No Half Measures - Sixth Movement - Chapter 31

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Viewing Note: This story should be viewed with the Edwardian Script ITC font installed on your Windows platform in the c:/Windows/Fonts directory. Microsoft Word installs this font automatically.

Editor's Note: Jenny Walker has graciously allowed me to represent her original story No Half Measures on BigCloset. Originally published on BigCloset Classic, this story segment was not migrated over to BigCloset TopShelf. This story segment first appeared on BigCloset Classic on Sunday, November 02, 2003 - 02:48 pm. Due to the original story presentation format being unsuitable and unwieldy for most portable devices (each part being over 1 meg in length), the story is now being broken up into single chapters for easier reading. The original Movements will be indicated on their respective chapters. The first chapter of each Movement will retain the original comments and read hits so as to preserve them for the author.

Sephrena Lynn Miller

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Chapter 31
 
 
The mind is a mysterious thing; the control it can have over the physical body is quite remarkable. There may be nothing wrong with you physically, yet, due to what is going on in your mind, your body can be as sick as it would be if you had a significant illness, if not sicker. After my conversation with Keith Wilkinson, it was as if my mind had decided to shut down for the rest of the day. I can barely remember what I did. It certainly was nothing of any great consequence, however, the next day, after a less than restful night's sleep, my mind was swinging into full gear. Along with it came a nauseating feeling that was so bad that by lunchtime (not that I was eating) I actually vomited. Whether it was fear, panic or anxiety, I was not sure.

Jools was worried too. She was trying to hide it, but I knew her well enough to see through her façade. She told anyone who phoned that I was not feeling well. This certainly was the truth. I was feeling so miserable that by mid-afternoon, I decided to go to bed. I had a few hours of thankfully dreamless sleep and the respite from the seemingly relentless assault that my thoughts were waging against my body was most welcome.

The next morning, I felt better in relative terms. At Jools' insistence (of course), I managed to force some breakfast into me. The stomach-churning nausea had dissipated, but I still felt edgy and ill at ease. I tried to ask Jools what we should do, but she just said that we would have to wait and see what Sunday would bring. I found it hard to believe that she was holding to this herself. The Jools I knew had a plan for everything and I hoped she had some ideas about what we would do if the worst happened. Emigration came to mind. I was quite happy to be left alone and allowed to fret by myself, as I did not feel up to putting on a good front to talk to anyone. Unfortunately this was not to be.

It was early afternoon when Jools shouted up the stairs to me, "Jon's here."

I did not really want to see him at that moment. However, considering that she probably had already opened the door and let him in, I could hardly shout down that I did not want to see him. So, I said nothing. I reckoned that they would figure out that I wanted to be left alone, or knowing both of them well, they would ignore that and interrupt me anyway.

I knew them well.

"Hey you," Jon said as he entered the living room.

I tried my best to force a smile. "Hi."

He frowned. "Geez, you look like hell."

I raised an eyebrow and said in a neutral tone, "Really? You know, Jon, you may want to reconsider your opening lines with women. Not that I'm an expert, but I think that 'you look like hell' isn't going to get you too far."

He did not know whether to laugh or apologise so he did neither. He came and sat down beside me on the sofa. We sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke. "Are you alright?"

I shrugged and managed a mirthless smile. "I've been better."

"What's up?"

I sighed. "What did Jools tell you?"

He shook his head. "Nothing much. She just said that you hadn't been feeling well."

I nodded. "That about sums it up."

His eyes narrowed a little. "Nuh-uh. Something's up. You haven't been yourself since that phone call the other day. You may have been able to fool the lads with your story about your time of the month, but don't forget, I know something they don't."

I turned to look at him and said, "Not for much longer."

He sat up straight. "What do you mean?"

I turned away again and sat silently. My mind was whirling and I did not know what to say to him. After a few minutes, he realised that I was not about to answer him.

He stood up and firmly said, "Right, come on."

I looked up at him. "Huh?"

"Let's get some fresh air. A walk will do you good."

I thought it was ridiculous. If a walk and some fresh air would have solved my problems, did he not think I might have tried it by now? I was about to decline when I found myself standing on my feet courtesy of his hand grabbing mine and pulling me upright.

