Dead Romantic (10 page)

And with this I return to my office, but I can feel Simon’s gaze burning into my back. Great; now he probably thinks I’m even more of a lunatic than he did before. Nice work, and I’ve only been back here a morning. I can hardly wait to see what happens by this evening.

I’m about to open my office door when a noise stops me in my tracks. My fingers freeze as they close on the handle and my heart starts to race. I can hear laughter. Peals and peals of laughter – the high-pitched and infectious giggling of a child.

And it’s coming from my office.

My empty office.

With a growing sense of terror I fling open the door, then stop abruptly when I see a small boy dressed in what can only be described as ancient Egyptian clothing, playing with my ball of rubber bands; he’s rolling it across the office for the cat that leaps after it. Seeing me at the door he looks up and beams at me, a delighted gap-toothed smile, which is followed by a gabble of sounds. Are these the long-lost words of an equally long-lost language? Did ancient dialect sound like this?

“Who are you?” I whisper.

Pointing to his chest the little boy smiles again broadly and then pronounces two syllables that floor me.

“Aamon!”

I’m clutching the doorframe, but even this isn’t enough to anchor me in a world where everything is shifting. As the office dips and rolls and the light starts to dim, Alex Thorne’s words echo through my memory and strike dread into my heart.

If you can see me, then you’ll see all the others too – and they might not be quite as obliging as I am.

Maybe Alex isn’t a figment of my imagination after all.

Chapter 10

“Right, one cup of tea with three sugars and a double chocolate-chip muffin. That should do the trick. We can’t have you fainting like that again. I think you’ll be responsible for my first grey hairs, finding you in a heap like that!”

Simon deposits the spoils of his trip to the museum café onto the desk and begins to unwrap the cake, crumbling it onto a plate, which he pushes in my direction.

“Thank goodness I needed to speak to you about the Assistant Director’s position,” he continues, his eyes brimming with concern. “Otherwise you might still be there lying on your office floor.”

To be honest I wish he hadn’t found me sprawled on my office floor, displaying today’s knickers to the world. Then I could have come round slowly and on my own rather than to the shock of waking up and finding Simon looking down at me. Him and Aamon, the cat, two Roman soldiers and, to my even greater shock, Henry Wellby himself, every bit as whiskery and serious as he looks in his portrait.

It’s a revelation. I never knew my office was so crowded. On the bright side, at least all the effort I put into choosing today’s knickers hasn’t been wasted.

“I know you’re going to argue with me but I really don’t think you’re up to being back at work. You’re still recovering from a head injury,” Simon continues with a worried frown while stirring my tea vigorously.

He has no idea just
how
much I’m suffering from this head injury – and he’s never going to know, either. At least, not if I have anything to do with it. I curl my hands around the hot teacup and try to ignore the crowds of unwanted visitors who’ve gathered around me. There’re not really there anyway: all of this is in my imagination. I just wish they wouldn’t talk quite so loudly.

“Still don’t believe me?” Alex Thorne says. He’s perched on the corner of my desk, his legs dangling in a carefree manner, and he’s grinning at me like a Halloween pumpkin. “Still think ghosts don’t exist?”

I ignore him; of course I do. Simon’s chatting away and I’m trying to concentrate every scrap of my attention on him, although this is easier said than done while Aamon’s playing football and Henry Wellby’s leafing through today’s notes. He looks impressed, which is good news even if he is just a figment of my imagination.

“Fine,” shrugs Alex, scooping up the cat and caressing its bony head. “Be like that then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Cleo. It isn’t just me, remember? You can see us all!”

“Shut up!” I hiss from out of the corner of my mouth.

“Cleo, are you sure you’re all right?” Simon asks. His hand, warm and strong, closes around mine. His index finger skims across my palm and I shiver. God, he’s even more beautiful close up. It’s as if someone’s drawn around his irises with an indigo fine liner.

“You’re dreadfully pale and you’re so cold,” he adds, resting the back of his hand against my brow. “Shall I take you home?”

“He’s hitting on you!” Alex teases. “Don’t let us get in your way.”

I turn my back on him. Whatever mad tricks my mind is playing on me, I’m going to rise above it all. I’ll go back to the doctor and I swear to God I won’t throw the next prescription away.

