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‘Only if I bump into something.’ Sarah stretched luxuriously. ‘It’s a lovely day. Once I’ve hung out my laundry I’m off into town for some shopping. Can I fetch you anything?’
Sarah’s Saturdays were always given over to Davy. And, much as she looked forward to spending them with her child, it was a pleasant change to be on her own for once, free to browse as long as she liked in the numerous bookshops in the town. After treating herself to a cut-price bestseller she made a preliminary foray through the summer sale in the town’s largest department store, then went up to the coffee shop on the top floor. While she enjoyed a peaceful sandwich Sarah couldn’t help comparing it with the pizza Davy invariably clamoured for, and hoped her child was enjoying something similar with the Rogers family.
Sarah lingered over coffee afterwards, looking down on a view of the Parade through the trees, and afterwards went down a couple of floors to find a dress in the sale. With regret she dismissed a rail of low-cut strappy little numbers. As usual, her aim was a dress for all seasons: office, prize day at school, even the odd evening out.
Eventually, after checking the price tags of every possibility in her size, Sarah found a dress in clinging almond-pink jersey. It draped slightly, sported a minor designer label, and displayed exactly the right length of long, suntanned leg she was rather vain about. She examined herself critically, checked on her back view, and decided she could do no better with the money she could afford.
When she got home Sarah went up to her grandmother’s flat to hand over the vitamin pills Margaret had asked her to buy, showed her the dress, then reported that she was off to read in the garden for a while before getting on with her homework.
Sarah went out with her new book to lie on an old steamer chair under an umbrella for a while, a brief interlude which did nothing at all, later, for her enthusiasm for the work she always brought home with her. Her job entailed a nine-to-three working day for a specialist recruitment firm, where she dealt with client liaison, database management, and the most urgent of the daily correspondence. The bulk of the latter she took home with her, to finish on a computer supplied by the firm for the purpose. It was an arrangement that suited both Sarah and her employers, and she was well aware that the job was as ideal as she was ever likely to find in her circumstances. The salary was generous for part-time work, and the hours were convenient for someone with a child. Her grandmother shared some of the responsibility for Davy, but Margaret Parker was an active member of her church, played bridge regularly, and served on the committees of several high-profile charities. She led such a busy social life Sarah asked her to look after Davy only in emergencies.
Later that evening, when Margaret Parker had gone off to the theatre with a friend, to see the play her granddaughter had missed out on, the doorbell rang just as Sarah was switching off the computer.
‘Ms Tracy?’ said a man’s voice through the intercom. ‘My name’s Hogan. Could you spare a moment to talk to me, please?’
Her eyebrows rose. What on earth did he want? But, eager to find out, Sarah asked him to wait a moment, exchanged her glasses for contact lenses, did some lightning work with a lipstick and hairbrush, then opened the front door to confront a tall man dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt. Now it was dry his hair wasn’t black but dark blond, tipped with gold at the ends. And the eyes she’d thought dark were the ultramarine blue of one of Davina’s crayons. Sarah liked the look of him now she could see him clearly. And suddenly wished she were wearing something more appealing.
‘I apologise for intruding on a Saturday night,’ he said, after a silence spent in gazing at her with an intensity she found rather unnerving, ‘but I wanted to make sure you came to no harm yesterday.’
Sarah hesitated, then opened the door wider. ‘Please come in.’ She led the way along the hall to the sitting room, opened the glass doors and took her visitor outside. She motioned him to one of the chairs at the garden table, and sat down.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ he said at once, the blue eyes very direct. ‘I was worried last night after you refused to let me take you to a hospital.’
‘The fault was more mine than yours, Mr Hogan,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘And thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’
‘My olive branch.’ He smiled a little. ‘Actually, this is my second visit of the day. I came round to see you this morning, but you were out.’
Sarah smiled back, then on impulse offered him a drink.
A flash of surprise lit the striking, dark-lashed eyes. ‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from something?’
‘Not a thing,’ she admitted reluctantly, wishing she could say that some handsome escort was about to sweep her off to dine and dance the night away.
‘Then thank you. I’d like that very much. It’s thirsty weather.’
