The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit)
Page 3
‘So I see.’ The man shook his wet hair and Cat was suddenly reminded of a collie which had been out in the rain. ‘Only it says Reception on the door,’ he went on crossly. ‘So I assume you must be the receptionist? But if it’s too much trouble to talk to a prospective customer …’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Cat replied, in the soothing, dealing-with-a-sarcastic-bastard voice she always used for awkward visitors to the salvage yard.
It had been tipping down all day. The man was soaked – his navy coat was sodden, his jeans were splashed with dirt churned up by traffic, and his straight, dark hair stuck to his head like a bedraggled blackbird’s wings. Where was the sun they had been promised? The crystal balls had clearly been malfunctioning and they’d got the forecast wrong again. But, thought Cat, why does this so-and-so feel he has the right to take his temper out on me?
‘We don’t have a receptionist as such,’ she told him calmly. ‘I meet and greet, but I do other things as well. Did we know you were coming?’
‘I rang this morning at about eleven o’clock. I spoke to somebody called Tess. I made an appointment to see a Mr Chapman at four o’clock today.’
Cat glanced at the diary on her desk.
‘You must be Mr Lawley, then?’
‘I’m Adam Lawley, yes.’
‘I’m Cat Aston, Barry Chapman’s office manager.’ Cat held out her hand, and Adam Lawley shook it. Somewhat reluctantly, she thought, but the shake itself was strong and firm. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lawley, but Barry isn’t here. His wife is having a baby any moment, and half an hour ago he got a call—’
‘I’ve had a wasted journey, then?’
‘Let’s hope not, Mr Lawley.’
‘You can help me?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Cat replied. Tess had left a note to say what Mr Lawley wanted – roof tiles made of genuine Cotswold stone, and nothing else would do, he wasn’t interested in reproduction. ‘You need some Cotswold tiles, is that right?’
Mr Lawley shrugged, but then he muttered something which Cat took for agreement.
She found a set of keys. ‘Let me get a couple of umbrellas, then I’ll take you out into the yard.’
Adam followed the receptionist who wasn’t the receptionist into the office lobby. Now he was embarrassed. She’d been so kind and courteous, and he knew he’d been very mean himself.
These days, however, he couldn’t seem to help it.
But he had to help it.
He had to sort his life out and he had to do it soon. He must stop being such a miserable sod. Otherwise, he’d soon have no friends left. Gwennie and Jules were being very patient, but he secretly suspected they were sick and tired of having someone always dripping round the place.
Dripping, right – why hadn’t he driven to the salvage yard? It wasn’t as if he had the time to walk. Or to catch pneumonia. He had far too much to do to take a day off work, let alone a week.
But he’d found that walking seemed to dull the pain a bit.
‘You press the little button,’ said the girl.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This one has a spring.’ She was holding out a telescopic black umbrella and looking at him as if she thought he had escaped from somewhere and was possibly quite dangerous as well. She was hanging on to the big golfing umbrella with the vicious silver spike, at any rate. ‘Mr Lawley?’
‘Thank you.’
Adam took the black umbrella. Then he followed the girl into the yard, wondering what rubbish she was going to try to sell him, if she knew a genuine Cotswold tile from a modern concrete fake, if she and the boss of this place were a pair of opportunist crooks or genuine themselves.
He didn’t trust anybody nowadays.
I’m doing fine, thought Cat, as they went out into the rain.
I’m operating normally, not daydreaming or fretting. I’m in control again.
Adam Lawley seemed to know exactly what he wanted, which made a pleasant change, because apart from dealers most people calling at the yard were looking for something vaguely interesting to be a focal point in a back garden – a concrete cast of Paolo and Francesca, a copy of that Belgian boy or David, an oriental Buddha, a Hindu god or goddess, an Egyptian head.
