with no real idea of what to do next. She decided to try to put the whole matter of Algyâs murder out of her mind until she had dealt with Richard.
It amused her to dress elaborately for him and to spend some time painting her face with the sort of cosmetics she would once have despised. By the time she had finished, her face (which was usually white and dull) still looked pale but really rather interesting. Her eyes looked larger and darker than in their unpainted state and consequently her nose was much less obvious, while the carefully chosen lipstick made her lips look fuller, more generous than those of DOAPâs Miss King, even sensuous.
The dress she chose from her generous wardrobe was made of silk hand-printed with a flight of black butterflies against a sunset sky of subtle flame colours, and it clung to her figure, making her look slim rather than skinnily angular as she did in her DOAP suits. Looking at herself in a long glass, she was reasonably certain that even if she were to run into someone from the department they would never recognise daunting, plain Willow King in the sinuously glamorous romantic novelist she had become.
Richardâs instinctive blink and wide smile when he arrived told her that he at least approved of the efforts she had made with her face and clothes. He kissed her, carefully avoiding her lipstick, and apologised for his lateness.
âI should be used to it by now,â said Willow, smiling at him in a way that would have astonished her DOAP colleagues. âWhat was it? Tiresome clients or a new deal blowing up out of the blue?â
âNeither,â he answered shortly and then as he caught sight of her derisive glance, added: âWell, yes, it was clients actually and their lawyers.â¦Nothing out of the ordinary, merely coming clean about some figures theyâd fudged, which meant that all the listing particulars will have to be changed overnight. I think their lawyers must have been as horrified as we all were when they confessed.â
Willow wished that she were more interested in the goings-on of the City or less interested in the lengths to which Richard could go to avoid giving her any real information about his work. He clearly enjoyed talking to her about it, but was far too experienced a merchant banker to commit the slightest indiscretion, and she often felt how much more interesting his conversation would be if he could only include a few names or at least personalities in it. Just occasionally she tried to push or tease him into revealing them, forgetting how much she herself relied on his discretion. He was the only person in the world who knew that Willow King and Cressida Woodruffe were the same woman; and yet in all the years she had known him she had never been afraid that he would betray her.
They had met at a party of her publisher, soon after her fourth book had been published and actually achieved the best-seller list in hardback. Richard had been invited only because his bank was handling the merger of her publisher and a larger house, and he was clearly bored by the chatter about royalties, affairs between editors and authors, redundancies and disastrous jacket flap copy. His lacklustre eyes brightened visibly when Willowâs editor brought her up to be introduced and she found herself both flattered by his obvious interest in her and intrigued by him. As they talked she discovered not only that he had a dry sense of humour that appealed to her, but also that his brains matched or even exceeded her own. Although she usually hated parties and left after half an hour, on that evening she stayed talking in ever greater animation to Richard.
He took her out to dinner that first night and quite soon afterwards they went to bed together. Despite her total inexperience and their mutual dislike of admitting or discussing their feelings, it had been a wholly pleasurable interlude, which they were both happy to repeat. Gradually a routine
It amused her to dress elaborately for him and to spend some time painting her face with the sort of cosmetics she would once have despised. By the time she had finished, her face (which was usually white and dull) still looked pale but really rather interesting. Her eyes looked larger and darker than in their unpainted state and consequently her nose was much less obvious, while the carefully chosen lipstick made her lips look fuller, more generous than those of DOAPâs Miss King, even sensuous.
The dress she chose from her generous wardrobe was made of silk hand-printed with a flight of black butterflies against a sunset sky of subtle flame colours, and it clung to her figure, making her look slim rather than skinnily angular as she did in her DOAP suits. Looking at herself in a long glass, she was reasonably certain that even if she were to run into someone from the department they would never recognise daunting, plain Willow King in the sinuously glamorous romantic novelist she had become.
Richardâs instinctive blink and wide smile when he arrived told her that he at least approved of the efforts she had made with her face and clothes. He kissed her, carefully avoiding her lipstick, and apologised for his lateness.
âI should be used to it by now,â said Willow, smiling at him in a way that would have astonished her DOAP colleagues. âWhat was it? Tiresome clients or a new deal blowing up out of the blue?â
âNeither,â he answered shortly and then as he caught sight of her derisive glance, added: âWell, yes, it was clients actually and their lawyers.â¦Nothing out of the ordinary, merely coming clean about some figures theyâd fudged, which meant that all the listing particulars will have to be changed overnight. I think their lawyers must have been as horrified as we all were when they confessed.â
Willow wished that she were more interested in the goings-on of the City or less interested in the lengths to which Richard could go to avoid giving her any real information about his work. He clearly enjoyed talking to her about it, but was far too experienced a merchant banker to commit the slightest indiscretion, and she often felt how much more interesting his conversation would be if he could only include a few names or at least personalities in it. Just occasionally she tried to push or tease him into revealing them, forgetting how much she herself relied on his discretion. He was the only person in the world who knew that Willow King and Cressida Woodruffe were the same woman; and yet in all the years she had known him she had never been afraid that he would betray her.
They had met at a party of her publisher, soon after her fourth book had been published and actually achieved the best-seller list in hardback. Richard had been invited only because his bank was handling the merger of her publisher and a larger house, and he was clearly bored by the chatter about royalties, affairs between editors and authors, redundancies and disastrous jacket flap copy. His lacklustre eyes brightened visibly when Willowâs editor brought her up to be introduced and she found herself both flattered by his obvious interest in her and intrigued by him. As they talked she discovered not only that he had a dry sense of humour that appealed to her, but also that his brains matched or even exceeded her own. Although she usually hated parties and left after half an hour, on that evening she stayed talking in ever greater animation to Richard.
He took her out to dinner that first night and quite soon afterwards they went to bed together. Despite her total inexperience and their mutual dislike of admitting or discussing their feelings, it had been a wholly pleasurable interlude, which they were both happy to repeat. Gradually a routine
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