“I’m fine. I just skipped breakfast before I came to work,” I fib. I don’t think I’ve actually eaten breakfast since about 1998. I don’t have time for breakfast: I’m far too busy.

Alex snorts with laughter. “Breakfast! That’s a good one! It’ll take more than a McMuffin to cure this!”

I shoot him a look that ought to be capable of laying him out dead at my feet – if he wasn’t already dead, obviously.

Simon doesn’t look convinced by my explanation. “I still think you’re back here far too soon. It’s all too much for you. Look, why don’t you pass some of your workload over to me? I really don’t mind helping out until you feel better.”

Now there’s one thing I never do, and that’s share my research. The very thought fills me with horror. My work is so precious it feels as though he’s asked me to hand over my child.

“I could take over the bits you’ve been doing on the boy pharaoh – Aamon, wasn’t it – if that would help?” Simon continues, presumably mistaking my surprised silence for acquiescence. Although his tone is light and casual I notice that his index finger is busy squashing cake crumbs flat against the plate.

“That’s a really kind offer, Simon, but I’m absolutely fine,” I say firmly. There’s no way I’m letting him get his mitts on Aamon. No way. The discovery of Aamon’s secrets was always Mum’s dream and I’m not giving it away to anyone else. Almost as though he knows what I’m thinking, the little Egyptian boy gives me a toothy grin and then turns a cartwheel before chattering away to Henry Wellby, who seems to understand every word and nods thoughtfully.

Oh Lord. I really should have taken the doctor up on that prescription.

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble for me,” Simon insists, his denim-blue eyes wide and filled with concern. “I know the Aamonic period isn’t especially significant but I really don’t mind if it takes a load off you.”

I nearly inhale a mouthful of my sweet tea.
Not particularly significant?
Does he have any idea just what I’ve uncovered here? How much this tells us about the course of history? It’s immense! If it’s true that Aamon was murdered and usurped it throws those who followed him into a whole new light.

It will change Egyptology forever.

Stung by his flippant dismissal of years of Carpenter family research, I feel my temper simmer. Step away from my work, buster!

“You don’t have to thank me,” says Simon gently, mistaking my gobsmacked silence for overwhelmed gratitude. “I’m more than happy to lend a hand. Shall I just copy your files to my hard drive? Or shall I take your laptop?”

Quite frankly I’d rather drown myself in my sugary tea than let anyone else near my research – however kind, well respected and good-looking they happen to be – let alone copy it. Resisting the urge to tell him to back the hell off, I simply say again that I’m absolutely fine and more than happy to resume normal service. I even force myself to eat the muffin, which suddenly tastes of cotton wool, and focus on him telling me all about his latest paper on the Ptolemaic period. Every now and then Simon asks me a question about my research, dropped into the conversation very subtly. My senses are heightened now. I can tell Simon’s trying to get to some point, but I can’t for the life of me work out what it is. He’s been around the houses more than Phil and Kirstie.

“Do you know what?” Simon says suddenly, jumping to his feet and grabbing my hands. “I think we need a change of scene. How about you and I play truant for the afternoon?”

I glance at my desk. Papers are strewn all over it and my laptop screensaver blinks at me balefully.
Work
! it says, and I really should listen.

“I don’t think so, Simon, fun as that sounds. I’ve missed quite enough time as it is.”

“Then another hour or so won’t hurt. Let me take you out for lunch. I know a super little place just off Covent Garden. They do the best moules. Come on, Cleo, humour me. I’ve been wanting to take you out for weeks.”

He has? Wow. Funny though; a couple of weeks ago, pre bang on the head, the thought that Simon Welsh would be asking me out would have been enough to send my pulse sky high. I must really be off colour to be hesitating.

Now, what would Susie do in my position?

There’s an easy answer to that question: she’d be sitting at a table in a low-cut top and putting in an order before you could say lunch date
.
Maybe it’s time I loosened up a bit and took a leaf out of her well-thumbed book on dating. Besides, being in my office surrounded by all and sundry is starting to make me feel nervous. Who knows who’ll appear next? Elvis? Henry VIII? Maybe a change of scene and some fresh air is exactly what I need.

