Dead Romantic (32 page)

It’s late afternoon now and outside my office window London is swathed in gloom. The weather is still bitter and snow has been forecast, but as I try to focus on a paper I’m due to deliver, I feel even colder than the average person, since the cat insists on sitting on my feet while Aamon weaves rubber bands into his interpretation of a loom band. Sleet begins to patter against the windowpanes and in the public areas our visitors will be trailing damply across the foyer, steaming up the exhibits and crowding the coffee shop.

I push the paper aside. It’s a lecture on Hatshepsut that I’ve delivered before, but I’ve had to rewrite it because my original is a victim of Simon’s trawl through the hard drive. Before I can help myself, I’m opening up Google and typing
Rafe Thorne
into the search engine. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’ve got an addiction to typing his name: this must be at least the fifth time today that I’ve abandoned my work to do this. I’ll never think of a way to catch Simon out while I’m mooning over Rafe like a lovesick fan.

Hang on. Did I just say
lovesick
?

I’m on the brink of minimising the screen, aghast at the workings of my subconscious mind, when I spot Alex, cross-legged on the floor and helping Aamon with his loom band.

“You ought to at least get him some colourful ones,” he remarks, looping the rubber over his fingers with surprising skill. “I know you like sludge colours but these are dead boring – aren’t they, Aamon?”

Aamon nods and says something that makes Alex laugh. Lord, it’s infuriating when people have secrets from you – and even more infuriating when it’s in a language that you’ve no hope of being able to understand.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing, nothing.” Still grinning like a loon, Alex looks very pleased with himself. “Well, nothing other than he says you’re far too busy looking at pictures of my brother to pay attention to much else.”

I blush to the roots of my hair. “That’s total rubbish!”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? So if I looked at the history on your computer I wouldn’t see any searches related to Rafe? None at all?”

“Certainly not,” I fib. Well, none apart from the search relating to the sky-high sales of the new single, the pieces in the online tabloids speculating as to the identity of the girl in the song, the ITV press release discussing the possibility of Rafe’s appearance on the next series of
The X Factor
, and the countless pictures of his brooding sharp-cheekboned face, that is. I’ve hardly searched for him at all.

“You’re such a hopeless liar,” says Alex fondly. “You go bright red. Don’t ever play poker, for heaven’s sake. Still, if it’s any consolation, he’s been Googling you too.”

“Really?” My heart cartwheels at this. Every night I’ve fallen asleep with an image of his face in my mind. It’s nice to think the feeling may be reciprocated.

“Yes, really. I thought about typing your mobile number into his to help out, but it seemed a bit freaky.”

I’m horrified. “Please don’t.”

“I guess I’ll just have to leave it to fate then. God, it’s hard work playing Cupid,” Alex sighs. Loom band completed, he appears at the side of my desk and glances over my shoulder. A chill breeze ruffles my neatly stacked documents and scatters the paper clips.

“Hey! What’s this?” Leaning over my shoulder, Alex points at the letter that now lies on the top of the pile. I’d tried my best to bury it in a fine attempt at reverse archaeology, but some things just won’t be hidden. “
Faculty of Archaeology, Luxor University – Research Fellow Sabbatical, Dr C Carpenter
,” he reads. “What’s all this? Are you leaving? Were you going to tell Rafe or just push off again?”

He shoots me a furious look.

“I never pushed off, as you so nicely put it, the first time around,” I point out hotly.

“So what’s all this about then? The tomb of Senneferi? At the end of the Northern Line, is it? God, Cleo, you really haven’t learned anything at all, have you? It’s still career first and sod the rest of us – your dad, Pink Dreds, me, Rafe.”

My head starts to pound. A headache has been dancing around my skull all day, or more accurately ever since the Prof knocked on my door earlier on to discuss my sabbatical.

“It’s a wonderful opportunity, Cleo,” he’d said gently, placing the information on my desk. “I’ve had a chat with Professor Ikram and he’s very keen indeed to have you on board. They don’t often have somebody of your calibre on the team. This will open doors for you, I promise.”

I hadn’t replied. I was seething because I knew exactly what this was: a convenient means of getting rid of a problem. However much the Professor might try to dress it up as a fantastic career move, he was effectively and firmly slamming shut the one door I’d been carefully inching open for months.

