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Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
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walked through the door of that prestigious building, Nancy and all her trivial anxi-eties of home and family were blanked out, and Olivia was once more the Editor of Venus, with thought for nothing but the successful advancement of her paper. During the afternoon, she dic-tated letters, organized a session with her Advertising Manager, arranged a promotion luncheon to be held at the Dorchester, and had a long-overdue row with the Fiction Editor, informing the poor female that, if she could not find better stories than the efforts which she thought fit to submit to Olivia for approval, then Venus would cease altogether to publish fiction, and the Fiction Editor would find herself out of a job. The Fiction Editor, a single parent endeavouring to bring up two children, duly burst into tears, but Olivia was adamant; the magazine had priority over all else, and she simply handed the woman a Kleenex and gave her two weeks' grace in which to produce some magic rabbit out of her hat.
But it was all fairly draining. She realized that it was Friday and the end of the week, and was grateful for this. She worked on until six o'clock, clearing her desk, before finally gathering up her belongings, taking the lift down to the basement garage, collecting her car, and setting off for home.
The traffic was appalling, but she was used to rush-hour traffic and accepted it. Venus, with mental slam of the watertight door, ceased to exist; it was as though the afternoon had never happened, and she was back in L'Escargot again, with Nancy.
She had been brusque with Nancy, accused her of over-reacting, made little of her mother's illness, dismissed the country doctor's prognosis. This was because Nancy invariably made mountains of molehills . . . poor girl, what else did she have to do with her boring life . . . but also because Olivia, as though she were still a child, did not want to think of Penelope as anything but well. Immortal even. She did not want her to be ill. She did not want her to die.
A heart attack. That it could happen to her mother, of all people, who had never been sick in all her life. Tall, strong, vital, interested in everything, but most important, always there. Olivia remembered the basement kitchen at Oakley Street, the heart of that great rambling London house, where soup simmered, and people sat around the scrubbed table and talked for hours over brartdy and coffee, while her mother did the ironing or mended sheets. When anyone mentioned the word "security," Olivia thought of that comforting place.
And now. She sighed. Perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps Penelope should have some person living with her. The best thing would be for Olivia to go and see her, talk things over, and, if necessary, see if they could come to some sort of an arrangement. Tomorrow was Saturday. I shall go and see her tomorrow, she told herself and felt at once much better. Drive down to Podmore's Thatch in the morning and spend the day. With the decision made, she put it all out of her mind and allowed the resultant void to fill slowly with pleasurable anticipation of the evening that lay ahead.
By now, she was nearly home. But first she turned in at her local supermarket, parked the car, and did some shopping. Crusty brown bread, butter, and a pot of pate de foie gras; chicken Kiev, and the makings of a salad. Olive oil, fresh peaches, cheeses; a bottle of Scotch, a couple of bottles of wine. She bought flowers, an armful of daffodils, loaded all this loot into the boot of her car, and drove the short distance that took her to Ranfurly Road.
Her house was one of a terrace of small red brick Edwardi-ans, each with its bulging bay window and front garden and tiled path. From the outside it looked almost painfully ordinary, which only increased the impact of its unexpected and sophisticated interior. The cramped rooms of the ground floor had been transformed into a single spacious apartment, with the kitchen
But it was all fairly draining. She realized that it was Friday and the end of the week, and was grateful for this. She worked on until six o'clock, clearing her desk, before finally gathering up her belongings, taking the lift down to the basement garage, collecting her car, and setting off for home.
The traffic was appalling, but she was used to rush-hour traffic and accepted it. Venus, with mental slam of the watertight door, ceased to exist; it was as though the afternoon had never happened, and she was back in L'Escargot again, with Nancy.
She had been brusque with Nancy, accused her of over-reacting, made little of her mother's illness, dismissed the country doctor's prognosis. This was because Nancy invariably made mountains of molehills . . . poor girl, what else did she have to do with her boring life . . . but also because Olivia, as though she were still a child, did not want to think of Penelope as anything but well. Immortal even. She did not want her to be ill. She did not want her to die.
A heart attack. That it could happen to her mother, of all people, who had never been sick in all her life. Tall, strong, vital, interested in everything, but most important, always there. Olivia remembered the basement kitchen at Oakley Street, the heart of that great rambling London house, where soup simmered, and people sat around the scrubbed table and talked for hours over brartdy and coffee, while her mother did the ironing or mended sheets. When anyone mentioned the word "security," Olivia thought of that comforting place.
And now. She sighed. Perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps Penelope should have some person living with her. The best thing would be for Olivia to go and see her, talk things over, and, if necessary, see if they could come to some sort of an arrangement. Tomorrow was Saturday. I shall go and see her tomorrow, she told herself and felt at once much better. Drive down to Podmore's Thatch in the morning and spend the day. With the decision made, she put it all out of her mind and allowed the resultant void to fill slowly with pleasurable anticipation of the evening that lay ahead.
By now, she was nearly home. But first she turned in at her local supermarket, parked the car, and did some shopping. Crusty brown bread, butter, and a pot of pate de foie gras; chicken Kiev, and the makings of a salad. Olive oil, fresh peaches, cheeses; a bottle of Scotch, a couple of bottles of wine. She bought flowers, an armful of daffodils, loaded all this loot into the boot of her car, and drove the short distance that took her to Ranfurly Road.
Her house was one of a terrace of small red brick Edwardi-ans, each with its bulging bay window and front garden and tiled path. From the outside it looked almost painfully ordinary, which only increased the impact of its unexpected and sophisticated interior. The cramped rooms of the ground floor had been transformed into a single spacious apartment, with the kitchen
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