A Dish Served Cold Page 14

  “No sign of his car in the lane this morning,” Sylvia said, “or this evening. Perhaps I did convince him I didn’t know anything about you, but even so I shouldn’t go out for the next few days.”

  Though she was fed up with the house and garden, Arab agreed with her and passed the time on the Internet looking at houses in London and holiday homes in Spain.

  The bombshell dropped on Thursday evening. Sylvia brought home the Belcaster Chronicle after school and tossed it on the table beside Arabella.

  “I picked up an early edition of this week’s chronicle, Arab,” she said. “You’re not going to be very pleased with it.”

  Arabella picked up the paper and looked at the headline:

  MYSTERY WINNER!

  There was a long shot of a woman who might have been Arabella, sitting reading a paper and underneath the story continued,

  Is this the lucky lottery lady?

  An unknown woman, thought to be living locally, has won a rollover lotto jackpot of more than £8,000,000 …but who is she and why hasn’t she claimed her prize yet??

  ‘She just asked me if there was anything on her ticket,’ says bubbly Emma Wilson who works at Neighbourhood News in Belcaster, ‘And when I ran it through the machine it came up as a jackpot winner! The lady grabbed the ticket and ran out of the shop. She was very excited!’

  Is this mystery woman a local resident or is she one of our visitors?

  It has been suggested that she is staying with friends in the area, but if she is they aren’t saying!

  The Chronicle would like to congratulate the lady, whoever she is and wish her joy of her eight million pounds. Whoever it is hasn’t claimed the money yet…if she doesn’t want it, we would be happy to point her in the direction of many good causes in our area. Don’t be shy, lucky lady! Come out, come out wherever you are!

  Arabella read the article in horror. “That settles it,” she said throwing the paper down. “I certainly can’t come back here after this. How on earth did he get that picture of me? I’ve been so careful!”

  “One of those long lenses, I suppose,” replied Sylvia. “If he crept up to the garden he might have taken it without you knowing he was anywhere near.” She peered at the picture, adding, “I suppose it is you? It’s not very clear. I doubt if anyone would recognise you from that.”

  “Well, it is me,” said Arabella morosely. “That was the shirt I was wearing on Monday. God! How can I have been stupid enough to think I was safe in the garden!”

  With great restraint Sylvia refrained from saying ‘I told you so!’ and asked, “How does he know you haven’t claimed the money yet?”

  “Looked on the lottery web-site I should think,” Arabella said. “It has a list of what money hasn’t been claimed and it says where the ticket was bought.”

  “Have you looked?” asked Sylvia.

  Arabella nodded. “Yes, and my win is listed as unclaimed…ticket bought in the Belcaster area.” Her eyes gleamed as she added, “Eight million, one thousand, one hundred and forty five pounds.”

  Although she knew that Arabella had won about eight million pounds, hearing the exact sum said aloud like that made Sylvia feel quite weak. She sat down on a chair with a thump.

  “Christ, Arab…it really is unbelievable.”

  Over dinner they made their plans. Arabella would go with Sylvia in the morning when she left for school. Sylvia would drop her at the station for the London train and meet her at the Sylvester Hotel that evening.

  “I’ll be on the 5.15 from Belcaster and should be with you at the hotel by about a quarter to eight. I’ll book us a table at my favourite restaurant and we can relax for the weekend.”

  “I shan’t come back here,” declared Arabella. “I shall stay in London till I can claim the money.”

  Sylvia looked at her friend in some surprise. In the weeks since she had landed on Sylvia’s doorstep Sylvia had been conscious of the change in Pam, and from the moment she had insisted that her name was now Arabella, that change had accelerated. She had shed her mouse-like image with her name, and having decided on her new, more exotic name, she had begun to assume a new and more confident persona. Small traits in her character that Sylvia remembered from their school days had returned. Until the last few days, Sylvia had forgotten that the Pam of her childhood had on occasions shown a certain spitefulness. There was no huge manifestation of this now, but in the odd word or comment, Sylvia noticed that the tendency to spite was still there, particularly where Roger was concerned.

