‘You know very well I’m not Mrs Brabbage,’ Julia told him hastily. ‘I’m taking her place for a while. Mr Brabbage has had an operation.’
‘You’re cook … in an empty house?’
‘You’re here.’
‘Unexpectedly. So who were you planning to cook for, if you can cook at all?’
The professional slur annoyed Julia. ‘I’m a qualified Cordon Bleu chef,’ she snapped.
‘Where did you qualify—the cradle?’ he asked, quite reasonably, in the circumstances. ‘What’s the recipe for Eggs Benedict?’
‘Wha … what?’ The staccato question came out of the blue and Julia’s brain jammed on all frequencies. This was too much on top of a troublesome afternoon and the wine she had imbibed freely at dinner, knowing she wasn’t going to have to drive.
‘It’s … um … it’s eggs. It’s made with eggs,’ she said lamely. She had prepared the damn dish a hundred times!
She was rescued by the snap of his fingers. ‘J. Fry. Of course, you must be Janette, Mrs B’s niece. I should have recognised you from her description! You’d better not let her find out that you haunt Richard’s room in the early hours of the morning.’
Julia was gaping at him. Janette was legendary in the Craemar annals. Having heard Mrs B on her favourite subject Julia suspected that the not-so-innocent Janette had had her dubious achievements embroidered to make a symbolic point. She was everything that was wrong with modern youth, according to Mrs B. It was not flattering to be mistaken for an irresponsible, promiscuous, high-school drop-out.
‘My name is Julia, not Janette,’ she declared hotly. She didn’t know the girl’s last name and obviously neither did he. He had remembered Julia’s though. ‘And you still haven’t told me who you are.’ She hooked her thumbs through the loops of her jeans and rocked aggressively on her heels.
‘Inquisitive little thing, aren’t you?’ he said, not believing a word of what she said, but giving in in the hope it would get him some sleep. ‘I’m Hugh.’
‘Hugh who?’ Julia asked blankly. It sounded ridiculous but neither of them cracked a smile.
‘Doesn’t your intimate family knowledge run to the less famous members of the family?’
Julia gasped at the outrageous implication. She could only remember the G. B. H. part, but she was certain that his surname had not been Marlow on that business card. ‘You liar!’
‘How so?’ he enquired, unperturbed. He couldn’t have expected to be believed.
‘The Marlows have red hair …’
‘Charles doesn’t,’
‘… and they’re all built like bean-poles, not like … like tanks’ Julia ignored his valid point. ‘And you’re too old.’
‘For what?’ The grey ghos
t of a smile flitted behind his eyes.
‘To be Hugh,’ Julia insisted. ‘You must be at least thirty-six.’
‘Thirty-four,’ he corrected drily.
‘You look older,’ she told him, too annoyed for polite fiction. ‘That would make Connie how old when you were born …?’ She did some mental arithmetic, one of her weak points. The silence lengthened.
‘About fifteen,’ he offered softly. ‘However, I don’t see that I’m under any obligation to explain the ramifications of my family tree to all and sundry. Good night.’
This time Julia didn’t argue, she was feeling pretty tired herself. They could sort out the confusion in the morning. The stranger was already settling down under the duvet, reaching for the light as she closed the door behind her.
In a way it was reassuring to know that there was somebody else in the house, thought Julia as she guided herself down the moonlit stairs, especially someone large. He might be an unknown quantity, but in their two brief meetings she had gained the impression that he would be a rock in times of strife. To oppose him head-on would be to dash yourself to pieces. Much better to flow peaceably around him.
Her head had barely touched the pillow when she awoke to the sound of a clatter in the kitchen. It was barely light and the nip on her nose told her that there had been an overnight frost. She groaned as she heard another clatter. Don’t tell me he’s up already! She dragged herself up and scrambled into thick corduroy trousers and a polo-necked sweater with patch elbows. After dashing her face in lukewarm water at the basin and running a quick brush through her hair she strode into the kitchen, prepared to assert herself.
‘Hullo, Julia. I’m sorry, did I wake you? I just brought in some of the supplies on that list you sent down. I went shopping in Whitianga on Friday but didn’t have time to bring them over when I got back.’
‘Time I was up, anyway, Mrs B,’ said Julia, beaming at the large, ruddy-faced woman who stood in the centre of the kitchen.