Between Friends by Jenny Harper Page A

tourists unaware of the environs and by businessmen on the move, looking for value for money and comfort. Tim and Stella didn’t ask questions. Over the past couple of years – she’d been one of their first guests – Carrie had stayed at the Salamander maybe once a month, sometimes more often.
    She seldom stayed the whole night. She settled her bill in advance and left hours before breakfast, knowing that the Morrisons would be too polite to comment. Not that she was ashamed of her lifestyle, but she knew that not everyone would approve. The ‘not everyone’ included her bosses at Ascher Frew, and with the partnership review coming up soon, it wouldn’t do to blot her copybook.
    She turned into the Salamander’s car park and slid into a narrow space next to the wall, under the spreading branches of an old chestnut tree. She turned off the ignition and sat for a few moments, relishing the quiet.
    Work was manic. She had been putting in extra hours – and heaven knows, that meant extra on extra – and there had been little time for play. Tonight was pure self-indulgence. She deserved it. Whatever happened, she would leave early, hopefully reinvigorated and ready for whatever Ascher Frew could throw at her.
    The bar was a small one, but it had nooks and crannies. A bay window, a recess half hidden by bookcases, an old inglenook fireplace, big enough to house a small table and two bench seats. There was privacy.
    ‘Hi Stella.’
    ‘Hello Carrie. The usual?’
    Stella Morrison was a tiny woman, plain looking but with an energy that translated into attractiveness. A well-tended dark bob framed her small face, dark eyes gleamed brightly as she held her head to one side inquiringly.
    ‘Please.’
    Small arms reached for a glass, poured Tanqueray into a measure, splashed in tonic water from a bottle – never draft – added ice and a slice. Carrie slid onto a tall stool at the corner of the bar and surveyed the place carefully. In the window, two businessmen were intent on some spreadsheets, forgotten pints glinting in front of them as they talked. A young couple sat in the inglenook, holding hands across the small table and looking intently into each other’s eyes. Honeymooners? Dirty weekenders? No, definitely not the latter, they looked far too pure.
    Carrie sipped her gin and smiled to herself. She couldn’t picture sanctified sex. Would it be exciting? Racy? Wicked? Deliciously exploratory? How could it be? She imagined sorry fumblings under winceyette nightgowns, coyness and, ultimately, boredom.
    ‘Hi.’
    The voice came from behind her, deep, rich – and amused.
    She whipped round. Tom Vallely! Bloody flaming hell! Of all the bad luck, for Tom to be here, of all people, just as she was waiting for Star Turn. Carrie felt her cheeks ignite. She put her hands up to shield them from him.
    ‘Tom? Hi.’
    She tried to sound calm, but this scenario had thrown her.
    ‘Can I join you?’
    ‘No! Sorry, I mean, no, it’s not a good time. I’m waiting for a friend.’
    ‘I’ll wait with you.’
    ‘No, you can’t—’ She checked herself. Disaster! ‘I’d prefer if – why don’t we meet some other time?’
    ‘Another time? I can’t really, no. I’m only here for a few more days.’ He beckoned to Stella. ‘Pint please. Thanks. Who are you waiting for?’
    ‘A friend. A colleague. A business colleague. Private business. Things. Not really suitable—’ She was stuttering like a schoolgirl. Surely she could handle this?
    ‘That’s all right. I can leave when she comes. Or is it a he?’ The wretched man was beaming. He was enjoying her discomfiture. She had to get control.
    ‘She’s a he. I mean, I’m waiting for a man, not that it’s any business of yours. Listen, you have your pint, I can wait in the snug next door. My meeting really is private.’
    Tom took a long pull on his pint. She watched, transfixed, as his head went back and the muscles in his throat contracted and relaxed. God, he was