‘A little of both,’ her eyes not quite meeting his.
He sighed and stepped back, his hand lingering on hers a moment before placing it back in his pocket.
‘How about I go for a walk so you can, er…’ he said, turning his back and walking to the door.
The one thing she didn’t want was to be left alone but how could she tell him? How could she tell him she was scared more than anything and yet what was there to be scared of? This was Tor, moody as hell and with the sharpest of tongues but also the sweetest, kindest man she’d ever met. There’d been no harsh words since the day she’d returned. There’d been no arrogance and no moods, unless loving was a mood? Oh, she knew in the future there’d be moods and rows but there’d always be love first; his love for her and hers reaching up to join it.
She removed his tartan first and draped it across the bed with a gentle hand. Reaching up behind her back she pulled the zip on her Ayreshire lace and tulle vintage gown, letting it drop to the floor in a swathe of fabric. Next she slipped off one of her white satin shoes and, raising her leg catapulted it so hard across the room it banged against the door before landing at his feet.
She watched him bend down and cradle the flimsy trifle in his hands.
‘I once said I wasn't Cinderella. I lied.’
He turned, his expression stunned as he took in her white corset with matching bra, panties, suspender belt and silk stockings.
‘I’m not sure Cinderella would have worn those things under her dress,’ he said, bending down to put her shoe on before stepping into the circle of her arms. ‘Wasn't she poor or something?’
‘Those things, as you call them are made from top of the range Belgium lace imported at great expense.’ She laughed.
‘Mmm and very nice to,’ his hands now joining his eyes, his finger tracing the intricate pattern and the soft swell peeking out the top. ‘We can ask Nanny to include some in the christening gown,’ he added, reaching round the back to the fastening. ‘Talking of which, I do hear practice makes perfect where babies are concerned and, as we only have a little over twelve hours…’ his mouth lowering to hers.
The End
Acknowledgements.
There’s lots of people to thank but firstly I’d like to thank you, the reader, for taking a chance on a relative unknown. I’ve had some lovely Amazon feedback from people around the world, people I’ll never get to thank except here, so thank you Dawn McCaulay and Alice I Wynne to name just a couple.
I’d like to express my thanks to Adele Blair for agreeing to read a very early, second draft and for her encouraging comments, which gave me the faith to carry on. Also thanks to my street team for all your support and friendship.
I’ve had lots of help with this as I’ve never been to Oban. My husband spent a week there many years ago and thanks therefore must go to him, and for coming up with the fab name Hamilton. Talking about Hamilton, I’d also like to thank Oban resident, Lucy Hamilton (coincidence) for all the help. Lucy pointed me in the direction of Belnahua… For amazing photographs of Oban and the surrounding area why not check out her Instagram account (loosemooose). I’d also like to thank Gregor MacKinnon from The Manor House (Oban) and Dawn from The Oyster Bar (Seil).
Mary Doyle, thank you for letting me borrow your name. I hope you like her?
Amy Potter, thank you for telling me about a Balayage, I’d never heard of it but now I want one too.
Finally love, as always, to my three wonderful children for putting up with me…
I love hearing from readers. You can find me on Twitter (not a lot) Instagram (occasionally) and Facebook (too much).
Now, book number three is a little different – a little darker…
Jenny O’B
NB: Professionally edited to UK English.
Knicker: - UK slang for pound notes
Song: All about the Bass, by the wonderful Meghan Trainor – we know all the words…
Englishwoman
In
Manhattan
To friends both old and new.
Linda G, Annu Le M and Helene K
‘I dream things that never were: and I say ‘why not?’
George Bernard Shaw
Prologue
Valldemossa
Mallorca
The rain, at first only a few drops trickling their annoyance, soon turned into a deluge: a deluge mingling and then obliterating the tears. They weren’t expecting the rain but they should have been, for doesn’t it always rain at funerals?
Huddling around the freshly dug hole, their shoes started to slip and slide as the dark brown earth rebelled against the sudden wetness after such a long hot summer. Nobody noticed the rain, apart from the vicar, that is, but he’d had the fortuitousness to bring an umbrella. He knew more than most that it always rained at funerals.
His eyes lingered on the edge of the largest headstone. The headstone with the broken angel, and therefore the ideal hiding place for his brolly, although an extra-large raindrop plonking itself right in the middle of his bifocals made seeing an impossibility. But he couldn’t be the only one with an umbrella so there the brolly remained, untouched and eventually forgotten.
Reverend Julius Beaverman always found funerals difficult but the younger the recipient of his ministrations the more difficult they became. He’d even go so far as to say some parting ceremonies were a joy. A celebration of a life well spent, a good life, or in some cases a blessed relief. But today was an extra sad day. A tragic day as he raised his face to look at the two women huddled together at the corner of the plot. Two beautiful young women, their long hair matted to their heads as raindrops continued to batter against them with a relentless determination. Two beautiful young women trying to draw whatever comfort they could from the tragedy that held them within its greedy fingers.
There was no comfort to be had. Only tears; tears and raindrops.
