In the dream, Abby was running. She was on a road that looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. And why was she running? She knew she was scared; was something chasing her, or was she late for something – an exam perhaps? Slowly she became aware of a clanging noise; that was it. She was running for a bus, and there it was, bright red in front of her. But wait! Buses didn’t have clanging bells. And suddenly she knew what it was: a fire engine, and it was going to her house. Her house was burning down with everything in it. ‘Nick!’ she cried, sitting up, her fists clutching the bedclothes.
There was no fire. The house was still there, the morning light leaking underneath the bedroom curtains. But the ringing was real. It took her a second to realise it was the doorbell.
She blinked hard to wake herself up and rolled out of bed, glancing at her bedside clock to check the time. Pulling on her dressing gown, she went downstairs, snapping the Sunday papers from the letter box before she opened the door.
‘Rosamund?’ She frowned with confusion as she recognised her visitor.
‘Can I come in?’
Abby registered something clipped and impatient in the tone of her voice.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
It was 8.45 in the morning. A Sunday morning. Abby had no idea how the older woman had tracked her down or what was so important that she had.
Rosamund said nothing as she stepped inside the house. Abby tucked the papers under her arm and ushered her through into the living room.
The two women stood there for a moment without saying anything.
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘Fifty years as a journalist teaches you a few tricks,’ Rosamund said crisply. She nodded towards the newspaper. ‘I expect you’re going to frame it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The newspaper.’
Abby put the copy of the Sunday Chronicle down on the table.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ she asked in bemusement.
‘Isn’t your first byline a big thing for any new journalist?’
‘Byline? What?’ She rubbed her face. ‘I’m sorry, Rosamund, I’m not following you.’
She was met with an icy silence.
‘The lead story in the News Review section of today’s Chronicle.’
‘What about it?’ she asked slowly. Rosamund’s expression was making her nervous. She saw a glimmer of steel, the tough patina of a hardened journalist, not the benevolent wise owl she had previously encountered.
‘I take it you didn’t know the story was to be published today.’
‘What story?’ said Abby, now utterly confused.
‘Have a look,’ said Ros.
Abby picked up the paper, tossing aside the various sections until she found the News Review. There, splashed across the front page, was the picture she had found in Bystander magazine of Rosamund and Dominic, alongside a smaller version of The Last Goodbye. The headline above it all read ‘The Playboy Spy – Mystery Explorer Sold Secrets to KGB’. Her wide eyes shot to the top of the page: ‘Reporting, Elliot Hall and Abigail Gordon’.
‘You’re kidding,’ she whispered, opening the paper to see that the story ran to a double-page spread on pages two and three.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ replied Rosamund sharply. ‘I assume the timing of the feature has surprised you, if not its content.’
Abby looked up at her.
‘Honestly, Rosamund, I had no idea about this,’ she said quickly.
‘Abby, please don’t take me for a fool.’