"Jon…" I whined.

The look he gave me silenced me. "No buts. We'll walk and talk. I'm not taking no for an answer."

I believed him, but some part of my vanity managed to surface long enough for me to make one more protest. "I can't go out like this. I look like hell, remember?" He was right: I was not exactly looking my best. I was pale-faced, with no make up, and wearing a baggy T-shirt and scruffy jog bottoms. That was without even mentioning my hair, which was definitely doing its own thing that day. I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would not have to worry about people recognising me as Cara Malone.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "Let's go. It's nice outside."

It was. Not that I had noticed until now. Although the sun was burning down on London, there was a very pleasant breeze that lowered the apparent temperature to somewhere in the less than torrid range. We walked aimlessly along one shaded leafy avenue after another and for a long time he did not say anything. That was fine by me and I was happy to reciprocate the silence. I just trudged alongside him with my hands stuffed into the pockets of my jog bottoms. My head was lowered as I took an inordinate interest in the spot where my foot was about to land with my next step. Eventually he sighed and stopped walking. I stopped too.

"Aren't you going to tell me what's wrong?" He sounded a little exasperated.

He stood there and looked me in the eye, giving the impression that he was not going to move or look away until I gave in. I nodded slowly. "OK."

There was a low brick wall adjacent to us and I sat down on it. He did likewise. I swung my legs, kicking my feet against the wall for a few minutes whilst I gathered my thoughts. I had no idea where to begin or how to start. I finally blurted out, "The journalist from the Sunday Times knows all about me and who I used to be and, come Sunday, the whole world will know too."

To say that Jon looked taken aback would be an understatement. He looked as if he was trying to get his mind around it. "How does he know? Did you let something slip when he was talking to you?"

I shook my head. "No. At least I don't think so." In fits and starts I told him about Mrs. Forbes and the break-in. I told him about Keith calling back a few days previous and what he had said. When I was finished, I just sat there still swinging my legs. Jon was processing what I had told him.

"I mean, he might not know," Jon suggested.

I shot him a sceptical look, "Yeah, sure."

He shrugged and defensively said, "He might not. He can't be sure. Anyway, even if he does know, he might not write about it."

I laughed and, if possible, I imagine I looked even more sceptical. "Come on, Jon. I know you are trying to make me feel better, but don't treat me like a stupid child."

He shrugged and said defensively, "I'm sorry. I'm just thinking out loud." After a pause he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Jools says we just wait and see. I'm hoping that she has some sort of damage limitation plan in mind."

Jon thought more before saying, "If it… well, just say… it is going to come out. Would you… I mean… is there anyone… you would want to tell about yourself before… this happens… if it does?"

I think I knew what he was getting at. "What, you mean like the band or people at Sony?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, or other friends."

I sighed. "I know what you mean, but I can't do that. We'll just have to wait and see." I think some small part of me was hoping that this was not really happening and that I would wake up the next day and there would be no problem.

Jon shifted awkwardly. "You know we'll stand by you no matter what happens, don't you?"

I looked across at him. "Who's we?"

He shrugged. "OK, I know I will, and Jools will."

I managed a smile. "Thanks." However, deep down inside, I wondered just who would stand by me if the truth did come out. I feared that friends would shun me, Sony would drop me, and my father would be even more ashamed. Apart from that, I had nothing to worry about.
 

*          *          *
 
Claire arrived on Saturday morning to stay for the weekend. Jools had phoned her a few days previously and filled her in on the recent happenings, and she had readily agreed to come down. I was glad to see her, but despite her attempts at comforting words, I could see that she too was worried. It would have obvious implications for her life were it to come out that her 'sister' was actually her erstwhile 'brother'. We did not exactly make a joyful threesome as the general mood was quite sombre.

Claire had said that she was keen to hit the London shops while she was with us, but I think the ulterior motive was to try and take all of our minds off the dark cloud that was hanging over us. So, we did the shopping thing and we were able to enjoy ourselves to some degree. However, I was a little perturbed that, despite my dark glasses and baseball cap, it appeared as if some people recognised me. No one approached me, but I was ever more aware of the public profile that I now enjoyed - except that 'enjoyed' was not the right word. I feared it would be even further from the truth come the next morning.