“You’ve got such potential. You’d bring in research grants and you’re a wonderful lecturer. Maybe one day you’ll even be head of your own department,” he’d said. “This would only enhance your CV.”

“That’s the reason you’ve suggested it? Or is it because you’ve decided I’m a head-injured liability?” I’d asked bitterly. “Simon stole my work, Paul. I know I can’t prove it – he’s clever enough to make sure of that – but I would hope you know me well enough to believe me.”

The Prof had looked away, dug his hands into his pockets and shivered. “Goodness, this office is even colder than mine.”

I’d said nothing. Henry Wellby had been standing practically nose-to-nose with the Prof yelling, “Listen to her, man! How on earth did an imbecile like you get to work in my museum?” but it wasn’t going to help.

“I must see the maintenance department,” the Prof had said, half to himself, before turning back to me. “Cleo, try to view this sabbatical in the spirit it’s offered. You’ve had a very difficult time, you’ve been badly injured, and I really think some warmth and a change of scene are exactly what you need. Still, it’s your choice. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything, but in my opinion this is the best course of action.”

I tuck the details of my banishment back into a neat pile and then – sneaky deed by sneaky deed – I tell Alex exactly what’s been going on. By the time I’ve finished, quite a crowd of ghosts have gathered around the desk, I’m wearing my coat to keep warm and there’s a great deal of outrage on my behalf.

“So that’s it,” I finish bleakly. “Unless I can find a way to clear my name I’ll have to leave.” As I speak I picture my father all alone and Rafe struggling to piece himself back together, and grief tightens its vice around my chest.

Alex’s eyes are dark with fury. “What a snake! I never liked him, Cleo, and now I know why. He’s been planning this for months and I distracted you so much that it gave him the perfect way in.” He starts to pace furiously. “There has to be a way to show him up for what he is.”

“If there is I’ve yet to come up with it,” I sigh. “I’m going round and round in circles but he’s been far too devious. The Professor has well and truly been taken in. I think he’d only believe me if he heard it from Simon himself – and that’s never going to happen.”

There’s a general discussion at this point. Henry Wellby is all for frightening Simon into a confession, a couple of Egyptian guards suggest torture, and even Aamon is chipping in with great excitement. I appreciate their concern but there’s no point trying to fight this. The Prof has already made his mind up.

I’m about to give up for the day when the old phone rings. Leaving the animated discussion to carry on without me, I pick it up. I’m expecting a summons to the Prof or one of Dawn’s dilemmas (“Cleo, I’ve put the wrong dates in the press release. Do you think it matters?”), so to discover that Rafe Thorne is my caller is a wonderful surprise.

“Rafe! How on earth did you get this number?” I say, astonished. I probably sound like a fifteen-year-old, but right now I couldn’t care less. And anyway, when I was fifteen I was far too busy swotting for my GCSEs to talk to boys on the phone. I glance around to see if the others are listening in, but the room is totally empty. Even Alex has gone. How very tactful. And obvious.

“I know you’re the one with the brains and the degrees, but even I can figure out that there can’t be too many Cleo Carpenters working at the Wellby Museum,” laughs Rafe. Although I can’t see him I know that the dimples are dancing in his cheeks and that a smile lights his eyes. My heart crumbles like vanilla sponge. “Anyway, the girl on the switchboard was ever so helpful.”

I bet she was, I think to myself.

“Congratulations on the new song,” I say. “Even a musical Philistine like me knows it’s doing brilliantly. It seems that you’re well and truly back on the music scene.”

“Hmm, be careful what you wish for,” says Rafe thoughtfully.

There’s a pause and then he adds, “You know I wrote it for you, don’t you?”

My pulse skitters like stones skimmed across a pond, creating ripples of longing and excitement – and fear too.

“Yes,” I say softly.

The sleet has turned to snow now, whirling dizzyingly outside – swirling and spinning in perfect time with my hopes and fears. I watch it and know that something in me is spinning away too, out of control and out of sight.

“Can I see you again?”

I coil the telephone flex around my finger. My heart is hammering so hard that I’m amazed he doesn’t hear it.

“Cleo?” Rafe says. He sounds uncertain now. “Is that OK with you?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” I take a deep breath. “When?”

