by Clare London
She stood up, pointing a handful of pins at him like mini weapons of mass destruction. “Jesus, Matt. Get that stick out of your arse.” Caro came from a long-established farming family, and she didn’t mince her words. “The reception tomorrow night is at Hampton Court. It’s owned by the Royal Family, and they’ll expect you to do things properly.”
“The Queen won’t be there. Informal, they said.” He sounded like a spoiled child, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread at being so out of his element.
“Yeah. Right. Like informal is something the Royal Family do.” Gary chuckled half under his breath, but it was clear as a klaxon call to Matt. Their elder son, Jim, was hovering in the bedroom doorway, drawn by the adults bickering. His eleven-year-old eyes were as wide as his grin.
Caro stood up and tugged Matt’s hands out of the jacket pockets. Again. “It’s a royal setting. It merits a new suit, even if we did have to buy it in Norwich in a damn hurry.”
“And I refuse to wear a bloody necktie.” He snatched his cuff back from her psychotic pins. “Leave it, that’ll do.”
Jim piped up, “Uncle Matt, do you think the cutlery will have the royal crest on it?”
Caro walked past the end of the bed to give her son a fond but firm cuff to the ear. “He’s not stealing the silver for you as a souvenir.” Jim was a huge fan of the monarchy. He’d sat entranced through all the TV coverage of Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle.
“I bet there’ll be lots of famous people,” Jim said.
“Don’t ask your uncle Matt about that,” Caro said with a snort. “He wouldn’t know one from another. Hardly ever watches a movie, doesn’t keep up with reality TV—”
“Uses your Hello magazine to set the fire in the parlor,” Gary added with a smirk.
“I don’t have time for celebrities. Men in suits, women in frocks, everyone with shiny skin, talking too much,” Matt grumbled. “And this reception? It’s a waste of half a day, what with traveling back into London. What about the dig?” Yeah, still sounding like a pout, but at the moment he was feeling exactly like a kid bullied into a school play when the FA Cup was on the telly.
Gary shrugged. “I’ll keep working while you’re in London. Life doesn’t stop, cuz. You’re just the unpaid undergardener here, right?”
Matt couldn’t help a grin at his cousin’s insults. “Right. But seriously, I resent giving up my weekend to this bloody job.”
Gary and Caro exchanged an indecipherable look. “Do you?” Gary said.
“And what does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Caro said briskly. “Now get those trousers off so I can raise the hem that extra inch.”
“I’ll go and put the kettle on,” Gary said, hauling himself and his paperwork off the bed. He gave a sly glance at his son. “Got no time for Matt’s commando ways.”
“Oh, ewww!” Jimmy groaned.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Matt protested. “I’m perfectly decent—”
But Jimmy had already darted out of the room, and Caro and Gary were doubled over with laughter.
“To think I came home for this,” Matt said, but he was laughing too, despite himself.
AFTER supper in the farmhouse kitchen, and when Jimmy and his brother, Nigel, scampered off to their room to play whatever console was in fashion—Matt didn’t keep up with gaming on any level—the adults sat around the table with steaming mugs of tea. Matt breathed in the scent, feeling the immediately soothing effect. He didn’t expect to be drinking anything this homely tomorrow night.
“You know I wish it was more?” he said musingly. “The dig. I know we both love it, but I suppose I hope one day it’ll pay something back to us. Some reward for all the unpaid, backbreaking weekends where we turn over the ground.”
“It will,” Gary said confidently, though Matt knew they had no evidence for that yet. “We’ll find something big. I feel it—”
“In your water?” Matt chuckled.
“That’s one of your dad’s phrases, isn’t it?” Caro said, joining them at the table after putting away the washed dishes. “He’s excited you’re on this royal project, you know.”
“Seriously?” Matt scoffed. “I notice he’s not here to see all this faffing around with suiting ’n booting me.”
