Kate finished her second Bloody Mary. The two drinks had done little to lift her dark mood, but she was feeling just a little bit more numb. The edge had been taken off, and she was certainly warmer. She looked over at the rain lashing against the windowpanes and then looked at her watch, debating. It was only a short walk home, but she didn't want to go out in the filthy weather again. She held her glass out to the barman, who went to refill it, and slipped her jacket off, hanging it on a hook in the bar in front of her.
'You tried Nigella's?'
She turned round to see that a tall curly dark-haired man in his late thirties with brown eyes was talking to her.
'I'm sorry?'
'Nigella Lawson. Her recipe for Bloody Marys. It's very good.'
The barman handed Kate her drink and went off to add the charge to her tab.
'No, I don't think I have.' Kate turned back to her drink.
'Got to love a woman who puts Bloody Marys in the breakfast section of a cookbook.'
'I guess,' Kate said without looking at the stranger and sipped her drink. She wasn't in the mood for chit-chat.
Despite her blatant disinterest the man was not put off. He pulled out the recently vacated stool next to hers. 'Do you mind?'
Kate shrugged indifferently.
The man chuckled. 'Half a pint glass with half as much vodka as tomato juice. For breakfast! Like I say, you've got to admire the woman.'
Kate thought that if the woman cut down on her breakfasts a little it might not do her any harm. But maybe that's what men wanted. Meat on the bones. Well, she wasn't going to put on weight to imitate some quasi-Italian domestic goddess, however gorgeous she was. She realised the man had spoken to her again, but didn't have a clue what he had said.
'I'm sorry?'
'I asked . . . do you know what her secret is?'
Yes, she thought. She knew what her secret was all right. She looked like a woman of appetite. What was it you were supposed to be? A lady in the supermarket and a whore in the bedroom. Well, Nigella Lawson looked like Sophia Loren with a voice that oozed sex and sophistication in equally unfair measures. And could cook to boot. Bitch.
'I don't,' she said simply.
The man smiled. He had quite a nice smile. 'It's to add a dash of dry sherry.'
Kate nodded. 'They put a drop of red wine in them here.'
He smiled again. 'My name's Paul. Paul Archer.'
'Nice to meet you, Mr Archer.' Kate's voice was cordial, but cool.
The man held out his hand. 'Actually, it's Dr Archer.'
Kate hesitated then shook his hand. He had a firm confident grip, and his hand was dry and warm. She smiled and it didn't take much of an effort now. 'Kate Walker.'
'Well, Kate. Can I buy you a drink?'
Kate looked down at her glass, swirling the drink for a moment then downing it and placing the glass firmly back on the bar. Why not? she thought to herself. Why the bloody hell not?
Janet Barnes felt consciousness returning. Not suddenly, it was a struggle like crawling through treacle. Like waking from a long coma. Or nearly waking, that is. Flashes of memory fought to come through as she fell back into the nightmare she was struggling to escape. A train swaying off balance as it rattled along
