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However, it was her last day as a member of the employed, and she wasn’t going to break her self-imposed rule of never taking her personal problems into the workplace. So she straightened her shoulders, nailed on a smile and marched through the double glass doors into the open plan office beyond.
In the event, it turned out to be a much shorter afternoon than she’d expected. Before it was half over, her boss called the other staff together, champagne was produced and the managing director made a brief speech about what a valuable team member she’d been and how much she’d be missed.
‘And if the next job doesn’t work out as planned, we’re only a phone call away,’ he added, and Tallie heard a wobble in her voice as she thanked him.
When she called at the temps bureau later to collect her money, the manageress there also made it clear she was loath to lose her services.
‘You’ve always been so reliable, Natalie,’ she mourned. ‘Isn’t there a number where I can reach you in case of emergency?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Tallie said firmly. Apart from her family and Lorna, no one was having the contact number at Albion House. Kit had made it clear she was not to hand it out to all and sundry, and she was happy to go along with that.
Besides, she was going to need every ounce of concentration she possessed for her book, which completely ruled out being at the beck and call of The Relief Force, as the bureau titled itself. They would just have to manage without her, she thought, although she had to admit it was nice to be needed, if only in a work sense.
Meanwhile, finishing early today meant she would have the flat to herself when she got back, and she could do her packing before she set off for her final stint at the wine bar. So many doors closing, she thought, but another massive one about to open in front of her, and who knew what might lie beyond it.
At the flat, she made herself some coffee from what little was left in the jar. In theory, they all bought their own groceries. In practice, Josie and Amanda were always too busy for a regular supermarket shop, and they used whatever was available.
The prospect of living on her own for the first time was fairly daunting, but at least there would be fewer minor irritations to cope with, Tallie told herself as she unzipped the storage box. She didn’t have many clothes—just the plain black skirts she wore for work with an assortment of blouses and a grey checked jacket, the three pairs of jeans that constituted leisurewear, a few T-shirts, a couple of sweaters and a handful of cheap and cheerful chain store undies.
And right at the bottom of the box, neatly folded, was the shirt. Almost, but not quite, forgotten. Slowly, she took it out, letting the ivory silk slide through her hands, watching the shimmer of the mother-of-pearl buttons. Allowing herself the pain of this one last memory.
She’d been working for a firm of City accountants, she recalled, and had been sent to fetch a tray of coffee for a clients’ meeting from the machine in the reception area. As she’d been on her way back, going past the lift, the doors had opened and someone had emerged in a hurry, cannoning into her and spilling the coffee everywhere.
‘Oh, God.’ A man’s voice, appalled. ‘Are you all right—not scalded?’
‘The drinks are never hot enough for that.’ But there was a hideous mess on the carpet and her once-crisp white shirt was splashed and stained across the front and down one sleeve, plus damp patches on her skirt too, she realised ruefully.
She knelt swiftly, reaching for the scattered paper cups. Aware, as she did so, that her assailant had also gone down on one knee to help her, but that he’d paused and was staring at her rather than the job in hand.
Looking up in turn, she recognised him instantly, her lips parting in a shocked gasp. ‘Gareth,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I mean— Mr Hampton.’
‘Gareth will do.’ His sudden smile dazzled her like the sun breaking through clouds. ‘And you’re Guy Paget’s little sister. What on earth are you doing here, miles from Cranscombe? Apart from being drowned in coffee, that is?’
‘I live in London now,’ she said quickly. ‘Mr Groves’s assistant is on holiday. I’m the temp. Or the ex-temp unless I get this mess cleared up quickly,’ she added, seeing Mr Groves himself approaching, his face a mask of disapproval.
‘All my fault, I’m afraid.’ Gareth rose to meet him, spreading his hands in charming apology. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going and nearly knocked poor little Natalie for six.’
‘Oh, please don’t concern yourself, my dear boy.’ The look he sent Tallie was rather less gracious. ‘Bring another tray to the conference room, Miss Paget, then call maintenance. This carpet will need to be properly cleaned. And tidy yourself too, please.’