“That’s not because he disapproves, you stupid arse,” Gary said carelessly. “He’s really proud of you, and you bloody know it. He couldn’t make it tonight because—ouch!”
Matt knew that yelp of pain. Caro often kicked Gary under the table and thought Matt didn’t realize. “He’s not had another turn?” Matt felt the cold shiver run down his back, and his throat closed with horror. The previous collapse might have been diagnosed as a panic attack, rather than anything more serious, but Matt still worried Dad was vulnerable to too much stress.
“No, you berk.” Gary frowned at his wife. “We should tell him, girl.”
Caro laughed so loudly that both of the family dogs looked up from where they lay in their baskets by the kitchen Aga. One large black Labrador, one small scruffy collie, both with bright, sharp eyes. “He’s on a date, Matt. He’s gone dancing with Mrs. Edgeley from the post office!”
Matt stared in disbelief. “Dancing? A date?” His mother had died when Matt was only ten, and his father had never shown any interest in another woman since. When Gary’s divorced mother, Dad’s sister, also died, Dad had had his hands full with looking after both boys for a lot of the time. Matt always supposed he was happy enough with that and running his business.
“A date,” he repeated, just trying out the concept for fit.
Caro was still chuckling. “Bloody astonishing at first thought, isn’t it? But they go to several clubs in the village together, they’ve taken up an allotment behind the church, and now Desmond’s joined a salsa class with her as well.”
“Salsa?” Matt felt his eyes nearly bug out of his head.
“Des is laughing again,” Gary said, unusually sober. “He’s having a riot of a time. I don’t begrudge him that. Do you?”
It was one of those moments when Matt felt his whole world shift. There’d been a few in his life, including when his mum died, when his Anubis Collection launched, when he met a man called Joe in a posh London bar…. Yes, he knew he had to accept this and cope with it. He smiled, slowly but broadly. “Jesus, he’ll be signing up for Strictly Come Dancing next!”
And then they were all laughing.
CARO came and sat with Matt on the well-worn but comfy sofa later in the evening. She busied herself adjusting his suit trousers, and for a while he enjoyed just watching her skillful sewing. She glanced up after a while and smiled warmly. “You need to be like this more often. Relaxed. Easygoing.” She snapped a thread of cotton with her teeth. “Happy.”
He was going to grouch back at her—who was cheery every hour of every day?—but stopped himself. Love lay beneath her chiding. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
She obviously chose to ignore that. “So how’s it going, working at Starsmith?”
“You mean, working with the enemy?”
She rolled her eyes. “They aren’t the enemy. They never were.”
Matt shifted in his seat, not because it was uncomfortable, but because his feelings were. “They took everything we had.”
“Pfft.” She snorted. “They didn’t take it. You lost it. We all did. We had a stake in the company too, remember? And we’d have done all we could to make things work. But the world’s moved on. Business has evolved into volume sales, low margins, and online marketplaces. Barth Gems couldn’t compete with that. And it’d have driven your dad to an early grave if he’d tried.”
“What are you saying?” Caro had never been so blunt with him before about the sale. “That Dad gave up?”
“No, of course not. He’s a pigheaded fool, a bit like someone else not a million miles away. But he knows when he’s beaten. He knew Barth’s time was passing, and he was smart enough to get out with the best deal he could
get.” Her voice softened. “You helped him with that, you know. You were practical, compassionate help to him when he needed it.”
“Yeah? Not a traitor?” That’s what it had felt like at the time. “If I’d spent more time with Dad, taken a proper role in running the business—”
“Jesus, Matt, we’d all be bankrupt!” Her laugh was as loud as before, but this time the dogs by the fireplace had accustomed themselves to it and didn’t stir. “You’re no businessman. You hate all that work. Your skills lie elsewhere, and you were there for Barth Gems when it was needed. Look at that Egyptian doggy jewelry you did—”
“The Anubis Collection.” He smiled at her description.