‘I’m afraid it’s just beer or a glass of wine.’
‘A beer sounds wonderful.’
Sarah hurried off to fetch one of the cans kept for the man who helped in the garden, filled a stein which had once belonged to her father, then half-filled a glass for herself and topped it up with Davy’s lemonade.
‘Time I introduced myself properly,’ said her visitor, rising to his feet when she got back. ‘Jacob Hogan.’
‘Sarah Tracy,’ she responded with a smile, and sat down, waving him back to his chair.
‘I kept thinking I should have insisted on taking you to the hospital yesterday,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were on my mind all evening.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘You needn’t have worried. My main problem was fright. Not just from the encounter with your car, either. I suffer from chronic cowardice in thunderstorms. Which is why I wasn’t paying attention to the traffic.’
‘Understandable.’ He leaned back in the chair as he sipped his beer, looking relaxed, as though he meant to stay for a while. Something Sarah, rather to her surprise, found she didn’t object to in the slightest.
She looked at him questioningly. ‘Your name’s familiar. The Hogan part.’
‘Tiles,’ he said, resigned.
Sarah smiled. ‘Oh, of course! Pentiles. We used them in the new bathroom. Imported, and very expensive.’
He shook his head. ‘Not all our lines. We provide for all tastes and pockets.’
‘I know. I read about your company in the local paper. Quite a success story.’
‘Then you probably know my father started it off with just one hardware shop?’
She nodded. ‘He obviously expanded big-time at some stage. Is it true that you now have retail outlets all over the country?’
‘Pretty much. The whole thing took off at amazing speed when I finally persuaded Dad that ceramic tiles were the way forward.’ He shrugged. ‘These days people expect more than one bathroom—power showers, bigger kitchens, conservatories—all good for our line of business.’
‘Is it entirely family-run?’
‘The only Hogans in Pentiles are my father and myself. My brother’s CV is more glamorous. Liam’s an investment banker, and lives in London.’ He smiled. ‘I distribute tiles and live here in Pennington. I was making a detour through Campden Road to my place yesterday, trying to dodge rush hour traffic in the town centre.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘At which point you gave me the worst fright of my entire life.’
‘I gave you a fright?’ Sarah said indignantly. ‘For a moment my life flashed past before my eyes. I’ve got the scars to prove it, too.’ She held out her grazed palms.
He leaned forward to inspect them, and for a wild moment Sarah thought he was going to kiss them better, but he sat back, giving her the straight blue look again.
‘I apologise. Again. So, Miss Tracy. You know about my tiles. May I ask what you do with your life?’
Wishing it was more interesting, Sarah described her job briefly, then offered him another drink. And wished she hadn’t when he took this as a signal to leave.
‘I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,’ he said, getting to his feet, then smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Thank you for seeing me. And for the beer.’
When Sarah led the way inside he paused, his attention caught by a photograph on a side table. On their one and only excursion as a threesome Brian, who prided himself on his skill with a camera, had snapped Sarah and Davy laughing together from their perch on a five-barred gate. The result was so happy Sarah had framed it. Bright sunshine gleamed on two heads of glossy nut-brown hair, and picked out gold flecks in identical brown eyes.
‘She’s yours, of course,’ commented her visitor. ‘The likeness is remarkable. How old is she?’
‘Davina will be nine soon.’
‘Nine?’ His eyes were incredulous as he turned to look at her. ‘You must have been very young when she was born!’
Sarah nodded. ‘Eighteen.’ She went ahead of him along the hall to open the front door, and held out her hand to her unexpected guest. ‘It was very kind of you to come round, Mr Hogan. And I assure you that my dignity was the worst casualty during our encounter. Not counting my temper,’ she added ruefully. ‘I’m sorry I screamed at you like a fishwife.’
‘Hardly surprising—you’d had a hell of a shock. I was shattered myself.’ He took her hand very carefully for a moment, mindful of the grazes, and gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. ‘I hope your wounds heal soon, Mrs Tracy.’
‘Actually, it’s Miss Tracy,’ she corrected casually, and smiled. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Hogan.’