That evening, we shared a quiet dinner out together before heading back to Jools' place. As we were heading to bed, Claire stopped me outside my room.

"Have you room in your bed for a guest?"

I looked at her with some suspicion. "Has Jools been saying anything to you?"

"About what?" she said with apparent innocence.

I shrugged. "I dunno. About nightmares or anything?"

She smiled and hugged me. "She might have mentioned something. She really cares for you, you know?"

I nodded and then grinned. "OK, come on in then. Any snoring and you're out though, understand?"

She laughed and protested, "I don't snore."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh come on. Back home, at times I used to wish that the wall between our rooms was three feet thick."

She playfully poked me as she climbed between the sheets. "Not fair!"

I grinned slyly as I climbed in beside her. "I guess I may as well let you bunk in with me tonight." I gestured expansively. "I mean I've had Jools in bed with me and then Beth. What's one more?"

Claire looked shocked initially and then realised I was trying to goad her. She smiled and retorted, "Yes, but that's not the question I'm dying to ask."

My warning signals were flashing, but I couldn't help myself from falling for it. "OK, what question are you dying to ask?"

She turned out the light and with the sly smile evident in her voice asked, "Has Jon had the pleasure of sharing your sheets with you?"

I gasped aloud, "Claire!" I really was shocked at her audacity. I tried to think of something to say, but no words came out.

"Well?" she asked.

"Of course not!" I said indignantly. I should have left it there, but I went on, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far from apologetic. "I'm sure you haven't even entertained such a thought, have you?"

'Say something, and say it quick', my mind was telling my mouth. My mouth was sort of quivering there, not knowing what to do as the seconds ticked by.

Claire reached over and squeezed my arm. "I'm sorry, Nicola. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."

I could not let things be left like that. I cleared my throat. "Claire, whatever gave you such an idea?"

She giggled and this time sounded more apologetic as she said, "I was being a teeny bit nosy and was asking Jools if you had any potential romance on the go."

"And she said Jon?" I asked indignantly.

"In her defence, I did have to drag it out of her."

"Pffft!" I hissed. "That girl doesn't give up anything that she doesn't want to."

"Are you annoyed?" Claire asked.

I sighed and paused before answering, "No, I'm not annoyed. Embarrassed? Yes."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about." She hesitated before continuing, "I take it that you do like him?"

After a long silence, I said in a small voice, "Yes, I think I do. Is that bad, Claire?"

She squeezed my arm again. "No, I don't think so. I mean, this whole situation is so new to me. It can be hard to get your head around it, but if you are a woman, then being attracted to a man is hardly a big deal, is it?"

"It's just so new to me too. It's hard to sort out what I feel."

"How does he feel about you?"

I lay back and looked up at the ceiling in the semi-darkness. I exhaled slowly before answering, "I have no idea. I don't think he has any real thoughts about me in that way. I mean, we get on well together and are good friends, but… we always were. I think that is the problem."

"Never mind. If it is meant to be, it will work out somehow," she said.

"You sound just like Mum…" The words were out of my mouth before I thought about them.

After a brief moment, she chuckled and gave me a hug. "Night, sister."
 

*          *          *
 
For a change, no one slept in on Sunday morning. At six a.m. all three of us were sitting in our dressing gowns at the kitchen table drinking coffee. I could not face the thought of eating any breakfast. We sat there, not saying anything much. The local newsagent opened at seven. The 'Sunday Times' would be there...

"What time is it?" I asked.

Jools smiled sympathetically. "Five minutes later than when you last asked."

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "I feel like I want to die."

Claire hugged me. "Don't be silly. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it. Won't we, Jools?"

"Damn straight!" Jools affirmed.

Who said that time is a constant? As I sat there, I was sure that time was slowing down to an interminable crawl. I remembered oft-quoted words of my father to his impatient children, 'A watched pot never boils'. I could now fully appreciate the meaning.

The doorbell interrupted our reverie. Jools frowned. "Who the hell would call at this time of the morning?" She checked her watch. "It's just after half six."