“Its reputation was the main reason Barth Gems got the price it did in the end. Yes, that was probably less than you and your dad had hoped. But it was a damn sight more than the bargain-basement price that some businesses go for nowadays.” She was concentrating very closely on a snagged stitch. “Maybe you should talk to your dad about it sometime. Properly, I mean. Get the full story.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I’m not gonna be the one to upset him again.”
“Well. We’ll see. You could ask that good-looking man you work with, instead.”
“Who?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I only watch Countryfile on the TV, but the boys keep me in touch with reality, and I read the society pages of Hello as well as the fashion shoots. Joel Sterling doesn’t get photographed as often as his trinkets, but he’s the hottest thing in jewelry that isn’t made of gold, in my opinion. And he’s publicly gay, as is half his staff. It must be a treat, working so closely with him.”
Was that look she gave him kind of sly?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant. “We’re colleagues. And it’s not only celebrities I don’t have time for. Corporate types are as bad. Just one insincere smirk in a suit after another.”
Caro took an inordinately long time snapping the next thread. She might even have been hiding the beginnings of a smile. “Anyway, I need to press these before you go back to London tomorrow afternoon.” She shook out the trousers, presumably happy with her work, stood to leave the room, then paused. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you say, this job’s good for you. Since you started, you’re a different man.”
“Of course I’m not!”
“Of course you are,” she parroted back. “That’s because during the week you’re where you should be, working with people who appreciate you. You have a rare talent, Matt Barth, and it’s not right to let it lie fallow.”
“Look, I don’t—”
“Hush,” she interrupted him. “I don’t know much about jewelry. But at least the farm pays us a wage, albeit not a big one. You should be paid for your work too.”
“I will be.” He remembered Joel’s words at Matt’s interview. “This new contract pays well. But that’s not why I’m doing it.”
“Exactly.” She winked at him. “Now get the ironing board out for me, why don’t you, so I can make sure you look shit hot tomorrow night for that cute boss, whether you’re interested in him or not. Can’t have you showing us honest farmers up in high society!”
Matt laughed and stood to follow her.
“Oh, and Matt?” She frowned at him, though her eyes sparkled with humor. “I know you spoil my boys, so don’t you dare steal even the smallest teaspoon for my evil offspring. I don’t want to have to bail you out from the Tower of London!”
Chapter Eight
JUST as Matt was erecting the ironing board for his sister-in-law at a farmhouse in Norfolk, the rooms in Starsmith’s offices had grown quiet as the working day finished. Outside, the Mayfair streets were still busy with a combination of late-night shoppers and people on their way out for a night’s entertainment. Theaters were opening for the evening performances, the Tube station was as busy as always, and black cabs ticked over at the pavement as they picked up and dropped off. The streetlights winked through the Starsmith windows, even up on the third floor.
Joel Sterling never failed to find London fascinating, not that he was looking aimlessly out the window tonight. A pile of drawings in individual clear folders lay beside a large glossy binder. Many had sticky notes on them with “no”—far more than the sticky notes with “yes.” His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, and although he hadn’t actually rolled up his sleeves, his shirt was rumpled and his hair felt unusually tangled, as if he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon. Which, of course, he had.
A gentle tap at his office door, and Teresa poked her head round. “Aren’t you meant to be leaving early today?”
Joel glanced at his watch and swore. “I meant to. Never mind.”
“Are you all ready for tomorrow night’s reception?” When he didn’t answer, she spoke again. “Joel?”
“Huh? Sorry. Yes, I’m ready. Well, maybe not. I’m just going through the portfolio again, to take with us.” He frowned. “It’s thin.” What he really wanted to say was, it’s barely begun. But that wouldn’t be doing his design team justice. “Whatever Addam and Matt say, we don’t have much to show.”
“It’s only been three weeks since we won the commission. I’m sure they don’t expect things to be finished yet. This is just a get-together, a social event to introduce the prince and his fiancé to the team.”
