Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Nick didn’t come,’ said Poppi, echoing my thoughts. ‘Went home to his mum’s. The wimp.’

  ‘Is Nick there?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence. Poppi’s dedication to customer service knew no bounds.

  ‘Do you know if he’s free on the evening of February the fourteenth?’

  ‘Valentine’s Day? Ah, that’s so cute! I’ll just check his diary.’

  ‘It’s business.’ Even so, that didn’t stop my cheeks blazing like her next door neighbour’s shed.

  ‘Course it is,’ she chirped in a tone which managed to convey that she was only humouring me because I was a client. ‘Here we are. He’s got a photo shoot early evening, you know, for the dogs.’

  What on earth did that mean – a photo shoot for the dogs? My mind boggled. Images of dogs posing on velvet cushions, with Nick urging them to ‘Work it baby’ sprang into my head. My newly-minted crush on him had fudged over the fact that he was a bit on the unusual side. I began to have my doubts. Perhaps there was an estate agent I should invite after all? Or a traffic warden? Or a tax inspector?

  ‘Oh! He’s here now,’ said Poppi. ‘You can ask him yourself.’

  I caught snatches of a whispered conversation as Poppi failed to put the call on hold while she filled Nick in. I turned over a new page in my notebook and wrote ‘To Do List’ at the top.

  ‘Hello Sophie, Happy New Year!’

  My insides went all gooey at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Thank you. You too.’ I smiled down the phone, meaning it.

  I am such a hypocrite.

  If there was one thing that bugged me about January, it was wishing people a Happy New Year every five minutes. Every phone call, every email, every time you bumped into a colleague for the first time – it really got on my wick. But somehow when Nick said it, it was full of hope and promise.

  ‘I’ve got your cheque,’ he said. ‘And I’ll be sending your planning application in for Lilac Lane on Friday, so it arrives with them on Monday.’

  ‘Great.’ I sighed quietly, disappointed in his choice of topic.

  No small talk, no ‘How was your Christmas?’ Straight down to business. I had brought it on myself of course, by turning him down, but even so, it still stung. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea? Maybe I should leave him with his dogs on Valentine’s Day?

  ‘Poppi tells me you have a spare ticket for the Property Awards?’

  Was I imagining it, or did he sound interested?

  A flicker of excitement made me fidget in my seat.

  ‘The Herald has a table and I’d like to invite you as my guest.’

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line. I held my breath and kept everything crossed.

  ‘I’d be honoured.’

  Nick in a tuxedo, me in a posh frock, a candlelit dinner… perhaps it would be a romantic occasion after all? Perhaps this was our chance?

  ‘It would be a great networking opportunity for me,’ he gushed. Gushed! Seriously! I’d never heard him so excited.

  Somewhat deflated, I rang off after promising to introduce him to the business editor, the property editor and some big cheese at the property industry association.

  I looked down at my list. Plus one was sorted. Only new dress, new shoes, a manicure, haircut and lose half a stone left to tick off and I was good to go.

  thirty-nine

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl in front of me: elegant and demure but at the same time ravishingly sexy. That was exactly how I wanted to wear my hair when I got married. It was pinned up into a low arrangement of curls at the back with two loose ringlets at the front, falling to her shoulders.

  I smiled and she smiled back, her eyes shining with delight at her own reflection. She was me. Even though I said it myself, I was looking pretty damn fine.

  I angled my tiny compact mirror to inspect the back of my head. Roberto had earned himself a fat tip and two fat kisses for his handiwork. It looked effortless. Only he and I knew that approximately two hundred and fifty hairgrips had been required. It would take me ages to take them all out. I might even have to sleep with my head hanging over the bed.

  My hands were trembling as I put my earrings in and my legs weren’t doing a very good job of holding me steady either. I felt like a princess about to go to the ball to meet her handsome prince.