The last instruction proved the most difficult to follow. Tallie did her best in the cloakroom with a handful of damp tissues but felt she’d only made matters worse. And the most sickening thing of all was the knowledge that Susie Johnson was in the meeting in her place, taking notes and feasting her eyes on Gareth at the same time.
I had no idea he was a client, she thought wistfully, wishing that she’d put on eye make-up that morning and was now wearing something other than a coffee-stained rag. Something that would have made him see her as rather more than Guy’s kid sister.
Yet that was hardly likely, she acknowledged with a soundless sigh, remembering some of the girls he’d brought down to the cottage over the years. Slender creatures with endless legs, designer tans and artfully tousled hair.
Tallie’s hair was the same light mouse-brown she’d been born with and it hung, straight as rainwater, to her shoulders. And while her mother loyally told her she had ‘a pretty figure’, she knew she was an unfashionable version of thin. Her creamy skin and hazel eyes, with their fringe of long lashes, were probably her best features, she thought judiciously, but her nose and mouth hadn’t come out of any box marked ‘Alpha Female’.
In a way, it was astonishing that Gareth should have remembered her at all, particularly as natural shyness combined with inexplicable adolescent yearnings had invariably made her vanish into any convenient doorway at his approach. She wasn’t aware that he’d ever favoured her with a first glance, let alone a second.
And she’d now blown any chance she had of appearing cool, composed and efficient. A pillar of young serenity in the staid adult world of accountancy.
‘Oh, Miss Paget’s wonderful,’ she imagined Mr Groves saying. ‘I don’t know how we ever managed without her.’
And pigs might take flight, she told herself, turning away from the mirror with another sigh.
But if she’d hoped to catch another glimpse of Gareth, she was to be disappointed. Instead, she was immediately waylaid by Mrs Watson, the office manager, who looked her over, compressed her lips and sent her off to the cubby-hole where the photocopier was housed with a pile of paperwork to be replicated.
And, by the time she emerged, Gareth was long gone and Susie Johnson was smiling smugly and reporting that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs during the meeting.
She was about to leave for her coffee and sandwich lunch, buttoning her jacket to conceal the worst of her stained shirt, when Sylvia, the receptionist, called her over. ‘This was delivered for you a few minutes ago.’
‘This’ was a flat package wrapped in violet and gold paper. And, inside, enclosed in tissue, was a silk shirt—soft, fragile and quite the most expensive garment she’d ever had the chance to own.
The accompanying card said:
To make amends for the one I ruined. I’ll be waiting to hear if it’s the right size from one o’clock onwards in the Caffe Rosso. G.
As she fastened the small buttons, the silk seemed to shiver against her warm body, clinging to her slender curves as if it loved them. A perfect fit, she thought. As if it was some kind of omen.
Against the ivory tone, her skin looked almost translucent and even her hair had acquired an added sheen. While her eyes were enormous—luminous with astonished pleasure.
Lunch, she thought with disbelief. I’m having lunch with Gareth Hampton, which is almost—a date. Isn’t it?
Well, the answer to that was—no, as she now knew. As it had been brought home to her with a stinging emphasis that had almost flayed the flesh from her bones.
Like the false bride in the fairy tale, she thought, who’d put on a wedding dress that didn’t belong to her and been destroyed as a result.
And kneeling there in her tiny room with that lovely, betraying thing in her hands, she shivered.
She folded it over and over again, her hands almost feverish, until it was reduced to a tiny ball of fabric, then wrapped it tightly in a sheet from a discarded newspaper and buried it deep in the kitchen bin on her way out to the wine bar.
Wishing, as she did so, that her emotions could be so easily dealt with—could be rolled up and discarded without a trace. Only it didn’t work like that, and she would have to wait patiently until the healing process was over—however long it might take.
It will be better, she told herself fiercely, when I’m away from here.
Everything is going to be better. It—has to be…
And when, the following evening, she found herself in sole occupation of her new domain, her belongings unpacked and her laptop set up in the study, she began to feel her new-found optimism could be justified.
It hadn’t all been plain sailing. There’d been a final confrontation with her cousin that she’d have preferred to avoid.
