by Penny Jordan
‘Miss Spencer,’ he acknowledged formally, and then frowned, asking far more personally, ‘Is everything all right?’
Charlotte stared at him, conscious of the fact that Sheila was watching them both.
‘Yes, of course it is. Why shouldn’t it be?’ she demanded aggressively, and was stunned as he casually stretched out one hand and brushed his fingers over her cheekbone in something that was so like a caress that she drew in her breath, shocked by the sensations evoked by his touch.
Her eyes must have registered her feelings because for a breathless second his own darkened, and then he said evenly, ‘You’ve got oil on your face. I wondered if your car had broken down.’
Oil on her face. Damn that mechanic. No wonder he’d been grinning when he drove away. Why hadn’t he said something? Charlotte fumed, resisting the impulse to rush to the nearest mirror and see how much of an idiot she looked.
‘It’s got a starting problem,’ she admitted through gritted teeth.
Behind her she heard the door open as someone came in, but before she could turn round Oliver Tennant was saying easily, ‘Well, perhaps, once I’ve moved into your place, I can repay your kindness by giving you a lift into town…at least until you’ve got your car fixed.’
Charlotte was furious; she opened her mouth to disabuse him of his idea that he would be ‘moving in’, as he termed it, but before she could say a word a familiar and decidedly shrill female voice cut in acidly.
‘You’re moving in with Charlotte, Oliver? Good heavens…why?’
Vanessa! Charlotte closed her eyes on a wave of disbelief. Of all people to have overheard Oliver’s comment, Vanessa was the very last one she would have chosen.
‘Charlotte has kindly offered to take me on as a lodger until I find a house of my own,’ she heard Oliver say smoothly to Vanessa.
‘But why? I told you we have a spare room. Heavens, Oliver, what can you be thinking of? Have you seen Charlie’s house? You’ll be very uncomfortable there.’
As Charlotte turned round, Vanessa said aggressively to her, ‘You can’t possibly be serious about this, Charlotte. I mean, think of what people will say. An unmarried woman…an unmarried man…living together.’ She gave an acid laugh. ‘Of course, I don’t suppose for a moment that anyone will believe Oliver is interested in you, his reputation will be safe enough, but people are bound to wonder about you…to speculate. You’ll be in a very vulnerable position, a woman of your age.’
Charlotte wasn’t sure what prompted the blinding anger that overwhelmed her, or what hurt her the most. Vanessa’s insinuation that Oliver couldn’t possibly be interested in her only underlined her own views, after all… perhaps it was the fact that she was voicing it, and so cuttingly, in front of Oliver himself. An Oliver who was oddly silent.
Carried along on a powerful surge of anger, Charlotte heard herself saying acidly, ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Vanessa, and that no one will give the fact that Oliver is lodging with me a second thought. At least, no one with any common sense. It seems a very sensible arrangement to me. Oliver needs a place to live, and to be quite frank I could do with some temporary help with the running expenses of the house while I decide whether to keep it or sell it.’
‘Keep it? It’s a family house,’ Vanessa told her shortly. ‘What on earth would you do with it? After all, it’s not as though you’re likely to marry…not at your age.’
Seething with anger, Charlotte turned away from her, and was then shocked into immobility as unbelievably she heard Oliver saying coolly, ‘You’re rather behind the times, you know, Vanessa. In London very few women contemplate marriage these days until they’re well established in their careers and into their early thirties. The days when a woman’s sole aim in life was to secure a husband are long gone. It’s we men these days who are having to do the chasing and persuading.’
Vanessa stared at him, obviously taken aback by his criticism, and then rallied to say coquettishly, ‘Oh, come on, Oliver, don’t try to tell me that you’ve ever had to chase any woman.’
He had rescued her, Charlotte recognised in surprise. He had quite deliberately stepped in and rescued her from Vanessa’s malice.
His behaviour confused her, and left her feeling even more vulnerable and unsure of herself. Why had he done it? Because he felt sorry for her? Because it was in his own interests in view of the fact that he wanted to lodge with her? Or because he had genuinely believed what he had said?
Angry with herself for letting her thoughts wander, she said curtly to Vanessa, ‘What exactly did you want, Vanessa?’
‘Oh, I saw that Oliver was here and I came in to remind him that he promised to come round and value our house,’ Vanessa told her carelessly.
Stunned by her rudeness, Charlotte swallowed her anger and said as pleasantly as she could, ‘Well, as the two of you obviously have business to discuss, I’ll leave you to it.’
However, as she turned to walk away, Oliver stopped her. The sensation of his hand resting lightly on her arm was like a small electric shock. As she reacted automatically to it, her eyes widening as she turned towards him, he said evenly, ‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion, Vanessa. If you’d care to ring me at my office…’ And then, giving her a dismissive nod, he said to Charlotte, ‘I’ve brought a copy of the prospective tenancy agreement round for you to look at. You’ll want your solicitor to go over it, of course, but if you could spare me five minutes to discuss it with you…’
Over his shoulder Charlotte watched as Vanessa gaped at his back like a stranded fish. She would not have been human if she hadn’t relished Vanessa’s discomfort a little, she told herself as she saw the hard, angry colour darken the other woman’s face, suddenly making her look far less attractive and much, much older.
