by Nancy Warren
“What?” This was unexpected and unwelcome news.
“I’ll give you an allowance.” He pulled her ponytail as though they were kids on a school ground. “That way you won’t blow your money like you do now.”
“An allowance?” Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow her sandwich.
“I’ll have one too. We both get a small cash allowance and everything that’s left over after the bills are paid goes toward a down payment on a house.”
“But I need—”
“You’re going to stop giving money to your mom. You’ve got other responsibilities now.”
He had it all planned out. If she lost her job, she’d muss up his careful plan. What if he found out about her problem? He couldn’t see the bills for her therapy, of course, but how was she to pay them if she had no money of her own?
“I don’t want my checks going into your account,” she mumbled.
“That’s how my parents always handled things. Now they live in Florida. They retired early. We both know I’m better with money than you are—it only makes sense that I should manage it.” He leaned over and nudged her shoulder. “Do you know your mother thanked me after I gave you that ring?”
Deborah had explained that shoplifting was an addiction. That’s what this felt like, this desperate urge that was on her again, sharp and itching as it took her over. Except that, oddly, she didn’t have the urge to steal jewelry. Right now she had the urge to give some back.
For the second time.
She glanced around at the other couples, the group of teens horsing around, the tourists. “You never asked me.”
“Asked you what?”
“To marry you. I went over both times in my head and you never even asked me.”
“You’ve got my ring on your finger, haven’t you? What the hell’s your problem?”
“I can’t do this.” It was all so clear to her, clearer than the pro and con list. “I’m sorry, Derek. I want to be the kind of woman you want, but I’m not. I don’t want a house right away. I don’t want to give you my paycheck and make you lunch every day. I don’t want to retire to Florida.”
She tugged off the sparkling ring. Dropped it in his lap and scrambled to her feet. She didn’t give him a chance to say anything. She needed to get out of there. She left the blanket, left her mostly uneaten lunch. She didn’t like the look she saw on his face—it was too much like the one her old boyfriend Bruce used to wear right before he hit her.
Walking rapidly back to work, she passed the same homeless guy and defiantly dropped five bucks into his hat. And screw you, Derek, she thought, seeing the token glinting in the sun.
She was almost at the bank when she saw a cop car drive by. It was stupid of her to jump into a doorway. Cop cars drove around the downtown streets all the time. It might seem as though it slowed when it drove past the bank, but that had to be her imagination.
Still, she dug out her cell phone and called the number she’d memorized yesterday.
The phone was picked up on the third ring. “Good afternoon. This is The Breakup Artist. Chloe speaking.”
“Hi. Um. This is Stephanie Baxter.”
“Yes?” The crisp voice left the question mark hanging. Obviously the woman didn’t remember Stephanie.
She drew in a breath. “We met at the food court yesterday. You, um, offered me a job.”
“Oh, my goodness. Yes, of course. That Stephanie.”
Which immediately made Steph wonder how many other Stephanies the English woman could possibly know. “Right. That Stephanie.”
There was a short pause. “Beastly hot today, isn’t it?”
Steph glanced up at the sky, which was clear and blue. The weather was a balmy 78 degrees, according to the forecast she’d read in today’s paper. If Chloe Flynt thought this was beastly, just wait a month. “Yes. It is.”
“May I ask why you’re calling?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, yes. It’s about the job.”
“The receptionist job?”
“That’s right. Is it still available?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was just writing out an advert for the paper. It would be lovely to scratch one thing off my to-do list.”
Stephanie found herself smiling for the first time all day. “Great. Do you want me to come in for an interview?”
“No. I wouldn’t have a clue what to ask you. Why don’t you come on Monday and start work. We’ll sort it out together.”
“Monday. Oh. I have to give notice.”
“Oh, of course,” said the crisp voice on the other end of the phone, sounding disappointed. “Notice. I was so hoping you could start soon.”
“Let me see what I can do. I’ll explain that you really need me. It’s not that busy at the bank, so I could probably get away early.”
As though the sunshine had come out to dry up the rain, the disappointment vanished from Chloe’s voice. “Oh, that would be fantastic.”
“We didn’t discuss salary.”
“No. Tedious business, isn’t it, money?”
Not as tedious as not having any, but Steph didn’t say that, either. She simply made an mmm-hmmm sound.
“What are you being paid at the bank?”
Stephanie told her.
“Gosh, that’s not much, considering you handle money all day long, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Stephanie said, heartily agreeing with her new boss for the first time.
“Well, since you’re leaving a perfectly good job to come and work for me, how about I add ten percent to what you’re earning, with a bonus if you bring in any new clients.”
“That would be great.”
“Good. Monday, then?”
“Awesome.”
“The address is on my card. Do you still have it or do you need it again?”
“No. I have it.” Locked in her memory, along with a lot of other useless and not so useless trivia.
“Shall we say nine a.m.?”
“Okay.”
She disconnected, then pulled out the neatly folded sheet of pros and cons regarding marrying Derek. It felt like the paper was made out of cement. She crumpled it in her hand. Briefly, Stephanie toyed with the idea of phoning Deborah before she irrevocably messed up everything by quitting her job.
