otherwise, just give me free run of the
library and I’ll be
happy. I’m not a difficult man to please.” He smiled that engaging smile once more and Kelly found herself drawn to him, to his eyes even though they were shielded behind his dark glasses. She felt a peculiar tingle run through her.
“Shall we start in the labs?’ she said, getting to her feet again.
He nodded.
‘Why not?’
Kelly led him out of her office.
The library at the Institute never failed to fascinate Blake. Built up, as it had been, over a hundred years, it had books which dated back as far as the sixteenth century. Before him on the table he had an original copy of Collin de Planncey’s ‘Dictionaire Infernale”. The pages creaked as he turned them, scanning the ancient tome, pleasantly surprised at how much of the French he could actually understand.
He’d been in the library for over four hours, ever since he’d, left Kelly back in her office. Now, with the time approaching 5.15 p.m., he heard his stomach rumbling and realized that he hadn’t eaten since early morning. The writer scanned what notes he’d written, realizing that he must check one or two discrepancies against his manuscript at the first opportunity. As it was, he replaced the old books in their correct position on the shelves, scooped up his pad and made for the stairs.
Kelly was on her way down.
i was coming to see if you needed any help,’ she said, the warmth having returned to her voice.
They had found it remarkably easy to talk to each other that morning. Their conversation had flowed unfalteringly and Kelly had felt her attraction for Blake growing stronger. She felt at ease in his company and she was sure the feeling was reciprocated.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked him.
He smiled and ran appraising eyes over her.
i think I found exactly what I was looking for,’ he said.
She coloured slightly and waited on the stairs while he made his way up. They both walked out into the hall which was now much colder than when Blake had first arrived.
‘Will you be back tomorrow?’ she asked him.
‘I got the information I needed,’ he told her, ‘with your help. But if I ever have a haunting you’ll be the first one I get in touch with. You’ve really been very kind. Thanks.’
‘Are you driving back to London now?’
‘Not yet. I’m going to have something to eat first and then I thought I might take you out for a drink this evening if you’re not doing anything else.’
Kelly chuckled, unable to speak for a moment, taken by surprise by the unexpectedness of his invitation.
‘If I’m in a good mood, I might even let you buy a round,’ Blake added.
‘What if I am doing something else?’ she asked.
‘Then I’ll have to wait for another evening won’t I?’
She shook her head, still laughing.
‘Can I pick you up about eight?’ he asked.
‘Eight will be fine,’ she told him. ‘But it might help if you knew where to pick me up from.‘1 She scribbled her address and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him.
‘Tell Dr Vernon I’ll be in touch,’ Blake said, and, for a moment, he saw a flicker of doubt cross Kelly’s face. ‘I’ll phone him and thank him for letting me use the library.’
She nodded.
Blake turned and headed for the door.
‘Eight o’clock,’ he reminded her.
She watched him go, stood alone in the hallway listening as he revved up his engine. He turned the XJS full circle and guided it back down the driveway towards the road which led into Oxford itself.
Kelly smiled to herself and returned to her office.
From his office window, Dr Vernon watched as the writer drove away. He paused a moment then reached for the phone and dialled.
‘Cheers,’ said Blake, smiling. He raised his glass then took a hefty swallow from the foaming beer.
Across the table from him, Kelly did likewise, sipping her Martini and meeting the writer’s gaze.
They were seated in the garden of ‘The Jester’, a small pub about a mile or so outside Oxford. There were three or four other people enjoying the evening air as well. It was still agreeably warm despite the fact that the sun was sinking, gushing crimson into the sky. When it got too chilly they could easily retire into the comfort of the lounge bar. Blake looked at his companion, pleased with what he saw. She was clad in a dress of pale lemon cheese-cloth, her breasts unfettered by the restraints of a bra. The writer noticed how invitingly her dark nipples pressed against the flimsy material.
With the sinking sun casting a halo around her, drawing golden streaks in her brown hair she looked beautiful. He felt something akin to pride merely being seated there with her.
Kelly noticed how intently he was looking at her and smiled impishly.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.
‘A very beautiful young woman,’ he told her. ‘But, I was thinking too.’
‘About what?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’m better off not knowing.’
Blake laughed.
‘I was wondering actually,’ he began, ‘how you came to be in the line of work you’re in. It is unusual for a woman, especially of your age.’
‘It was what I wanted to do when I left University,’ she told him.
‘How did your parents feel about it?1 he wanted to know.
‘They didn’t say much one way or the other. I’d worked in a library for a few months before I joined the Institute. They’d probably have been just as happy if I’d stayed on there. Security is the be-all and end-all in our family I’m afraid.’
Blake nodded.
“What about you?’ Kelly asked. ‘Writing’s a precarious business isn’t it? What made you want to write?’
‘Well, it wasn’t because I needed to share my knowledge with others,’ he said, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Not in the beginning anyway. I wrote a couple of novels to start with.’
‘Did you have any luck with them?’
He shook his head.
‘Writing fiction successfully needs more luck than talent. You need the breaks. I didn’t get them.’
‘So you turned to non-fiction? The stuff you write now?’
‘The ratio’s different. It’s fifty per cent talent and fifty per cent luck.’
‘You sell yourself short, David.’
‘No. I understand my own limitations that’s all.’
‘What about your parents. How do they feel about having a famous author for a son?’
‘Both my parents are dead. My father died of a stroke five years ago, my mother had a heart attack six months after him.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, David.’
He smiled thinly.
‘You weren’t to know,’ he said. ‘I just wish they could have lived to see my success that’s all.’
A heavy silence descended, rapidly broken by Blake.
‘Well, now we’ve got the morbid stuff out of the way,’ he said, with a reasonable degree of cheerfulness. ‘Perhaps we can carry on with this conversation.’
She sipped her drink and looked at him over the rim of the glass. Losing his
parents within six months of each other must have been a crushing blow and obviously he didn’t want to
