Not the Same River by Anne Lalaguna

Author:Anne Lalaguna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2016-11-25T00:00:00+00:00

23

It was early evening when they drove into the almost deserted car park of a large apartment block in St John’s Wood in North London.

The impressive building was set well back from the road, behind a wall of tall evergreen shrubs. Lime green conifers, lit from below with spotlights, pierced the shadows like glowing beacons.

Saz got out of the car to stretch with a loud yawn. ‘Hallelujah. Home at last. Almost!’

Maggie tried to ignore the flutters of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She took a deep breath as they reached the large glass doors and Saz shook her head in mock reproof, squeezing her hand. ‘Courage, mon brave,’ she said with a wink.

The white head of the porter was just visible behind the desk. He was engrossed in a newspaper, taking occasional sips from a large white mug emblazoned with the word Arsenal in large red letters.

Saz spoke into the intercom panel. ‘Jim, it’s me, Saz.’

He frowned suspiciously at the door, nodded and went back to his paper as the buzzer sounded.

Once inside the spacious entrance hall, Saz stretched again, flexing her spine with a groan. ‘I’m getting old and creaky,’ she said as she tapped the face of her watch. ‘One hour, fifty-five minutes. Not bad eh? Considering all the congestion on the North Circular. Is that road ever empty?’

She linked an arm through Maggie’s. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with!’ she said as she led the way up the thickly carpeted staircase and along the corridor.

‘Don’t look so worried. You two are going to get on like a house on fire. Trust me.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘I have an instinct.’

Maggie’s stomach lurched as she watched Saz press the doorbell to flat number three.

The door was opened by a very tall, dark-haired man dressed in shabby black jeans and a stained sweatshirt. His long pale feet were bare.

Saz stood on tip-toe as he leaned down to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

‘Hi Rob, this is Maggie Savernake. Maggie, this is Rob Hunter,’ she said.

Dark grey eyes regarded Maggie solemnly as he held out a large ink-stained hand. ‘Hi.’

Maggie’s hand disappeared. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to hide her astonishment. Was this the mystery celebrity? He looked so normal, so ordinary, apart from his height. His voice was deep and resonant. Maggie wondered if he was a singer.

The apartment was located on the corner of the building, with the two exterior walls of the lounge glazed from floor to ceiling, which created a disconcerting impression of the room being open to the elements. Beyond the windows, Maggie saw a wrap-around balcony with some garden furniture and a couple of large, empty plant pots. A huge corner sofa upholstered in a light oatmeal fabric and two matching wing-backed chairs were grouped around a long glass coffee table, with newspapers and magazines heaped at one end.

The decor was immaculate but completely lacking in personality. Maggie thought that it must be what a luxury hotel might look like.

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