Then she turned and took in Lindsay standing in the doorway. The two women scrutinized each other carefully, deciding how much they liked what they saw, both wary. Suddenly the weekend seemed to hold out fresh possibilities to Lindsay as Cordelia’s gray eyes under the straight dark brows flicked over her from head to foot. She felt slightly dazed and weak with something she supposed was lust. It had been a long time since she had felt the first stirrings of an attraction based on the combination of looks and good vibes. Cordelia, too, seemed to like what she saw, for a smile twitched at the corners of her wide mouth. “So this is the famous Lindsay,” she remarked.

Lindsay prayed that her face did not look as stricken as she felt. She nodded and smiled back, feeling a little foolish. “Something like that,” she answered. “Nice to meet you.” She found herself desperately hoping that what she’d heard about Cordelia’s taste in lovers was true.

She was spared further conversational efforts just then by the demands of Cordelia’s stomach.

“I say, Paddy, any chance of some scoff?” she demanded plaintively. “I’m famished. It took much longer than I thought to get here. The traffic was unbelievable. Does the entire population of London come to Derbyshire every weekend? Or are they simply all desperate to see the new one-act play by Cordelia Brown?”

Paddy laughed. “I knew you’d be hungry. There’s some salad in the kitchen. I’ll just get it.” But before Paddy could make a move, Lindsay had vanished into the kitchen. Cordelia shot a look at Paddy, her eyebrows rising comically and a smile on her lips. Paddy merely grinned and said, “I’ll fix you a drink. What would you like?”

“A Callaghan cocktail special, please. Why the hell do you think I was prepared to come back to this dump?” As Paddy mixed the drinks, Lindsay returned with Cordelia’s meal. She promptly tucked in as though she had not eaten for days.

Paddy strained a Brandy Alexander out of the shaker and passed it to Cordelia, saying, “Lindsay is writing a feature about the fund-raising.”

“Poor old you. But you’re not an old girl, are you?”

“Do I look that out of place?” asked Lindsay.

“No, not at all. It’s simply that I knew that I’d never seen you before, either at school or at any of the old girl reunions. I’d have remembered. I’m good at faces. But you’re not one of us, are you?”

“No. I know Paddy from Oxford. I was up when she was doing her teacher training. And she talked me into this. I’m freelancing at the moment, so it’s all grist to the mill.” Lindsay’s response to the assurance of the older woman was to adopt the other’s speech pattern and to polish up her own accent.