  I shuddered, remembering that that was what Marc used to call me. And to think that this time last year, on Valentine’s Day, I had wanted nothing more than to be swept off my feet by Marc Felton! I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole these days. My next boyfriend would have to do more than call me ‘Princess’, he would have to treat me like one too, respect my wishes, and love me unconditionally, for me and not for what he might get out of me. It wasn’t that I wanted to wear the trousers in my next relationship; I simply wanted to share them now and again.

  I was highly unlikely to be sharing any trousers with Nick Cromwell, but all the same, I hoped he would appreciate the effort I’d gone to tonight.

  He wasn’t interested in me in the slightest, I could see that now. I’d been building up that conversation we had in Starbucks at Christmas into something it wasn’t. He must have been swept along by the festive spirit when he asked me to Poppi’s party. Either that or I was a last resort. All I’d had from him recently was an invoice asking for money, payment for my cowshed design and an email to check the timings for tonight’s event. I had to face it: when all was said and done, I was a client. Nothing more.

  Things might have been different if we had spent New Year’s Eve together. I had gone over and over it in my mind, but there was no way I could have accepted his invitation.

  Dinner with Mum and Dad had been a necessary evil. It had been seriously weird for all three of us, but they had made the effort for my sake and I should have been grateful.

  After an hour of them both talking round in circles about their regrets and how they wished they had done things differently, I’d had enough. What was the point? What mattered was where we all went from there. I had poured us all a drink and proposed a toast to the future. Not quite as eventful as Poppi’s party, but memorable nonetheless.

  I slipped my heels on and I was ready. My stomach felt all fluttery; I bet Nick was going to look handsome in a tuxedo.

  Emma and Jess were in their rooms, packing for London.

  Jess flopped down on her bed when she saw me.

  ‘Babes!’ she squealed, holding a hand protectively over her tummy. ‘You are looking hot tonight!’

  Emma appeared in the doorway and gave a wolf whistle.

  ‘Nicky-boy won’t be able to keep his hands off!’

  I shook my head, cursing the two red spots on my cheeks.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll manage to control himself.’ But if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be batting him off.

  I gave them a twirl, loving the sensation of the silk swishing against my skin. I’d shunned black – too boring – and red – too obvious – and picked a knee-length, sleeveless green dress with a plunging neckline and a black silk bow at the waist. The half stone I had wanted to lose would be tagging along for the evening – no surprises there. But, even so, my lovely dress fitted me in all the right places and very kindly skimmed over the not-so-right ones.

  I hoped Nick would approve.

  ‘Text me as soon as you get off the train and again when you get to the hotel,’ I said, hugging Emma tightly.

  ‘Get off, you soppy git,’ she said. ‘You’ll crease your dress.’

  ‘Take care, Jess. Don’t overdo it.’ I kissed Jess’s cheek and patted her stomach. ‘Bye baby, be good.’

  The door buzzer announced the arrival of my taxi. I hurried to the door. ‘On my way,’ I called into the intercom.

  I ran down the stairs. It felt strange to be all dressed up and on my way out at six o’clock. Why was it that these dinners always started so early in the evening? Oh yeah – it was so they had time for all the boring speeches
before everyone dropped off to sleep.

  I flung open the front door and ran slap bang into a huge bouquet of flowers on legs.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ I yelped. That was thirty quid’s worth of roses down the pan. The apology died on my lips as Marc’s face appeared from behind the cellophane.

  ‘Hello, Princess, Happy Valentine’s Day!’

  For a moment I stared at him, totally stunned. Why now? After all these months, why tonight? Life was already complicated enough, thank you very much! Not to mention the fact that I was now in the freezing cold with nothing but a pashmina between me and the outside world. My hair would turn to wire wool in another forty seconds.

  His eyes widened and he flexed his lips as if he was about to kiss someone. Then very slowly, he traced a finger along my collarbone, nodding appreciatively.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He stepped forward, taking liberties with my personal space. I flapped at him and tossed a prim smile in his direction.