Then she decided, screw it. Maybe she was meant to be irrevocably messed up. As she passed a trashcan, she dropped the pro and con list into it. There were dozens of reasons why she should marry Derek, but the single con canceled out everything else.
She didn’t love him. And he was never going to make her happy.
During the last few minutes of her lunch hour, she composed her resignation letter. She felt lighter than she had in months.
Wrecking her life had never felt so good.
Chapter 9
Chloe was so pleased with her excellent morning’s work, and her first confirmed employee, that she headed to a day spa to celebrate.
Where else could a woman spend the afternoon and come away with a series of business leads as well as rejuvenated skin from a facial and a spectacular pedicure? She looked down at her Tequila Sunrise polished toes as she returned home. Perhaps she’d been too conservative with that French manicure. She wasn’t a lawyer or a banker, so why shouldn’t she be as colorful as her business?
She walked up the path in her sandals and stopped in midstep to admire her newly pedicured feet, smooth of skin and shiny of nail.
“Practicing counting to ten?” that deep and most annoying voice called to her from next door. She glanced up to see Matthew heading up his front path. He was holding a bundle of twigs, as though he’d been gardening.
“No,” she said, glad to have the opportunity to tackle him. “I’m looking at the exceptionally long grass in the front garden. It’s getting quite ragged, don’t you agree?”
Matthew dumped the twigs in a neat pile and strode across his own neat and well-tended lawn to wade into her overgrown and rather brown grass. He peered a
round. “Yep. It does.”
“And do you think you could manage to mow it?” she inquired at her most imperious.
“Nope.”
“I beg your pardon?” There was a look about him that said he could do pretty much anything he put his mind to. Capable was a word that aptly described him.
“Read your lease agreement. Housework and gardening are the tenant’s responsibility.” He looked altogether too pleased to be giving her such ghastly news.
She glanced around at the scrubby grass and the weedy things in the flowerbed. In London, she lived in a flat in town and when she was at home with Mummy and Daddy, old Mo came around every Saturday to do the gardening. She wished old Mo wasn’t so far away. Of all the things she was homesick for, she’d never imagined feeling such a keen wish to see the garden and odd-job man’s homely visage.
“Is there a gardener one could hire?”
He was doing that thing again, laughing at her with his eyes, which was at one and the same time wildly intriguing and truly annoying. “Probably, somewhere, but I don’t personally know any gardeners. Around here, folks mostly cut their own grass.”
“I am not from around here,” she said loftily.
“That’s obvious.” He stared down at her from his delicious height. “Are you telling me you don’t know how to run a lawnmower?”
“Of course I don’t.”
He didn’t seem satisfied with the answer. If she wasn’t careful, he was going to suggest she might like to learn. She sighed. “My mother was a lady,” she explained.
He blinked at her. “Aren’t most people’s?”
She laughed. “No, a real lady. Lady Hester Thorpe.”
“I don’t recall you putting Lady Chloe on your lease agreement. Are you here incognito?”
“Certainly not.”
He seemed quite interested in her all of a sudden, even though she noted the crinkles around his eyes had deepened. “What did you do to lose the title?”
“I didn’t do anything. It’s not a hereditary title.”
He looked at her through eyes narrowed against the sun, still twinkling. “So, you’re saying you’re not a lady?”
The heat encircling her didn’t seem to be coming entirely from the endless sun streaming down from the sky. She shaded her eyes and looked up at him. “Under what circumstances might I persuade you to mow this lawn?”
His teeth were white and even as he flashed her his Matthew McConaughey everything is bigger in Texas grin. She had the distinct impression she now understood what a crocodile’s prey’s last moments must be like. “Can you cook?”
“I studied at Cordon Bleu in Paris,” she said. “They teach gourmet cooking,” she added in case he didn’t know.
Fortunately, like most people, he didn’t ask her exactly how long she’d remained in the course. “Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t have pictured you as the chef type.”
“It was Sabrina that convinced me.”
“Who is Sabrina?”
“The movie. Audrey Hepburn? She’s the chauffeur’s daughter and she goes off to Paris to learn how to cook. Of course, she ends up with both William Holden and Humphrey Bogart wanting her in the end.”
“Interesting way to choose a career.”
“Obviously, it didn’t work out in the long run. But I am a fabulous cook.” Of soups and hors d’oeuvres.
“Tell you what. Since you’re not a lady, and this is a democratic country anyway, I’ll mow your lawn if you cook me dinner.”
She would much rather cook than mow, but the main course was going to be a problem. “What about appetizers and drinks?”
He surveyed her yard and shook his head slowly. “That’s a big lawn, and I’ve got a big appetite.” Why was it the minute he mentioned his appetite, her thoughts skittered away from food?
“Matthew, might I remind you that you are an engaged man?”
“You might do anything you damn well please. Let’s say you’ll cook dinner for three. I’ll bring along a chaperone.”
“Excellent.” And that would give her a chance to get to know Brittany better. “Tomorrow night?”