His sudden answering smile held a warmth Sarah responded to involuntarily. ‘It was my pleasure—a great pleasure,’ he assured her. ‘And I answer to Jake.’
CHAPTER TWO
SARAH was reading when her grandmother called in to report on the play. Margaret Parker’s eyebrows rose when she heard about the unexpected visitor.
‘Hogan? I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere quite recently.’
‘You probably read his success story in the local paper. He’s the brains behind Pentiles.’
‘The tiles we used in your bathroom? How impressive.’
‘He called this morning, too, while I was out. You were probably in the garden and didn’t hear the bell.’ Sarah gave her grandmother a challenging little smile. ‘Actually, I’m glad I was out. It meant I enjoyed a pleasant interlude in the garden with a very attractive stranger. Spiced up my Saturday evening no end.’
‘You’ve changed your tune since last night,’ said Margaret tartly. ‘Although you should be grateful to this Mr Hogan for making you miss the play.’ She looked down her nose. ‘The ex-soap star may have drawn the crowds in, but Oscar Wilde was probably spinning in his Paris grave at her interpretation of Lady Windermere.’
‘Oh, dear. You think Brian disapproved?’
‘Her costumes displayed so much cleavage I’m sure the male half of the audience were very happy.’
Sarah chuckled. ‘Brian’s not that sort.’
Margaret’s mouth tightened. ‘All men are that sort. As you very well know.’
Sarah took a while to get to sleep that night, trying to remember exactly what she’d read about Pentiles. She knew that Jacob Hogan had taken over the family business when quite young, and eventually turned it into its present success story. But to her annoyance she couldn’t remember if a wife had been mentioned in the article.
She sighed despondently. Not that it mattered. Men tended to lose interest in her once they found she came as a package with Davy. One look at her child’s photograph had probably killed all personal interest on Jake Hogan’s part. Brian, to his credit, had insisted that Sarah’s responsibilities as a single parent made no difference to their relationship. And in principle, she conceded, they probably hadn’t. Not that this had ever worried Sarah much because she had known from the beginning that, no matter how much her grandmother stressed Brian’s eligibility, there was no future in the relationship. Quite apart from the problem with Davy, he just didn’t appeal to Sarah in the normal male-female way.
Jake Hogan, on the other hand, appealed to her a lot. In every way. A fright and a graze or two were a small price to pay for meeting the most attractive man to enter her life to date, even if it was just a one-off experience.
Next morning Sarah drove out of town for a couple of miles to make for the Rogers home, where screams of laughter could be heard coming from the depths of its vast, wild garden when she arrived. Alison Rogers welcomed her into the house and took her straight to a big, comfortably untidy kitchen, where it was pleasant to sit for a while and chat over coffee while Don Rogers went to collect Polly and Davina.
‘Thank you so much for having Davy,’ Sarah said gratefully. ‘This was quite a big step for her. She’s never wanted a sleepover before, let alone a whole extra day away from home.’
‘She told me that,’ said Alison, pleased. ‘We’re flattered. And as far as we’re concerned Davy can make a return visit any time. It was far less trouble for us than keeping Polly entertained on her own. Now she’s a weekly boarder our daughter demands our undivided attention every minute of the day at weekends. I expect it’s the same with Davy.’
‘Absolutely!’
‘But you have to cope on your own, which must be hard.’ Alison bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to get personal. But Davy told us she’s never had a daddy.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sarah cheerfully. ‘Men don’t feature in Davy’s life, so I hope your husband didn’t find her too much of a nuisance.’
‘Don took to her on sight—as you can see.’ Alison got up to point through the window, where her large husband was tearing towards the house in mock terror, with two little girls chasing after him, screaming in delight.
Sarah laughed as she watched Don Rogers capture a little girl under each arm and run with them into the house.
‘Right,’ he panted as he set them down. ‘Which one would you like, Sarah?’
‘Mummy!’ Davy launched herself at Sarah to hug her, looking flushed and grubby and thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘We went bowling and had pizzas and we talked all night.’
‘Most of it, anyway,’ said Alison indulgently.
‘You’ve obviously had a marvellous time,’ said Sarah, ruffling Davy’s hair.