  I would have been lying if I didn’t admit to getting a buzz from seeing his eyes pop out on stalks, I was only human after all. What girl wouldn’t be secretly pleased to bump into her ex when she was looking her best?

  Huh hum, coughed my subconscious, you’re trying to impress Nick, tonight, not Desperate Dan. Remember?

  What I really needed now was for the taxi to pull up to the pavement and for me to climb in, offer him nothing but a withering smile and glide off without a backward glance.

  I peered over his shoulder hopefully. Not a sausage.

  I took a deep breath and prayed he couldn’t see that my knees were knocking.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, giving my blasé look an airing.

  ‘I came to bring you these,’ he said, tweaking the crushed cellophane. ‘Let’s give it another go, eh, Sophie?’

  He twisted his mouth in a lazy smile and did that twinkly thing with his eyes that always made my spine go all bendy. That was the problem with sexy, charming, good-looking and persuasive men, they thought they were irresistible.

  I had to admit, I did weaken temporarily. The situation did have a happy-ever-after feel to it; me in a sexy dress, swept off my feet by six feet of red-blooded male – I could almost hear the soaring violins in the background.

  I blinked and the soundtrack inside my head screeched to a halt. It was his confidence that really grated. How dare he turn up as if nothing had happened? As if a bunch of flowers was enough to set everything straight between us? Where was the sorry, the declaration of love? Even the ‘I’ve missed you’ was missing.

  A diesel engine rattled to a halt beside us. A battered old Toyota tooted its horn. It had a magnetic taxi logo hanging off the door and Bhangra music blaring from the open window. I waved to the driver. It didn’t quite fit my image of a glamorous carriage, but then this wasn’t Hollywood.

  I looked at Marc. And he wasn’t my hero. Not anymore. I looked at the flowers. Twelve months too late.

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ I said, turning to leave.

  ‘Come on!’ He grinned and grabbed hold of my arm. ‘What does a man have to do to get a second chance round here?’

  I shrugged him off.

  ‘For starters,’ I said, making a show of counting on my fingers, ‘treat me with respect and not as a convenient B & B with laundry service, then there’s the small matter of listening to my opinions every once in a while, ooh, and of course not sneak around behind my back or trespass on my property.’

  Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

  Plus, I didn’t want to get angry; my make-up would run and my hair would come loose. But seriously – what did he expect? A warm open-armed welcome?

  ‘You shouldn’t leave things lying around if they are private.’ He lifted his shoulders in a Mafia-style shrug.

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘I can change,’ he said in a how-can-you-resist-me voice.

  If I didn’t know him so well I’d be flattered. He had more chance of winning Miss World than becoming the sort of man I wanted. Who by now was probably waiting on his own in the hotel lobby. But I had changed and I wasn’t prepared to put up with the likes of Marc Felton any more.

  ‘It’s a lovely offer, but I’ve moved on.’ He wouldn’t like that.

  ‘I get it,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘that’s why you're all tarted up. Who is he?’

  I hadn’t meant that, I meant that I’d changed, moved on from him. There was no way I could correct him, he would laugh at me, so I decided to wing it.

  ‘The architect.’ I pulled the pashmina round my shoulders, avoiding his eyes.

  Marc gave a laugh of contempt. ‘That knobhead? I bet I know things about him that you don’t.’

  Ditto. Except I didn’t believe he knew anything except that he was jealous of Nick.

  The taxi driver popped his head out of the window and shouted that the meter was running.

  ‘I’m late,’ I said, stepping towards the taxi.

  He dropped the flowers, jumped in between me and the car and snatched hold of my wrists. The confident smile had gone.

  ‘But Sophie, you can’t do this! I’ve got to… I need you to… I need you!’

  And I was a monkey’s uncle. He needed access to my bank account. Period.

  Stepping over the flowers, I kissed his cheek, peeled his hands off me and opened the door.

  ‘We can stay friends if you like.’ It was the least I could do.

  ‘Business partners!’ he said, bending down to talk to me through the gap as I slammed the door. ‘Think about it!’

  I wound the window down.