  Expect I’d be spiteful if I’d had to live nearly twenty years married to her Roger, Sylvia told herself, and on the whole she was still fond of Pam…Arabella. She was pleased to see the strength and confidence which grew in her, daily. Pamabella, as Sylvia thought of her, would need to be strong and confident in the next few months as she began her new life, cut off from everyone but Sylvia herself. Until Arabella made new friends of her own, the old Pam would have no one in whom to confide.

  “Will you be all right there on your own?” she asked. The old Pam would have been nervous about spending time on her own in London.

  The new Arabella looked at her across the top of her glass and said, “I’ll have to be, won’t I? Let’s face it, from now on I am on my own.”

  When they left the next morning, Arabella insisted on crouching down in the back of the car, hiding, until they were well clear of the village. She was still afraid that the journalist might have Sylvia’s cottage staked out, and she wasn’t prepared to take any risks. Even when Sylvia assured her there was no sign of the silver car which had followed her earlier, she sat hunched in the back until they reached the station and she could scramble out to join the anonymous crowds that thronged the early morning platforms.

  When she arrived in London, Arabella took a taxi to the Sylvester Hotel. Set in a quiet and leafy street not far from Holland Park, the Sylvester consisted of three double fronted Victorian houses, built of red brick and unpretentious from the outside. The moment the front door was opened to a ring on the brass bell pull, and Arabella stepped inside, she was enveloped in the simple, tasteful luxury that can only be achieved at enormous expense. Expected by the receptionist, she was welcomed as if she were an old and valued guest.

  “Miss Agnew. Welcome to the Sylvester. We are delighted that you’ve chosen to stay with us for your weekend in London. Miss Durston has instructed us to leave all the formalities to her. We expect her this evening I believe?”

  Arabella, thrilled to be addressed by her new name for the first time by somebody who wasn’t Sylvia, by somebody who had never known her as anyone else, by somebody who didn’t even know she’d ever been someone else, beamed at the receptionist and agreed that Sylvia was arriving later.

  Her bag was carried up to a suite on the first floor which consisted of a spacious drawing room with a large double bedroom on each side. Each of these had its own marble bathroom and enormous walk-in cupboards. The televisions, one in each room, were concealed in mahogany cabinets, the stereo systems stacked discreetly in beneath a bookshelf, the mini-bar and fridge hidden behind more mahogany doors. As the porter handed her the keys he instructed her to call down to reception for anything she needed or if anything was not to her liking, then he slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Arabella crossed to the window of the drawing room and looked out on to the immaculately laid-out garden below. Tall hedges gave it seclusion from its neighbours; bowers and arbours offered privacy to those who wished to make use of them. Discreet luxury was what the guests in the Sylvester Hotel demanded and discreet luxury was what they got.

  Arabella wondered what on earth they would be charged for their suite, certainly more than she had ever dreamed of paying for a night’s accommodation.

  Sylvia had told her there was a beauty salon attached to the hotel and suggested Arabella might like to make use of it during the afternoon. Arabella looked at herself in the mirror and deciding she would do just that, re
ached for the phone and dialled reception.

  By the time Sylvia arrived that evening Arabella had had yet another make-over. Sandra’s effort with her hair and Jackie’s with her face had been ruthlessly changed.

  “A bit provincial, madam, if you’ll allow me to say,” Alfonso the hairdresser said as he coloured and styled her hair, twisting tendrils round his fingers, his scissors flying. When Marianna had made up her face, covering the last of her bruises without comment, and Deirdre had given her a manicure, a pedicure and waxed her legs, Arabella discovered that she had been in the salon for well over four hours. Blithely she signed the chits to be added to her hotel bill and emerged feeling like the fledged ugly duckling. Back in her room she stood in front of the mirror again and marvelled at the transformation.

  “You look stunning,” cried Sylvia in delight when she arrived just before eight. “Really, Arab, you look a million dollars.”

  “Or eight million pounds,” laughed Arabella.

