Chapter Five
Five
It was a long time since Harriet had been inside a police station, and the experience was flinging memories at her that she would rather forget. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was a knot of anxiety. She discreetly eyed the other occupants and wondered what they were here for. She tried to make herself look hard, but her floral cardigan was undermining her. Why do I feel so guilty? It’s not like I’ve robbed a bank or anything. We were discussing Dickens, for god’s sake! She pulled her cardigan more tightly around her.
A smiley officer with an East London accent took her details and assured her that someone was on their way to talk with her. Then she was led into a waiting room that resembled a dental reception area, with out-of-date magazines on a low coffee table and a water cooler with annoying cone cups in the corner. She sat up straight on the edge of the green sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. Should she call a solicitor? Did she need one? Pete was the only solicitor she knew, and she really didn’t want to call him.
After ten minutes Harriet had all but thought herself into a prison sentence; the prison library would be the safest place for her, she decided, and maybe she could get some of her fellow inmates interested in reading…Her spiraling thoughts were halted when the door opened and a plainclothes officer walked in. The officer took her details again and listened as Harriet repeated and embellished her initial lie about cajoling the students to accompany her in breaking into the theater so that they could experience the environment firsthand…
The detective’s expression was dubious, but she accepted Harriet’s statement and got up to leave.
“Ms. Evaline Winter—the owner of the Winter Theater—has instructed me to let you know that her solicitor will be along presently to speak with you. After which, as far as we are concerned and provided Ms. Winter doesn’t want to press charges—”
“Charges!” Harriet blurted. “Oh my god! Do you really think she’ll press charges? Son of a nutcracker, I’m going to lose my job.” Her mind began to spiral again; would she be allowed to take her own pillow to prison? She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep on prison pillows.
“In all honesty, I don’t think it will come to that,” said the detective kindly. “It would be more trouble than it’s worth. But wait and see what the solicitor has to say. In the meantime…” She picked up a magazine, frowning at the date, and handed it Harriet. “Take a look at the fashion must-haves of 2016 and try not to panic.”
“Thanks,” she replied weakly. Could this day get any worse?
She was on her second cone of water when the door opened again.
“Hello, Ms. Smith, I’m…”
Oh, you have got to be kidding me!
James—of last night’s excellent drunken sex—rocked back on his heels. Well, damn, he was even more devastating in the daylight. She’d consoled herself that her attraction to him was more than likely due to her mulled-wine-tinted glasses, but now she was sober and the light of day was cold as hell, and he still looked like temptation personified. Her heart pounded in her chest. She smiled hesitantly, wishing she hadn’t left so abruptly that morning, and quickly necked the last of her water.
The door swung shut, bumping against the brown leather messenger bag that rested against James’s left hip. He recovered himself, rearranging his expression into one of professional disdain.
“Ms. Smith. My name is James Knight. I am acting on behalf of Ms. Evaline Winter, owner of the Winter Theater. I am here regarding a breaking-and-entering incident at one of her properties earlier today.”
He was wearing another most excellently tailored suit. She wondered if he had a walk-in wardrobe full of them, and it occurred to her that if she’d stuck around this morning she might have found out. He pulled one of the low armchairs opposite the sofa toward the coffee table and lowered himself into it. He looked uncomfortable. She smiled at him.
“Well”—she tried to catch his eye and adopted a jokey tone—“?‘breaking and entering’ makes it sound much worse than it actually was…” James remained unmoved, his gaze cold as the clouds that scudded across the wintry sky outside. She continued to blather on in the hopes of causing a crack in his demeanor that would reveal the man she’d met last night in the bar. “I mean, technically, I didn’t break in at all—there was a flimsy piece of corrugated iron covering an already open door. Someone long before me had done the actual breaking in; mine was more of a squeeze-through and enter, if you will.”
Nothing. The spirit of Kristin Scott Thomas had well and truly deserted her.
“The semantics of the crime do not interest me, Ms. Smith. A crime was committed. And by your own admission, you are answerable for it.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ms. Winter would be within her rights to press charges,” he went on.
This went beyond mere professionalism; he was being downright rude. Had her abrupt departure this morning dented his ego?
“Listen, about this morning—”
“Not the place, Ms. Smith.” He didn’t look up from his papers, but he did gesture toward the mirror with his Montblanc fountain pen. She glanced up at the mirror in the ugly frame and then it registered. A two-way mirror! No wonder he’s being cool.
“Riiiight.” She gave him an exaggerated wink, which he pointedly ignored. After a moment more of scribbling in his leather-bound notebook, he raised his head and speared her with a look dead-on. A sudden flashback to those eyes boring into hers last night as she lowered herself down onto…“Holy Moses!” The words exploded out of her like an involuntary spasm before she could check herself. Her cheeks burned. She tucked her hair behind her ear and cleared her throat, adding more quietly, “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?”
The left side of his mouth quirked up infinitesimally. It was the first indication she’d had that he wasn’t an AI robot. But just as quickly the micro-smirk disappeared.
“Ms. Smith, I have been instructed by my client to inform you that no charges will be pressed, provided you clean up the mess on my client’s property made by you and your accomplices.”
“I didn’t make any mess! The place was already a poop hole when I got there—god only knows how many people have broken into the place before I did.”
“Try not incriminate yourself further, Ms. Smith.”
Embarrassment, indignation, and shame made a sickly brew that swirled in her stomach.
“Oh, for god’s sake, take the stick out of your bum for five seconds and act like a human!” she snapped, and regretted it instantly. Used to being quite far up on the moral high ground in any given situation, Harriet was well out of her comfort zone, having pulled a Cinderella disappearing trick, engaged in an Inspector Clouseau–style pursuit, and been seized by the old bill, all before lunch.
He didn’t bat an eyelid. Clearly this was not the first time he’d been confronted about his bum-stick.
“I’m afraid my client’s terms are non-negotiable. Clean up the mess or face charges.”
“And when do you suggest I clean up a whole theater? I work full time.”
“That is not my problem.”
Well , she thought, at least I’ll be busy during the holidays .
“Fine. I’ll clean your client’s dingy old theater.” And I’ll make flapping sure those pesky kids help me do it. “Can I get out of here now?”
“Just as soon as you’ve signed the initial agreement, you are free to go. I will draw up a more formal contract and have it ready for you to sign tomorrow. You will be contacted with regard to the time and place of the meeting in due course. This is just for our insurance. We wouldn’t want you sneaking off without so much as a by-your-leave.” He looked at her, his face a mask of blank disinterest, but his turn of phrase was a shot fired in her direction.
Yep, he’s hacked off that I left without saying goodbye. Hypocrite. I wonder if “Lyra” knows I slept over?
James slid a piece of paper across the coffee table for her to sign. He handed her a pen and she scribbled her name. This guy was really pressing her buttons and not in a good way anymore. Her mind filled with memories of his mouth on her body, long fingers exploring… Stop! Stop thinking about it. This man is the enemy. I will not be turned on by him. Name signed, she held the pen out and he took it, his finger brushing hers. Sparks zipped through her. Traitor! she told herself.
They stood at the same time, the coffee table between them. Harriet looked up at him to find him staring straight at her. She stared back. The space between them was charged. She could feel the energy, like if she leaned in it would prickle her skin or suck her into a vortex. She didn’t know whether she wanted to throw a chair at him or kiss him. He held her gaze for a moment more and then nodded.
“Goodbye, Ms. Smith.”
“Goodbye.”
And he left.