Or they were doing up their dream Victorian home and wanted cast iron fireplaces, old ceramic tiles or stripped pine doors. Chapman’s Architectural Salvage did its best to find them something suitable. Barry might not stock it, but he usually knew where he could source it.
Cat led Adam through the yard, past various sheds where Barry kept the valuable stuff and things which wouldn’t benefit from getting soaking wet, to where the many different kinds of roof tiles were stacked on wooden pallets.
‘Okay, Mr Lawley, these are what we’ve got,’ she said, and pointed to a pallet on his left. ‘All genuine Cotswold stone and there are three hundred of them here. If they’re what you want, but we don’t have enough of them, we can very probably find some more.’
‘I’ll need about five hundred, and I’ll need them quickly, so could you find them soon?’
‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ Cat replied.
Barry had impressed on Cat and Tess that whatever the customer said he wanted, they should always tell him they could find it, because nine times out of ten they would – eventually.
‘Where are you working?’ Cat enquired, thinking there’s no call for Cotswold stone in Walthamstow. Or anywhere in London, come to that. Barry had expected to sell these old stone roof tiles to the National Trust or to English Heritage, and that was why he’d bought them in the first place.
‘At Redland Manor,’ Adam said. ‘It’s a Grade I listed Elizabethan house in Gloucestershire.’
‘What are you doing in Walthamstow?’
‘I’m involved with restoration and rebuilding projects all over the country, but I’m based in London,’ Adam Lawley said, in a what-business-is-it-of-yours-then voice. He picked up one damp, lichen-crusted tile. He weighed it in his hands and then he grimaced at it critically. ‘I’ve seen some terrible old fakes of Cotswold tiles,’ he said to Cat. ‘But these look like the genuine article.’
‘That’s because they are the genuine article,’ said Cat. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting we would try—’
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Adam Lawley interrupted, and he fixed Cat with a don’t-get-clever-with-me stare. ‘But a lot of salvage merchants try to pass off modern stuff as old. They often buy up concrete roof tiles from the 1960s, paint them with a porridge of compost and sour milk so they start growing lichen, then try to fool the punters and often they succeed. Where did you get these?’
‘I think they were on a dower house near Bourton-on-the-Water. I’ll have to check the book and then I can tell you definitely.’
‘I’ll take them anyway, that’s if the price is right. What do you want for them?’
‘We can discuss a price. But if you need another couple of hundred, why don’t you let us source them, and then we’ll offer you an all-in deal? I think you’ll find we’re quite competitive.’
‘You’re authorised to do this, are you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Cat.
‘Only I don’t have time to mess about, and if you need to ask your boss—’
‘Mr Lawley, do you want these tiles?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Very well, let’s sort it out today.’ Cat turned to go back through the yard. ‘Come into the office, get dried off and have a coffee while I do the paperwork,’ she added. ‘By the way, where did you park? Barry should have told you we have some visitors’ spaces round the side.’
‘I didn’t drive,’ said Adam. ‘I walked here from Camden. But I didn’t realise it would be such a way.’
‘My goodness, it’s no wonder you’re so wet.’
Adam merely shrugged, so Cat stopped trying to have a conversation. Once she’d made his coffee, she set up an account, glancing up to ask him questions, then repeating them, because he seemed more interested in staring through the window at the rain.
He looked a sight, she thought. He’d shaved with a blunt chisel, his hair looked like he’d hacked at it himself and his boots were scuffed and down at heel. His workman’s donkey jacket was fraying at the cuffs and a leather patch was coming loose.
How old, she speculated – thirty, thirty-five? No grey in his black hair, no laughter lines, but maybe that was not surprising if he didn’t laugh?
She wondered what he’d look like if he smiled, but somehow couldn’t see it happening.
Adam did his best to drink the coffee. It was decent stuff, not instant rubbish, and it was strong and hot. But, like everything he ate and drank these days, it tasted bloody awful, and he had to force it down.
‘May we have your e-mail, Mr Lawley?’ asked the girl.
