Free No More Lonely Nights by Charlotte Lamb Page A

stared out of the window at the grey mass of London’s huddled streets as they drove towards the centre, off the motorway. Then Cass turned towards the river to follow it along its curving path, through sprawling suburbs, until they reached the riverside pub, a whitewashed Georgian building set in a garden of lawns and flowerbeds, with willows edging the riverbank just below it.
    Cass was right; it was packed with people that Sunday lunch time, and there were cars parked like sardines in the large car park adjoining it, but the landlord welcomed Cass with a wide grin and friendly eyes which held an unspoken sympathy. He must have read about the wedding fiasco, but he didn’t breathe a word about it.
    ‘A table in the garden? Of course, I’ll get Nell to lay it right away. There isn’t anyone else out there, today; you’ll have the garden to yourself. But come and have a drink with me in my office first. It’s ages since we saw you here.’
    ‘I’ve been busy, I’m afraid,’ Cass said, following him into a tiny room, just big enough for a desk covered with papers and a couple of filing-cabinets. Cass sat down on the window-seat which was piled with red velvet cushions, and patted the place next to him, gesturing for Sian to sit there.
    The landlord asked what they would drink and poured them glasses, handing them over with a smile as he saw Sian staring at the four walls which were crowded with sketches in pen and pencil: some quite lovely landscapes, others funny and often savage cartoons.
    ‘Didn’t Cass tell you I drew?’
    ‘You did them all?’
    Her stupefaction made him laugh, brushing his long brown hair back from his thin face.
    ‘All of them, I’m afraid. Whenever I get five minutes to myself, I open my sketchpad.’
    ‘Cass only told me you cooked!’
    Danny roared. ‘Isn’t that typical? He’s a materialist, our Cass—just interested in the body, not the soul. Isn’t that so, Cass?’
    ‘Let’s say the pleasures of the body are easier to get hold of!’
    Sian laughed, then met his eyes and flushed, the mockery in his glance reminding her of her own covert assessment of him in the car not long ago.
    ‘But isn’t jazz soul music?’ Cass asked Danny lightly. ‘You know I love jazz. Doesn’t that qualify?’
    ‘OK, I take it back—you do have some unmaterialistic tendencies,’ Danny agreed, grinning. ‘But not many. Nobody who has made as much money as you have can be anything but materialistic.’
    ‘What’s wrong with a little ambition? Sian, you’re ambitious, aren’t you?’
    ‘To be a good journalist, yes,’ she agreed.
    ‘To be a success,’ Cass insisted, and she had to admit he was right.
    ‘Just as Danny once dreamt of being a great jazzman,’ Cass drawled, grinning, and Danny made a face at him.
    ‘You wouldn’t have minded that yourself!’ he teased, and Cass laughed.
    ‘Really? You wanted to play jazz?’ asked Sian, eyes widening in disbelief.
    ‘He certainly did, once upon a time, before the business bug hit him,’ Danny told her, an eye on Cass, who was looking wryly amused.
    ‘What did you play?’ asked Sian. Then grinning, she added, ‘Don’t tell me—your own trumpet!’
    Danny roared and Cass pretended to punch her. ‘Very funny, but it was clarinet, actually, and a little bit of sax.’
    ‘Did you say sex?’ asked Danny innocently, and Cass pulled a face at him.
    ‘She knows I meant saxophone, so don’t try that old chestnut on her, or I won’t send a man down to mend your computer next time it breaks down.’
    ‘Talking about that…’ Danny began, and Cass interrupted quickly.
    ‘Not on your life! I’m not looking at it now. I’m hungry and it’s Sunday and I want my lunch.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘Come on, Sian, let’s get out into the garden before he drags me off to his den.’
    The garden was lovely: a small, isolated part of the public gardens, walled off and secret, with rambling roses spilling torrents of red