She went downstairs to answer it, but my curiosity dragged me down a short distance behind her. She opened the door cautiously and then opened it wide.

"Jon, what on earth are you doing here at this time?" she asked.

I heard his voice. "Sorry Jools. I couldn't sleep too good, you know. Anyway, I was sitting looking out the window and the paper boy came round. I remembered that the folks next door to us get the 'Sunday Times' each week…"

Jools laughed, "So you pinched theirs?"

"Uhh yeah," he said sounding embarrassed. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," she replied, "but we're not quite dressed… and take that silly look off your face."

He came in and spotted me lingering on the stairs. "Hey you," he said softly.

"Hey you, yourself. Have you read it yet?" I asked anxiously.

He shook his head. "No, I came straight over here with it."

We went upstairs and gathered around the table. Jon put the paper down on the table and it sat there as if it was taunting us. I realised that all eyes were on me. I shook my head.

"I can't… Jools, you read it."

"You want me to read it out?" she asked.

I shook my head vigorously. "No! Just skim through it, read it yourself and tell me…"

I sat down on the sofa and could not even watch as she reached for the magazine. I heard the pages rustle and then settle as she found her place. I briefly glanced over my shoulder and saw Jools sitting at the table with Jon and Claire each reading over her shoulders. I turned away again and concentrated on taking one breath at a time. I felt like I was being smothered.

As they read, there were no gasps of shock or outrage. In fact, they giggled or laughed from time to time. I willed them to hurry up, but it seemed like an eternity before Jools set the magazine down on the table.

"Cara?" she called.

"Yes?" I replied with dread in my voice.

"It's OK," she said softly.

"OK?"

"Yes," she said, "there's nothing to be worried about."

I got up slowly and walked over to them, "For real? Nothing at all?"

Claire smiled and gave me a hug, "On the contrary, it's flattering to say the least."

I wrinkled my brow, "I don't understand…"

"Read it," Jon urged.

I sat down and began to read…
 
 