  ‘I’ve thought about it. It’s a no from me.’

  The taxi bore me off into the night and I watched him trample over the roses, kick a tree and hobble off. Bless.

  forty

  The bar was heaving with people. A string quartet was doing its best to be heard over the noise of hundreds of over-excited and over-inflated egos. I pushed my way through the crowds, looking for Nick.

  Anyone who was anyone in the property business was there. I said ‘Excuse me’ to two rival estate agents who were boasting about what a good month they were having, I skirted round a bunch of house builders lamenting the terrible year they were having, and I gave a good-luck smile to an award nominee muttering to herself under her breath.

  A solitary figure with his hands in his pockets rocked on the balls of his feet in front of the table plan. A bubble of excitement fizzed through me. He wasn’t going to do much networking facing the wall, was he? Just as well I was here to do some introductions, he would be relieved to see a friendly face.

  I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and skipped over. I had put two hundred quid’s worth of effort into my appearance for this moment, it had better deliver.

  ‘Hi.’

  Nick turned at the sound of my voice and for a second – no, make that a millisecond – his eyes lit up like a starving man at the all-you-can-eat oriental buffet.

  I prepared myself to accept his compliments. I had a coy smile all ready to go and ‘What, this old thing?’ hovering on my tongue. I had my cheek lifted and ready for him to place a chaste kiss on it. His face, however, closed up so quickly that at first I thought that he didn’t recognise me.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied.

  He was stunned, that was all. So bowled over by my get-up that he was lost for words. I launched the smile anyway and decided to help him out.

  ‘What do you think?’ I smoothed my dress down and he took the hint.

  ‘Very nice.’

  I bit back my screech of ‘Very nice! Is that all you can say?’ and forced out a ‘Thank you’. Great. Glitzy posh do and I was stuck with Mr Grumpy.

  It wasn’t an auspicious start. My nerves were already frazzled after the encounter with Marc. I’d hoped Nick’s presence would be soothing, but it was more like wading naked through stinging nettles. And they say women are fickle!

  He wa
s staring at me oddly as if he was waiting for me to speak. I sipped my drink and stared back. Black-tie suited him. I wanted to tell him how smart he looked, but something in those moody grey eyes of his held me back. There was a funny silence between us and it made me uneasy.

  His next words were a bit of a slap in the chops.

  ‘I nearly didn’t bother coming tonight,’ he said curtly.

  Nerves, I thought instantly; for a man with precious few people skills, an event like tonight must be hellish. I decided to lighten the mood, get back onto one of his favourite subjects.

  ‘Why not, did your posing pooches misbehave?’ I nudged him playfully with my elbow.

  Nick drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, gazed into the middle distance and back down to me.

  ‘Don’t make jokes about my charity work.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’ A tray of drinks floated past and I grabbed us both new ones. He nodded his thanks and continued.

  ‘My photography is for the new intakes at the dog sanctuary. I try and capture their personalities for the website to help them find new homes. They are not ‘posing pooches’, they are abandoned animals and if they don’t get adopted, they get put down.’

  Whoops. Not a weird hobby then. And definitely no laughing matter.

  ‘I bet you’re good at that.’ My smile faltered, but I soldiered on. ‘I remember you saying you could read dogs better than people.’

  He laughed harshly and swigged at his drink. ‘You certainly had me fooled.’

  ‘Nick, call me paranoid, but have I done something to upset you?’

  He shook his head and mumbled something which could have been ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘You're scaring me now. For the love of God, spit it out, man.’

  ‘I had a call from the planning office today about Lilac Lane.’ He looked at me, letting the words sink in.

  ‘Go on,’ I rasped with a dry throat. It must have been bad news to have upset him this much. It occurred to me fleetingly that if he was so concerned about my building project, he must care for me a teensy bit.

  ‘They’ve received an alternative scheme for the plot and wanted to know whether Cromwell Associates wished to withdraw their planning application.’ He drained his glass and folded his arms.