Dying For You Read online

  A few minutes later, she stood up, shook his hand and as she ushered him to the door, told him, ‘Isobel, our receptionist will take your fee and give you the personal invitations for our current social functions, a list of sensible guidelines, as well as a detailed map of Elmhurst and surrounds. We have two of our ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ parties coming up imminently. As you'll have learned from our literature, we hold a number of these each month to introduce new clients to the other members. Promise you won't be shy and will attend at least one of these parties?’

  Rafferty promised, which seemed to earn him an approving smile.

  ‘Good. Good. Some of our clients tend to need the ‘mother hen’ approach,’ she confided. ‘That's more the province of Simon Farnell, another of the agency partners. Simon does ‘mother hen’ very well.’

  Briefly, her eyes flickered with something that was far from a match for the lovey-dovey wedding pictures. Rafferty guessed that, like most businesses, the partners were at loggerheads about something. However, unlike her receptionist, Caroline Durward didn't treat him to gossipy confidences as to what it was about Simon Farnell's ‘mother hen’ approach to which she took exception.

  They said their goodbyes and as Rafferty reached the second door in the short corridor it opened and a slim, fair-haired young man emerged. He gave Rafferty a wide smile.

  ‘A new member, I see. Let me introduce myself. I'm Simon Farnell, one of the partners. And you are?’

  ‘Nigel Blythe.’ So this was the ‘mother hen’, Rafferty thought. Farnell had the indefinable camp air and exquisite tailoring that proclaimed ‘homosexual’.

  ‘Good to meet you, Nigel.’ Farnell propped himself against the wall and stuffed his hands nonchalantly in his pockets as though preparing for a neighbourly gossip. He must have noticed Rafferty's frowning glance at the wedding pictures that also lined the walls of the corridor, for he quickly reassured, in a voice that must surely be heard through the panels of Caroline's office door. ‘Don't be put off by all the fake wedding pictures. I told Caroline they were a mistake, but she insisted they were necessary to create the right ambience. They might have been convincing, too, as I told her, if we'd been going for several years. But as it is–’ He broke off and sighed in a long-suffering manner that implied some people couldn't be told anything. He again shook Rafferty's hand with both of his and told him, ‘But I mustn't keep you. I expect you're busy, busy, busy like so many of our other clients.’

  As Rafferty removed his hand from Simon Farnell's over-effusive handshake and re-entered reception, he wrinkled his nose. He hadn't previously noticed how cloying was the perfume Isobel favoured. Perhaps she'd just topped it up? There should be a law, he often thought, to stop people imposing their penchant for powerful pongs on the nostrils of others.

  At least Isobel didn't seem inclined to chat and force him to linger for which he was grateful. She was engrossed in the magazine that, like the rest piled in the open drawer of her desk, featured exotic honeymoon destinations and wildly expensive country house receptions. She seemed to find them absorbing, but she forced her head up for long enough – with much fumbling and peering at the numbers, to put Nigel's credit card through her machine. She handed him the personal party invitations, the guidelines and the map of Elmhurst with New Hall, Caroline Durward's home, The Elmhurst and a couple of other prestigious venues boldly marked. After giving him a dreamy, unfocused, far away goodbye, she retreated to her magazine, obviously already back on some sun-drenched beach with the perfect lover even before Rafferty had got the door open.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Only a couple of days later Rafferty sat in The Huntsman, one of several riverside pubs in Elmhurst. It wasn't one of his usual haunts, being a bit up-market, modern and, with its vast selection of ‘Alco-pops’, clearly designed to appeal to the younger generation. But, keen to get into his ‘Nigel’ persona he had thought it the sort of place that would appeal to Nigel, though when he'd checked with his cousin that this wasn't one of his preferred drinking holes; Nigel had laughed the idea to scorn down Rafferty's borrowed mobile.

  Unwilling to arrive at the Made In Heaven party smelling of drink with the appearance of needing Dutch courage, he'd bought orange juice instead of his customary Jamesons or a pint of Adnams. Trouble was, Dutch courage was exactly what he needed. But then again, as he stared at the healthy juice with distaste, he hadn't totally made up his mind that he was going.