'THE REAL CARA MALONE?' by Keith Wilkinson I would like to think that I am an unprejudiced journalist, but when some assignments land on my desk, I cannot help but have some preconceptions. This was the case when I was landed with interviewing the latest contemporary pop/rock female songster, Cara Malone. I'm not very imaginative when it comes to preconceptions; the usual ones suffice. I pictured an industry-created, media-inflated product who would, as many have done before, grace the scene for a brief moment with their unoriginal music written by some calculating mogul in the higher echelons of the record company. I was reminded why I tried to avoid preconceptions: they are often wrong. I was more than ready to suffer through excruciating banalities and time-honoured clichés from yet another 'beauty' whose image was only skin deep. In a sense, I wondered why I just did not write the answers to my own questions and save us both the time. In preparation, like any good reporter, I did a little background and actually listened to this girl's music. I had to admit that I was pleasantly surprised, but did not get my hopes up. When she opens the door of her West London apartment to us, I am reminded that she is indeed physically attractive. Big deal, I tell myself. Who isn't, in this age of exalting the superficial over all else? However, bit by bit, I find myself reappraising this young woman and coming to a different conclusion. She starts well by offering to make us coffee. I know it sounds petty, but rarely have I found the so-called stars of this generation ready to do anything that they might consider beneath themselves. Not only that, she makes damn good coffee! I am amused to watch her apparent self-consciousness as Michael, my photographer, arranges a few stills. I have seen such before and have often found it to be false and affected. For some reason though, I did not think this was the case. As Michael coaxes the desired appearances from her, I take the opportunity to watch her gentle, yet amusing responses to him. Having despatched Michael to develop what are the, no doubt, lovely images accompanying this article, I set myself to the task of discovering the real Cara Malone. My interest is whetted and I soon forget my original reluctance for this assignment. In some senses, you could say I was disappointed. Disappointed? Yes, in that I did not get the expected airhead giggles to my supposedly penetrating questioning, nor the screwed up face of apparent hard thinking when faced with the simpler issues I bring up. Instead I find myself talking to a young woman of obvious intelligence who courteously and thoughtfully answers everything I ask her. Well, almost everything. Cara Malone was born Nicola Evans on the seventeenth of September 1979. She was brought up in Pembroke, along with her older sister, by her father, a solicitor, and her mother, who gave up teaching to look after her two children. "I can't remember a time when I didn't have music in my life," she says with the bright eyes of one recalling happy memories. "My parents always encouraged me and I attribute my strong desire to succeed to the hard-working examples they modelled for me." I ask her if they had intended for her to grow up and become a rock star. She laughs and drops her gaze for a moment before replying in her melodious Welsh lilt, "No. Far from it. Although they would never forbid me to pursue my dreams, I think they hoped I would give up and become a music teacher or something." As she talks about her family, there is a certain veil of sadness that descends. Cara Malone lost her mother two months ago when she died following a heart attack. The pain of this still raw wound is all too evident and she admits that she finds it hard to believe that the mother she loved so much has gone. There are hints that things are not exactly as they should be between her and her father, but it is obvious that she does not want to elaborate on this. When asked to talk about her music, however, she becomes more animated and I can sense the vitality and strength of determination that she possesses. Immediately, she is unmistakably set apart from most of those who pass as musicians today. She is adamant that she writes her own songs and is almost horrified when I try to suggest otherwise. Call me old-fashioned, as I am sure you will, but those who can both write and perform their own music are worthy of double respect in my opinion. When I ask her how she writes her songs, a look of almost maternal pride comes over her as she tries to explain. "I don't know if I can really answer that, because I don't think I really understand it myself. I just know when there is a song inside me and sometimes I can pull it out quickly with the minimum of effort. Other times it is long, drawn out and almost painful." I quip, "Just like giving birth?" Her eyes twinkle and she replies, "I wouldn't know about that, I'm afraid." I laugh and tell her that's another question off my list then. I am rewarded with a gratifying flush that spreads across her cheeks. With her first two singles reaching the Top Ten, one might expect that this young musician with the world at her feet might be developing an opinion about herself. "Opinion about myself? Definitely not… well, I mean I hope not." She looks at me somewhat anxiously, "I hope that's not the way I come across. I don't take anything for granted. The last few months have certainly taught me that. I'm actually amazed at how well my songs have done. Not that I don't think they are good, I'm just surprised that so many other people seem to think so too." Feeling confident in my skills as an experienced journalist, I decide to push the boat out. Trying to catch her off guard I say, "You have quite a sexy and sensual stage presence when performing and in your videos. How do you reconcile that with who you are off-stage?" I expect her to squirm or perhaps even reveal that her apparent self-deprecation was not authentic. She does neither. Instead I am the one forced to squirm as she turns it back to me with a coy smile, "I'm a bit worried by the way you phrased your question that you are implying that off-stage I'm not sexy or sensual." I try to regain my composure and assure her that I meant nothing of the sort. In fact, I realise that the young woman as she is before me now is so much more alluring than any public image she has portrayed thus far. Of course, I don't admit as much - I'm a professional after all. I'm not affected by such things, am I? I rephrase my question and ask her that when the spotlights are off, who is the real Cara Malone? As she crosses her legs while she thinks of her answer, I find that I have to force myself to concentrate on what she is saying. "I don't want to sound as if I take myself too seriously. I guess I'm just an ordinary girl who loves to sing and play the piano and guitar. I'm just like anyone else; it's not as if I've got anything magical. I'm thankful for the musical abilities I've got and the opportunities I've been given to share them." From anyone else, it might sound syrupy and manufactured, but her words ring with an assured sincerity. For a bit of fun I asked her that if she could have a date with anyone in the musical world, who would it be? I am surprised by her answer as she avoids all the usual clean cut and attractive clichés. "Aaron Kramer," she admits. When I intimate that the aforementioned lead singer of 'Stealing Time' is not exactly highly placed on the music industry's list of attractive males, she laughs and says, "I guess not, but the words he writes are so poignant and the songs are filled with this deep longing and thirst for life. I've loved his music for so long that perhaps it's possible to have a crush on someone for their talent and poetry." Why do I have a sudden urge to write poetry, I ask myself? I move on to ask the billion dollar question. Is she dating anyone at present? My supposedly professional detachment seems to disappear as I find myself taking an inordinate interest in her answer. For as hard as it might be to imagine, this talented young woman is unencumbered by any romantic attachments. When I ask her why, she gives a little smile and in her gentle sing-song inflection says, "The time, the place and the person has not been right. When they are, I hope I'll recognise it." I ask her if she has anyone in mind and she laughs and says, "Well, that is part of the real Cara Malone that will have to remain a mystery for now." I don't know if the rest of the men up and down this country suddenly feel like trying to solve this part of the mystery behind the real Cara Malone. If so, get in line… behind me.

