Whiteout - Ken Follett [47]
She slipped into Stanley’s study. The memory of that hug came back to her in force. That was the closest she was going to get to making love to him, she thought. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
Her notebook and bag lay on his antique desk where she had left them. She slid the notebook into the bag, slung the bag over her shoulder, and returned to the hall.
Looking into the kitchen, she saw Stanley saying something to the cook. She waved to him. He interrupted his conversation and came over. “Toni, thanks for everything.”
“Happy Christmas.”
“To you, too.” She went out quickly.
Kit was outside, opening the boot of his car. Glancing into it, Toni saw a couple of gray boxes, computer equipment of some kind. Kit was an IT specialist, but what did he need to bring with him for Christmas at his father’s house?
She hoped to pass him without speaking but, as she was opening her car door, he looked up and caught her eye. “Happy Christmas, Kit,” she said politely.
He lifted a small suitcase from the boot and slammed the lid. “Get lost, bitch,” he said, and he walked into the house.
2 P.M.
CRAIG was thrilled to see Sophie again. He had been captivated by her at his mother’s birthday party. She was pretty in a dark-eyed, dark-haired way and, although she was small and slight, her body was softly rounded—but it was not her looks that had bewitched him, it was her attitude. She did not give a damn, and that fascinated him. Nothing impressed her: not Grandpa’s Ferrari F50, nor Craig’s football skills—he played for Scotland in the under-sixteens—nor the fact that his mother was a QC. Sophie wore what she liked, she ignored “No Smoking” signs, and if someone was boring her, she would walk away in mid-sentence. At the party, she had been fighting with her father about getting her navel pierced—which he flatly forbade—and here she was with a stud in it.
It made her difficult to get on with. Showing her around Steepfall, Craig found that nothing pleased her. It seemed that silence was as near as she got to praise. Otherwise, she would utter an abbreviated put-down: “Gross,” or “Dumb,” or “So weird.” But she did not walk away, so he knew he was not boring her.
He took her to the barn. It was the oldest building on the property, built in the eighteenth century. Grandpa had put in heating, lighting, and plumbing, but you could still see the original timber framing. The ground floor was a playroom with a billiards table, a bar football game, and a big TV. “This is an okay place to hang out,” he said.
“Quite cool,” she said—the most enthusiasm she had yet shown. She pointed to a raised platform. “What’s that?”
“A stage.”
“Why do you need a stage?”
“My mother and Aunt Miranda used to do plays when they were girls. They once produced Antony and Cleopatra with a cast of four in this barn.”
“Strange.”
Craig pointed to two camp beds. “Tom and I are sleeping here,” he said. “Come upstairs, I’ll show you your bedroom.”
A ladder led to the hayloft. There was no wall, just a handrail for safety. Two single beds were neatly made up. The only furniture was a coat rail for hanging clothes and a cheval mirror. Caroline’s suitcase was on the floor, open.
“It’s not very private,” Sophie said.
Craig had noticed that. The sleeping arrangements seemed to him to be full of promise. His older sister, Caroline, and his young cousin, Tom, would be around, of course, but nevertheless he was enjoying a vague but exciting feeling that all kinds of things might happen. “Here.” He unfolded an old concertina screen. “You can undress behind this if you’re shy.”
Her dark eyes sparked resentment. “I’m not shy,” she said, as if the suggestion were insulting.
He found her flash of anger strangely thrilling. “Just asking,” he said. He sat on one of the beds. “It’s quite comfortable—better than our camp beds.”