Free Under Gemini by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

of Patou’s Joy, dressed by Dior, or slender as a boy in faded Levi’s; Pamela at St. Tropez, skiing at St. Moritz, lunching at La Grenouille in New York; dark eyes bright with amusement, dark hair cut short, her smile a flash of white. She had all the charm and assurance in the world—but love, tenderness? Flora was doubtful.
    The clock on the mantelpiece struck noon with silvery strokes. The morning had gone. Flora pulled herself together, made a sandwich, drank a glass of milk, picked up her handbag, and left the flat.
    Without enthusiasm, she set out to look for a job. She returned to the flat at the end of the afternoon having achieved nothing except a sort of furious annoyance at her own indecision and procrastination. She was worn out from walking and climbing stairs. She went into the kitchen to put on the kettle and make herself a cup of tea. This evening she would have a bath, watch television, and go to bed early. Rose had insisted she stay over the weekend. Perhaps by Monday she would feel more energetic and businesslike. Just as the kettle boiled, the front doorbell rang.
    For some reason that was the last straw. Flora said, “Damn,” switched off the kettle, and went out of the kitchen and down the passage to the front door.
    Passing a mirror she caught a glimpse of herself looking both tired and untidy, her face shining and the sleeves of her white shirt rolled carelessly back from her wrists. She looked as though she had been scrubbing a floor and didn’t care. She opened the door.
    A man—tall, thin, quite young—was standing outside. He wore a smoothly cut brown herringbone suit, and his hair was a dark copper red, the color of an Irish setter. His face was fine drawn, with pale and freckled skin—the sort that would burn before it tanned. His eyes were light and clear, a sort of greenish gray. They stared down at Flora, as though waiting for her to make the first move. Finally Flora said, “Yes?”
    He said “Hello, Rose.”
    â€œI’m not Rose,” said Flora.
    There was a short pause during which the young man’s expression scarcely altered. Then he said, “Sorry?” as if he had not heard her properly.
    â€œI’m not Rose,” Flora repeated, raising her voice slightly, as if he were deaf, or stupid, or possibly both. “I’m Flora.”
    â€œWho’s Flora?”
    â€œMe,” said Flora unhelpfully, and then instantly regretted it. “I mean, I’m staying here for the weekend.”
    â€œYou have to be joking.”
    â€œNo, I’m not.”
    â€œBut you’re identical…” His voice trailed away, lost in total confusion.
    â€œYes, I know.”
    He swallowed, and said in a voice that cracked slightly, “Twins?”
    â€œYes.”
    He tried again. “Sisters?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut Rose doesn’t have a sister.”
    â€œNo, she didn’t, but she does now. I mean, she has since yesterday evening.”
    There was another long pause, and then the young man said, “Do you think you could explain?”
    â€œYes, of course. You see…”
    â€œDo you think, before you start explaining, that I could come in?”
    Flora hesitated, her thoughts racing. Harry Schuster’s flat, full of precious things; her responsibility; unknown young man, possibly with criminal intentions.… It was her turn to swallow the slight obstruction in her throat.
    â€œI don’t know who you are.”
    â€œI’m Antony Armstrong. I’m a friend of Rose’s. I’ve just flown down from Edinburgh.” But Flora still hesitated. With some justification, perhaps, the young man became impatient. “Look, ask Rose. If she isn’t there, go and ring her up. I’ll wait.”
    â€œI can’t ring her up.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe’s gone to Greece.”
    â€œGreece?”
    The incredulous horror in his voice and the