However, it was only after the door had slammed after Vanessa that she realised too late that she had virtually committed herself to agreeing to Oliver Tennant’s becoming her lodger. She opened her mouth to tell him that there had been a misunderstanding and that there was no way she was going to allow him to set a single foot inside her home, when she suddenly realised that, if she did so, Vanessa would undoubtedly assume that she had changed her mind because of what she had said.
The thought of anyone thinking that she placed the slightest bit of importance on Vanessa’s ridiculous suggestions about her reputation was so revolting that the words of denial remained locked in her throat.
Somehow or other, she found herself upstairs in the office, with Oliver standing beside her desk while she read quickly through the document he had given her.
It seemed simple and straightforward enough. A month’s notice on either side of any termination of their agreement which was to run for a period of six months and thereafter to be renewed, subject to mutual consent.
The rent Oliver was prepared to pay was more than generous, and as she read the document he was saying something about making sure that he did not impinge on her privacy.
‘Sheila has explained to me about your kitchen alterations. I’ll be eating out most of the time anyway. Between us we can organise things so that there’s no conflict…no invasion of one another’s privacy.’
He was so rational about everything, so organised, that she couldn’t find the words to object to what he was saying to her. Somehow or other, when he left the office half an hour later, it seemed that willingly or not she was going to have him as a lodger.
‘I told you he was nice,’ Sheila said approvingly when he had gone. ‘I loved the way he defended you to Vanessa. My goodness, the look on her face,’ she chuckled, until Charlotte said sharply,
‘I’m not a child, Sheila. I could quite easily have defended myself.’
Listening to Sophy and Sheila congratulating her on finding such a perfect tenant, gritting her teeth while Sheila said triumphantly, ‘I’ll feel so much better now, knowing that there’s a man living there again,’ Charlotte wondered why it was that everyone seemed so oblivious to
the fact that she was far from delighted by the way things had turned out.
It was her own fault, though. She had had her chance. She could have said in front of Vanessa that the latter was quite right and that it was completely impossible for Oliver to lodge with her…so why hadn’t she done so?
Because she hadn’t been able to endure Vanessa’s triumph if she did. So now she was paying for her moment of pride and rebellion with an unwanted lodger. She had no one to blame but herself.
Now, of course, she would have arrangements to make, and Mrs Higham would have to be informed. Heaven alone knew what she would think of Oliver’s residence at the house.
Behind her, Sheila and Sophy were chuckling over the way Oliver had so successfully routed Vanessa. Charlotte listened absently to them, gnawing worriedly at her bottom lip. What on earth had she done? She couldn’t share her home with Oliver Tennant, of all men.
Why not? an inner voice demanded acidly. Do you really have so little faith in your own self-respect? Do you honestly believe that, just because you’ll be living under the same roof, you’re likely to do something stupid like…?
Like what? she asked herself bitterly. Like falling in love with him? Of course she wasn’t; she was far too sensible for such folly.
Gordon had described her personality very accurately when they had broken their engagement.
‘You’re so sensible, Charlie,’ he had complained. ‘You always do the right thing.’
Even though their engagement had ended by mutual consent, even though she had acknowledged a thousand times since then her relief at not finding herself trapped in a marriage she realised now would never have worked, there was still a small raw place inside her that hurt from time to time, and which was hurting now.
Would Sheila be encouraging her so warmly to take Oliver Tennant as a lodger if she were a different type of woman, an attractive, sensual woman to whom Oliver Tennant was likely to be drawn as a man?
No, Sheila had no qualms about foisting Oliver off on her because she knew quite well that any relationship which developed between them was bound to be free of any sexual connotations, on Oliver’s part at least.
What was wrong with her? Charlotte asked herself angrily. Surely she was long past the age for yearning after the impossible? Surely she had long ago accepted the kind of woman she was? Did she honestly want to be like the Vanessas of this world? Did she honestly want every man she met to assess her only in terms of her sexuality?
Hadn’t she decided long, long ago that she was better off the way she was? So why had she experienced that hot flare of resentment when she had watched Oliver smiling at Sophy with a male appreciation she just knew he would never show her?
Damn Oliver Tennant. Until he had arrived to disrupt her life, she had been perfectly happy. She had had a good business, she had been content, and now suddenly both were being threatened.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sheila asked in concern, registering her fierce frown and silence.
‘I was just thinking I’d better warn Mrs Higham about Oliver Tennant,’ Charlotte lied, her frown deepening as she realised how quickly she had gone from fiercely denying that she would allow Oliver Tennant to put so much as a single foot inside her house, to, not only accepting the fact that he was going to be her lodger, but actually making practical plans for accommodating him.
She chewed bitterly on her already bruised lip, ignoring the pain she was causing herself as she realised how perilously close she had come to actually worrying about the paucity of food in her fridge and cupboards to satisfy the appetite of a large healthy man.