 
 
I finished reading the article and looked up to see three faces grinning at me. I smiled shyly and slid the magazine away from me.

"You're blushing," Jools said with more than a degree of amusement.

I laughed self-consciously and raised a hand to my cheeks. "I guess I am." I paused before continuing, "It's quite good, isn't it?"

Claire snorted. "Quite good? If that's only quite good, I'd hate to see what you think very good or brilliant is."

I grinned and shrugged. "Oh come on, it's artistic licence. He's exaggerating things to make it read better."

Jon chuckled, "Rubbish. He's got the hots for you."

"He has not," I protested, "You're reading too much into it." I found myself looking into three very sceptical faces.

"All fun aside," Jools said seriously, "did we get it wrong? I mean did we read too much into what happened with the year book and what he said last week?"

I sighed and thought before speaking. "I don't think so. I'm fairly certain he knows. He definitely knows something of what happened with… Noel."

Claire frowned. "Why didn't he write anything about it then? I mean, no offence, but it is a heck of a story."

None of us had an answer to this. Although I was immensely relieved after reading the article, I still had a nagging feeling that there was more to this than had so far met the eye. Perhaps I was developing better female intuition.
 

*          *          *
 
Claire, Jools and I headed off to get showered and dressed. Since Jon was still there, we told him that he should make himself useful and make us all some breakfast.

He thought we were joking until Jools pointed to the kitchen and in a low voice said, "I'm not going to ask twice."

Jon could move fast when he wanted to.

I was feeling rather good about myself I have to admit. Although I had played down the things written about me in the article, inwardly I felt flattered and pleased by what he had said. I was a little disconcerted by the apparent reaction I had evoked in him, but I took it as a satisfying reassurance as to my femininity. To celebrate this, and for the first time in several days, I took extra care with my appearance: a white halter top, red miniskirt and carefully applied make up — I was ready to face the world again.

With my appetite making a sudden reappearance, I found that I was able to do myself justice with breakfast. We took immense delight in complimenting Jon for the great job he had done and kept throwing out comments to the effect that we must have him around more often to do likewise.

We all took turns to read the article a few more times, although I was the only one who got teased for doing so. I was feeling more and more relaxed, until the phone rang and Jools answered it.

She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, "Cara, it's for you. It's Keith Wilkinson."

My eyes asked the question: 'what does he want?' Jools shrugged and handed me the receiver as she mouthed 'be careful'. I nodded and frowned a little.

"Hello?"

"Hi Cara, it's Keith."

"Yes?" I said more than a little suspiciously.

"I was wondering if you had had a chance to read my article."

"Yes. I did. It was very flattering… thank you."

There was a pause, before he continued, "I wonder if you would do me a favour. Would you mind, say, meeting me for a coffee this morning? That is if you are not too busy? There's something I'd like to talk about."

"What is it?" I asked as my heart rate began to climb.

"I'd rather talk face-to-face, if you don't mind."

I chewed my lip and then replied, "OK, I'll see you at Marnie's café at the bottom of the Portobello Road in one hour."

When I put the phone down, I was hit with a barrage of questions.

"What did he want?"

"What was that about?"

"You're meeting him?"

I waved at them to be quiet and told them what he had said. "What does it mean?" I asked.

Jools sighed, "I think he does know, but I've no idea what he wants. Are you sure you should meet him?"

I shrugged, "I don't particularly want to, but we have to know what is going on. I have to know."

Jools grimaced and nodded, "You're right. Just be very careful about what you say to him. Don't tell him anything even if you think he might already know it. He may be trying to trick you into admitting something that he might suspect but not know for definite."

"I'm coming with you," Jon stated.

