Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,71

Terry. Just as I didn’t want him within spitting distance of any of the people I cared about. I could feel venom coursing through my veins and if Miranda hadn’t come into the kitchen at that moment, I probably wouldn’t have said anything. I’d have managed to keep myself better in check. But the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

‘I hate interfering, but there’s something you should know,’ I said, pulling her towards me, away from the vibrant hum beyond the door.

She looked bewildered.

‘Ralph’s not right for you,’ I said clumsily.

She shrank away from me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s got problems and–’

‘What are you talking about? What’s he done?’

‘Nothing…’

Her startled expression sank into indignation. With her hands glued to her hips, she was waiting for me to explain myself. I couldn’t. I wanted to with all my heart, but I couldn’t.

‘Ralph and I are together and that’s that. What’s wrong with you?!’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘I knew you’d be all funny like this. That’s why I didn’t tell you about him.’

‘It’s not disapproval – it’s protection,’ I said, faltering. ‘He’s… unsuitable. He’s going to hurt you, I know he is.’

I wanted to tell her everything – about his abusive patterns with women, about his glib approach to therapy – but I had to keep quiet. I couldn’t even say he’d been my patient.

She screwed up her face. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s my magical moment in the limelight and all you want to do is ruin it, with rubbish about my new boyfriend being “unsuitable”. I mean – “unsuitable” – what the hell does that mean?!’

Our torturous confrontation was interrupted by sudden applause breaking through like the sound of thunder, then cries of Where is she?

A face popped around the kitchen door.

‘Here she is!’

Then more faces and arms beckoned her away from me. ‘Miranda, quick!’

I followed them, as the tinkling sound of a spoon against glass brought the room to a hush.

‘We have a bit of an announcement,’ called out the woman I knew to be Miranda’s latest tutor, Betty Dixon. ‘It’s all very last minute, but one of Miranda’s pictures has been selected for the Rex Carlton Award.’

A rambunctious cheer came as Betty threw her arm up and pointed to the new painting I’d just been trying to fathom out. It wasn’t up my street, but it had clearly gone down well with the people who knew their stuff.

Miranda stepped alongside her, open-mouthed, dazed. Betty put her arm around her.

‘For those of you who aren’t familiar with the award, it means a week on show in the Tate Modern, lots of publicity and a cheque, of course!’

More roars and clinking of glasses followed.

Miranda looked on the verge of tears. She held her hands together in front of her mouth like she was praying, her thin bare legs twisting together. Vulnerable and overwhelmed. Just like I remembered her at six years old.

Betty hushed the crowd. ‘And there will be a posh ceremony next week in Mayfair.’ She dropped her head in mock regret, ‘but that will be invitation only, I’m afraid.’

Three cheers went up, followed by rowdy singing, chanting and stamping. Miranda was ecstatic, standing in the centre of the room, accepting hugs, kisses and pats on the back. I couldn’t get to her for the swarm of well-wishers.

‘I can’t believe it!’ I heard her call out. ‘There’ll be a ceremony and everything!’

I wanted to share in her joy, tell her how proud I was, but I hung back, knowing my face would not be welcome so soon after my heavy-handed accusations.

54

The wind was hostile when I left my cosy flat for our next run. As I speed-walked towards the station, the wind swatted at my hair and reflective jacket like I was an insect that needed obliterating. The world had turned aggressive.

‘Are we still going?’ I asked plaintively, when I found Emily warming up. The rain had soaked through my trainers already and my toes were squelchy and turning numb inside wet socks.

‘Of course. You’ll get used to it.’

I grumbled, but I knew she was right. Commitment to anything meant carrying on in the face of adversity. For some reason, Lorna’s face, sincere and hopeful, popped up like a bubble in my mind. The renewed investigation didn’t seem to be uncovering much about her death and I felt like I was letting her down. Neville Larch was the sticking point, but perhaps there were clues in the tapes of our sessions