Whiteout(53)

"Scared of what?"

There was a long pause, then he said, "Of my feelings."

Toni almost dropped the phone. She felt a flush spread from her throat to her face. "Feelings," she repeated.

"If this conversation is embarrassing you dreadfully, you just have to say so, and I'll never refer to it again." "Go on."

"When you told me that Osborne had asked you out, I realized you wouldn't be single forever, probably not much longer. If I'm making a complete fool of myself, please tell me right away, and put me out of my misery."

"No—" Toni swallowed. He was finding this extraordinarily difficult, she realized. It must be forty years since he had spoken this way to a woman. She ought to help him. She should make it clear that she was not offended. "No, you're not making a fool of yourself, not at all."

"I thought this morning that perhaps you might feel warmly towards me, and that's what scared me. Am I right to tell you all this? I wish I could see your face."

"I'm very glad," she said in a low voice. "I'm very happy."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"When can I see you? I want to talk some more."

"I'm with my mother. We're at a petrol station. She's just coming out of the toilet. I can see her now." Toni got out of the car, still holding the phone to her ear. "Let's talk tomorrow morning."

"Don't hang up yet. There's so much to say."

Toni waved at her mother and called: "Over here!" Mother saw her and turned. Toni opened the passenger door and helped her in, saying, "I'm just finishing off this phone call."

Stanley said, "Where are you?"

She closed the door on Mother. "Only about ten miles from Inverburn, but progress is painfully slow."

"I want us to meet tomorrow. We've both got family obligations, but we're entitled to some time to ourselves."

"We'll work something out." She opened the driver's door. "I must go—Mother's getting cold."

"Goodbye," he said. "Call me anytime you feel like it. Anytime."

"Goodbye." She flipped the phone shut and got into the car.

"That's a big smile," Mother said. "You've cheered up. Who was on the phone—someone nice?"

"Yes," Toni said. "Someone very nice indeed."





10:30 PM

KIT waited in his room, impatient for everyone to settle down for the night. He needed to get away as soon as possible, but everything would be ruined if someone heard him leave, so he forced himself to linger.

He sat at the old desk in the box room. His laptop was still plugged in, to conserve the battery: he would need it later tonight. His mobile phone was in his pocket.

He had dealt with three calls to and from the Kremlin. Two had been harmless personal calls to guards, and he had let them through. The third had been a call from the Kremlin to Steepfall. Kit guessed that Steve Tremlett, having failed to reach Toni Gallo, might have wanted to let Stanley know about the problem with the phones. He had played a recorded message saying there was a fault on the line.

While he waited, he listened restlessly to the sounds of the house. He could hear Olga and Hugo having a row in the next bedroom to his, Olga firing questions and assertions like a pistol, Hugo by turns abject, pleading, persuading, bantering, and abject again. Downstairs, Luke and Lori clattered pots and crockery in the kitchen for half an hour, then the front door slammed as they left to go to their house a mile away. The children were in the barn, and Miranda and Ned had presumably gone to the guest cottage. Stanley was the last to bed. He had gone into his study, closed the door, and made a phone call—you could tell when someone was on the phone elsewhere in the house, because a "busy" light appeared on all the extensions. After a while Kit heard him climb the stairs and close his bedroom door. Olga and Hugo both went to the bathroom, and afterward they were quiet; either reconciled or exhausted. The dog, Nellie, would be in the kitchen, lying next to the Aga, the warmest place in the house.

Kit waited a little longer, giving them all a chance to go to sleep.

He felt vindicated by the family squabble earlier. Miranda's peccadillo proved that he was not the only sinner in the family. They blamed him for revealing a secret, but it was better to have these things out in the open. Why should his transgressions be blown up out of all proportion and hers discreetly hidden away? Let them be angry. He had enjoyed seeing Olga smack Hugo. My old sister packs a punch, he thought with amusement.

He wondered if he dared leave yet. He was ready. He had taken off his distinctive signet ring, and had replaced his stylish Armani wristwatch with a nondescript Swatch. He was dressed in jeans and a warm black sweater; he would carry his boots and put them on downstairs.

He stood up—then heard the back door slam. He cursed with frustration. Someone had come in—one or two of the kids, probably, raiding the fridge. He waited to hear the door again, indicating that they had left; but instead footsteps mounted the stairs.

A moment later he heard his bedroom door open. The footsteps crossed the outer room and Miranda came into the box room. She wore Wellington boots and a Barbour over her nightdress, and she was carrying a sheet and a duvet. Without speaking, she went to the sleepchair and unfolded it.