I shook my head, "No. I'm going alone. I want to be able to get him to talk and find out what is going on."

After a brief discussion, it was decided that they would come with me and wait in the car at a discreet distance, but I would go in alone.
 

*          *          *
 
"Cara?" Jools said gently, "Aren't you going to get out of the car?"

I looked over at her and forced a smile. "I'm steeling myself for this. I just don't know what he is going to say or do."

Jon in a low almost growling tone said from the back seat, "He isn't going to do anything. If he gives you any hassle, give us a wave and I'll be there before you know it."

I smiled and checked my appearance in the mirror on the sunshade. I looked a little pale, but otherwise OK.

I felt a hand from behind gently squeeze my shoulder and Claire murmured, "You'll be fine, sis, and you look great. Don't worry."

I swallowed hard and thanked them for their encouragement as I got out of the car. I slowly walked over to Marnie's and entered. I spotted Keith immediately at a table near the back. He stood, smiled and waved me over. I forced a smile and walked over to him.

"Hello, Cara. I'm glad you came."

"Hi, Keith." I paused, "Could we maybe sit at a table near the window? It is such a nice day outside and it would be a shame to sit back here in the gloom."

I'm not sure if he read anything else into my suggestion, but he shrugged and seemed happy to acquiesce. We took our seats at the new table and I looked at him warily.

"You wanted to meet?" I prompted.

He nodded. "What did you think of the article?"

I looked away for a moment before meeting his gaze. "As I said, I found it very flattering. Although I think you did exaggerate things here or there."

He gave a soft laugh. "Perhaps I understated them?"

"Keith, I'm not quite sure why I am here."

He inclined his head. "I think you have a fair idea though, don't you?"

I spread my hands on the table and leaned forward. "Please just say whatever you have to say."

He nodded. "Fair enough." He paused and then began slowly, "I think you know that I found some other background material on you that I didn't put into the article. You're probably wondering why I didn't use it."

I was poker-faced and raised an eyebrow. "Other background material? Why don't you enlighten me?"

He sighed. "Cara, I'm not trying to threaten you or trick you. I can see why you would be reluctant to say anything, but… I know. I think you realised that last week, didn't you?"

I chewed my lip and thought. I remembered Jools' warning and I was not about to confirm any suspicion of his. However, I did want to find out what he wanted.

"Alright," I said slowly, "Hypothetically speaking: say you did have some other background material on me, why would you not use it in the article?"

He looked intently at me and spoke frankly, "I nearly did."

I think he could see the effect his words had on me. I swallowed nervously and took a sip of the coffee that had arrived before me. I did not know what to say and was almost thankful when he continued to speak.

"I think it's a pride thing with me. I hate to feel that I'm not getting the full story on anything I work on. I don't know why I probed further; I just had a hunch for some strange reason. I mean, there was nothing in your appearance or in what you said that made me think anything was out of place. I think it was the visit to your school. Something just didn't seem right. So I investigated a little further and found out… well, you know what."

I looked at him intently and chose my words carefully. "Assuming what you say is correct, hypothetically of course, why would you not publish it?"

He grinned ruefully. "As I said, I was so close to doing just that. What a story! Like a dog with a bone, I wanted the whole story, so I sought Noel out and had a few drinks with him. Unfortunately, he was able to hold his liquor better that night than he had done a few weeks ago. As I said, in Kent I got the full story of what happened."

"So, what are you trying to say? You took pity on me?" My voice had a harsh tone to it.

He winced and shook his head. "Not at all. I was still going to go with the whole story. I even had a draft written, but I tore it up."

I frowned, "Why?"

He shrugged and smiled. "I don't really know if I can put it into words."

I raised an eyebrow and with a degree of scepticism said, "So speaks the experienced journalist."

He laughed and rubbed his chin. "I guess I deserved that." He paused. "Let me try then." After another pause he continued, "Alright, as much as it embarrasses me to admit this to your face, when I met you and interviewed you I was really quite taken with you. You probably gathered that from reading the article. The article you read today was the one I wanted to write after meeting you. The draft that I destroyed made me feel hollow and…" He shrugged. "I don't know… like the guy who bursts the kids' footballs when they get kicked into his garden. If that makes any sense. You probably have Harry Rowan to thank that I didn't go with the draft."

