last night?’ she asked, sitting down in a chair.
‘Nothing. Lads’ night out – a pub crawl. Too many pubs, I suppose.’ He then ate the remainder of the bread.
She asked, ‘How did you end up at Jake Stafford’s?’
‘Tony Flint and I took him there. He was more the worse for wear than we were. Very drunk. We ended up sleeping on the sofas in his posh drawing room, too tired to drag ourselves home.’
She nodded. ‘Are they both all right?’
‘Dead to the world when I left, but alive.’ A faint smile formed on his mouth, and there was a sudden amused look in his deep green eyes, which, she noticed, were also bloodshot.
‘Sorry … to come here like this, Alsi. But then where else could I go?’
She went over to the sofa and sat down next to him. ‘You did exactly the right thing. I’m not angry, just worried about you.’
‘I’m okay, the coffee helped and the bread.’ He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer.
Instantly she pulled away, grimacing. ‘You stink, Brin. Of stale beer, whisky, smoke and sweat. It’s into the shower for you.’
She jumped up and took hold of his arm firmly. Once again he didn’t resist, just let her manoeuvre him into the bedroom, where she helped him out of his clothes.
When he was finally standing under the shower, she sighed with relief. She had come to realize he wasn’t drunk, just hungover. That in itself was reassuring, but it was out of character for him to be in this kind of dishevelled state. He was so finicky about his appearance and proud of his sartorial elegance. Once the water stopped running, she picked up a large towel and handed it to him as he stepped out of the bath.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured, ‘I do feel better.’
She nodded and went into the bedroom, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost eight. No point in her going back to bed now. Last night she had promised to go over to Charlie’s around eleven o’clock today to read some chapters of his new book, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him.
When she realized Brin was standing behind her, she turned and looked up at him. Alicia was tall at five feet ten, but he was six feet one, broad of chest, a big man, but without an ounce of fat on him. The sunlight now coming in through the window gave a hint of radiance to his blond-reddish hair, and as he drew her towards him his eyes were full of tenderness. She realized the cut over his eyebrow was nothing serious.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said softly against her hair.
‘I can’t,’ she murmured. ‘I promised Charlie I’d help him with a couple of chapters this morning.’
Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed Brin’s cheek. ‘But you ought to get some sleep. Right over there.’ She waved a hand at the bed. ‘You did say you were spending the weekend with me.’
He grinned. ‘You owe me for last night … you skipped out on me, to see your parents for dinner instead of eating with me.’
‘A big mistake.’
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at her swiftly. ‘Problems? Not with Charlie, I hope.’
‘How well you know us. But it wasn’t Charlie’s fault.’ She took hold of Brin’s hand, led him to the bed. ‘Get in, get some sleep, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’