‘Quite apart from the inconvenience of having to find someone else for your room, do you realise the stick I’m going to get from Dad when he finds you’ve moved out?’ Josie demanded shrilly. ‘And that I don’t even know where you’ve gone?’
Tallie shrugged. ‘You’re not my babysitter,’ she countered. ‘Besides, I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Josie glared at her. ‘You’re not still obsessing about Gareth, surely? Isn’t it time you started to grow up?’
‘More than time,’ Tallie returned crisply. ‘Consider this the first step.’
As a consequence, she’d arrived at Albion House, bag and baggage, much earlier than arranged, only to find Kit Benedict clearly impatient to be off, as if she’d kept him waiting.
‘Now, you do remember everything I’ve told you?’ he said, hovering. ‘The fuse-box, the alarm system, and how to work the television. And you won’t forget to forward any post to Grayston and Windsor? That’s pretty vital.’
‘Of course,’ she said. She smiled at him, trying to look confident. ‘I am fairly efficient, you know. I could have supplied references.’
‘Well, I didn’t really have time for that. Besides, Andy at the wine bar reckoned you were all right, and he’s a shrewd judge.’ He paused. ‘My friends all know I’m going to be away, so you shouldn’t have to fend off many phone calls. But if anyone should ring, just say Mr Benedict is away for an indefinite period.’ He paused. ‘And if they ask, save yourself a lot of hassle and tell them you’re the cleaner.’
Why not the truth? Tallie wondered, but decided it was not worth pursuing as the problem was unlikely to arise.
‘There’s stuff in the fridge to finish up,’ he added over his shoulder as he headed into the hall where his designer luggage was stacked. ‘Clean bedding in both the rooms, and the laundry calls each Wednesday. Also, move whatever you need to out of the closets and drawers to make room for your things. Any emergencies, talk to the lawyers. They’ll sort everything out.’
And he departed in a waft of the rather heavy aftershave he affected, leaving Tallie staring after him in vague unease. What emergencies did he have in mind? she asked herself wryly. Fire, flood, bubonic plague?
Although he was probably just trying to cover all eventualities, assure her there was back-up in place if necessary, she thought as she began to look round in earnest. Starting with the kitchen.
The ‘stuff in the fridge’ he’d mentioned was already finished and then some, she thought, eyeing it with disfavour. There were a few wizened tomatoes, some eggs well past their sell-by date, a hard piece of cheese busily developing its own penicillin and a salad drawer that made her stomach squirm.
Cleaning out the refrigerator and then restocking it at the nearest supermarket would be her first priority.
And her next, lying down on one of those enormous sofas and relaxing completely. Listening to the peace of this lovely place and letting herself soak up its ambience.
It was, she thought with faint bewilderment, the last kind of environment she’d have expected Kit Benedict to inhabit. Where he was concerned, the contents of the fridge seemed to make far more sense than the elegant furniture and Persian rugs.
It was a background that would have suited Gareth perfectly, she mused, her face suddenly wistful, imagining him lounging on the opposite sofa, glass of wine in hand, his hair gleaming against the dark cushions. Smiling at her…
Stop torturing yourself, she ordered silently. There’s no future in that kind of thinking and you know it.
She managed to distance any other might-have-beens by keeping determinedly busy for the rest of the day. Settling herself in so that the real work could start in the morning. And the blues remained at bay during the evening, thanks to the plasma screen television that only appeared when a button was pressed in a section of panelling, but seemed to have every channel known to the mind of man available at a flourish of the remote control.
How entirely different from the TV set at the other flat, which seemed permanently stuck on BBC One, she thought. Although not everything had changed for the better, of course. The news still seemed uniformly depressing, with no sign of peace in the Middle East, another rise in the price of petrol, which would cost her father dear with all the miles he had to travel to visit sick animals, and a breaking story about an attempted military coup in some remote African state.
Sighing, Tallie restored the screen to its hiding place and went to bed.
And what a bed, she thought, stretching luxuriously. Quite the biggest she’d ever occupied, with the most heavenly mattress and pure linen sheets and pillowcases. And great piles of towels in the bathroom too, and a snowy bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
She was almost asleep when the phone rang. She rolled across the bed, reaching blearily for the receiver. The caller started speaking at once, a woman’s voice, low-pitched and husky, saying a man’s name, then, in a swift rush of words, ‘Darling, you’re there—what a relief. I’ve been so worried. Are you all right?’