She herself was careful about her diet, although not to the point of obsession. While not a vegetarian, she rarely touched red meat, preferring more easy to digest fish. She still missed the fresh home-grown vegetables she had enjoyed in the days when her father had employed a gardener. Mirthlessly she acknowledged that, if Oliver Tennant’s arrival as a competitor affected her business as badly as seemed possible, she could always put her spare time to good use by recultivating the old vegetable garden.
She enjoyed cooking in a modest way, and had even begun to think about trying her hand at breadmaking once her new Aga was installed. Mentally visualising the new kitchen she had planned, she caught herself up with a start, her face suddenly flushing bright pink.
Sheila, who was watching her, and who of course could not see the two dark-haired, blue-eyed children who had materialised so treacherously easily through her imagination, asked anxiously if she was all right.
‘Fine,’ Charlotte told her briskly, hurriedly escaping from the office before her mind could play any more tricks on her.
On her way over to her solicitor’s office to give him the tenancy agreement to look over, she told herself severely that she was losing her grip, and then palliated this harsh denouncement by allowing that the size of her kitchen did lend itself to visions of family rather than single life. She had always loved and wanted children…those two could have been any of the children she knew…but they hadn’t been…that dark hair, those blue eyes. She gave a small shudder and closed her mind to any more inadvertent wanderings down such dangerous byways.
Paul’s secretary told her that he was free to see her. When she explained the purpose of her call, far from looking surprised as she had expected, he, like Sheila, was full of approval.
How many more people were going to surprise her by telling her how worried they had been at the thought of her living alone? she wondered half an hour later, when Paul had given his approval to the document Oliver had produced.
‘I am an adult,’ she told him severely as she left. ‘I can look after myself, you know.’
‘No one’s doubting that,’ he assured her. ‘But these days…a woman living alone somewhere so remote… Well, it has given me one or two sleepless nights. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want to frighten you.’
Frighten her? If only he knew! She was far more frightened by the prospect of having Oliver Tennant living in her home than she was of the remote possibility of someone breaking into it.
She didn’t want to risk seeing Oliver Tennant in person again, not until she had managed to have a severe talk with herself about the stupidity of reacting so dangerously to him, and so she sent the signed tenancy agreement round to his office in Sophy’s charge and then announced to Sheila that she would be out of the office for the rest of the day, showing prospective clients round some of their properties.
‘I’m meeting a couple who are planning to relocate here from the north of England. They’re retiring and at one time they had family connections with this area. I think they’ll probably go for Cherry Tree Cottage.’
‘Mm. It needs a lot of work doing on it.’
‘Yes, but he’s taking early retirement and, as I understand it, isn’t in a desperate hurry to move down here. The house will be close enough to the village for them. It has a good-sized garden plus a paddock. Apparently they have grandchildren, who will be coming to stay, so they’ll be able to make full use of these attic bedrooms.’
‘Well, good luck,’ Sheila told her.
So far Charlotte had only spoken to the Markhams over the telephone. When she met them at the Bull, they proved to be a pleasant couple in their mid-fifties. Bill Markham had the ruddy skin of a man used to being outdoors; his wife Anne seemed a sensible, placid woman, who was plainly quite happy to go along with her husband’s plans to move them away from their present commuter-belt home to a more rural area.
They had done their homework on the area well, Charlotte discovered, as they set off in her Volvo to view the first property. They were the type of client she most enjoyed dealing with—discerning, without being obsessed with finding a property which matched some impossible dream. She was not surprised when, at the end of the day, Bill Markham asked her if they could contact her in the morning with a view to revisiting three of the five properties they had seen.
As she had expected, both he and his wife ha
d been drawn to Cherry Tree Cottage, which was a good-sized family house on the outskirts of a sleepy village. It had a wonderful garden, which was now rather neglected, its present owner being an old lady in her early eighties who was selling the house to go and live with her younger sister. It did have certain disadvantages—the roof was thatched, it had no mains drainage, and there was no central heating—but the price was a fair one, and Bill and Anne Markham were young enough to enjoy the challenge of taking on a house which, with some hard work and admittedly some money spent on it, could be made into a very attractive home.
She dropped them outside the Bull, having made arrangements to get in touch with them in the morning. As she started to drive away, she saw Oliver Tennant crossing the car park. She had forgotten for the moment that he too was staying at the pub.
Anxious to get away before he should see her and think that she was deliberately trying to court his attention, she moved the Volvo with less than her usual skill, grating the gears in a way which instantly brought his head up as he focused on her.
Furious with herself, all too conscious of her flushed face, Charlotte wished she had the savoir-faire to ignore the fact that he had changed direction and was now walking towards her, and to simply ignore him and drive away.
She couldn’t, though. Her father and her school had both been sticklers for good manners and so, gritting her teeth, she stayed where she was until Oliver had reached the car.
As he leaned down towards the open window of the Volvo she caught the clean fresh-air scent of his skin mingled with something else, something alien and male that made her own skin prickle with unexpected heat.
‘Thanks for sending the agreement back so quickly,’ he said easily. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you so that I could make a formal arrangement to move in.’