“I’m going to totally blow my cool now and probably break all the rules, but I really don’t care,” Rafe tells me. “I’ve tried to do the whole giving-you-space thing – I know how busy you are – but it’s driving me crazy. How does now suit you?”

“Now?” My eyes widen. “Right now? Seriously?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious in my life. Or possibly any crazier! Yes, right now! I’m standing on the steps outside the museum. You can’t miss me, Cleo: I’m the man in a far-too-thin leather jacket wearing a stupid beanie hat, sprinkled in snow and slowly turning into an icicle while he waits for the most amazing woman he’s ever met. Don’t take too long, though; I think frostbite’s setting in.”

He rings off but his laughter stays with me as I tear around the office, shutting down the computer, shrugging on my coat and ramming my hat onto my head. If my colleagues are surprised to see me fly past them, curls escaping from my hat as I leap down the main staircase and dodge the visitors, then they don’t say anything – but I feel their stares and I know that the moment I’m out of sight the gossip will be spreading. If they had any suspicions before that I’ve gone mad, then I’ve surely confirmed them now.

And maybe I
am
mad? I’m certainly not behaving like myself: all I know is that I can’t wait a second longer to see Rafe Thorne again. Knowing he’s only moments away only makes the urgency sharper. I dash across the concourse, gasping my apologies to the visitors I’m bashing with my bag, and then I’m pushing my way through the door and out into the snowy London night. Car headlights and taillights bejewel the street and for a moment I’m dazzled and stand blinking in the cold.

The air is sharp and the snow’s already settling on the steps, but I don’t feel the biting wind or the flurries of flakes that brush against my cheeks. I don’t notice anything except the man who’s waiting for me beneath the ornate lamppost. He’s dark haired, square jawed and unmistakably Rafe Thorne, my Christmas stranger. His battered leather jacket, bright red scarf, scuffed Timberlands and beanie hat might disguise him from the rest of the world, but I’d know him anywhere. For a few frozen moments in time we stare at one another, the world around fading away until all I can see is him. The soft lamplight warms his face, turning his violet eyes to deepest indigo and shadowing the high cheekbones and strong jaw. My breath catches in my throat. It’s as though the ten years since we first met have stood completely still.

Rafe holds out his hand to me. I walk down the steps and he slips his arms around my waist, pulling me into him as gentle kisses fall onto my lips, my eyes and my throat. Then he unwinds his scarf and, looping it around my neck, draws me closer still, until our snow-dusted eyelashes are almost touching.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

Chapter 26

“You seem very happy this morning,” Dawn remarks, breezing into my office with a mug of coffee and a pile of folders. Her nose is still pink and her breath is rising in little clouds – which is hardly surprising, since the room is full of ghosts. I barely notice them anymore: I’m becoming used to the extra faces I see as I walk around the museum or the city. I think I might even miss Aamon and the cat now if they left.

Now there’s something I never thought I’d say.

“Mind you,” Dawn continues, putting the coffee on the desk and sloshing it everywhere, “I’d be happy too if I was being sent on a year’s paid holiday to the sun. You’re so lucky, Cleo! I’m well jel!”

“Hmm,” I say. There’s no point telling Dawn this is a banishment rather than a reward, and there’s even less point telling her that I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of going to Luxor. The smile that’s remained on my lips ever since I saw Rafe waiting for me last night has nothing to do with my career.

No, I decide firmly as I sip my drink and Dawn settles down on the edge on my desk, I’m going to find a way to clear my name. There’s no way I’m leaving a job I love, just because of Simon. If I was determined before, spending time with Rafe has hardened my resolve. There’s far too much to play for now. While Dawn rabbits on about where she may or may not book for next year’s holiday (Magaluf being
so
over, apparently), I let my mind drift back to yesterday…

Rafe had curled my fingers snugly inside his and tucked our hands into the pocket of his jacket. His scarf had been soft against my skin and as we’d walked away from the museum I’d turned my face into the fabric, inhaling his scent. As though by an unspoken understanding, we’d walked through the streets matching footstep for footstep. Neither of us had said a word, but the gentle caress off his finger against my gloved palm and the way his gaze had never broken mine had been more eloquent than any speech. Rafe Thorne could have led me right across the city and I wouldn’t have protested; I’d been happy just to be close to him.