“That sounds lovely,” I say, deliberately turning my back on Alex et al as I reach for my satchel and start to gather up my papers. “Would you pass me my laptop, please, Simon?”

“Leave all that here,” Simon says quickly. “Have some time off for an hour or two at least. Lock your office up; it’ll all be fine until tomorrow.”

For a moment I’m tempted. But then I think about the promotion and just how much work I have to do. Maybe I will take the afternoon off, but I’ll work from home instead, and late into the night if I have to.

“Thanks, but I’d rather take it with me,” I decide, as I snap the laptop lid down and scoop up the rest of my papers. “I need it all anyway to finish off the job application.”

Simon’s smooth brow crinkles. “You’re still thinking of applying for the Assistant Director of the Department position?”

“I’m not
thinking
about it at all: I
am
applying,” I tell him.

“After all you’ve been through? You seriously think taking on all that extra responsibility is a good idea?” He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his thick blond hair. “Cleo, as a friend – a friend who cares for you very much – I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I’m really concerned that the stress of it all might be too much for you.”

I almost laugh out loud. Stress? From a job? He seriously has no idea. When Simon’s experiencing the kind of crazy hallucinations that are bugging me right now, then he can talk about being stressed. Until then I think I’m the resident expert on that. Compared to seeing things that aren’t there, running our department would be a walk in the park.

“I’m fine, honestly. The doctor says there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, so I’m still applying. Of course I am.”

Simon shrugs in a defeated manner. “Well, good for you. I just think it’s a shame that you’re putting yourself under extra pressure unnecessarily.”

I pause, holding my files in mid-air between desk and satchel. “What do you mean, unnecessarily?”

He looks a little embarrassed. “Come on, Cleo, don’t make me spell it out.”

“Go on, Cleo, do,” says Alex, materialising at my elbow. “Take it from me, this guy’s a creep. Good-looking bastard, but still a creep. Why do girls never see it?”

“Shut up!” I hiss. “I don’t need you interfering! You make everything ten times worse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Simon demands, looking hurt. “I’m only trying to help. I just want you to accept that you’re not well enough to be here and that you need to rest. I want the best for
you
!”

“You want the competition out of the way, more like!” scoffs Alex. His green eyes glitter with dislike and he’s bristling like one of Stephenie Meyer’s werewolves. Goodness, he really is upset on my behalf, which is very sweet but completely unnecessary. I don’t need a knight in shining armour, or in this case in a battered leather jacket and designer jeans.

“Can I handle this, please?” I say.

“Cleo, who are you talking to?” Simon steps closer, right through Alex, and puts his hands on my shoulders. He shivers. “Brrr. Your office is so damn cold. That’s it; I’m taking you home. You’re in no state to be here.”

I shake him off impatiently. “I’m fine!”

“Sweetheart, you’re not! You’re talking to thin air!”

“He can’t see me,” says Alex, helpfully, just in case I don’t get it.

I roll my eyes at him. “That’s because you don’t exist.”

Alex rolls his eyes right back. “So why are you talking to me then?”

“Because you’re a delusion!” I almost yell.

“Cleo, please,” Simon pleads, now holding my hands tightly. I can see his breath in the air, and he’s very pale. “Calm down. My God, just listen to yourself! There’s no way you’re up to even applying for this job, let alone doing it. You’ve been seriously ill; you’re fragile and you need to rest. I’m begging you not to put yourself through the strain of it. Not when they’ve practically promised the position to me anyway.”

“Practically promised isn’t the same as
having
promised,” Alex growls. “Tosser!”

“Go away!” I tell Alex furiously. “Leave me alone! This is all your fault.”

Simon’s face is grave. A muscle twitches in his cheek. “I’m sorry you feel like that, Cleo, really sorry. All I can say is, may the best man win. And right now I think we both know that person is me.”

I stare at Simon. I know that he’s as qualified as I am, but I’ve worked at the museum longer and I have far more experience in the field. I’m the better candidate, and that’s not me being arrogant: it’s just stating a fact. There’s no way Simon’s been promised anything. Our boss, Professor Hamilton, wouldn’t do that.