  Don't start that again, he told himself. Besides, he'd ordered a taxi, from an unfamiliar cab firm; he'd even remembered to order it in his ‘Nigel’ persona.

  To put a stop to any further prevarication, as he saw a man enter and the barman nod in his direction, he picked up the glass, drank the contents in one swallow and after hailing the cabbie, followed him out of the pub with a determined stride. The early April evening was muggy, threatening a storm. He smiled as he wondered what the honeymooning Sergeant Llewellyn would say if he had seen his DI drinking orange juice. The smile faded as he wondered what his Ma would do if she ever found out about his signing up with the agency. But he was determined she would never find out; not Ma, nor anyone else. It was his secret and he intended it to stay that way. Well, his and Jerry's.

  Caroline Durward's home, New Hall, the venue for the evening's party, was the other side of the village of St Botolphe to the south east of Elmhurst. Rafferty had done a recce which had revealed the presence of a security camera mounted on the high metal gates. To avoid being recorded while in his alter-ego, he held a large handkerchief to his face and blew his nose.

  The gates opened as they approached and a woman— whom Rafferty assumed from the overalls and rubber gloves perched on the top of her basket, must be the cleaner – rode through on her bike. The taxi driver didn't wait for instructions but drove through.

  New Hall's original structure – plain, basic, but sizeable – had stood foursquare to the elements for two-hundred-and-fifty years before its Victorian owner had added wings with arched windows and pargeting. They didn't fit comfortably with the simple fabric of the original. And even with the later extensions it could still scarcely be called a mansion as Caroline had implied; to Rafferty it appeared more a farmhouse with pretensions.

  The grounds looked extensive. There was a large, empty forecourt with plenty of space for parking. A drive-way at the side of the house led through a hedged opening. As Rafferty got out, he caught the flash of metal through the foliage as the evening sun glinted on parked cars. Above the roofline, tall Poplars were visible behind the house.

  He paid the driver and took a card so he could arrange a pick-up later. Always have your escape planned, he told himself as, with mixed feelings, he watched the cab head back up the drive towards the still-open gate. He wasn't sure what he expected from the evening. That bit in the advert about ‘well-educated professionals’ was beginning to play on his mind; perhaps he should have taken more notice of it? But he must have passed muster or Caroline Durward wouldn't have allowed him to sign up.

  After he had passed a ‘Parking’ sign, which directed cars to park to the side of the house, he hesitated. He was nervous and had arrived early deliberately, preferring to walk into a room with few people than arrive late and be appraised by fifty or a hundred pairs of judgemental eyes. The front door was ajar. Assuming the guests were expected to just walk in, he did so, and followed the sound of classical music to the large drawing room. There were only two other people in the room; an urbane-looking man in his mid-to late thirties and a young woman some ten years younger, with becomingly-flushed cheeks and long, flowing lustrous blonde hair. They were seated, chatting companionably on a settee, and failed to notice his arrival.

  It was a large room, about thirty by forty feet and divided by panelled folding doors in the centre which were currently folded back. A long run of old-fashioned French windows opened on to a flagged terrace that ran the length of the room. Although the intention had clearly been to cool the air, it was still oppressive. Rafferty loose
ned the collar of his new silk shirt, conscious he was sweating like a builder's labourer instead of perspiring lightly like the well-educated professional gentleman he professed to be. Every so often, in the distance, he could hear a clap of thunder, but it came no nearer and neither did any much-needed rain.

  The interior of the room echoed the old-fashioned aspect provided by the French windows. It seemed stuck in a time-warp: all faded grandeur of worn, silk-covered sofas and amateur-looking water colours. It didn't seem to match Caroline Durward's business-like style. The sofas were placed either side of the almost baronial fireplace and more sofas lined the wall opposite the windows.

  In the nearest corner Rafferty could just hear a grandfather clock solemnly tick away the seconds. It provided a tympanic accompaniment to the Bach or Mozart or whatever it was that was playing on the invisible sound system.

  The other two people still hadn't noticed him and, tired of his department store mannequin take-off, Rafferty stepped forward into their line of vision. The pair broke off their conversation and stared at him. He wondered whether he should have knocked and waited outside. But he was here now and, after paying five hundred pounds for the privilege, he didn't see why he should stand on ceremony. But, like an owl hunting in daylight, he felt out of his element and he asked uncertainly, ‘This is the venue for the Made in Heaven house party?’

