No Escape Read Online Free Page B

a family trip that
would benefit HANDS – there was deceit in it too. Speaking to Dalia before tackling her, neatly cutting off any avenues of escape she might have thought of.
    The fact was, she probably
would
have done just that, asked Andrew to apologize profusely to Howard Dunn and the Food and Drink people, but to tell them she simply couldn’t manage
it.
    Too late for that now, and Lizzie decided she wouldn’t be surprised if Christopher hadn’t already told Dalia that it was safe to leak a little something about the venture to the
press, because that was his style when he really wanted something. It was what had made him such an enormous success; determination and – couched in all that charm and courtesy – a
degree of ruthlessness.
    So because of that, not only Dalia, but also Vicuna and the TV people would all be extra delighted because she was going to donate part of her royalties, which meant more positive press and
media coverage.
    And soon, too, all the children and Gilly would be bouncing with excitement, and perhaps Angela – recently engaged to William Archer, a lovely retired stockbroker – might want to
join them at some stage of the journey, and Andrew would, she supposed, be trying to get them a table at The Ivy or The Caprice to celebrate.
    But all Lizzie could think about – instead of the delights of the travel, and the new creative challenge, and the compliment that was being paid her by both Vicuna and the Food and Drink
Channel – was the prospect of being trapped in all those hotel rooms with her husband, surrounded on all sides by family and closely scrutinizing colleagues.
    And yes, it did chill her.
    It was a very long time since she had felt so trapped.

Chapter Six
    On a sunny April afternoon in the late 90s, Joanne Patston – until recently a customer services assistant at the Chingford branch of the Savers Mutual Building Society
– and her husband, Tony, a mechanic with his own one-man garage near Walthamstow, had brought their new baby daughter home for the first time to their semi-detached house in Chingford
Hatch.
    Her name was Irina, she was a three-month-old Romanian orphan, and her homecoming had been duly celebrated by her ecstatic adoptive parents, next-door-neighbours Paul and Nicola Georgiou, and by
Irina’s overjoyed new grandmother, Sandra Finch.
    ‘Isn’t she the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?’ Sandra had cooed over her daughter’s shoulder, as Joanne cradled Irina. ‘Eyes just like black
cherries.’
    ‘Even darker than mine,’ Paul Georgiou had remarked to his wife.
    ‘Intelligent eyes,’ Tony Patston said.
    ‘Her hands are so tiny,’ Joanne marvelled.
    ‘Delicate fingers,’ Tony said.
    Irina kicked her bootied feet.
    ‘Maybe she’ll be a ballerina,’ her new father said.
    ‘Or a footballer.’ Paul laughed.
    Tony, who Joanne had once said – looking through the eyes of love – resembled Will Carling, threw his neighbour a look of mild disgust, downed the last of his champagne, went over to
their Ikea sideboard and picked up a can of Fosters.
    ‘I don’t care what Irina does,’ Joanne said, ‘so long as she’s healthy and happy.’
    ‘Absolutely,’ Nicola agreed.
    ‘I can’t believe it,’ Sandra said. ‘My first grandchild.’ She bent to stroke Irina’s dark hair. ‘I’m so happy for you, Joanne.’
    ‘What about me?’ Tony asked. ‘I mean, I did have something to do with this.’
    ‘Of course you did,’ his mother-in-law told him. ‘I’m happy for you both.’
    ‘How about a toast?’ Paul suggested, raising his lager in the air.
    ‘Tony?’ Joanne looked at her husband.
    ‘Give her to me.’ Tony put down his beer and stooped to take the baby.
    ‘Support her head,’ Nicola said automatically.
    ‘He knows,’ Joanne said.
    ‘Course I know,’ Tony said. ‘Been practising for long enough.’
    ‘The toast,’ Paul reminded him.
    Tony cleared his throat. ‘Our daughter.’ His voice cracked