Chapter One
‘That one.’
‘Which one?’
‘There. Look, behind the sapphire necklace.’
‘Which sapphire necklace?’ He scanned the rich velvet trays sparkling with an array of stones that he had no way of identifying.
He knew diamonds, what bloke didn’t, but what colour was sapphire again? He was pretty sure it was blue but which shade, his eyes swivelling between a Mediterranean blue pendant and a navy blue choker. They could all be glass as far as he was concerned; brightly coloured glass with a brightly coloured price tag.
All he was concerned about was his disappearing lunch-break, not to mention his disappearing pay check as she continued to enthuse about the ring. As her voice continued to describe in boring detail the shape and shimmer not to mention the size, his gaze returned to the pale sheen of white blond hair just visible under her hood.
He’d always loved her hair. The way it embraced her sweetheart shaped face. The texture was baby fine and soft; soft as silk, his hand reaching out, unable to resist the feel running through his fingers. He wanted to hug her to his chest and probably would have except they were standing outside Tiffany’s and her girlish laughter seemed, for the first time, to sound something reminiscent of a nag. He hadn’t been nagged in a very long time.
There were some things he missed desperately, acutely, fearfully. He missed her, each second of each day they were apart. He missed her and feared for her. New York was, after all, the big bad city. Not the biggest by any means but there were still wolves standing on every corner waiting to pounce; waiting to weave their dastardly plots, waiting to take her away from him. That was his greatest fear: that someday she’d leave him and, if she left, he’d have nothing. He was older, quite a lot older but that didn’t mean he loved her any less. That meant he loved her all the more. So he missed her when she wasn’t by his side, he’d always miss her. But if he was never nagged again, it would be a blessing. What they had was above the petty squabbles of other relationships, or at least that’s what he’d thought, right up until she’d dragged him away f
rom his pastrami on rye in order to go diamond shopping.
‘Look, just there.’ Her fingernail tapping against the crystal clear plate glass like a woodpecker having a party. ‘The last one on the left.’
His eyes finally landed where they were meant to and, as he examined the pear shaped diamond, his heart constricted in his chest as memories flooded his consciousness; memories of another day, another city, another jeweller’s window. Another ring. Then there’d been rain but Parisian rain always felt warmer somehow than New York rain, or was it just because he had been in love for the first time with the most beautiful girl in the world? He couldn’t remember, after all it had been such a long time ago. But not too long that he’d ever forget standing under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower laughing and joking, knowing he’d buy his fiancée the whole shop for one smile, one kiss, one hug.
Glancing down at the eager smile, the sparkling blue eyes that always reminded him of the flowers his mum still grew in pots by the front door, he knew it was time to change the subject, and quickly or he’d be quite a few dollars shorter. Now was not the time to buy a ring, not with his heart, as well as his mind full of another woman, another time, another life. Now was the time for work.
Lunch had been a whim, a sudden urge to see her after his business trip. All it had taken was a quick call to the school to be able to pick her up. If it had been yesterday or even tomorrow there’d have been no chance but she always had an extra-long lunch break on a Tuesday. The plan had been a quick sandwich and a chat. But there’d been a sandwich to go as the need to choose a birthday present, a belated present had apparently taken precedence over anything that was of any importance. A birthday present that looked remarkably like an engagement ring.
‘Really, Evelyn, can we do this at the weekend?’ he said, placing his hands on her shoulders before pulling her hood further over her head. ‘I’m near to drowning here as it is and I’ve got a board meeting when I get back.’
‘Oh, poor daddy.’ She cuddled up next to him, squeezing her slight frame next to his. ‘Come on, I’ll treat you to a coffee across the road, but only if you promise to take me back on Saturday.’
‘Before or after we go for that jog?’
‘Jog, what jog?’ She pulled away, her hands now determinedly placed on both hips as her eyes flashed. ‘Are you calling me fat?’ she added, smoothing her hands over slim denim clad hips.
‘Cara mia, you’re putting words in my mouth…’
‘And you’re putting your foot in yours.’
‘So, what about this get fit for the summer conversation we had before my trip?’
He felt her eyes scroll over him from the top of his head to finally land on his rain washed shoes.
‘You were the one worried that, now you’re nudging forty, you should do something to prevent middle-aged spread.’
‘I am not nudging forty; thirty four is nowhere near forty.’ His voice sharp enough to crack nuts.
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ the sound of her laughter causing the couple peering into the same window to turn and smile.
Putting her hand out and curling her fingers in his she started to pull him away from the window, her eyes lingering for one last second on her prize. ‘I’ll tell you what; I’ll pick up some no sugar granola on my way home.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘And that’s why you love me.’
And that’s why he loved her. She had no idea just how much he loved her. He loved her so much it hurt, his mind whirling as he pressed a brief kiss against her cheek; all she’d ever allow him do now they were approaching the school and therefore under the surveillance of God only knew how many teenage girls. What he’d really like to do was sweep her up in his arms, her legs dangling in the air as she squealed with laughter but the last time he’d tried, she’d hurled a mouthful of abuse through gritted teeth as she’d pulled herself away with a quick flick of her fringe. There were eyes everywhere, she’d told him on a whisper as she’d pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. Eyes and ears that would happily run to the headmistress on the slightest excuse. It had been hard enough to get a place at the prestigious academy for gifted musicians and there were plenty of candidates queuing up at the door to take her place.