  The man's eyes narrowed momentarily, swept him from head to toe as if he thought that Rafferty in his borrowed suit didn't quite cut the mustard, but then he smiled and said, ‘Yes. That's right. Do come in and make yourself at home.’ He nodded at the attractive young woman by his side. ‘This is Jenny Warburton. She and I were just getting acquainted. I'm Guy Cranston, one of the partners in the agency.’

  Jenny gave him a tentative, uncertain smile, which Rafferty returned before he introduced himself. ‘Jo-Nigel Blythe.’ Good start, Rafferty. Better go easy on the booze or God knows what else you'll nearly let slip.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Nigel. Let me get you a drink. Wine all right? Red or white?’

  Guy Cranston bustled over to a well-stocked sideboard with a concealed fridge at the far end of the room and brought Rafferty his wine. ‘I'd better get the nibbles organized,’ Cranston remarked as he headed back to the sideboard.

  Quickly, he laid out a dozen large dishes, emptied crisps and nuts and other assorted nibbles into them and then re-joined them.

  Another half-dozen people arrived in a rush. Rafferty recognised Isobel, the agency receptionist amongst them, though, as yet, there was no sign of Caroline Durward and Simon Farnell.

  Isobel came over. ‘Glad you could make it,’ she said.

  Although the welcoming comment was presumably meant for both him and Jenny, Rafferty couldn't help but be aware that Isobel's smile was for him alone.

  ‘Where's Caroline?’ she asked Guy. ‘It's not like her to be late for her own party.’

  Guy shrugged, excused himself and moved over to greet the newcomers, leaving Rafferty and Jenny Warburton with Isobel.

  Isobel laughed. ‘Honestly, men! You'd think he'd have a clue as to his own wife's whereabouts.’

  Beside him, Jenny, who seemed even more nervous than Rafferty, slopped her wine. Although she seemed embarrassed by her clumsiness it heartened Rafferty to think he wasn't alone in his nervous anticipation of the evening ahead.

  Isobel sighed. ‘I suppose that means that until Caroline gets here I'll have to act as hostess. I'll see you later,’ she said and went to mingle.

  Rafferty felt Jenny glance uncertainly at him. She seemed even more ill-at-ease now they had been left alone. She shot a look towards the door as if considering making a bolt for it. Rafferty felt an old-fashioned and chivalric instinct rise in his breast. Jenny was younger than him by about a decade, he guessed and seemed shy. To head off the anticipated bolt and to clamp down on his own urge to do the same, he tried to put her at her ease. ‘Have you been to many of these dating agency parties?’ he asked. ‘This is my first,’ he admitted.

  She gave him a strained smile. ‘Funnily enough, it's my first, too.’

  From her tone of voice, it sounded very much as if it might also be her last. Rafferty hoped not. ‘I nearly chickened out,’ he confided. As an ice-breaker, it wasn't exactly up there with the best one-liners of all time, but at least, her smile when it came, was wider this time. Rafferty felt things were improving, because her smile revealed delicious dimples in her cheeks. They matched the one in his chin. To his astonishment, she went on to gently tease him.

  ‘You know what they say about faint hearts. But, having said that, I think I'll go.’ She looked around the now crowded room as if searching for somewhere to put her untouched glass of wine. ‘Somehow, I didn't expect such a crush.’

  The smile quickly faded as if she felt intimidated by the occasion, the size of the room and the number of guests. Perhaps, like Rafferty, she was striving too hard for the cool sophistication of the other guests, the female ones at least, who, with their curiously expressionless faces, seemed cool to the point of catalepsy

  Rafferty, unwilling to be abandoned so soon, pleaded with her not to desert him. ‘You're the only person I've had a chance to chat to. And seeing as we're both novices at this perhaps we should stick together.’

  Her previous air of being ready to take flight slowly faded, though she still seemed ill-at-ease. After studying him for a few moments, she took a tentative sip of her wine, raised her chin a notch and said, ‘perhaps you're right. It would be cowardly to just run away.’ She directed another dimpled smile at him. ‘So, Nigel, tell me what made you join the agency?’