Tallie swallowed, remembering Kit’s suggested formula. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said politely. ‘Mr Benedict is away for an indefinite period.’
She heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end and the voice changed—became clipped, imperious. ‘And who precisely are you, may I ask?’
There was no point in saying she was the cleaner—not at this ridiculous time of night, thought Tallie. Besides, that rather hectoring tone—the phrasing of the question—sounded just like Josie, and it riled her.
‘Just a friend,’ she said brightly and rang off.
She was half-expecting the caller to ring back, but the phone remained silent.
And just as she was drifting off again, it occurred to her that the name the unknown woman had said at the start of the conversation had not sounded like Kit at all, but something completely different.
I must be wrong, she told herself drowsily. After all, I was half asleep. Anyway, it’s too late to worry about that now—much too late.
And, turning over with a sigh, she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
TALLIE closed down her laptop and leaned back in the padded black leather chair with a sigh that contained more relief than satisfaction.
At last, she thought. At last I seem to be back on track.
She could acknowledge now how scared she’d been, gambling on her future in this way, especially as she’d made comparatively little progress with her story since that momentous lunch with Mrs Morgan.
But then conditions over the past months had hardly been conducive, she reminded herself ruefully. Her free time had been severely limited and when she had tried to work at the flat she’d had to compete with the constant noise of Josie’s television and Amanda’s stereo system blasting through the thin panels of her door.
And then, of course, there’d been Gareth’s intervention…
She took a deep breath, damming back the instinctive pang. Well, at least she now had an insight into what it was like to fall in love, even a little. Could see why a girl like Mariana might give up so much to pursue this reckless adventure if it meant she’d be reunited with a man she wanted so desperately.
Up to then, she realised, she hadn’t given much thought to her story’s emotional input, concentrating instead on the fun of it all— her heroine’s rollicking escape from her stern guardian and the threat of an arranged marriage.
Now, she realised that Mariana’s decision would have far more impact if she was, instead, deserting a loving home with parents who were simply over-protective, who knew the uncertainties of a soldier’s life and wished to spare her danger and heartache.
And this would naturally change the entire emphasis of the book.
Less of a light-hearted romp, she told herself, however enjoyable that had been to invent, and more of a story about passionate love and its eventual reward, which, in itself, was going to present her with all kinds of problems.
Because the events of the last few weeks had brought home to her how signally—ridiculously—unacquainted she was with any form of passion. Or even likely to be.
She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. Oh, well, she told herself with false brightness, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. After all, imagination was a wonderful thing.
And it would help that she wouldn’t have to write too much about ‘doing it’ until the very end of the book because, no matter how precarious the situations she found herself enduring, Mariana was obviously saving herself for marriage to her gorgeous William, with his smiling blue eyes and his slanting smile.
And the way he talked to her as if he was really interested in what she had to say…
She stopped hastily. Oh, God—this wasn’t the book at all. She was back to Gareth again and the endless, punishing reliving of every precious moment she’d spent with him. All that witless, pitiful self-deception over it being the start of something important—even valuable—which had begun with that lunch at the Caffe Rosso.
She’d been tongue-tied at first, trying to express her halting thanks for the beautiful shirt.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seemed the least I could do. Henry Groves is a terrific accountant, but appearances matter to him.’ He grinned. ‘I bet that carpet in reception has been shampooed already.’
It was quite an ordinary lunch—lasagne and a couple of glasses of the house red—but for Tallie it was caviare and champagne, nectar and ambrosia all rolled into one.
Gareth wanted to know what she was doing in London. ‘I had you down as a home bird—sticking close to Cranscombe.’
In other words, as dull as ditchwater.
She looked down at her plate. ‘I’m having a kind of gap year— while I decide what I want to do.’ She decided not to mention the novel. It seemed pretentious to do so while it was still in such an embryonic stage. ‘And how’s the world of law?’
‘It has its moments.’ He paused. ‘I’m probably going to specialise in tax. That seems a reasonably lucrative field.’