"Harry who?"

He grinned and leant back in his chair. "Harry Rowan was the editor of the 'Lincoln Gazette'. It was the local paper where I got my first job. Although it was a provincial little rag, Harry had forgotten more about journalism than most Fleet Street editors will ever know. I never forgot the things that Harry taught me. One of his favourite sayings was 'The good journalist always unearths the big stories, but the great journalist knows which ones not to tell'."

I nodded slowly. "So, you just chose not to tell it?"

He looked a little embarrassed. "When I read the draft I had written, I realised that I hadn't written about the real Cara Malone like I had thought." He paused and said quietly, "I realised that, for me, the real Cara Malone was the lovely young lady that I had the pleasure of interviewing. That was the real Cara Malone that I wanted to show to the nation. What's more tangible or real? Facts on a piece of paper? Or what my eyes and heart tell me?" He laughed. "God, that sounds so corny."

I smiled awkwardly. "I don't… I don't know what to say."

He shrugged and smiled at me. "I still can barely believe what I think I found out. Just sitting here and looking at you…"

"Keith, please," I interrupted. I took a deep breath. "Did you show… the draft to anyone else? Your editor?"

He laughed mirthlessly. "God, no! If he saw what I knew and that I hadn't used it, he'd have my balls for breakfast." He winced. "Sorry. Unfortunate turn of phrase."

I could not help but smile. "So Keith, why am I here? What is it you want from me?"

He looked hurt. "Cara, it's not what you think. You think I'm here to blackmail you or something?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, your words about me were fairly flattering… you certainly expressed a lot of interest in me…"

He smiled and softly said, "You think I'd use what I know to… what, force you to do something you didn't want to do? With me?"

I felt very uncomfortable and looked around to make sure that no one was listening to our conversation. "I don't know. I've been very unsure and on edge this past week. Actually, these past few weeks."

He shook his head vigorously. "Don't get me wrong. I am interested in you… even despite what I know. But I have no illusions; after all I'm at least ten years older than you."

"More like fifteen," I said with a wry grin.

He laughed and said, "Whatever. I've no ulterior motive here. I just wanted to let you know why I did what I did. I wanted to reassure you that you have nothing to fear from me."

"You aren't going to tell anyone?" I said hesitantly, "I mean, hypothetically, if there were anything to tell?"

He shook his head. "Trust me…" He grinned. "I was going to say: 'trust me, I'm a journalist', but I don't think that has a good ring to it."

I smiled. "No, it's not the most comforting thing I've ever heard. I don't have much choice though. I guess I have to trust you."

He shifted a little in his seat and smiled almost apologetically. "Now, if you ever… for whatever reason, decided you wanted to tell your full story…" He paused and shrugged and left the rest unsaid.

I nodded slowly. "Let's just say that I'll keep you in mind should such an occasion ever arise and leave it at that."

He grinned. "That's all I can ask for."

I shifted my chair back a little and was about to get up when he slid a folded piece of paper across the table to me. I stood up and looked at it and then back to him.

"What's that?" I asked suspiciously.

"It's something I thought you would want to keep safe. It's the original and I don't have any copies," he replied.

I slowly picked it up and unfolded it. My heart pounded as I realised what it was. My picture, or Nick's picture rather, looked back at me from the page of the missing yearbook. I folded it again and slipped it into my handbag.

"Thanks," I murmured and was about to turn to leave, when I stopped. "One thing I don't understand though, is how you could break into the school just to get this?"

He frowned. "I'd hardly call it breaking in."

"What would you call it then?"

He shrugged. "After talking to your old headmistress, I pretended to leave. Five minutes later, I sneaked back in and made my way into the library. I just acted like I had every right to be there and no one challenged me. I found the book and, when no one was looking, I tore out that page, replaced the book and got the hell out."

I stood there and felt the cold fear swathe my heart again. I stammered, "B-but if you didn't…"

He looked puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

I swallowed, forced a tight-lipped smile and, before leaving, said, "Nothing. Never mind. Thanks again, Keith"

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