She lets me lead her back to the table.
I right the chair and help her into it. Her plate is still full of fish pie; Lessa’s face twists as if smelling something awful.
Quickly, I move the plate away.
“Sorry.” She gives me a weak smile. “I’m being an ungrateful guest...” She points to the baking dish with the remains of the pie. “But I can still smell it.”
I take the baking dish over to the counter on the other side of the kitchen. When she gives the quiche a similar look, I remove that too.
“I’m so sorry, wasting all your lovely food.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not wasted. Why do you think God created freezers?”
If she’s not going to eat the dinner, perhaps the biscuits someone sent me a few days ago. I bring the tin to the table and pour her a fresh cup of tea.
She looks up. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.” She says in a brittle voice.
“You owe me nothing. It’s none of my business.” I go to my own chair and sit down.
That fear in her eyes hasn’t gone; clearly, she’s scared of something.
“I’m not going to tell anyone. So, you’re safe.” I reassure her.
“But you know who I am.”
I incline my head. “You have been the most talked about woman in London. The press has been full of speculations about where you might have vanished to.”
She shakes her head sadly. A few curls come loose and fall over her face. “Don’t I know it.”
So, she’s in hiding. Why has it taken me so long to understand?
“Don’t worry. They’re all barking up the wrong tree. Most are convinced you’ve gone to New York to publish a spill-all book.”
Surprisingly, her face brightens. “Good. So, it worked.”
Does that mean…
She quickly explains. “I had to lay a false trail for the press. My sister rang one of the American gossip tabloids, pretended to be a blogger, and told them she’d seen me at a café in Manhattan talking to a literary agent.”
“Ingenious idea. Because if I had to bet, that’s where my money would have been. I didn’t believe you were hiding out in your lover’s country house.”
She tries a weak smile. “It’s the last place I’d be.”
Good, she’s cheering up, so I go on with the ridiculous gossip. “Someone even reported, you were sightseeing in Paris this afternoon, if you believe that.”
She doesn’t laugh. In fact, her expression is alarmed. “What did they say?”
I try to think. “It was on the radio. Something about silly news stories and one of the examples was that you’d been spotted by the Eiffel Tower. The implication was that Clive Smith had been with you. It was quickly denied by his office because he’d been in the House of Commons, witnessed by two hundred other MPs.”
She nods distractedly, then meets my eyes. “I was near the Eiffel Tower, exiting the metro to take a bus. I went round and round the city to lose any pursuit… I mean there wouldn’t be much point in” – she touches her curly hair – “if I was going to be followed to the hairdresser’s.”
Once again, her ingenious planning is impressive.
She catches me staring. “What?”
“Sorry.” I give her an apologetic look. “I was just thinking you must have been a force to be reckoned with in parliament.”
Suddenly, she’s blinking rapidly, her lashes wet with tears. “I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes.