‘My what?’ asked Adam.
‘Your e-mail, do you have one?’ The girl – to his dismay, he had forgotten what she was called – was clearly trying to be polite and pleasant to this idiot. ‘Mr Lawley?’
‘It’s mail@adamprojectman.com.’
‘Thank you,’ said the girl.
‘I’m sorry to be so vacant,’ Adam added, doing his best to sound as if he meant it. ‘But I’m very busy at the moment. I’ve got a lot of work stuff on my mind.’
‘You do look tired.’ The girl smiled sympathetically, and Adam saw she had a very sweet, good-natured face and gorgeous jade-green eyes. ‘You probably need a good night’s sleep.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Adam, who had hardly slept at all since Maddy left and was sure he’d never have a good night’s sleep again.
‘We haven’t done business with you in the past, so I’ll need a deposit,’ said the girl as she tapped on her keyboard. ‘What about a hundred pounds – would that be acceptable to you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Adam rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket and then in all the pockets of his jeans. ‘I don’t seem to have my cards,’ he said.
‘We do take cash,’ Cat told him.
‘I should have just about enough.’ Adam started going through his pockets once again, pulling out some tenners, fivers, half a dozen coins, more tenners and then two more fivers, until he had managed to assemble eighty-seven pounds. He put the money on Cat’s desk. ‘I usually carry more than this, but I—’
‘Why don’t you give me eighty now?’ Cat wrote out a receipt. ‘Then you can pay the balance on delivery. I’d better let you get off home,’ she added. She handed him a couple of business cards. ‘One’s Barry’s and one’s mine,’ she told him. ‘Do you have a card?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter – just give me your mobile number. Then we’ll call you when we’ve found your tiles. We ought to be in touch some time next week, if not before.’
‘Thank you,’ Adam said. He turned his collar up and then slouched off into the rain.
As Cat locked up, she thought about the man. What a miserable so-and-so! Then she thought of Jack, who was always laughing, joking, fooling round and making her laugh, too.
Who could Jack be laughing, joking, fooling round with now? She’d give almost anything to hear one of his awful jokes again.
He’d always told her she was too damn serious. She seriously needed to lighten up a bit. If she was as grumpy as the man she’d met this afternoon, perhaps it was no wonder Jack had left? Memo to myself, she thought – whatever I feel like inside, put on a happy face.
She rummaged in her bag and found her mobile.
‘Hi, Tess,’ she began. ‘What are you doing this evening? Do you want to go and see a film? Yeah, let’s make it something funny. Something that will cheer me up a bit. I’ve just spent the past half an hour with a guy from Doom and Gloom R Us.’
Monday, 9 May
Adam was on the roof of Redland Manor when the guy from Chapman’s Architectural Salvage brought the tiles. The previous week’s torrential rain had given way to beautiful spring sunshine. The builders had their shirts off and were working on their tans.
‘Mr Lawley?’ someone shouted up to him.
Adam looked down and saw a stocky forty-something man standing by a pickup full of tiles. If this was Barry Chapman or one of his drivers he was early. Adam was impressed because, in his long experience, suppliers were almost always late. It was encoded in their DNA.
‘I’ll be with you now,’ he called. He made his way along the rafters, over sheets of bright blue polythene that covered half the roof, through a dormer window and back down to the ground.
‘Hello, Mr Lawley, good to meet you,’ said the fair-haired man, offering his hand to Adam. ‘Barry Chapman, boss of Chapman’s Architectural Salvage.’
‘Good to meet you, too.’ Adam shook Barry by the hand. ‘I’m sorry I missed you at the yard last week. But your assistant seemed to know her stuff.’
‘Yeah, she’s good, is Cat.’ Barry Chapman nodded. ‘Great all-rounder – brilliant organiser, makes the office run like clockwork, takes an interest in the stock, and she’s always pleasant to the customers and suppliers. She’s getting to be quite a fair negotiator, too.’