  “Which reminds me,” Sylvia reached into her bag and produced a packet. “This arrived in the post this morning. It was waiting when I got home from school.”

  Arabella took the packet and ripped it open. “These are the certified copies,” she said looking up. “Now I can apply for a passport and a new driving licence.”

  They had agreed that she should have these before she claimed the prize, so that she had photo ID to produce if it were required.

  “You can send off for those tomorrow,” said Sylvia kicking off her shoes and moving to the mini bar. “Let’s have a drink and then get ready for our evening out. Our partners will be here at nine.”

  “Our partners?” Arabella sounded dismayed. “You didn’t say we were having…I mean, I’m not sure I want…”

  Sylvia laughed and hugged her briefly. “Come on Arab, this is the first day of your new life. You’re a new and independent lady and can do as you choose. Live a little! You’ll enjoy your evening I promise you.” Seeing that her friend still wasn’t at all convinced she said, coaxingly, “All we’re doing is going out for dinner at a very discreet little restaurant where the food is divine and where the staff are deaf and blind.”

  When Arabella still had the look of an extremely doubtful Pam Smith, Sylvia said with a wicked grin, “Of course we could stay here and eat in our suite, I’m sure the guys won’t mind, they’ll be quite happy not to go out but to entertain us here.”

  “No, no, of course we’ll go out,” Arabella said hastily. “It’s fine, I just didn’t realise you had arranged anything.”

  “Thought it would be a nice surprise…specially after your afternoon in the beauty salon. You really do look marvellous, Arab.” Sylvia poured them each a gin and tonic and said, “Now we’ve got an hour to get ready. What will you wear?”

  Together they considered Arabella’s rather limited wardrobe and Sylvia picked out the black silk evening trousers and black lace top they had bought together the week before. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Harrods,” she said cheerfully, “and see what we can find for you there.”

  “Sylvia,” protested Arabella, “I haven’t got my money yet, and I certainly haven’t got enough left to go shopping at Harrods.”

  “Course you have,” scoffed Sylvia. “I’ve got an account anyway, we’ll use that and you can pay me back.”

  “You’re very trusting,” remarked Arabella. “There might be a hitch, or I might not bother to pay you.”

  “Unlikely on both counts,” Sylvia said, “but if the worst comes to the worst remember, I know who you are.”

  “Sounds like blackmail,” Arabella said lightly.

  “Does it? Well, it isn’t. For God’s sake Arab, you’ve trusted me with your secret and I’ve trusted you with my money. We’re quits that’s all I’m saying. Now for goodness sake, take your drink and go and soak in the bath for half an hour. That’s what I’m going to do. Jasper and Rory will be here at nine, and I’ve never known them to be late.”

  Arabella lay in the bath and wondered what sort of evening it was really going to be. She knew how Sylvia would expect it to end, but she was certain she didn’t want to end up having sex with a man she had never met before. She remembered Roger’s groping hands grasping her breasts and his knees between her thighs and shuddered. No, certainly not. There was no way she was going to subject herself to anything like that…ever again. With a sigh she got out of the bath and dressed herself in the clothes Sylvia had chosen for her. She was pleased with the effect; the silk trousers moved with a swish as she moved, and the drape of the lace across her shoulders fell in elegant folds over her hips. Arabella stared at herself in the mirror and then smiled. Never before had she looked as she did now, graceful and sophisticated; she just wished she felt like that inside.

  “Arabella Agnew,” she said aloud to give herself confidence. “Arabella Agnew.”

  Chapter 16

  Arabella left her bedroom just before nine and found Sylvia waiting for her in the drawing room. Sylvia was dressed in shimmering, midnight blue silk, her slim figure enhanced by the flowing lines of the long tunic over narrow three-quarter length trousers. Her arms were bare except for a broad silver bangle and the tunic dived into a deep V at the back, across which there was silver shoe-string lacing. Her narrow feet wore high-heeled evening sandals giving her the elegance of extra height. Her hair, swept up off her face and neck, was caught in a glittering clip high on her head allowing a cascade of curls to tumble behind her. Arabella gasped. She had never seen Sylvia look so stunningly beautiful. Gone was the neat and tidy, conservatively clad school teacher dressed with parents in mind, and in her place was an overtly sensual woman exquisitely dressed to please herself and the men she intended to attract.