“I know. I just don’t want us to mess it up.” There was still time for the palace to give the commission to someone else, he knew that. He hadn’t said as much to the team, because he knew they were relying on him to ensure that didn’t happen.
Addam and his designers had worked tirelessly all week. By Thursday, they had mocked up a whole portfolio of sample gifts, including fob watches, pins, perfume bottles, and jewelry boxes, using sophisticated design software to create 3-D representations. The stylish coronet adorned them all as a motif, settled on its laurel wreath, and with clear stones glinting on its spokes. For the wedding rings, there were detailed sketches—two striking, wide gold bands, each with a pair of deep-set diamonds.
Addam had fallen asleep at his desk on Thursday night. Matt had carried on completing the remaining sketches until midnight. Joel had refused to let Matt work through Friday as well, sending him home early to Norfolk. After all, they’d both be back in London for the reception tomorrow. Now Joel filed the sketches into the binder and prayed that would be enough to inspire their client.
“Marketing have been itching to get involved,” Teresa said.
“I know. But not yet. I don’t want Freddie and Lily to put wheels in motion until the palace gives the go-ahead. Matt’s still trying different styles for weaving the leaves onto the base of the coronet, and he’s not yet decided exactly where to place the stones.” Matt was a perfectionist, that was for sure.
Teresa had an odd, twisted kind of smile. “He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”
“Who? Matt Barth?” Joel wasn’t sure why his gut lurched like it did. He hadn’t told Teresa about the night at Claridge’s, at least, not about meeting Matt. “I’m not sure cute is a word he’d appreciate.”
She chuckled. “He’s a live wire, certainly. But it was a good idea to hire him. Despite that drama when he first arrived. Something fierce was sparking between you two. What’s the history there?”
Another gut lurch. “There is no history.”
She looked like she wanted to say more about that, but changed her mind. “Well, Addam thinks he’s great, I can tell. Not that Matt seems remotely interested in Addam except as a fellow designer.”
What other way was there? Joel felt strangely disturbed. Was Teresa saying that Addam had his eye on Matt as a date?
“Don’t worry,” Teresa said gently, maybe mistaking Joel’s conflicted silence. “You’ve done the most you can in the short time. Tomorrow night you’ll have Addam and Matt with you to answer any detailed issues. And thank you for arranging the invitation to be extended to me as w
ell. I’ll be on call for whatever you need, albeit I’m just administration and can hardly have any influence.”
Joel smiled wearily but sincerely. “You’re one of the most important people on the team. You think I don’t know that?”
“Whatever.” Teresa flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “You haven’t let us down yet, boss. You’re the one who got us this commission in the first place, remember? Your tireless hard work, networking, promoting Starsmith in all the right places. And then your drive and commitment to keep it all going.”
He appreciated the vote of confidence, but for the moment, his mind was full of representations of a gold coronet and an emperor’s laurel wreath. Teresa helped him pack the binder safely in a lockable briefcase, along with many of the original sketches. It wasn’t going to leave Joel’s side until they got to Hampton Court.
“You’re excited about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Of course I am. I’m just… tired.”
“You don’t always show your feelings.” She bit her lower lip as if worried about intruding. “I mean, I know you care. We all do. You just show it a different way. You always keep your cool.”
“Not passionate like Matt Barth, you mean?”
Teresa gave him that odd smile again. “Thank God! I wouldn’t want too much melodrama in the room at one time. You’re the rock, Joel, who keeps us on track. Who will make sure we rise to the top.”
A rock. Always keep your cool. Jesus, he sounded like a robot. Was that what he’d become?
“What about your family? Are they pleased for you?”
The simple question caught him unawares. Tension tightened his body as swiftly as a noose around his neck. “I have no idea.”
Teresa flushed, her eyes widening. She must have known she’d misstepped, although he didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable when all she’d done was show concern for him. “Oh. Still no communication, then?”