The Fog - James Herbert [21]
‘Casey . . .’
‘Believe me, John.’
‘Casey, listen. Give it a couple of weeks; don’t decide now.’
‘I don’t need to. I know.’
‘All right, do it for me then. You’ve been through too much recently. I want you to be absolutely certain of how you feel – for both our sakes.’
‘And what about you, John? Are you certain of your feelings?’
He lay back heavily in the armchair. ‘Don’t ask me yet. Too much has happened for me to be sure of anything at the moment.’
‘Is that why you want me to think about it – because you need more time?’ She bit her lip, now uncertain of his love.
‘Partly, yes. I need to sort myself out too.’
Tears began to form in her eyes as she rested her cheek on his knee, not wanting him to see her weeping. He stroked her hair and they sat in silence for a few moments, then she looked up at him and said, ‘John, let me stay tonight.’
‘What about your father?’ he asked.
‘I’ve told you, he doesn’t matter. I still love him. I could never lose that, but it’s you now. I don’t want to leave you. Let me stay for at least tonight.’
‘Okay, Casey, why should I fight you off?’ he answered, trying to lighten the mood.
‘I’ll ring Theo later and explain.’ She knelt, bringing her face close to his. ‘I don’t need more time, John, but I’ll take it. I want you to be sure, too, and if you should decide you don’t really want me that badly . . .’ she hesitated, forcing herself to say the next words, ‘. . . I’ll go away.’
He kissed her lips, suddenly laughing at her sorrowful face. ‘Okay, Casey,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a deal!’
They drank their coffee, both lost for a while in their own thoughts. Gradually, Holman began to relax. He pushed thoughts of the earthquake, the fog, and now Casey’s decision from his mind. He never walked away from a problem, but occasionally liked to bury it and dig it up later. His moods changed as easily as traffic lights, a quality the girl sometimes adored, sometimes hated. This time, because she too needed some relief, she was gladly susceptible to it.
‘You know, a week in that hospital, and not seeing you the weekend before . . .’ he looked down at her, a hint of a leer in his smile.
‘Yes?’ She smiled back at him.
‘Well, I feel a bit like a monk. Celibate.’
‘It’s good for you.’
‘I could go blind.’
She laughed and said, ‘I thought you needed rest.’
‘Quite right. Let’s go to bed.’
‘Promise me one thing.’
‘Anything.’ He began to unbutton her blouse, becoming impatient as the second button stuck. She undid it for him.
‘Promise me you’ll come back tomorrow after seeing Spiers. You won’t get involved in another assignment.’
‘You must be joking. I’m taking the rest of the week off even if the whole country cracks in half!’
He pulled her blouse free of her skirt and cupped her breast with his hand, sliding one finger inside the lacy material of her bra.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You won’t be able to get any more time off, will you?’
‘Oh yes I will,’ she answered, now unbuttoning his shirt. ‘I’ve been sacked.’
His restless hand rested.
‘What?’
‘When I rang the boss and informed him I was staying near you for the week he politely told me not to come back, I would be replaced.’
‘The little bastard,’ Holman cursed.
‘It’s a relief,’ she laughed. ‘He was too jealous of my clothes anyway; I think he thought they’d look better on him.’
Holman got to his feet, discarding his unbuttoned shirt. ‘I think you need comforting,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.
Holman strolled along Marsham Street, enjoying the bustle, glad to be among normal, active people after the subdued confinement of the hospital. They flowed into their offices like ants into cracks beneath a stone, regretfully leaving the bright morning sun for the artificial glare of fluorescent tubes, allowing their personalities to emerge once again after brief hibernation during their journey to work. Holman entered the gloom of the large Environment building and took the lift to the eighth floor. He greeted Mrs Tribshaw, a middle-aged fluttery secretary