Free Nest of Sorrows by Ruth Hamilton Page B

grimly as she dropped the stole an inch more. She was not heartbroken, refused to be, surely didn’t deserve to be heartbroken? Why this great leaden lump in her throat, then?
    She swivelled on her heel and faced a blank wall, remembering, seeing in her mind’s eye, almost tasting the days that she and Mike had spent together. Eight years, nine years, how long had it been? A hairslide, a new paintbrush, a dirty hanky dipped in the pond to soothe a scraped shin.
    It had all been planned, hadn’t it? Marriage, children, painting, roses round a cottage door. She was going to cry. She must not cry! For pride’s sake, she must hold herself together until the end of this nightmarish dance. Or could she leave now? Could she cross this vast room full of sweating bodies and escape to cleaner and fresher air? Could she?
    ‘Good evening.’
    With a supreme effort of will, she pulled herself together and turned to see a man by her side, a real grown-up man, very dashing and good-looking. ‘Where did you come from?’
    ‘I gatecrashed.’
    ‘Thought so. How old are you?’
    ‘That’s a rude question.’
    ‘And gatecrashing’s a rude business.’
    ‘OK. Let’s just say I’ve turned thirty, shall we?’
    ‘Oh. How far over the hill are you?’
    ‘Two years. Will you dance with me?’
    She studied him while he led her expertly through a foxtrot. He had dark hair, eyes that were nearly black, a fresh complexion and thick dark eyebrows. When he closed his eyes, the lashes curled up on his cheeks. It was quite a good face, she decided. Spoiled slightly by a weakish chin, yet saved by a strong nose. Nice. Comfortable. She felt right in his arms. Yes, they fitted together. Mike would be furious, wouldn’t he? She looked round and caught no sight of her boyfriend; nor could she see his little French girl. Ah well. Mike was gone, possibly forever. A cold fist seemed to close around her stomach, and she shivered in spite of the intense heat.
    ‘They’ve gone,’ he said into her hair. ‘He wasn’t good enough for you anyway. I’ve been watching you for the past hour. Near to tears, weren’t you?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Not worth it, me dearie. He’s a mere child, and here you are dancing with a man. That’s why he left. He stormed out with that awful girl in the red dress as soon as he saw us talking.’
    ‘Oh.’ She liked him. Especially if he thought Josianne was awful. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Geoff. Geoff Saunders.’
    ‘Kate Murray. Are you married?’
    ‘No. I’m going to marry you.’
    She gulped back another ‘oh’.
    ‘Knew as soon as I saw you. I’m middle-management with Transglobe Plastics, good prospects, not a bad looker . . .’
    ‘Hang on. I’m only eighteen!’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘I’ve got to get through college.’
    ‘I can wait.’ The music stopped and the last waltz was announced. Without asking, he folded her in his arms and led her round the floor. ‘You dance quite well for a young one,’ he commented. ‘What’ll you do at college?’
    ‘Art main, History and English subsids.’
    ‘Teaching?’
    ‘Yes.’
    They danced the rest of the waltz in silence, then, after Kate had been to tidy herself in the ladies’ room, he took her out into a clear moonlit night and walked her down to his car. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
    ‘I’ve not to get in cars with strange men.’
    With great ceremony and much flourish, he extracted a card from his wallet. ‘At your service, ma’am. Geoffrey Saunders BSc, ARCS.’
    ‘Are you a surgeon or something?’
    ‘No. College of Science, Royal, Associate of. Ma’am!’ He clicked his heels and held open the door. ‘I don’t bite, I change my socks every day and my mother is well looked after. Yes, I am interested in you both body and mind, but I shall not rape you at the traffic lights. Not tonight, anyway.’
    She began to giggle. ‘You’re hopeless, Mr Saunders. And you’re only seven years younger than my mother! My dad will go mad if he