Turning away, her words still ringing in his ears, he ignored the whispers and shouts that followed, his attention now focussed on the tall wrought iron gates and his car parked outside. He deliberately threw his shoulders back and slowed his stride as the heat from what felt like a thousand stares roamed across his back, his legs, his butt. He felt like a prisoner on the final walk to freedom. No, he felt like one of those men on that dating show where girls had to pick out the hottest guy, a game he was destined to lose. After all, he was nudging forty, a grin breaking across his face at the sound of the gate chinking closed behind him.
He was nudging forty and far from hot as he looked down at his boring regulation overcoat partially hiding his boring single breasted grey suit and dark blue conservative tie. There was nothing exciting in his attire, his eyes now on his highly polished lace-ups. Even his socks were boring black and as for his briefs… He bought them in packs of three, always black and always Calvin Klein. They weren’t even silk, just cotton; something to shove into the washing machine and then the tumble drier before shoving into his middle drawer. He’d been shoving his briefs into the middle drawer ever since school; middle drawer for his briefs, top drawer for his socks and cuff links. Bottom drawer for scarves and belts. Now he had a burning desire to nip back to the apartment and tip everything out onto the centre of the bed and start again.
Turning into the underground car park he pulled into his space with a sigh of annoyance, or should that be discontent? Perhaps both. The life that up until this morning he’d thought as perfect as he could make it was now as boring as the most boring book ever. It was monotonous and drudgery. Even his car was black; black, utilitarian and boring. Picking up his briefcase he slammed his way out of his car without a backward glance, all of a sudden ill at ease with his existence.
Boring, boring, boring, and the only thing he could think of to make it less boring was jogging and rearranging his sock drawer. Wonderful, bloody wonderful!
Heading for the stairs instead of the elevator, he knew things were about to change, they had to change. He had no idea how but he had a yearning to colour up his life. He’d start with his briefs and take it from there. Did Mr Klein make yellow, or indeed red?
‘So how was the trip?’
Matisse paused before replying, taking in the large expanse of office with rooftop views over Manhattan. He knew if he stood by the window he’d be able to make out the roof of his brownstone apartment just visible through the gaps in the trees that guarded Gramercy Park but there was little point. He’d see it after the board meeting and not one second before despite the fact he’d been travelling all night.
He’d only been back at his desk five minutes before being summoned in to see the boss. There wasn’t time to do more than boot up his laptop before walking to the office at the other end of the corridor and knocking on the door. He hadn’t worked for the corporation for long but long enough to know the man at the top hated being kept waiting. It didn’t matter that his suitcase was still in the trunk of his car or that, despite looking the part, he didn’t feel anything like it. He felt grubby and in need of a shower and bed, preferably in that order. But it didn’t matter how he felt. It only mattered that he put the hours in and looked the part. The man, even now surfing through his phone with one hand while he sipped on a cappuccino with the other, didn’t care. He wouldn’t offer him a drink, he never did. Murray Gerass wouldn’t offer a dying man the time of day let alone a thought. Glancing down at his balding head with disdain, he felt like he’d sold his soul to the devil. He paused mid-thought for, in truth, there was little doubt.
‘Oh, so, so. She’s at her wits end. Since her husband’s death there’s been no one for her to turn to…’
‘Spa
re me the details, Matisse. I don’t employ you for your opinion, only for results.’ He lifted his eyes briefly before returning to his phone. ‘The loan is due in full at the end of the month. If she defaults, she loses, and she’s going to default, isn’t she?’ His voice soft.
‘But…’
‘No buts. This is business. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is. I have a buyer already keen to get their hands on the property. They want to turn it into one of those upmarket boutique hotels with an 18 hole golf course attached. Just the thing that part of the world needs. It’s ideally situated so close to London.’
‘To clarify. When you sent me over to check that Mrs Angent was going to be able to repay the debt in full, what you were doing was making sure she hadn’t managed to find any alternative methods to meet the loan?’ Matti’s contempt carefully hidden under a face free from expression.
‘To clarify. When you joined the firm at the start of the year, you knew what you were getting into.’ Murray raised his head to stare at him, his pale grey eyes unwavering in his sun weathered face. ‘An apartment in Gramercy. A company car. Not to mention $300.000 a year and all I expect…’
And all you expect is for me to turf a little, old, bereaved woman out of the home she’s lived in for years just because some bad investments have pretty much left her penniless.
But his words remained silent, locked under the weight of responsibility that seemed to control his life. Long gone was the carefree young man just out of Harvard with a combined first in law and economics. He’d thought the world owed him a living and he was all for grabbing it with both hands and making his first million. Now, here he was, stuck in yet another job he despised.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 35