“Works for me.”
She nodded and continued on her way, her Tequila Sunrise toes twinkling up the path.
The afternoon was hot and sultry and her calendar, while now holding a few appointments, wasn’t exactly overflowing with business. She sighed. She wasn’t overbooked for business or pleasure. In London, she’d have three or four events to pop in on. Parties, restaurant openings, first nights. Now that she was settled, she was going to have to do something about becoming known in Austin’s social circles.
She calculated the time and decided to give Nicky a call. She had a sudden longing to hear someone speaking a language she understood.
Nicky’s mobile rang three times. Chloe was about to ring off when it was answered on a giggle. “’Lo?”
“Nicky?”
“Chloe, darling!” There was noise and laughter in the background. Nicky was partying. Had been for some time, by the sound of things. “It’s Chloe,” Nicky bellowed, presumably to whoever else was present.
She heard hallo, Chloe shouted in various stages of drunkenness and felt a piercing pang of homesickness for all her friends.
“Tell everyone hello back,” she said.
“So, when are you coming home?” Nicky asked, her words slurring slightly.
“Coming home?”
“Oh, can you wait until tomorrow? I win the pool if you pack it in tomorrow.”
“Pack it in? Nick, you’re drunk. Have you forgotten that I’ve got a business to run?” And didn’t she sound like the Fortune 500?
A wheeze of horsey laughter greeted her. “I’m not so drunk that I don’t know my best friend. You always quit.”
“Not always.”
“Yes, always. Schools, men, fashions… name one thing you don’t change every few months.”
At a thousand pounds a minute or whatever long-distance mobile phone costs were, there was an extremely expensive pause. What had she ever stuck with?
Then she had it. With satisfaction, she announced, “My hair color.”
Another snort of laughter greeted her statement. “Only because that artist threatened to kill himself because he said such a perfect black could not be reproduced by any colorist on earth.” Nicky shouted the line with all the drama that poor Dennis, the almost-forgotten artist, had used when he slashed the portrait of Chloe he’d been working on and then held the knife to his own throat, threatening to do himself in if she wouldn’t marry him.
She’d have been frightened if he’d threatened himself with anything sharper than a palette knife. As it was, the story had made good telling, and Dennis’s outburst had caused her to stick with the hair color nature had given her and art couldn’t duplicate.
Chloe laughed too. How could she help it? Nicky and she went way back and they knew each other too well to mess about.
“You really don’t think I’m going to make it, do you?”
“Darling, you’re like Peter Pan.”
“A boy who flies?”
“No, silly. He never grows up. Jack says that’s your problem. You’ve never grown up.”
“Jack should mind his own bloody business.” She tried to sound annoyed, but was secretly rather pleased they were discussing her and laying bets on when she’d return. All her friends, and even her brother, missed her. She’d have to go home for a visit when she got enough money together.
“Give everyone my love. I miss you all.”
“Wait, am I going to win the pool?”
She was certain the noise level dimmed in whatever smart club they were in. She pictured the lot of them leaning forward, desperate to hear whether she’d soon be back among them. The thought made her smile.
“Not this time.”
As she rang off, she realized that she’d now been in this country for more than a month and had had none of th
e usual itchy feet. That was good. Progress.
Her new career wasn’t remotely boring, since her creativity was constantly taxed. As in the case of her newest client. She had precious little time to get the co-authors of Perfect Communication, Perfect Love perfectly cocked up.
She decided to read Jordan and his boss’s book, since Jordan was her priority client at the moment. She was very much hoping that this book would give her the secret to breaking up that romance before Perfect Love ever had its Perfect Communication on the telly.
She was hot, so she stripped down and changed into short white shorts and a gauzy purple Stella McCartney top and jeweled sandals. She couldn’t bear ball caps, but understood that one must protect one’s complexion from the withering heat, so she’d bought a plantation-style hat with a huge white brim. It made her feel like Scarlett O’Hara when she slipped it on. She tipped the brim to a rakish angle before donning big sunglasses and picking up the book. She stopped in the kitchen to fill a large glass with iced tea, an American invention she was beginning to enjoy very much, and her Evian spritzer.
Soon she was ensconced on her lounger, parked under a shade tree, her face pleasantly misted, her tea at her side and her book open on her lap.
Perfect Communication, Perfect Love, she read in the preface, came about as the collaboration between two colleagues.
“Oh, right. Blah bloody blah,” Chloe muttered as she flicked past the frontispiece to Chapter One and began to read.
An annoying sound smote her ears. The irritating buzz of a small engine.
Really, just when she was trying to read quietly. She rose, thinking this was the first moment she’d had all day for some peace, when a mower came into her line of vision from around the side of the house, dragging Matthew behind it. Bare-chested, scrummy, super scrummy Matthew.
She retreated once more to her lounger and proceeded to read, giving herself a mental reward for each page finished with a peek at her most delicious gardener.
Chapter 10
Matthew wondered what the hell he was doing, playing gardener to Lady Chatterley over there in her lounger with her feet up and her novel open on her lap. Nice life.