‘She told me you’d been called away.’ Then, feeling it would be polite, he added, ‘How’s your wife?’
‘Annie’s doing great.’ Barry Chapman found his mobile phone. ‘She had a sticky time of it, though – fourteen hours in labour, ended up with forceps. God, who’d be a woman? But it was all worth it. She had a seven pound girl and she’s a little darling, as pretty as her mother. Here, have a dekko – ain’t she the cutest thing? We’re going to call her Roxie Jane.’
‘You must be thrilled,’ said Adam.
As he looked at Barry’s child, he felt a sudden longing, and he imagined Maddy, sleepy-eyed and pregnant with the bump just visible, summer-brown and gorgeous in a white cotton dress.
She’d be sitting on a terrace somewhere warm and Mediterranean, somewhere where the air was scented with wild thyme and lemon blossom, where the nights were velvet-soft and starry, made for love, and where—
He forced himself to come back to reality.
‘These roof tiles are a find,’ he said, as Barry Chapman flicked through yet more pictures of his baby daughter, the image of a proud and happy father. ‘I’d rung and e-mailed all around the country, trying to track some down. Your place was my last resort.’
‘Whatever you need, give us a bell. If we haven’t got it, we can almost always find it and give you the best price.’
‘You only had three hundred in your yard,’ said Adam, glancing at the lorry. ‘Where did you find the rest?’
‘A mate of mine in Stroud, he had a few hundred going spare. I picked ’em up as I drove over here.’ Barry Chapman grinned and then he shoved his mobile back into his pocket. ‘Cash is fine,’ he added casually.
As Adam checked then signed the paperwork and counted out the balance of what he owed in tens and twenties, Barry looked up at the house again. ‘What’s the set-up here, Mr Lawley? You’re the subcontractor, project manager or what?’
‘I’m the project manager,’ said Adam. He found a couple of his business cards and handed them to Barry.
‘So you’re a freelance, are you?’ Barry grinned again. ‘Do you do any of the actual work yourself?’
‘Yes, once in a while,’ Adam replied. ‘My father was a builder, and when I left school I did all my City and Guilds stuff while I worked for him. When he died I worked for English Heritage and the National Trust for several years. I set up on my own last summer. I specialise in Tudor, Jacobean and Georgian restoration nowadays.’
‘You go all round the country, do you?’
‘What’s in Scotland, then?’
‘A Victorian castle needing total restoration and it’ll be my biggest challenge yet. But it’ll be fantastic when it’s done.’
‘You’re obviously a very busy man.’
‘When you’re a freelance and you’re offered any work, you always take it. Or I do, anyway. I’m gradually getting better known, so these days I don’t have to bid for jobs or send in complicated estimates, which used to waste a lot of time.’
‘You see your bloke, you name your price.’
‘I do.’
‘Yeah, so do I – and I reckon that’s the only way to run a business.’ Barry Chapman nodded at the builders who were working on the roof. ‘Do you think your lads could lend a hand with all this stuff?’
As he helped the men unload the tiles, Adam thought about the girl from Chapman’s yard, remembering how kind she’d been, how helpful, when he had been so surly.
What was her name? Barry had mentioned it only a beat or two ago, but it had gone again. All the same, he could recall her face – sweet and heart-shaped, lightly freckled, with the most attractive jade-green eyes, all framed with dark blonde hair.
A Celtic princess, he decided.
If she had a prince, he was a very lucky man.
Thursday, 12 May
The chirpy woman, whose name was Fanny Gregory, wanted Cat and Jack to go and meet the team from Supadoop Promotions at the Melbury Court Hotel.
The brochures, DVDs and sample menus had arrived last week. Cat and Tess and Bex spent ages sprawled on Cat’s new sofa, salivating over them. They agreed it all looked wonderful, especially the food laid out on white tablecloths with silverware and crystal, beautifully photographed by glowing candlelight.