  Rafferty shrugged. ‘The usual reasons, I suppose. Never seem to meet anyone I click with and little time to look. Loneliness, too, I suppose,’ he told her a little shamefacedly. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I suppose you could say I came here expecting to meet the man of my dreams.’

  He tipped back the last of his wine, in his nervousness forgetting his earlier good intentions to go steady on the alcohol. ‘What do you say I get us another drink, then you can tell me about your dream partner and I'll tell you about mine.’

  She hesitated only a moment, then said, ‘Why not? If you get the drinks I'll find us a couple of seats over there.” She nodded at a small alcove.

  When Rafferty returned with the drinks he found Guy Cranston occupying the seat Jenny had kept for Rafferty. He had his arm round the back of her chair and to Rafferty's irritation, looked set for the evening.

  While at the bar, Rafferty had seen Caroline Durward and Simon Farnell arrive in a rush together, wearing matching expressions of annoyance. Seeing Rafferty, Caroline had come across to say hello and had ticked him off on her clipboard list. Now she was eyeing their little group frowningly from across the room. Rafferty guessed that, as one of the agency partners, Guy was expected to share the mingling and drawing-people-out duties, not home in on the girl that Rafferty considered the most attractive in the room.

  From her expression, Jenny didn't welcome Guy's over-familiar attentions. Rafferty butted in and handed Jenny her wine. ‘My seat, I think,’ he said pointedly to Guy, damned if he was going to let him monopolise Jenny. He willed Guy to clear off.

  Guy took the hint with reasonable grace. ‘I'll leave you two to get better acquainted. Adieu, Jenny, till we meet again.’

  Her ‘Goodbye Guy,’ was as pointed as Rafferty's.

  Amazed, but delighted that Jenny should make clear she preferred his company to the far more suave and sophisticated-appearing Guy Cranston, Rafferty sat down. ‘Persistent chap,’ he said. ‘Suppose you've got to expect a few like that at these affairs. Though you'd think, as a partner, he'd know better.’

  ‘Forget him,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘I intend to. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?’

  Very soon, Rafferty found himself telling her his life history - or rather Jerry's Nigel Blythe life story. She didn't flinch when he revealed the estate agent bit. Though he couldn't be entirely truth
ful given the many lies he had already told, he managed to slip in a few pieces of more personal information. He was surprised to find how much they had in common; they were both interested in history and architecture and, in spite of the age difference, they both liked the same music. They seemed to share similar ideas about a lot of things.

  Their little alcove was in a corner, well tucked away from the main throng. More people had now arrived and the hubbub of talk rose as the drink went down; the cultured talk of the middle classes at play. He caught brief snatches of conversation - which, for all Rafferty knew to the contrary, sounded like knowledgeable references to Mahler and Leonard Bernstein, the latest books which had been well-reviewed in the broadsheets, the latest play that was wowing them in the West End theatres. Rafferty, with only his fading knowledge of Sixties and Seventies pop music to help him keep his end up would have felt out of it but for Jenny. They might have been quite alone. Rafferty found himself wishing they were.

  Unfortunately, their little idyll was brought to an abrupt close as Simon Farnell swooped towards them. ‘Now, now, what's this? We can't have you hiding yourselves away.’ He gestured back towards the door. ‘Caroline's sent me to tell you to mingle, dears. So come along.’

  Simon took hold of Rafferty's arm in a vice-like grip and led him to a small mixed group. He introduced him and then left him to make conversation.

  After a while, the conversation being the mix as before and above his head, Rafferty glanced round, looking for Jenny. He couldn't see her. Instead, his gaze was caught and held by Isobel, the agency receptionist. Isobel had removed the concealing wrap in which she had arrived. She was dressed to kill in a little black number; sleeveless, strapless and almost bodice-less, her bosom swelled out in lush, white curves. Few of the men could take their eyes off her, Rafferty included. She gave him a ‘come hither’ smile. Beside him, the man whom Simon Farnell had introduced as Dr Lancelot Bliss, the well-known TV Doctor, nudged Rafferty and murmured in his ear.