‘Mummy says Davy can come every weekend,’ said Polly hopefully.
Her father chuckled. ‘We might like that, but I think Sarah would miss her.’
‘How about coming to stay with Davy and me some time, instead, Polly?’ suggested Sarah. ‘Our garden’s not as big as yours, but we could go swimming, and to the cinema, maybe.’
Polly clamoured at once for permission, a date was set for two weeks later, and Alison suggested Sarah drove Polly back afterwards. ‘Join us for Sunday lunch that day. Davy too, of course. We’ll invite some of the neighbours in, make it a party.’
Sarah made no attempt to hide her pleasure. This was the kind of invitation which never came her way. ‘That’s so kind of you, I’d love to.’
On the way home Davy chattered incessantly, giving Sarah every detail of her stay with Polly. ‘Mr Rogers is lovely,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Mrs Rogers, too,’ she added hastily, ‘but she couldn’t play with us all the time, because she had to do cooking and stuff.’
‘A woman’s lot,’ said Sarah with a dramatic sigh, and Davy giggled.
‘You don’t cook all the time.’
‘True. Grandma’s making Sunday lunch at this very moment.’
‘What are we having?’ said Davy, eyes sparkling.
‘I know about lots of vegetables, because I did them for her before I came out. And I’m sure Grandma’s rustling up something yummy to go with them.’
When they hurried upstairs in Campden Road, delicious scents of roast chicken came wafting from Margaret’s kitchen. She came down to meet them, smiling with a warmth she never showed Sarah as she opened her arms for Davy to fling herself into them and give a second account of her activities over the weekend.
‘Goodness, what an exciting time you’ve had,’ said Margaret fondly. ‘Now, go and wash in my bathroom, Davina Tracy. Lunch is nearly ready.’ She exchanged a look with Sarah as the little girl raced off. ‘She obviously enjoyed herself.’
‘She certainly did. But brace yourself, because we’ve got Polly on a return visit in a fortnight.’ Sarah’s lips twitched. ‘You could always take off on holiday a few days sooner than scheduled.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Margaret briskly. ‘I shall be here as usual. But the Rogers child will be your responsibility, Sarah, not mine.’
The rest of the day went by in a flash, with only time for the cake Margaret always made for Davy’s tea before Sarah drove the child back to school. This was a task she never looked forward to, though it was easier these days, now Davy had made friends. During her first term Davy had hated going back to school on Sunday evenings, and had been so tearful the journey had been purgatory for Sarah.
Given her own choice of education Sarah would have kept Davy at home and sent her to a local day school. But Margaret Parker had contributed to the money Sarah’s parents had put in trust for school fees at Davy’s birth, and had made sure that when the time came the child was sent to Roedale. And if Sarah suspected that Margaret had chosen the school for its social cachet, rather than its excellent academic record, she kept her thoughts to herself.
So, although Anne and David Tracy had died on holiday when Davina was only five, Sarah had kept her promise and eventually sent the child as a weekly boarder to the girls’ school Margaret Parker had persuaded them to choose. But Sarah had never imagined beforehand how painful it would be to part with Davy every term-time Sunday evening.
When Brian rang after the weekend, with a belated enquiry after Sarah’s health, she agreed readily when he suggested they had dinner together the following evening, glad of the opportunity to tell him it was over between them.
Over dinner at Brian’s favourite restaurant Sarah listened patiently while he gave her a detailed account of the play she’d missed.
‘The actress who played Lady Windermere was particularly good,’ he informed her. ‘Beautiful creature.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ murmured Sarah absently, her mind on the kindest way to tell him it was over between them. In the end Brian gave up on her, openly relieved when she refused pudding and coffee. He walked her back to the car at such a pace she assumed he was in a hurry to get home, then sat silent for a moment, making no move to switch on the ignition.
‘Sarah, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he informed her heavily.
Because he’d taken the exact words out of her mouth she eyed him in surprise. ‘Talk away, then, Brian.’
‘I’m sorry I was poor company tonight,’ he began, staring through the windscreen. ‘Because, well—oh, dammit, there’s no easy way to say this.’