  “Sylvia, you look…well, amazing,” she murmured.

  “So do you,” Sylvia said, giving her an approving look. “what a pity Roger can’t see you now!”

  “Thank God he can’t!” exclaimed Arabella.

  “He’d see what he’d lost,” Sylvia said and glanced at the tiny bracelet watch she was wearing. As if on cue the phone rang. Sylvia answered it, listened and then said, “Thank you please ask them to come upstairs.” Replacing the receiver she turned to Arabella and said, “I thought it would be better to introduce you up here…less public then in the hall.”

  “Sylvia…” Arabella began, but Sylvia shushed her. “Don’t worry, Arab, you’ll be fine. We’re just going out to dinner. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I promise you.”

  “But, I mean what about paying…” Arabella spoke in an agonised tone.

  Sylvia laughed. “Arab, really don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Promise. We’ll sort things out later. All you have to do this evening is to relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “It’s all right for you…” began Arabella, but she was interrupted by the buzz of the suite’s front door bell. Sylvia opened the door and said, “Good evening.” She stood back from the door allowing the two young men outside to enter.

  They were completely different from each other, one tall with a thatch of fair hair brushed smooth except for a tuft which stood up on the crown of his head. His blue eyes turned first to Sylvia whom he greeted with a kiss on each cheek, saying “Sylvia! How lovely to see you again so soon.” He indicated the other man who had come into the room behind him. He was shorter, with close cropped dark hair and a pair of dark and deep-set eyes.

  “I don’t think you’ve met André before. Jasper sent his apologies, I know it was he you invited to join us this evening, but he has a touch of flu and didn’t want to pass it on. He’s asked André to take his place.”

  André stepped forward and when Sylvia extended her hand he took it and bowed over it, saying with a marked French accent, “Enchanté, Madame.”

  Sylvia smiled at him and said, “Nice to meet you, André. Let me introduce you both to my friend, Arabella.”

  André bowed over her hand as he had before, and Rory smiling at her, grasped her hand in a firm
handshake.

  “Have you a taxi waiting, Rory?” Sylvia asked.

  “Yes, but he can easily be sent away,” Rory replied.

  “No, no,” Sylvia said. “Well go straight to the restaurant. We’ve come up to town this evening and we’re both hungry.” She picked up her bag and a light wrap and turned to Arabella. “Ready, Arab?”

  Picking up her own bag, Arabella nodded her assent and drawing a deep breath followed Sylvia as she swept out of the room, followed by their escorts.

  A black cab was waiting in the sweep of the drive and Rory opened the door for the two women to get in. André followed, perching on one of the backward facing seats. Rory gave directions to the driver and then got in and took the other.

  As they drove through the busy streets, Sylvia kept up a light flow of conversation with Rory, which helped cover Arabella’s awkwardness. She watched her friend and hardly recognised the Sylvia with whom she had been living for the last few months. She had watched Sylvia pack her clothes the last time she had come to London for the weekend, and Arabella remembered how amazed she had been at the outrageous underwear that Sylvia had folded into her case. Suddenly Arabella was sure that Sylvia was wearing some of those things now and that they were entirely in keeping with the London Sylvia; the Sylvia whose eyes flashed excitedly as she talked, yet whose movements were languid and sensual. Rory addressed several remarks to Arabella, but when she only murmured one word replies, he simply smiled at her and gave his attention back to Sylvia, who was asking André if he had been to a particular show.

  When they reached the restaurant and were shown to their table, Arabella found it easier. There was the menu to study, choices to be made, and plenty going on round them, so that it was not difficult to look amused and involved. Both their escorts took the trouble to draw Arabella out, making her wonder just exactly what Sylvia had said to them before they arrived.